Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 7th Novel in the Series - Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Mm-hmm. Concussion, prob'ly. I had some before, myself. You be okay, I t'ink."

  "If the hospital says I'm okay, what happens next?"

  "You mus' go back to Diamantista II," Sharktooth said, "until we can identify you."

  "I don't want to trouble Connie and Paul any more. Is there a hotel I could stay in? I'd have to find some way to pay for it, but ... "

  Sharktooth, stopped in traffic now, turned to face him and shook his massive head. "Next problem not money. Next problem who you are. If we don't know who you are, then the immigration, they say you must stay on the boat. Can't come on land."

  "But what about now? I'm on land."

  "Mm-hmm. Technically, you in my custody. That's why they let you come ashore to go to hospital."

  "In your custody? Are you a cop or something?"

  "A magistrate. In the States, would be a Justice of the Peace, or maybe a lower court judge, depending on the jurisdiction. The immigration, they remand you to my custody."

  "Could you put me in jail, then?"

  "Mm-hmm. I could." Sharktooth grinned at him. "But Connie and Paul, they can't leave Dominica unless you on the yacht, so we don' put you in jail."

  "Paul told me the police would take mug shots and fingerprints, to try to find out who I am."

  "They meet us at the hospital. Do that while the doctor checkin' you over, while we waitin' on tests."

  "I see."

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, and then Friday asked, "Have you always lived in Dominica?"

  "Mostly. For a few years, I lived in the States."

  "Where in the States?"

  "Philadelphia."

  "Pennsylvania?"

  Sharktooth glanced at him. "That's right."

  "I asked, because there are towns named Philadelphia in other states. They're tiny, compared to the one in Pennsylvania, though."

  "I didn't know this," Sharktooth said, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at his passenger. "You an American, mebbe?"

  "Maybe," the man said. "I hadn't thought about it. But why else would I know that, about Philadelphia?"

  "You been to Philadelphia?" Sharktooth asked him.

  "Maybe. Is the University of Pennsylvania there?"

  "Mm-hmm," Sharktooth said.

  "Is that where you went?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  "Undergrad? Or graduate school?"

  "Both."

  "What did you study?" Friday asked.

  "Economics," Sharktooth said.

  "The Wharton School," Friday said.

  "Did you go to university in the States, mon?"

  "Maybe so," Friday said, "but not Wharton. Is there a Darden School?"

  "Mm-hmm. You know where that is?"

  "Virginia, maybe?" Friday asked.

  "Maybe," Sharktooth said. "We gon' be early for the hospital. Traffic movin' fast. Let's stop for a little breakfast."

  "I already ate. Paul fed me."

  "Mm-hmm. My wife fed me, too, but that was a long time ago, and she t'ink I don' need so much to eat. This a good place. You like it. We get some saltfish patties an' eggs." Sharktooth pulled off at a roadside snack bar. "My mama, she say you mus' eat when you don' be hungry, so then you don' get hungry," he said, as he opened the door for Friday and helped him out of the car.

  "We learned that Canaday left on Windsong with his wife and — "

  "Never mind the details," Oscar Jefferson said, interrupting the man on the phone. "Just cut to the chase. Where the hell is he?"

  "We don't know."

  "What the fuck am I paying you for? You don't know? Why the hell are you calling, then?"

  "I'm calling because my boss said you wanted an update each morning, Mr. Jefferson. Would you care to hear what we've learned about Steven Canaday?"

  "Yeah, tell me what you got. Sorry, but there's a lot of money riding on this."

  "Yes, sir. I'm sure there must be. As I started to say, Canaday and his wife left on Windsong fifteen days ago, bound for the Virgin Islands, according to the people at the marina. There was another man with them, but we don't have a name for him yet. The dock hands knew him by sight, though. He's somebody that sails with the Canadays often."

  "How long a trip is that?" Jefferson asked.

