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

  "I don't blame him for that. What about this email? You said it was a blind drop of some kind?"

  "It's just a free email account. We both have the password. He leaves a message for me in the drafts folder, so it doesn't get sent anywhere. He said that keeps it from being intercepted or traced. The internet connections to the account are encrypted. I read the message and delete it. That way, the next time he checks, he knows I saw it. I can leave him one the same way."

  "And you let him know by regular email when you leave a message in the box?"

  "I guess so. That's what he did when he left me this one. It's been one way, so far, but we could try it."

  "Write him and ask him if he's okay with me talking to Luke about him as a source. I won't use his name; I'll just tell Luke it's somebody I know from before who's been dependable, okay? Let's see if that makes Leon nervous."

  "Okay. I'll do it now, and we can go ashore for an early dinner. Maybe we'll hear from him by the time we get back."

  Chapter 2 - An Easy Sail

  “Don't worry; I'll be fine," Marcia Levine said. Her smartphone was on the desk, set to speaker mode. "Make the most of the opportunity, but behave yourself."

  Her fiancé chuckled. "I always do."

  "Uh-huh," she said, scribbling a note on her to-do list. "Just remember, the press will be watching. So will I."

  "I'm the one who oughta be jealous," he said. "You're gonna spend the time gallivantin' around the Rockies. All those handsome ski instructors lookin' to make your holiday memorable, and nobody keepin' tabs on you."

  "That's not so; it's a writers' workshop, not a ski vacation."

  "Uh-huh," he said, chuckling again. "Writers' workshop? How damn hard is it to write blog posts that nobody's gonna read? You need special trainin' for that kinda bullshit?"

  "You'd be surprised," she said, "and don't belittle my work."

  "You know I'm just teasin'," he said. "I'll miss you."

  "And I'll miss you, too." Rolling her eyes, she added another note to her list.

  "I'd better go," he said. "Time to board the plane."

  "See you in three weeks, then," she said, making a kissing sound into the phone. "Love you."

  "You, too," he said, disconnecting.

  She shook her head, curious about his guarded farewell. Somebody must have joined him as he was saying goodbye; his tone of voice had changed at the end of the call. She wondered who it could have been. Whoever it was, he had not wanted them to know he was talking with her.

  Looking at her list, she put the question aside. It didn't matter; she owned him, in more ways than he knew. There would be party girls involved in this junket he was on; there always were. He was an incorrigible womanizer, but she didn't care. She had secrets of her own.

  Picking up her smartphone, she opened the text that had come in while she was on the call. It was from her brother, full of last-minute instructions.

  "Men," she said, to the empty room. They were all clueless, even her brother. And they always had to be in charge. She smiled. Men were so easy.

  "Thanks," she tapped out on the screen, her thumbs flying. "I didn't think of that. I'd be lost without you to keep me on track. How am I going to cope, being out of touch with you for the next three weeks? Love, Marcia." She sent it and turned off the phone.

  She turned her attention to the article she was writing. She wanted to get it uploaded and get to sleep; she had an early flight to Antigua in the morning.

  Leon Contreras sat staring at the screen of his laptop computer. He reread the message that Connie Barrera had posted to their email drop. As he studied it, he chewed the inside of his cheek.

  He took a deep breath and closed the laptop. Contreras wanted to discuss this with Jorge and Miguel. Shaking his head, Contreras scratched at the day's growth of whiskers on his chin. Just a little while ago, he'd told Miguel and Jorge that he wished they had a way to discuss the case with Pantene. Now Connie and Paul were offering a way to do that.

  Contreras had reviewed Paul's and Luke Pantene's personnel files through his DEA channel. Both men had solid records with no hint of corruption or carelessness. The concerns expressed in Connie's reply spoke to Paul's grasp of the risks of undercover work. The man knew his business. Paul's caution about sharing Leon's identity with Pantene resonated with Contreras's own.

