“Detective Sergeant Bingham,” he answered on the second ring.
“JM here,” I said. “I may have seen that Hatteras.”
There was silence on the other end for a second. Maybe he was trying to figure out who he was talking to. Finally, Bingham asked. “When and where did you see it?”
“Check the time stamp and location from when I called in the container,” I said, giving him a clue, in case he hadn’t figured out who I was. If he was right about my name being linked to some kind of search tag, phones might not be secure either. “The sighting was about fifteen minutes before I found the container. I’d been on a heading of three zero five degrees magnetic, doing thirty knots, for nearly an hour. The boat I saw might have been a Hatteras— definitely an older model motoryacht— about four miles to my northeast, and it looked to be about the right size. It was heading due north at trawler speed when I saw it.”
There was a pause, and I heard what sounded like he was writing the information down. From what I’d given him, anyone with boating knowledge could locate the spot the container was first reported, work backward from there, use the sighting direction and distance I’d given him, and have a pretty good idea where the boat was and where it was going.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he finally replied. Hesitantly, he asked, “Uh, why didn’t yuh volunteer dat last night?”
“I’m not a ghost,” I said. “You can ask me anything you want, and if I know, I’ll tell you. I didn’t mention it because, at the time I saw it, I wasn’t on the lookout for it. I just remembered this morning.”
“I think dey will turn up somewhere soon,” he said with some finality. “Word is out all over di Caribbean. When dey do, I will see dat dey are brought to justice.”
Ending the call, I punched the speed up to thirty knots, setting a course for Nassau Harbour. I couldn’t shake a creepy feeling that the boat that had snuck into the anchorage last night could have been the Pences. It had been at least eight or nine hours from the time I saw the boat to when Charity told me of the fourth boat in the cove. That would have been enough time for a slow-moving Hatteras to skirt Eleuthera, then turn west to Bond’s Cay.
“Nah,” I said aloud. “Too much of a coincidence.”
While Gaspar’s Revenge moved out onto the ocean, I thought about Savannah. Four days ago, Charity had seen her very near here. She’d told me that another boat at their anchorage had watched Savannah leave, heading across the banks toward Chub Cay, which was only ten or so miles off my starboard bow. The desire to turn and head that way was strong; it was the closest thing I’d had to a lead so far.
But it was four days ago. Running just during daylight hours alone, Savannah’s Grand Banks could have covered over two hundred miles in four days. She could be back in Florida, somewhere between West Palm Beach and the Keys, or headed down through the Bahamas chain, as far as the southern end of the TOTO. Pushing hard, she could be home in South Carolina, or halfway to the Virgin Islands.
No, I’d need to put on the proverbial ghillie suit first. Nassau was just an hour away; I could check in with the boatyard and make arrangements to splash Salty Dog as soon as it was ready. If that was tomorrow morning, I could make Chub by nightfall.
As I neared Nassau Harbour’s western entrance, I slowed to ten knots, entering the channel. Checking that the VHF was on sixteen, I hailed the marina where I’d first run into Charity four days earlier. The dockmaster moved us down to channel twelve and said they had slips available. Fifteen minutes later, I was backed in and tied off.
I wanted to give Salty Dog a thorough look before I made any decision to have Andrew come out and pick up Gaspar’s Revenge. So, after settling with the marina for one night’s stay, I walked up the dock to the street. Brown’s Boat Basin was directly across from the marina. There was a gate and a guard shack.
A little window slid open, as I approached. A weathered old black man sat on a stool just inside. I could feel the cold air spilling out of the window.
“Names, McDermitt,” I said. “Jesse McDermitt. I’m here to take possession of Salty Dog and sail her back to the States.” No need in anyone else knowing where I was going, and that sounded completely plausible.
“Wait dere,” the man said, as he picked up an old rotary dial phone and closed the window.
A few minutes later, the gate buzzed. I pushed against the latch and it opened, so I went on through. A young black man with a bandana tied around his forehead was just coming out the main warehouse door.
