An Easy Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 8th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean

by Charles Dougherty

  "She have this little art gallery in Portsmouth. Mebbe I t'ink I mighta tol' you 'bout it, yeah?"

  "Yeah, you did." Caruthers was chewing on his lower lip, waiting for the man to get to the point.

  "There's a rumor up in Portsmouth say somebody try to rob her at the gallery las' night."

  "Tried to rob her? Who tried to rob her?"

  "Strange mon. Not from aroun' here. They say he got lotsa long, deep scars on the arms. Knife fighter, prob'ly."

  That would be Patrick Osei; Caruthers had no doubt. "And what happened?"

  "They say he pull out a straight razor, push her against the counter, gonna cut her, make her give him what he want."

  Patrick, for sure, Caruthers thought. "And?"

  "She a big woman, see. Have to be, to be marry to that mon, Sharktooth. That mon, he a giant. Mos' nearly seven feet tall."

  "Did he cut her? Or what?"

  "No, mon." The man chuckled. "He get a big surprise. She pull out this club like you hit the fish wit'. Break both his arms an' take the razor. He try to run, then, an' she hit on his knee wit' that club, break the leg, they say."

  "Did he get arrested, then?"

  "Uh-uh. The woman, she call Sharktooth. He come an' take the mon away, up in the country. Take him to a frien', mebbe a cousin. A houngan named Uncle Christian. Everybody 'roun here know 'bout Uncle Christian. End of story. That mon, they prob'ly make him zombie. Never see him again, I don' 'spect."

  "Okay," Caruthers said. "You take care."

  "Wait, Charlie."

  "What?" Caruthers asked.

  "Sorry I prattle on like a ol' lady. Why you call, mon?"

  "Never mind," Caruthers said, disconnecting.

  A zombie, he thought, shaking his head. No way he'd tell Reuben Griffin that story. But he had to let him know that Patrick was out of action; Reuben was still expecting to hear whatever Patrick had learned about Barrera and the Berger cartel. With some reluctance, he punched in the number for Reuben's throwaway cellphone.

  Guillermo Montalba was digesting the latest surveillance report on Diamantista II when he saw the notification of a message from Reuben Griffin flash across his computer screen. He clicked the icon to open Griffin's email and began reading.

  He smiled as he saw that Griffin's follow-up action in Dominica had borne fruit. Griffin had an address and a telephone number for the men who had wrecked Graciella's penthouse. Montalba's interest in Patrick Osei was piqued, now. He could use a man who could produce results like that, especially with Griffin and Caruthers to insulate him from the consequences.

  Now that Griffin had located the men, he was asking for guidance from Montalba as to his next step. Montalba realized then that Griffin didn't know the specifics of Montalba's interest. He leaned back in his chair, considering how much he was willing to tell Griffin.

  Griffin didn't know his name, so he wouldn't connect him with Graciella, but Montalba was still reluctant to tell Griffin about the break-in at her condo. Graciella had no identifiable connection to the drug business. The two of them had been careful to segregate their activities over the years. He didn't trust Griffin enough to reveal that his interest in the two Rastas stemmed from their encounter with her. That could open too many avenues for speculation.

  Even so, Montalba was desperate to know how the two thugs had made the connection between him and Graciella. The one who had menaced her had even referred to him as her brother. The only other thing he knew about them was that they were connected to this character in Dominica, the man called Sharktooth. He felt safe in assuming that they were working for the benefit of Barrera, but where had they gotten their information about him?

  There were few people who even knew of his existence, and none knew his name except Graciella. Also, no one knew they were siblings. Graciella wouldn't have given that away, and he knew that he hadn't. Was it possible that someone had spotted him coming or going from her condo?

  He racked his brain, trying to remember every time they had slipped him into or out of her place. They'd always done it the same way, in the dead hours just before dawn. She would drive into the underground garage and pull up to the entrance to the private elevator. He'd get out of the car wearing a hooded sweatshirt to cover his face and open the elevator door with his key. The elevator only went to her penthouse; there were no other stops, and it opened into the interior of the penthouse.