  "It's a sailboat, so it's hard to be precise. Probably from a week to ten days. We — "

  "They're not still at sea, then?" Jefferson interrupted again.

  "No, sir. Two days ago, they cleared into Dominica. We don't know when they made it to the Virgin Islands, but they were there for a while before they went to Dominica."

  "But they're in Dominica, now, you said."

  "That's correct as far as we know. All three people were aboard when they left the BVI and when they arrived in Dominica. As soon as our operative arrives in Dominica, we should be able to get a copy of the paperwork and we'll have a name for the unidentified man."

  "And when will that be?"

  "This evening sometime, depending on the airline connections. The puddle jumpers down there aren't known for sticking to their schedules."

  "Call me when you've got eyes on him."

  "Yes, sir. There's one other thing you should know, Mr. Jefferson."

  "What's that?"

  "They may have left Dominica already. There's not a requirement for them to clear out as long as they're there less than two weeks."

  "Shit! So where would they go from there?"

  "We'll know more once our agent gets a look at their paperwork."

  "Can't you have them fax it or email it, or something?"

  "No, sir. Our agent will have to grease someone's palm to get a look. We'll call as soon as we know whether they're still in Dominica or not."

  "Okay, then."

  "Mr. Jefferson?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you still want us to interrogate Canaday, assuming we find him in Dominica?"

  "Hell, yeah, I do. Why are you asking?"

  "It'll be complicated. There are other boats around. It would be easier if we waited until they left and intercepted them at sea. We'll have to use more men, so it will cost more than if we waited for them to leave on their own."

  "No. Time is worth more than money right now."

  "Yes, sir. Whatever you say. I'll be in touch as soon as we have someone on the ground in Dominica."

  10

  Senator O'Toole was sitting with his feet up on his desk, contemplating whether he liked the arrangement that had evolved with the scar-faced man. Hands-off management had been attractive to begin with, but O'Toole was a control freak at heart.

  The chiming of the encrypted cellphone interrupted his thoughts. Reaching under the lip of his desk, he felt the three small, rough spots in the finish. He touched them one at a time in the proper sequence, and there was a click as the panel in the kneehole of his desk dropped open.

  SpecCorp operatives had provided the phone when he first began doing business with the shadowy company. They had installed it in the hidden compartment of his desk without his knowledge. He had been told about it and coached on its use by the CEO of the company.

  SpecCorp did off-the-books contract work for the Department of Defense and several of the U.S. government's intelligence agencies. O'Toole knew the CEO from classified briefings related to his work on various congressional oversight committees. Delaney, the CEO, did favors for O'Toole in exchange for his support in Washington.

  O'Toole picked up the phone and entered his seven-digit access code.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "You're alone, correct?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Good. Don't say anything else. We've discovered that your office is under surveillance. When I give you the word, disconnect this call and put the phone in your pocket. Walk out of the office and take the sidewalk to the north. When I'm satisfied that our conversation cannot be overheard, I'll call you on this phone. Disconnect now."

  O'Toole was annoyed to find that his hands were trembling as he fumbled to
press the disconnect button on the phone. He closed the lid to the secret compartment in his desk and put the phone in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Using his private exit to avoid his secretary, he made his way to the sidewalk in front of the office building.

  At the main road, he turned right, walking to the north as instructed. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he thought about who might be watching him. He'd been walking for several minutes when the phone in his pocket chimed.

  "Yes?" he said, as he touched the accept button on the screen.

  "You're clean now. Keep walking while we talk. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. Who's watching me?"

  "We don't know yet. We're working on it. This is your first report on Oscar Jefferson. You asked for general background. I'll provide what we have in an encrypted email, but first, you should know that Jefferson has his own people looking for Steven Canaday. You wanted information on Canaday as well as Jefferson. Is that still the case?"

  "Yes."

