"I wonder if Dani and Liz even know," Paul said.
"I don't know; they didn't mention it the other day. We should tell them."
"Why's that?"
"They could inadvertently blow it for her," Connie said. "Sandrine fudged the immigration database to show that Beverly Lennox left for Miami not long after she got to Martinique, in case somebody checks up on her."
"Dani and Liz should definitely know that," Paul said.
"Should we try to call them?"
"It might be better to ask Phillip to call them; no telling what might get lost if we pass along what's already second-hand information."
"You're right. But I'd still like to talk with her, if we can get Sandrine to distract Marcia," Connie said.
"Me, too. We can probably manage that. She and Sandrine can take each other shopping."
Connie laughed at that. "No kidding; that'll keep them both busy for a long time."
"We need to get the word to Luke, too," Paul said. "But we shouldn't be passing along her new identity — not in the open, anyway. For now, he just needs to know she's in hiding and that the records show she went back to Miami."
"Right. Shall we call Phillip?"
"Sure. Let's do it."
Leon Contreras chuckled as he read the email from Luke Pantene that Paul had forwarded to him. Luke's reaction didn't surprise him; he'd expected that the questions would begin once Luke's people found the corpse.
He was still cautious about giving Luke more information. Contreras had sent Miguel to watch Gator Jaw Ryan's office right after he had told Paul and Luke about Kilgore's meeting with Ryan. He was certain it was no coincidence that two detectives had called on Ryan that day. He only wished that he knew more detail about what they had asked him.
Their visit had been related to Kilgore's meeting with Ryan. Contreras knew that because the device that Jorge had attached to O'Toole's office telephone system months ago was still active. The recording of Ryan's phone call to O'Toole made it clear that the detectives had asked Ryan something about Kilgore's visit.
Further, it had picked up the conversation that O'Toole's secretary had with some unidentified person in his Washington office. She'd had difficulty persuading them to connect Ryan to O'Toole.
There had been some conversation about secure military circuits and the fact that the senator was in a combat zone. O'Toole's responses to Ryan's questions indicated that his current location was classified. Contreras guessed that the senator was part of some congressional delegation, probably in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Besides mentioning that the cops had asked him about "somebody name of Kilgore," Ryan hadn't given anything away. O'Toole had been equally guarded in his response.
Contreras had been intrigued by their exchange related to Graciella Montalba's whereabouts, too. He knew she'd moved into a hotel while the damage to her condo was being repaired, but he and his men had not known she'd left town.
Miguel had used their surreptitious access to the Department of Homeland Security database in an effort to find out where she had gone. He'd failed; there was no record of her leaving Miami on a scheduled flight in the last few days. Maybe she was using a different identity, or she'd flown on a private plane. Perhaps she was meeting her brother somewhere.
Contreras was disappointed; he had wanted to be able to share her itinerary with Luke Pantene, hoping that she would lead them to Guillermo. He considered what he could give Luke instead.
Pantene was asking for more information on the Jansen-O'Toole connection, but Contreras was nervous about that after the way the cops had rushed to confront Gator Jaw Ryan over Kilgore's visit.
Contreras wanted to let Paul and Luke know that he was worried by what he saw as Luke's ill-considered action. He began typing, including brief excerpts from Ryan's recent conversation with O'Toole. He'd suggest to Paul that he thought Luke's approach to Ryan had been premature and might scare off O'Toole, and leave it to Paul to decide how to get the message to Luke.
14
"How do you like our island?" Sharktooth's wife asked Marcia, after Sharktooth brought her to Maureen's gallery and introduced them.
"It's lovely," Marcia said, "truly beautiful. And your husband is a wonderful ambassador for Dominica."
Maureen smiled. "We both love our island. Dominica is the most beautiful place in the world. We have a saying that it is because it was God's afterthought."
"Afterthought?" Marcia asked. "I don't understand."
"He made it on the eighth day," Sharktooth said, grinning.
"The eighth day?"
