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

  "Blueprints?" Paul asked. "Like for a building?"

  "Yeah, maybe. I think we had been looking at them."

  "We?" Connie asked.

  "Yeah. Me and him."

  "Was there anybody else there with you?" Paul asked.

  "Not in the office with us, but maybe outside, like a secretary. I think there was a woman there. But she wasn't in the office with us."

  "Can you remember anything else about the blueprints?" Paul asked. "Like what the building looked like? How many stories? Commercial? Industrial?"

  "Condos," Friday said, scrunching up his face and shaking his head. "I think it was for a condo development." He touched his forehead with his right hand and looked down at his feet.

  "You've remembered quite a lot," Connie said. "Don't overdo it."

  "Remember what the doctor told you about pushing too hard," Paul said.

  "Yeah," Friday said. "I'm okay. I wasn't pushing. It was just like I was looking at a photo album or something."

  "You mean in the office with him?" Connie asked.

  "No. Not that. In fact, those memories are fading now that I've told you about them. I meant the way I was seeing them; it reminded me of paging through snapshots. What was there was there, but it didn't mean anything to me. I don't know how else to say it."

  "I think I know what you mean," Paul said. "Don't worry about it. Just let it come when it's ready."

  "Yeah, okay. I think I need to go lie down for a little while."

  "You feel okay?" Paul asked. "Need anything?"

  "No, I'm fine. Just a little drained, like."

  "Makes sense," Connie said. "I'm sure you're under a lot of stress from all this. Go take a nap, if you can."

  "Thanks, you two. I'll find a way to square this with you, somehow."

  "Don't worry about it. We'd be sailing down island anyway. It's nice to be able to help somebody," Connie said.

  14

  “What did they say?" Bert asked.

  "They've called off the aerial search," Marian said. She had been on the telephone with the local Coast Guard station in St. Lucia. "They'll continue to broadcast a notice to mariners on VHF channel 16 hourly. They're asking vessels transiting the area to be on the look-out for Steve. Any sightings are supposed to be reported to something called the RCC in Martinique. But I guess that doesn't matter, since he went over the side hundreds of miles from here."

  "And a few days ago, to boot," Bert said, grinning. "Sounds like we're home free, huh?"

  "Well, I don't know. Do you think I'd be out of line to call my lawyer?"

  "Did the Coast Guard say how long it would be before they gave up?" Bert asked.

  "No. They said they'd done the paperwork to report him missing to the U.S. embassy in Bridgetown, though."

  "Where's Bridgetown?"

  "Barbados. That's the embassy that covers the Caribbean basin, I guess. They gave me a number I could call there if I needed help."

  "I think it would be reasonable for you to call your lawyer, but maybe you should get your hands on some cash, first."

  "There's plenty of money in the checking account; I told you, everything's joint."

  "Do you have another account? That's not joint?" Bert asked.

  "No. Why?"

  "What if they freeze the accounts? Until they do whatever they have to do to declare him dead?"

  "Will they do that?" Marian asked.

  "I don't know. I just figured there's going to be some kind of court proceeding. It might be a good idea to have some ready cash, you know? To tide us over until they settle everything?"

  "Yeah, that makes sense, but how are we going to do that? I can't open an account down here without a lot of headaches. Steve tried to do that once."

  "Wire it to me," Bert said.

  "That's a great idea." Marian looked at the clock on the bulkhead. "There's still time, with the time difference. Give me your account information."

  Bert took a blank check from his wallet. "The account number and routing number are right there in the lower left corner," he said, handing her the check.

  She scrolled through the directory in her telephone and pressed the send key. In a moment, she gave her account number and answered the security questions. She switched the phone to hands-free and set it on the saloon table while the agent pulled up the account information.

  "Thanks for your patience, Mrs. Canaday. How may I assist you today?"

  "I need to initiate a wire transfer, please."

  "Yes, ma'am. I'll need the name, account number and routing number for the account to which you wish to transfer funds."

  She rattled off the information, listening to the keyboard clicks as the agent entered it.