  "Canaday is in the Eastern Caribbean on his yacht. His exact whereabouts aren't confirmed, but he was in Dominica two days ago. We're working to locate him, as are Jefferson's people. Do you want us to let Jefferson's people work unimpeded?"

  "Yes, for now."

  "Jefferson has also ordered an analysis of Canaday's financial transactions, with specific emphasis on payments to you or your associates, including any transfers to your offshore accounts."

  "But they're anonymous."

  "Nothing is anonymous. There is no privacy. This is the twenty-first century."

  "Then Jefferson's investigating me?"

  "Yes."

  "Is he the one who has my office under surveillance?"

  "He may be, but we haven't verified that. The surveillance I mentioned is from another source besides Jefferson. Jefferson's people may be monitoring you as well."

  "Who could it be, besides Jefferson?"

  "We're working on it. Someone was watching the nightclub where your associate, Schultz, had his office. Whoever it was doesn't work for Jefferson."

  "I don't know anybody named Schultz. I don't — "

  "Remember, we're working for you, and this is a secure connection. Don't waste our time denying what we know as fact. Dick Kilgore disposed of Schultz's body. Our working assumption is that Kilgore killed him, but we don't have proof yet."

  "How can you even know somebody was watching the club?"

  "Metadata analysis led us to hack a security camera at a neighboring business. We dumped a video file, and from the time-stamps in it, this happened a couple of days ago. It showed Kilgore putting a body in the trunk of Schultz's car. After he left, another car pulled up at the mouth of the alley and picked up a man who had been concealed in the alley, observing Kilgore."

  "That's scary. How did you — "

  "I'm not at liberty to discuss our methods further."

  "Why is this even relevant to your assignment to watch Jefferson and Canaday?" O'Toole asked.

  "Because whoever was watching the club is also watching you and your friend, the attorney."

  "Is that who's bugged my office?"

  "I told you, we don't know yet. Do you still want the report on Jefferson?"

  "Uh, yes, but you said you'd send it via secure email. I need to get back to my office."

  "Yes. The file is on its way as we speak. If we find Canaday, I'll call immediately. Otherwise, I'll call you this time tomorrow. Take the same walk tomorrow morning you did just now."

  The call disconnected, and O'Toole returned the phone to his pocket. He tried to relax his jaw muscles; his teeth hurt from being clamped together. Turning around, he walked back toward his office.

  "Sharktooth called," Paul said, climbing up into the cockpit.

  "And?" Connie was intent on applying fresh varnish to the spokes of the helm.

  "The police printed our guy and made some mug shots. Sharktooth arranged for them to send copies to Luke Pantene in Miami, too."

  "What about his memory? Any prognosis?"

  "They were running a bunch of tests, but the doctor's first impression is retrograde amnesia from the blow to the head. There are no signs of lingering concussion. They're going to do an MRI or whatever to make sure there's no internal swelling or anything."

  "Any word on how long before his memory will come back?" Connie asked, resting her brush on the varnish container. She sat up straight and pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand, smiling at Paul.

  "Not really. The doc confirmed what I'd picked up over the years. It could happen any time, all at once or gradually over a few weeks. The longer he goes without recovering it, the less likely it is to come back."

  Connie's smile turned to a frown as her lips tightened into a straight line. "That's not encouraging, is it?"

  "No, although he did tell Sharktooth that sailing with us seemed to have brought back some memories. Familiar surroundings might speed things along, according to the doctor."

  "Familiar surroundings? That's a tall order, since we don't even know who he is," Connie said. "Did the cops have any idea how long it would take to hear something back from Interpol?"

  Paul grimaced and shook his head. "I'm not holding my breath. They told Sharktooth it would be a few days, at the very least. It's probably not their highest priority."

  "How about Luke?" she asked.

  "I called him to give him a heads-up before he got the stuff from Sharktooth. He'll run the prints as soon as he gets them."

  "That's good, if the guy's an American, I guess."