"Yes," Maureen said. "Remember, he rested on the seventh day. After he had a good day's rest to think about how he could make the earth more beautiful, he gave us Dominica."
"I see. That's a nice story, Maureen. I may use it in an article, if that's all right."
"Of course it's all right. I hope you will use it."
"Ladies?" Sharktooth interrupted.
"Yes?" Maureen asked.
"I'll leave you to get acquainted while I go pick up Connie and Paul."
"Take your time," Maureen said. "I was going to offer Marcia some tea and let her rest a bit. It's too early to be thinking about dinner."
"That sounds grand," Marcia said.
Sharktooth nodded. "Mebbe I have a sundowner wit' Connie and Paul, then. Give you two some time."
"Yes, do," Maureen said, as he turned to go. "Excuse me for just a moment, Marcia," she said, walking with him to the door.
Marcia was studying a cork board with several photographs pinned to it when Maureen returned.
"I wanted him to ask Paul to bring a certain spice," she said. "Sorry."
Marcia smiled. "No problem. Are these snapshots of some of the artists?"
"All except those two tall men with the dreadlocks," Maureen said. "They're Sharktooth's cousins, Tiberius and Lucilius Jones."
"Oh," Marcia said, looking at them more closely. "I do see a resemblance."
"Yes, they're a bit younger than he is. That's what he looked like when we met, before he went bald on top and gained weight."
"It must be fun to have family around."
"Yes, it is. But they don't spend much time here. Their mother's an American, so they have U.S. citizenship. They spend a lot of time in Miami."
"That's where I live," Marcia said. "Maybe I could look them up sometime."
Maureen looked away and said, "Let me get a kettle on for that tea."
"Maureen?"
"Yes?"
"Could you tell me how to get in touch with them?"
"I'm afraid not; they don't keep in touch. You know young people these days. Those boys are sort of wild. I don't think they want any of us back home to know what they're up to in the big city."
"Oh, well. Maybe I'll bump into them sometime. How did you come to have an art gallery here?"
"Come into my little lounge and put your feet up," Maureen said, leading her through a beaded curtain into a small sitting area. "Just let me fetch our tea, and I'll tell you all about it."
"How was your day with Marcia?" Connie asked. She and Sharktooth sat in the cockpit, waiting for Paul to bring drinks.
Sharktooth grinned. "She do ask lots of questions, that lady." He shook his head. "Am I a Rasta? Why do Rastas wear dreadlocks? Do I smoke ganja?" He chuckled.
"I warned you."
"Mm-hmm. You did. But still she wear me out."
"That reminds me," Connie said. "Why were you so careful with your speech when we were having breakfast? You were using your best American English."
"Patois for friends only," he said. "Mus' not feed the stereotypes. Too many people might read what she write an' t'ink we ignorant people in the islan's."
"Then why were you so reluctant to let her know you went to Wharton?"
He chuckled. "People believe mos' what information is hard to come by. You know that; I've seen you do the same t'ing when you con people."
"Who's conning people?" Paul asked, joining th
em with a tray of drinks.
"Sharktooth, sort of," Connie said.
"Who're you conning?" Paul asked.
"Marcia," Connie said.
"Not conning, 'xactly," Sharktooth said. "Jus' makin' sure she have accurate perception of islan' people."
Paul shook his head and frowned for a moment. Then he shrugged and raised his glass. "To islan' people," he said.
Connie and Sharktooth touched the rims of their glasses to his, and they each sipped their drinks.
"Is ver' good, Paul," Sharktooth said, smacking his lips. "Not too much rum; mos'ly the fruit juice." He nodded and took another drink. "You talk wit' Phillip while we gone?"
"We did," Paul said. "Unless Marcia wants to stay here another day, we're off to Ste. Anne tomorrow."
"Tha's a long day," Sharktooth said. "You mus' be leavin' early."
"Yes. She's enjoying the sailing," Connie said. "She's a fast learner."
"She say you teach her 'bout the boat," Sharktooth said. He took a swallow of his drink. "She ask 'bout Dani an' Liz, too. Said you tol' her Dani introduce you to me."