  "Okay, Mrs. Canaday. And how much did you wish to transfer?"

  "Ten thousand, please."

  "Um, I'm sorry, but that exceeds the balance in the account."

  Marian's face flushed. "What? We always keep a minimum of $250,000 in that account. How can that be?"

  "One second, please ... okay, thanks. I'm looking at the account history, and I see that you're right. The problem is that there was a transfer of $325,000 on the 15th of last month, right before the monthly closing. That only leaves $1,500 in the account."

  "I don't ... $1,500?" Marian asked.

  "Yes ma'am. Would you like for me to transfer that amount?"

  "Yes," she said. "Can you tell me where the $325,000 transfer went?"

  "Yes, ma'am. It went to the account of Mr. Reginald Peters, Esquire, at the Family Islands Bank in Nassau. It was initiated by Mr. Steven Canaday."

  "The Bahamas?"

  "Yes ma'am. The wire to Mr. Holsclaw is all set. The money will be there in the morning. Can I do anything else for you?"

  "No, thanks." Marian disconnected the call. "That bastard!" She smacked the table top with her open palm.

  "What about another account?" Bert asked.

  "The others are brokerage accounts; it takes several days for trades to clear before you can move the money. This was the only one where we kept a cash balance. How much cash do you have in the account I just sent that to?"

  "Maybe $15,000, $20,000. We should be okay until you get things sorted out. Who's this Reginald Peters? Sounds like a lawyer."

  "Yeah, he does, but I have no idea. Steve never mentioned him, or any projects in the Bahamas, either. I'm definitely calling David Wagner, right now."

  "David Wagner?"

  "My lawyer."

  Marian scrolled to the lawyer's number on her phone and made the call. After six rings, she got a recorded announcement saying the office was closed for the day. Her options were to leave a message or call back in the morning. "Shit!" she said, disconnecting the call. "I need a serious drink."

  "That was interesting," Connie said. She and Paul were alone in the cockpit; Friday had gone into his cabin and closed the door.

  "No kidding," Paul said. "Strange memory to pop up, a meeting with a lawyer in St. Lucia."

  "You think that's odd?"

  "To me it is, but I don't have any experience with this kind of thing. But did you catch the repeat of his, 'Damn, I did say that, didn't I?' pattern? I think he's playing us."

  "No," Connie said, "I missed that until you reminded me just now, but he did say that. You're right, detective."

  "Years of practice looking for tells from liars," Paul said.

  "What should we do?" Connie asked.

  "Let him run his play and see what he's up to. I don't see any big risks to us. Or any alternatives, for that matter."

  "He seems to be well educated. Remember Sharktooth saying he thought Friday might have gone to business school at the University of Virginia?" Connie asked.

  "Yes. Good school. He's well spoken, too. I can imagine him being a high-roller of some kind, except for his current problem."

  "Uh-huh," Connie said. "He comes across as — "

  The ringing of their satellite phone interrupted her.

  Paul took it out of the
small locker in the side of the steering pedestal and glanced at the screen. "Hello, Phillip," he said, as he accepted the call. He listened for a second. "Connie and I are alone right now. He's napping. Let me put you on the speaker."

  "Hi, Phillip," Connie said. "It's nice to hear from you."

  "Thanks. I was telling Paul, Sharktooth asked me to call Cedric Jones about your guest."

  "Right. He said he thought you might have better luck than he would, for whatever reason," Paul said.

  "Not sure why he thought that, but anyway, Cedric's fine with helping you out. He's going to call the customs and immigration office in Rodney Bay and smooth things over. You'll still have to agree to keep that guy aboard, though, until they can get some kind of identification on him."

  "We were expecting that; so is he," Connie said. "Did Sharktooth tell you why we wanted to take him to St. Lucia?"

  "Something about jogging his memory?"

  "Yes," Paul said. "It's already working, too."

  "Really?" Phillip asked. "That's good to hear. Has he remembered his name? Or how he ended up at Isla de Aves?"