  "Well, as long as he's in the NCIS, yes. His nationality doesn't matter if he's in the system. It could still be a couple or three days, though."

  "Then we're stuck here for a while, I guess," Connie said, bending over to examine the fresh varnish.

  "Not exactly," Paul said, "but we're stuck with Friday for a few days. We can go somewhere else; we just can't let him off the boat."

  "What a pain," Connie said. "I mean, I feel for him, but this stinks. I was looking forward to a couple of weeks with no company before we picked up another charter."

  "I know," Paul said. "Me, too. But maybe we'll get lucky and get an i.d. on him soon."

  "Should we go ahead and put his description out on the security net?" Connie asked.

  "Sharktooth's already called them. It'll go out tomorrow. Oh, and the police will distribute his mug shots and description through the Caribbean Customs Law Enforcement Council."

  "What's that?"

  "The CCLEC is a clearinghouse, among other things. They're headquartered in St. Lucia, and they've got what they call a joint intelligence office that'll pass the info on him to all the member nations up and down the islands. That'll get posters put up in the customs offices and police stations."

  "Well, let's hope somebody recognizes him," Connie said. Satisfied with her varnish work, she put the brush in a jar of thinner to soak while she cleaned up her work area.

  Senator O'Toole stood on the fishing pier near his office, gazing out at the small boats on the other side of the broad expanse of water. He fingered the business card in his hand, stroking the edge of the heavy, cream-colored card stock.

  The card was blank except for a ten-digit telephone number. O'Toole looked down at it, noticing again that the telephone number was printed from an engraved plate. Everything about the man who had given him the card was first-class. Although he had a slight accent that O'Toole couldn't place, he spoke the English of a well-educated man.

  The only thing about him that was odd was his face. O'Toole had only seen him once. Even in the dim light inside the man's limo, the scars had been shocking. Acid or fire, O'Toole thought. It had to be one or the other. He wondered why the man had not had plastic surgery, then thought that maybe he had. That might be the best they could do. The effect was chilling; maybe the man wanted it that way.

  O'Toole shrugged off his curiosity and took a prepaid cellphone from his pocket. He keyed in
the number from the card. After three rings, he heard the man's cultured voice.

  "Yes?"

  "Uh, this is — "

  "No!" the man barked. "I know who you are. I told you, never use names."

  "Right. Sorry. But ... "

  "But what?"

  "How do you know?"

  "Why does that matter? I know. And you know who I am, because I gave you the number."

  "Humor me, okay? I asked because I want to know if you're having me watched."

  "I knew it was you because this number is for your sole use. No one else has it."

  "Ah! I see. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. And of course, I'm having you watched. I had you under surveillance long before we ever met."

  "But why?"

  "Enough of this foolish chatter," the smooth voice said. "What's the purpose of your call?"

  "I've learned that a ... uh, a former employee of mine was killed in the last few days, presumably by one of the men who worked for him. Not only that, but somebody else had the place staked out and followed him when he ditched the body." O'Toole paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he continued. "I wondered if you knew anything about it; I was hoping you could tell me what's going on."

  "Why?" the voice on the phone asked. "What makes you think I have any knowledge of that matter?"

  "Do you?" O'Toole asked. "Because otherwise, someone else may be moving in on — "

  "Stop! You have no reason to know any of this. How did you even learn about it?"

  "I have some people looking into certain other things for me. They discovered this because it overlapped with their investigation."

  "I can tell that you are upset. Otherwise, I'm sure you wouldn't be bothering me with trivia like this. I gave you this number to call for my assistance in case you were in trouble. Are you in trouble?"

  "Um, I'm not sure. I ... "

  There was silence on the call for several seconds, and then the man spoke. "If you're in need of help, call me. Otherwise, don't use this number." There was a click, and the call was disconnected.

  O'Toole put the phone in his pocket and stood, his elbows on the railing, staring out across the water for a couple of minutes. He straightened up, shrugged, and walked back to his car.