  Connie and Paul didn't know about his team or about his affiliation with the DEA. They only knew him by his birth name, Leon Contreras. During one of their exchanges a few months ago, Connie had challenged him to prove he was her cousin, because one of Paul's FBI contacts had told her that Leon Contreras had died in prison years ago.

  Contreras told her the name of a kitten that their mothers had owned as children. That had convinced her of his identity. She and Paul were the only people besides Jorge and Miguel and his boss at the DEA who knew Contreras was still alive.

  He was using a well-established cover name now, as were Jorge and Miguel. He wouldn't disclose their current identities to anyone, including Connie and Paul.

  If anyone checked on Leon Contreras, they would hit the same dead end – that he died years ago. Still, he'd prefer to remain anonymous to the police. Contreras understood Paul's reluctance to pump his former partner for information. Keeping Pantene in the dark about Contreras would make it worse.

  Contreras weighed his options. He could drop the whole thing and cut Connie and Paul off, with or without explaining. Other than his name, they had nothing concrete.

  The problem was that Contreras needed information from Pantene.

  He could tell Paul to go ahead, but to protect his identity as best he could. Would Paul be able to get Pantene to share what he had? It would depend on how much Pantene trusted Paul's instincts.

  All he could do was ask. And he had information of his own that he could offer in trade. He'd post another message to Connie and Paul after he discussed it with Jorge and Miguel.

  "I lucked out," Miguel Alvarez said, helping himself to a slice of the pizza on the table. "Damn! It's cold; you two couldn't wait for me to order?"

  "We didn't know how long you'd be," Contreras said. "Want me to put it in the microwave?"

  "No, that's okay. Then the room would smell like a pizza parlor for the rest of the night."

  "You said you got lucky?" Jorge asked.

  "Yeah. The guy that was working tonight was on duty the night the cops found LaRosa and Roberts."

  "Was he willing to talk?" Contreras asked.

  "Couldn't shut him up. He said it started when a detective showed up with a sketch. He even had a copy. Same sketch you picked up from the two cops that day at the Pink Pussycat, Jorge. The detective gave him the same story. The guy was wanted for questioning about the theft of that yacht. They had a tip that he was headed for the condo building."

  "So he let the detective stake out the place?" Jorge asked. "Some security guard."

  "Yeah. He always wanted to be a cop, but ... well, you know the story. Anyway, he and the detective watched the monitors for the security cameras. Saw the guy in the sketch come in, followed his progress through the building to unit 7E, and the detective called it in. Ten minutes later, this captain showed up with another detective and a couple of uniforms. They had a warrant for the guy in the sketch. The guard took them up to the unit and they found the two bodies."

  "He have a name for the captain?" Contreras asked, as Miguel stopped to take a bite of his pizza.

  "Pantene," Miguel said, after he swallowed his pizza. "And get this — that condo was locked from the inside. Even the sliding door onto the balcony had one of those security bar things in place, and the chain was on the front door."

  "That does make it look like a murder-suicide," Jorge said.

  "Did they let the security guard go in with them?" Contreras asked.

  "Yeah, at first. Once they found the two bodies, the captain chased everybody out and they called in the M.E. and the forensics people."

  "Was he able to get a look at t
he guy LaRosa supposedly killed?" Contreras asked. "Was it the guy in the sketch?"

  "Yeah, he got a look. Said he about lost his lunch. The guy's face was completely blown away. They got no idea what he looked like, but he had a driver's license with the name William Roberts on it. Picture on the license looked a lot like the sketch."

  "His face was blown away?" Jorge asked, frowning.

  "Yeah. The guard's buddy, that first detective, he told the guard that LaRosa emptied the magazine of his .45 into the guy's face. Hollow points. Said it looked like a pile of raw hamburger meat."

  "But he saw the guy in the sketch enter the unit?" Contreras asked. "On the monitor?"

  "Yeah. Said he and the detective were both sure it was the guy in the sketch that went in the unit while they were watching."

  "Anybody know how long LaRosa was there before the guy went in?" Jorge asked.

  "No clue. LaRosa owned the unit, though. They figure he had keys. Roberts was renting from him. That's about all I got." Miguel wolfed down another bite of pizza.