“I am John Brown,” he said, coming toward me with his hand out.
I shook hands with him. “Jesse McDermitt.”
“Pleased to meet yuh, Cap’n,” he said. “Wish dat it was under better circumstances. Miss Fleming said yuh knew di late owner and dat yuh’d be here. Di work has started; we got all di parts, but it won’t be done until late today or tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, she told me,” I said, turning toward where the big ketch sat on the hard. “I figured I’d come early and get familiar with the vessel, if that’s okay with you.”
Brown fell in beside me, and together we walked to where two men were working under Salty Dog’s stern.
“We pulled di shaft early dis morning and bench tested it,” he said, as we neared the workers. “It tested true enough, but we rebalanced it to perfect, anyway. Dese mons are reinstalling it now.”
He asked one of the men how things were going. The older of the two stood and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Very good,” he replied. “Di mon dat owned dis boat took very good care of it. We’ll finish before time to go home.”
“Mind if I go aboard and get familiar?” I asked Brown.
“I just need ta see di paperwork,” he said.
Pulling the folded envelope from my pants pocket, I opened it and took the stamped and notarized copies of Charity’s power of attorney and Victor’s title and registration, handing them to the man.
He glanced at them and looked up. “Yuh will need to go to dis mon’s office and have yuh signature notarized. He’s just two blocks down toward di bridge. Den I can let yuh aboard.”
Thanking him, I left the yard and walked down Bay Street, looking for the address that was on the business card, paperclipped to the title.
The office was small, barely taking up ten feet of frontage, and right next to a bar called Celebrity Status. As I entered, I was assailed by a cold blast of conditioned air. There was only one desk in the front office. A middle-aged white woman occupied the chair behind it.
“You must be Mister McDermitt,” she said, with a decidedly New England accent. She rose and extended a hand. “I’m Maggie Jamison. John Brown said you were on your way.”
I shook her hand and said, “John Brown called you?”
“Yes, he did. My husband, Spencer, just stepped out, but should be back in— Oh, here he is now.”
A man of about forty came through the door. He was dressed in island casual attire, much like his wife.
“Spence, this is Jesse McDermitt,” Maggie said. “He needs his signature notarized on Captain Cook’s title transfer, which you did yesterday.”
“Come on back,” Spencer said, his accent the same as his wife’s.
Vermont or New Hampshire, I thought.
He led me down a hall to an even smaller office in back. “Have a seat,” he said, stepping around his desk. “May I have the title, please?”
Handing him the envelope, I sat in a straight-backed, wooden chair, opposite his desk. He had his licenses and certifications on the wall behind him; one was a business degree from Champlain College.
“How’s a New Englander wind up doing title work in Nassau?” I asked him.
“Maggie doesn’t like snow,” he replied. “And what Maggie wants, Maggie gets.”
“I heard that!” his wife shouted from the outer office.
Grinning, he opened the envelope and pulled the contents out, shuffling through the papers until he found the one he wanted. He spun it around and placed a pen in front of me.
“If you’ll sign right here,” he said, pointing to a blank line, “we’ll have you on your way.”
I signed where he indicated, and he got a notary stamp from his desk and made his mark next to my signature, then signed below it. “If you like, I can send the proper paperwork to the Coast Guard’s doc center in West Virginia to have the new title and registration done.”
“That’d be fine,” I said.
He got a pad from a drawer under his desk. “I’ll need your tax address and the address you want them to mail the new title to.”
“They’re both the same,” I replied, and gave him the address for the Rusty Anchor. For nearly ten years, it’s been where I got my mail and the address I used for everything legal; I just never saw any need to change it. Besides, mail service to my island has never been established.
Spencer wrote it down and scooped up all the papers, straightening them on his desk before handing it all back to me. “You’re good to go,” he said, rising. “It’ll probably take a couple of weeks before a new title is issued, but what you have there should be sufficient if you’re stopped by Bahamian or American authorities.”