"That's right," Connie said. "We did talk about that."
"And she want to know what kind of business I do with J.-P. You tell her 'bout that, too?"
"Only that you were a business partner of Dani's father," Connie said.
"Hmm," Sharktooth said, a frown on his face.
"What's on your mind, Sharktooth?" Paul asked.
"She askin' the wrong kind of questions, I t'ink."
Paul and Connie looked at each other. "William said something similar," Paul said.
"William?" Sharktooth raised his eyebrows.
"William Issacs," Paul said.
Sharktooth shook his head.
"He owns a taxi service in Antigua," Connie said. "We book island tours for our guests with him. You don't know him?"
"Mebbe if I see him. He take Marcia aroun' Antigua?"
"Yes," Connie said.
"Mm-hmm. What kind of questions she ask him?"
"About money laundering and drugs," Connie said.
"And if he knew whether we did any banking business in Antigua."
Sharktooth took a sip of his drink and didn't say anything.
"What are you thinking?" Paul asked.
"You read any of her magazine articles?" Sharktooth asked. "I mean from before she chartered Diamantista II."
Connie and Paul shook their heads. "No," Connie said. "I did a search for her on the web, but I didn't find anything."
"You mention that to her?" Sharktooth asked.
"Yes. She said she wasn't surprised. Most of her work is ghostwriting. She rarely gets anything published in her own name."
"And she say she don' work for any one particular magazine?" Sharktooth asked. "Jus' whatever one decide to buy an article she already wrote?"
"That's right," Connie said.
"I think this ver' strange. How much she spend to charter Diamantista II?"
"Forty-five thousand dollars," Paul said. "Three weeks."
"U.S.?" Sharktooth asked, eyebrows raised.
Paul nodded.
"Tha's a lot of money fo' her to gamble, hopin' she gon' be able to sell some articles."
"We had the same thought," Connie said.
"She say she from Miami," Sharktooth said. "You ask yo' frien' Luke to check her out?"
"No, but I will, now," Paul said. "That's a good idea. She's way too focused on the drug business. At first, I wrote it off to maybe watching too much T.V., but she hasn't let it go."
"What did she ask about you and J.-P.?" Connie asked.
"How long we'd been in business together. What did we sell? Where did we buy? Who were our customers. Way too many details."
"How'd you answer?" Paul asked.
Sharktooth cackled. "I switch to patois, wit' lots of Creole."
Connie laughed. "How did she react?"
"She confused," Sharktooth said.
"What about the stereotype thing?" she asked.
"Sometime bes' to feed prejudice, I t'ink. Help her b'lieve what she want to b'lieve."
"Do you think your evasiveness might lead her to think you're in the drug business?"
"Drug business ver' dangerous. Many bad people." He shook his head. "Bes' fo' a simple man like me to avoid, don' you t'ink?"
Connie smiled. "Do you think you convinced her?"
Sharktooth shrugged. "Mebbe, mebbe not. I t'ink we prob'ly find out. We see what she ask Maureen. I let you know. I don' t'ink we hear the las' of this lady."
"Speaking of Maureen, should we be going to the gallery?" Connie asked.
"Prob'ly so."
"How was your tour of Dominica?" Connie asked Marcia. They were sitting on the veranda of Sharktooth's house, high on the hillside overlooking Prince Rupert Bay. Paul was in the kitchen with Sharktooth and Maureen, preparing their dinner.
"It was great! I love the island; it's so lush and green. And I never imagined that a plantation would be like that. I thought we were walking through the jungle, until Sharktooth started pointing out all the different things that were growing. All kinds of fruit and vegetables and herbs — it doesn't look cultivated at all."
"It's a fascinating form of agriculture, isn't it?" Connie asked. "Well adapted to the environment. There's a big focus on what they call intercropping — planting different crops all mixed together. It may look like jungle, but it's done with a lot of forethought about how the plants live together."
"How do you know all that?" Marcia asked. "You don't strike me as a farm girl, somehow."