  "Good job," Contreras said.

  Miguel nodded, chewing his cold pizza. He reached for another slice. "You get anything while I was gone?" he asked, before he took a bite.

  "Maybe," Contreras said.

  "I got a nap," Jorge said.

  "I thought you were gonna stake out the Pussycat," Miguel said.

  "It's closed for two days. No explanation — just a sign on the door," Jorge said.

  "I heard back from my cousin," Contreras said.

  "Yeah? What did she have to say?"

  "I think her husband wrote it. I told them their yacht was mentioned in that memo, or whatever it was that the cops found with the bodies. I suggested they might want to call Pantene to see if he knew what was going on, or if they were in any danger."

  "Where'd you get that? About a memo?" Miguel asked.

  "I can't say. But it was all my source knew about the case."

  "Nobody said anything about a memo," Jorge said. "Not on the news."

  "No, that's right," Contreras said. "It was on a laptop; they had to get help from the feds to crack the password."

  "Aha!" Miguel said. "I see. What did your cousin and her husband make of that?"

  "Her husband retired from the MPD as a captain. Luke Pantene was his partner for years, and took his place."

  "Can he get stuff from Pantene for us?" Jorge asked.

  "We're working on that. I think so, but he's not willing to play his old partner, not that I blame him."

  "How's it going to work, then? We can't tell them anything," Miguel said.

  "I checked them both out, Russo and Pantene," Contreras said. "They're rock-solid."

  "Yeah, but ... " Jorge shook his head.

  "I'm with Jorge," Miguel said. "Nobody knows anything about us. It's gotta stay that way, boss."

  "I agree. Russo's willing to keep my name out of it, and even if that slips out somehow, I've been dead for a long time. They don't know anything else about me, and they don't even know you two exist."

  "How's he gonna do that?" Jorge asked. "Keep your name out of it?"

  "He'll say I'm a source he's used before, and that the only name he ever had for me belongs to a dead man, and that even his FBI contacts couldn't get past that the last time I fed him information."

  "He's gonna give up your real name? You gonna agree to that?"

  "No. He's not proposing to give it up. He's going to tell Pantene what I just told you."

  "You agreed to this?" Miguel asked.

  "Not yet, and I won't, unless you're both okay with it. That's the deal I offered when you joined me, and that's the way it's going to be."

  Miguel and Jorge looked at one another, and then both turned to stare at Contreras.

  After several seconds, Miguel asked, "What's your vote? You think it's good?"

  "Yes," Contreras said, "or I wouldn't have proposed it to you. I think it's good, but it's not risk-free. I want a gut-check from each of you. If either of you says no, then it's no for all of us. I won't second-guess you."

  Miguel and Jorge looked at one another for several seconds.

  "I'm in," Miguel said, breaking the silence.

  "Me, too," Jorge said. "What's the next step?"

  "I'll send a message to Russo and tell him to approach Pantene. If he gets a buy-in, I figure we'll share what we know about the Pussycat for starters. Then we'll see what we can get from Pantene on this Berto character."

  "You aren't gonna tell him what we got on the senator?" Miguel asked.

  "Not yet."

  "Or his buddy the crooked lawyer?" Jorge asked.

  "Not until we see where this is going. You disagree?" Contreras asked.

  "No," Miguel said. "Just wondered."

  "Jorge?" Contreras asked.

  "I'm good with it."

  "All right, then. I'll write it up and send it to Russo. We'll see how Pantene reacts. Why don't you two sack out? I'm gonna turn in as soon as I get this posted."

  Chapter 3 - An Easy Sail

  “What do you make of it?" Connie asked. She was reading Contreras's response over Paul's shoulder.

  "Reading between the lines, he wants whatever Luke knows about this murder-suicide," Paul said. "He's worried about blowing his cover, which I can understand. But I think Luke will work with us on that. Contreras is offering to share information from his surveillance of a club called the Pink Pussycat. He's sure Luke will know that's relevant."

  "But he doesn't say what information he has," Connie said.