I followed him back out to the front office, where I paid fifty bucks for the service and said goodbye to his wife. Leaving the office, I turned right and started back down the street toward the boatyard. Normally, island time moves at a much slower pace. I was surprised at how quickly things were getting done.
It wasn’t yet noon, but I hadn’t eaten anything but a banana all day. So when I spotted the mobile kitchen, backed up under a stand of coconut palms in an empty lot, my stomach turned my feet in that direction.
The truck looked like it had once been a delivery truck of some kind with a boxy shape and a walk-in sliding door on the passenger side. The door itself seemed to be missing, though. It was hand-painted a lime green, with bright-colored fish all down the side. There was also a large sliding window on the passenger side, which was open. The smell of blackened fish and mango filled the air. My feet moved faster.
“What’s on the grill,” I asked an older fellow working away inside the truck. He wore dreads, turning gray, and the beginnings of a beard, also graying.
“Mornin’ Cap’n!” he said. “Blackened lionfish. But if yuh don’t like dat, I and I was just puttin’ togeddah some of di tastiest lobstah rolls on dis big blue rock.”
“Will one lobster roll be enough for me?” I asked.
His grin told me all I needed to know. Island food trucks and stall vendors were noted for serving great local food at a fair price, and the servings were always large.
“Oh, ya, mon,” he replied, handing me a fat roll, wrapped in foil. “Dat be five dollahs, ’Merican or local, all jest di same.”
I pulled my clip from my pocket and peeled off a ten. “Keep the change,” I said, and walked over to a small picnic table under the partial shade of a gnarled and ancient ironwood tree.
It wasn’t hot, but the weather was warm and the breeze light. I was just about to get up and see if the old Rastafarian had anything to drink, when he stepped out of the van.
“Try dis, Cap’n,” he said, approaching me with a large styrofoam cup, a thick straw sticking out of the lid.
“You read my mind,” I said, digging into my pocket again.
He held a hand up, palm out, and waved me off. “On di house, mon. Or di truck, as it were.”
“Thanks,” I said, accepting the cup. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “A little ice, and some fruits all ground up in di blenduh.”
I sucked on the straw. The mixture was cold, for sure, almost like a smoothie back in the States, but without artificial colors and flavors. I tasted coconut and mango and said as much.
“Aye, and a little papaya, lime, and sour orange for dat tart, tangy aftuh taste. And a banana, to make di whole thing smooth.”
“Delicious,” I said, unwrapping the foil from the lobster roll. “Coco bread?”
He grinned again, revealing two missing teeth. “Di wife bakes di rolls all morning. She up before di sun.”
The sandwich was heavy on lobster meat, but also contained leaf lettuce, a little rice, and a few bits of vegetables I wasn’t familiar with. When I bit into it there was an explosion of flavors, but the taste of the fresh lobster tail, slow roasted with butter, was the overriding sensation. It was a bit spicy, and I asked about it.
“Dat be my wife, too,” he replied. “She make di sushi rice.”
“Mmm,” I muttered, taking another bite. After swallowing, I nodded to the old man. “Your skill on the grill is what really stands out.”
He smiled and thanked me, bowing slightly before he turned and climbed nimbly back into the truck. His accent was Jamaican, but a little off. He was obviously of mixed ancestry, as his skin was the color of cinnamon and his eyes a little oval-shaped. Maybe Asian; he had mentioned sushi rice.
I finished the roll and the drink. Both were better than anything I’d had in over a month. Stuffing the foil and napkins into the cup, I deposited it in a trash can next to the truck and continued down Bay Street to the boatyard.
The man in the guard shack stepped out as I approached and pulled the gate open for me.
“Mistuh Brown had to go to di uddah side of di island,” he said. “Di mons working on yuh boat will be finished soon. If yuh like, dey will pick it up with di mobile hoist and splash it dis evening.”