Connie laughed. "Hardly. We've had some charter guests who were agronomists. I just picked up a few buzzwords from them. What did you think of Maureen's art gallery?"
"It's awesome. Most of the stuff there is from local artists, too. There's a lot of talent here, for such a poor island. And the people seem to live well, in spite of their poverty."
"You're seeing a different cultural perspective," Connie said. "As you get to know the people, you realize that even though they don't have much by our reckoning, they feel sorry for people like us, because all we have is money."
"I don't understand what you mean."
"They look around and see all this natural beauty, and the benign, uncrowded, fertile place they live. We've run across several people here who have lived in the States. A number of them had what we'd consider successful, middle class lives there. But they found our ways oppressive and backward."
"How can you say that?" Marcia asked. "A lot of the people I saw today didn't even have shoes."
"I didn't say I agreed with their view, but they look at life differently. Who needs shoes in a place like this? The ground is soft and clean; shoes hurt your feet, and they're hot."
Marcia shook her head. "I guess. Sharktooth and Maureen are a real puzzle to me."
"Why?"
"Most of the time, he looks and talks like the barefoot people we saw tending crops, but he went to Wharton. And he has this house — it's magnificent. His import/export business must be lucrative. He couldn't live like this on what he makes driving a water taxi. She's a wonderful artist; a lot of the works in her gallery are hers. And she's bright and articulate. But she can't be making much money with that gallery in a place like this."
"I don't know much about their financial situation," Connie said. "It's not really any of my business."
"Oops," Marcia said. "I didn't mean to sound nosey. It's just that people like them … they could thrive anywhere. Miami, New York, London — why here?"
"Probably because they like it here," Connie said. "Did you discuss that with either of them?"
"Yes, and that's what they said. Maureen said, 'Look around you, Marcia. Have you ever seen a more peaceful, beautiful place? Why would anybody who could live here choose to live anywhere else?' Sharktooth said something similar."
"But you don't believe them?"
Marcia shrugged. "There has to be some other reason."
After sever
al seconds of silence, Connie asked, "Are you ready to move on tomorrow, still?"
"Yes. You mentioned Martinique the other day?"
Connie smiled. "Yes. I called our friends in Ste. Anne; they're not busy. That's one of our favorite hangouts. It's around 90 miles — that's a long day's sail. You up for it?"
"Sure. I'd love to get in some more sailing. Will we have wind?"
"That's always a question, but I think so. We'll swoop pretty far out to the west of the islands, since we've got a ways to go. Wind shadow won't be as big a problem, and with any luck we'll see whales."
"Really?"
"We often do, this time of year. The humpbacks migrate through the stretch where we'll be."
"Cool. And what do you and Paul like to do in Martinique?"
"I like to relax and read. Paul and Phillip usually spend a little time fishing. Sandrine is at work during the week, but she's taking time off to spend with us. She's an Olympic-class shopper; she loves going into the city. I'm sure she'll show you all the best places."
"What kind of work does she do?"
"She's a senior officer in the French customs service."
"And how about Phillip?"
"He's retired. He spent most of his working career in the military."
"Like the French Foreign Legion, or something?"
Connie laughed. "No, nothing so colorful. He's an American. He was in the U.S. Army, but he had several tours as a military attaché in different places. You'll enjoy them, and they can give you a good sense of what life on Martinique is like. It's a big, relatively wealthy island — quite the opposite of Dominica."
"Excuse me, ladies," Sharktooth interrupted, stepping out onto the veranda. "Dinner is served."
15
Reuben Griffin sat in his new office upstairs above the Pink Pussycat. The last 24 hours had been busy. Before he came to the club, he'd made the rounds of the territory, meeting his distributors, confronting each of them on his own turf.
He'd spotted them with no difficulty; his new boss had told him where to find them. He barged into their lairs unannounced, knocking their bodyguards unconscious with deft skill. The first two he'd called on had made the mistake of pulling pistols on him. For that, he had broken their trigger fingers.
An Easy Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 8th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean Page 11