  "No. He's looking for some indication that Luke will trade before he gives anything away. I would be, in his position."

  "What kind of place do you suppose the Pink Pussycat is?"

  "It's a dive in Miami. A hood named Pinkie Schultz has run it forever. He's one of those guys we always knew was guilty of something, but we never quite managed to hang anything on him."

  "Pinkie? Is that where the club's name came from?"

  "No. I don't think so. Schultz is a loan shark, among other things. The rumor is that if you're late paying, his guys will clip off your pinkie finger. Word was that he had a collection of them."

  "Ugh. That's disgusting," Connie said. "Who do you suppose Contreras works for?"

  "I'd guess the DEA, because he first approached you about the rumors you started about your controlling the flow of drugs through the islands. But it could be anybody."

  "Do you think he's legit?" Connie asked.

  "Yes. He's connected to somebody who was able to shut down an FBI inquiry into his background, remember?"

  "Right, but isn't it possible he's crooked?"

  Paul frowned. "Have I missed something? Did he say something somewhere along the way that made you suspicious?"

  Connie ran a hand over his brow, smoothing the wrinkles. "No. Life made me suspicious, but you know that."

  Paul nodded, holding her gaze. "He doesn't behave like a crook. That's twenty-five years as a cop speaking. I've been fooled before, but not often. I think he's okay."

  "Are you willing to talk to Luke about this, then?"

  "Yes, I think so. I'll position Leon as an anonymous but trustworthy source."

  "Aren't you going to give Luke his name?"

  "I'm going to try not to. It won't help Luke and it might hurt Leon if it got out somehow. I'll explain to Luke that the only name we have for him makes him a guy who died in prison a long time ago. I'll tell him about what we ran into with O'Brien at the FBI last year, without mentioning specifics. I think Luke will buy that. Shall I call him?"

  "Okay, I guess," Connie said.

  Taking in Connie's expression, Paul put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "What's wrong?"

  "Oh, it's just what I mentioned earlier. I know we have to see this through; there's not much choice. But I'm ready to cut the ties to my past."

  "It's going to be all right, skipper. If it weren't for your past, I wouldn't have met you. Cheer up; we're going to come ou
t okay. We always do. And this gig with Marcia Levine sounds like it could be that easy sail you were wishing for."

  She smiled at him. "Thanks, cookie. You always know how to make a girl feel good. I think I'm going to take a long, hot shower. We're going to fill the water tanks tomorrow anyway. While I'm wasting water, you can call Luke. It would probably be better if I weren't part of the first call, don't you think?"

  "Maybe so. Go use up all our water; you deserve it."

  Luke Pantene sat at his desk staring into space and wondering what he had just agreed to. He trusted Paul Russo with his life. He didn't have doubts about his old partner, but this deal was odd. He smiled as he remembered the way Paul had revealed his southern roots when he introduced the subject.

  "I'm gonna ask you to buy a pig in a poke, but it's a pretty good pig, Luke," Paul had said. Then he had given Luke some background on an unnamed source that had been helpful to him and Connie in the past.

  "Do you know who this person is?" Luke had asked. "I don't need you to tell me, but I need to know that you know, okay?" That was when Paul's story had begun to sound strange.

  "We know who he was before he died," Paul said.

  "What are you smoking, Paul? Have you and Connie been playing with a Ouija board, or what?" Luke asked. "You're getting tips from the dear departed, now?"

  Paul had explained how he tried to check out the source using one of the FBI contacts that he and Luke had worked with over the years.

  "And he was killed in prison in California?" Luke asked. "How long ago?"

  "Around ten years ago."

  "Why do you trust him, then? What makes you think he's who he says he is? How did you even come to be in touch with him?"

  "He's a relative of Connie's. He knew a lot of private family details about trivial stuff. He's real," Paul said. "O'Brien tried to get more details on him, but he got shut down."

  Bill O'Brien was the FBI contact Paul had alluded to earlier.

  "Shut down?" Luke asked. "You mean somebody told him to butt out?"