I was beginning to get the impression that Nassau didn’t want me around any longer.
“Yeah,” I replied. “This evening would be great. You guys work fast here.”
“Mistuh Brown say dat dere is only three ways to do a job,” the guard said. “Fast, cheap, and good.” Then he grinned. “But Mistuh Brown, he gwon let yuh choose only two.”
I grinned at the old man. Pap used to say something very similar, and he was right. If a job is done well and in short order, it’s gonna be expensive.
When I got to the marina, Bingham was waiting on the dock next to my boat. In his hand was a bright yellow EPIRB.
“Thought yuh might want dis back,” he said as I approached. He held the EPIRB out.
I took it from his hand. “Thanks. I’d written it off.”
“Why is dat? It’s an expensive piece of equipment.”
I studied his face. “To avoid several hours of questions.”
He grinned a bit nervously. “I was told to bring it to you.”
“Foreign Affairs Minister?”
“Yes,” Bingham replied.
“And you have questions you were told not to ask.”
“Yuh a smart mon, Cap’n McDermitt,” he said.
I considered it a moment. “Like I told you before, I used to do contract work for America’s Homeland Security. But that’s over and done with. I’m in the Bahamas legally, on personal business and it wasn’t me who put someone in a container.”
“I know dat,” he said. “Our lab says dat container was in di water ten or twelve days before you found it.”
“So, what is it you want to know?”
He paused a moment, then said. “I want to know where Fiona Russo and Leilani Kapena are. And I think yuh know.”
Remembering what Moana had said about using her grandmother’s name for years, I said, “Leilani Kapena died an old woman. More than a decade ago, on one of the islands of French Polynesia. Fiona Russo is no longer in your country.”
I was only guessing at the last part, but I assumed Charity had taken the girls somewhere secure enough that they wouldn’t be found.
“Di two men say dat dey saw both women on your boat.”
“They saw Leilani Kapena’s granddaughter on my boat.”
“I see,” he said. “And her real name?”
“No idea,” I lied. “Just doing a favor for a friend.”
“And di Russo woman?”
“Protective custody,” I lied again. “Both of them.”
Bingham eyed me suspiciously but didn’t press the matter. I didn’t like lying to the man. He was just doing his job. Leaving some doubt in his mind concerning my status with the American government might get him out of my hair faster.
“I won’t keep you, den,” he finally said. “It’s jest dat in our questioning of di two men, we think Russo and Kapena had nothing to do with di major crimes, just petty things. With the leaders still at large, di two women might be in danger.”
“I can assure you of one thing with absolute certainty, Detective.” I stepped aboard and opened the hatch to the salon. “If the Pences do find them, they’re the ones who will be in danger, not the two women. They are safe.”
“I see,” he said, waiting, as if expecting more.
Finn came out of the salon and stood looking up at the detective, his head cocked at an angle. “Be back in five minutes,” I said to Finn. He bounded over the gunwale past Bingham and trotted off toward the nearest tree.
“Yuh dog can tell di time?”
“Course not,” I snorted. “He lost his wristwatch last week.”
I had a question of my own, and I only know one way to get the answer to a question. “Is what you believe to be my association with the American government what’s fueling the haste with my departure?”
The corner of Bingham’s right eye twitched just a little. “I am not sure what you mean.”
I stepped over to the gunwale. “Really? I’m not ordered to wait around at the container, work on the sailboat I’m picking up is progressing far faster than it would have anywhere else in the Caribbean Basin, the paperwork is zoomed through in just one day, and a police detective is here to return my EPIRB? Island time, not.”
“Did I mention dat di Foreign Affairs Minister is my cousin?” Bingham asked. It was a rhetorical question, he knew he hadn’t. “We talked dis morning. He thinks dat it is wise to jest keep yuh moving. Doing whatever it is dat yuh are doing.”
Rising Force Page 5