  "It's not working that well, unfortunately," Connie said. She told Phillip about Friday's recollection of the man he thought might be a lawyer.

  "That may help," Phillip said. "Lawyers aren't as common in the islands as they are in other places. Somebody may be able to identify that man from his description."

  "We were hoping that might happen," Paul said. "Any thoughts on where to start?"

  "I'd start with Cedric," Phillip said. "There's a decent chance he knows a lot of the lawyers on the island. Why don't you give him a call?"

  "Now?" Connie asked.

  "Sure. I know he's in his office; I just got off the phone with him. Here's his number." As Phillip recited the digits, Paul hurried below and scribbled the number on a notepad at the chart table.

  "Thanks, Phillip," Connie said, as Paul brought the pad back up to the cockpit. "Give Sandrine our best."

  "Yes, do," Paul said, sitting down next to Connie.

  "I will," Phillip said. "Good luck, and let me know how it goes. If Sandrine and I can help, just ask."

  Paul disconnected the call and keyed in the number for the Deputy Commissioner of Police in St. Lucia.

  "This is St. Lucia?" Friday asked. He had climbed into the cockpit as Connie was threading her way through the anchored boats, looking for a good spot to drop the hook.

  "Yes, Rodney Bay," Connie said.

  He turned around and saw Paul standing on the bow, the windlass control in his hand. "Paul's about to drop the anchor?"

  "Yes. Did you fall asleep?"

  "I guess so. I heard the chain when he untied the anchor from the chocks. That woke me up; I didn't mean to go to sleep on you guys."

  "You must have needed it," Connie said. She saw Paul raise his right hand, palm open. She throttled back and shifted the transmission to neutral, letting the momentum carry the boat forward. She made minor course changes in response to Paul's hand signals as Friday watched.

  As Diamantista II coasted to a stop, Paul turned to face them and made a shrugging gesture, raising his eyebrows. Connie nodded, and Paul faced forward and released the anchor. As the chain rattled over the bow roller, Connie shifted in and out of reverse every few seconds, causing the boat to move astern at a pace that laid the chain out in a straight line.

  "Not much breeze in here," Friday said.

  "No, there's not enough to blow us back on the hook," Connie said.

  Paul raised a clenched fist when the chain stretched tight, then extended an index finger and made a twirling motion. Connie put the transmission in reverse and opened the throttle in gradual steps. They all watched the shoreline to make sure that the boat wasn't moving. After thirty seconds, Connie opened the throttle enough to bring the engine up to cruising RPM. After another thirty seconds, Paul turned to face aft and nodded.

  "Anchor's stuck," Friday said.

  "Yes." Connie throttled back and shifted to neutral. She bent to the instrument panel and pushed the engine stop button as Paul came back to the cockpit.

  Friday said, "You guys are good at that."

  "Thanks," Connie said.

  "It's what we do for a living," Paul said, "but it's nice to have somebody aboard with enough experience to appreciate it. Did you take a nap?"

  "Yeah. Sorry. Did I miss anything good?"

  "Our friend Phillip Davis called to tell us he'd talked with the Deputy Police Commissioner," Connie said.

  "Is everything okay?" Friday's eyebrows were raised.

  "Better than okay. He's smoothed the way with the customs and immigration people for us."

  "That's good," Friday said. "Am I still confined to the boat, though?"

  "For a while anyway, but there's some news on that front," Paul said. "I called the Deputy Commissioner at Phillip's suggestion and told him what you remembered about that meeting here, and that we thought the man might be a lawyer."

  "Did he know him?" The pitch of Friday's voice betrayed his excitement.

  "Maybe," Paul said. "He wanted a little time to ask around; he'll let us know tomorrow. We're to call him after we clear in."

  15

  After she finished with customs and immigration, Connie stopped in the bakery downstairs and bought a cup of coffee. She took it out onto the patio and sat down in the shade at one of the tables. After her first sip, she reached into her shoulder bag for her cellphone. She and Paul had decided that it would be better if she called Cedric Jones while Paul kept Friday occupied on Diamantista II. Neither of them felt comfortable leaving him alone on the boat.