  There were security cameras trained on the main entrance to her unit. He had never used the main entrance to the condo. There was no camera that covered the entrance to her private elevator, although the cameras in the garage might pick up a car when it stopped outside the elevator entrance. Still, the odds were slight that the guard would notice, and even if he did, the car would block most of the view of the door. They had checked that.

  Montalba shrugged. This was unproductive. Someone, somehow, had made the connection. They knew he was Graciella's brother. Given the nature of the threat that Tiberius had delivered, it almost had to be the Barrera/Berger organization. He needed to move on.

  He did resolve one thing from his rumination, though. It was far too risky to trust Griffin with the capture and interrogation of Tiberius and Lucilius Jones. There was no telling what they might reveal.

  Besides Griffin, his other option was to use SpecCorp. He had been disappointed in their performance when he had used them for surveillance in the Caribbean, but they specialized in this kind of work.

  Delaney had started SpecCorp during the era of extraordinary renditions by the CIA. His teams were skilled in kidnappings. At first they provided this service only for the U.S. government, but their customer base had grown. He would call Delaney and have SpecCorp bring the two men to him. He and his crew could handle their interrogation, and if necessary, dispose of them.

  Satisfied with his plan, he turned his attention to the rest of Griffin's report. Griffin's man, Patrick Osei, had disappeared at the hands of the man they called Sharktooth. Montalba was disappointed but not surprised. He shook his head and clenched his jaw. Barrera's people were as dangerous as they were competent.

  If he could find a way to make them partners rather than competitors, they could control the world's illicit drug trade together. He reached for the encrypted satellite phone that was his direct connection to Delaney.

  "It was tough to get through dinner without confronting her," Paul said, his voice low.

  "Mm-hmm," Connie said, her head on his shoulder. They had returned to Diamantista II half an hour earlier, and Marcia had gone directly to bed. Connie and Paul weren't far behind her, but they were both too keyed up to sleep. "Besides the prints, Luke didn't have much."

  "No big surprise there," Paul said. "If she's mixed up in her brother's drug business, I'd expect her connection to be buried pretty deep."

  "You aren't still hanging onto the notion that she's innocent, are you?"

  "Not entirely," Paul said. "But it's possible he sent her down here to check us out without telling her everything."

  "That seems like a stretch, to me. There are too many things that point to her involvement. Or at least complicity."

  "What's the strongest argument against her, in your mind?"

  Connie thought for a few seconds. "That phone call she made to her brother after Tiberius left her place."

  "That seems like a natural reaction," Paul said.

  "But why not call the police?" Connie asked.

  "The threat was precipitated by her brother's actions," Paul said. "And nobody knew she had a brother. She had kept that a secret. Maybe she's ashamed of his being a crook. It happens. That would have all come out, if she'd called anybody else."

  "Right," Connie said. "And that's right up there on my list of arguments for her guilt. They must have gone to a lot of trouble to hide their relationship; she's been moving in high society for years. Why would she hide the fact that she had a brother?"

  "Because he'd hinder her social climbing. Like I said, she was ashamed of him."

&nb
sp; "You mean because he's a drug kingpin?" Connie asked. "I think she's up to her eyeballs in it with him. They kept her clean so she could marry that senator. Luke said he's got a shot at the presidency. They wouldn't blow that. Imagine a drug lord whose brother-in-law is president."

  "Even if O'Toole's dirty," Paul said, "he's no fool. He wouldn't marry her if he knew. Who needs that kind of baggage?"

  "That's what I mean," Connie said. "She knows what her brother's up to, and she has to be part of it. If I were her, I surely wouldn't let O'Toole know, though. Would you?"

  "No, I see your point. So she's playing O'Toole to help her brother, you think."

  "I do," she said. "And I don't think for a minute that O'Toole is innocent. I just don't think he knows the extent of what he's into."

  "You think he's mixed up in the drug business?" Paul asked.