  She called Jones's office, explained who she was, and was put through to him immediately.

  "Good morning, Ms. Barrera. Welcome to St. Lucia. How was the rest of your sail?"

  "Great, thank you. Call me Connie."

  "I feel like I know you, anyway, after hearing so much about you from the Bergers and Sharktooth and Phillip. You're part of their family, I think."

  "Thank you, Cedric. You're very kind. I just cleared in, so I thought it was time to call you."

  "Absolutely. Did you have any problems with immigration?"

  "None. It went smoothly. Thanks for your help."

  "It was nothing. I have some progress to report; I was hoping you'd call."

  "Great! I'm alone right now, ashore. Paul and I thought it would be better if our guest wasn't within earshot, just in case."

  "Okay, but I don't have anything too exciting. There is a lawyer here who might be the one your guest remembers. His name is Victor Murphy, and his primary area of practice is commercial real estate. He's been involved in several condo developments in the recent past, and his physical description is a match."

  "That sounds exciting enough to me," Connie said. "What's our next step?"

  "I've taken the liberty of calling Mr. Murphy and explaining your situation. He's amenable to meeting your guest to see if they know one another."

  "Oh, that's great news! But how are we going to get them together? Friday can't get off the boat, right?"

  "Friday?" Jones asked.

  "Sorry. That's what we've been calling him."

  "Ah! I see. Robinson Crusoe's man Friday, is that it?"

  "Yes. We couldn't keep saying, 'Hey, you,'" Connie said.

  "Right. Well, about the meeting, Mr. Murphy lives not far from the marina. He suggested that he could meet you and Friday there. There's a small meeting room in the Port Authority office, so I'll arrange to have an immigration officer present for the meeting. Then there can be no issue of violating your agreement to keep him aboard your yacht. You can bring him to the office where you checked in, and someone will escort you both to the meeting room."

  "Will it be all right if my husband comes, as well?"

  "Of course. What's your schedule for the rest of today? I'll set up the meeting with Mr. Murphy, and join you as well. I'd like to meet you and Paul, finally."

  "We're available any time,"
Connie said.

  "Excellent. I'll call you as soon as I've made the arrangements. Is this a good number? I see it's different from the one Phillip gave me."

  "Yes. This is my cellphone. The number Phillip gave you is our satellite phone; we use it when we're at sea."

  "Okay, then. I'll be in touch soon. I look forward to meeting you and your husband."

  As Connie concluded the call, movement on one of the yachts in the marina drew her eye. She put her phone in the shoulder bag and picked up her coffee, watching as two people came up into the cockpit of a large, modern sloop. She thought the vessel looked familiar, and then she spotted the name, Windsong, on the stern.

  That was the boat that had been leaving Prince Rupert Bay when they had arrived, the one that had caught Friday's attention. Connie considered finding a pretext to stop and visit with the couple in the cockpit, but she thought better of it. She and Paul could always ask Sharktooth to check Windsong's entry paperwork from when she cleared in to Dominica. Or, she realized, Cedric could probably find out about the boat from customs and immigration here.

  Guillermo Montalba chuckled as he reflected on the rise of private armies like SpecCorp. Mercenary operations made things much less complicated for people like him. They reduced everything to simple economics. Once you removed outdated barriers like loyalty and nationalism, it was much easier to accomplish your goals.

  SpecCorp was privately held and answered only to its owners, as Montalba's own enterprises did. Proprietorship cut through political impediments and led to efficient operations. One well-considered transaction with SpecCorp's founders yielded more information on O'Toole than Montalba's own people could have given him even after extensive surveillance, and O'Toole would never be the wiser. Once Montalba's spy had recognized SpecCorp's involvement, it was no longer necessary to try to tap that encrypted phone that was hidden in O'Toole's desk. Montalba went straight to the source.

  Montalba stroked the shiny scar tissue that covered his right cheek and chuckled again. He opened the blue manuscript cover and began reading a transcription of O'Toole's latest conversation with SpecCorp's field manager.