  "I know there's nothing to prove he is, but Leon's been watching him. And Leon said O'Toole killed that guy, Art Jansen. Didn't Luke say Jansen had some drug connections?"

  "He said it was rumored, I think," Paul said. "But to me, your strongest point is that your cousin Leon's watching him. Leon's focused on drugs. By the same logic, it's probably a safe bet that Jansen was involved in the drug business."

  "Did you ever sort out Leon's worries about Luke? After he sent those two detectives to question the lawyer?" Connie asked.

  "No. Leon left it up to me, and I just decided to let it sit for a while. I didn't know what to say to Luke about it."

  "That's not like you," Connie said. "To sit on something like that."

  "A wise old man once told me that if I didn't know what to say, I should keep my mouth shut."

  Connie chuckled. "Good advice, but I don't think I've seen you not know what to say before."

  Paul shrugged. "Wonder how Sandrine reacted when Phillip told her about Marcia?"

  "From what he said about that phone call from her earlier, I doubt she was surprised. It just confirmed her suspicion that Marcia is Graciella. She sounded pretty sure already, from what Phillip said this morning."

  "She did a good job of pretending, then," Connie said. "Marcia seems to think Sandrine's her new best friend."

  "Yes, but I noticed that Sandrine's not taking her on an island tour tomorrow," Paul said.

  "Did you catch who the tour guide's going to be?" Connie asked.

  "No. Did you?"

  "Yes. Marie LaCroix. Sandrine got Phillip to set it up through Clarence."

  "Whoa!" Paul said. "Marie's doing tours for Clarence, now?"

  Connie chuckled. "We tend to forget that Clarence runs that helicopter tour business as a cover." Clarence Devereau ran a number of clandestine activities, some for the French government, and some for others. He was a long-term associate of Phillip and J.-P. Berger.

  "You're right. Does that mean Sandrine wants Marie to see what she can get out of Marcia?"

  "I don't know," Connie said. "Maybe while Marie babysits Marcia tomorrow, we can round up Sandrine and Phillip and get Sharktooth and Luke on the phone. Kind of a council of war."

  "Council of war?" Paul asked. "Are you up to something you haven't told me about?"

  "Not yet, but I'm tired of being in a passive role. We need to do something, and we've got Montalba's sister. Not only that, but the Montalbas don't know that we know we have her. That's our edge. We need to figure out how to use it."

  "Giving up on that easy sail you wanted?" Paul asked.

  "I'm just trying to find the best way to play the hand they dealt us. Let's sleep on it and see what we can come up with in the morning. If we don't drive this mess to a conclusion, Montalba will. We may not like where he takes it."

  "Sometimes I forget what a devious mind my wife has."

  "That's okay; I'd like to forget it myself, but not just yet."

  "You don't sound upset."

  "I'm not happy about being caught up in this, but it is a challenge. And we're not in it alone, either, cookie. We've got some help on hand. Montalba's got no clue what he's blundered into. Now, let's get some sleep."

  20

  "Marie LaCroix," Marcia said, as she climbed into Marie's Jeep. "That sounds like a typically French name. Are you from Martinique? Or France?"

  "It is the same," Marie said.

  Marcia frowned and shook her head. "I don't follow you."

  "Follow?" Marie asked. "But you are riding in my … Ah! You mean you don't follow as in you don't understand, yes?"

  "Yes. I don't understand why you said 'It is the same.'"

  "I say this because Martinique is France. They are the same country."

  "Oh. Right. I knew that, but that's not what I was asking."

  "You wish to know where I am from? That is your question?"

  "Yes. Sorry I was unclear."

  "Probably it is my English," Marie said. "You do not need to apologize."

  "But you speak English very well, Marie."

  "Yes, but I have not much exposure to American English. Some, but it has become rusted. Ah, sorry. Rusty. This is what you say, yes?"

  "That's right. English is your second language, then?"

  "Mm," Marie said. "No. It is my first language, but I did not learn from Americans, so much."

  "Where are you from, originally?"

  "I was born on a kibbutz. In Israel. English was a common language there, but I learned it from people of many different nationalities."

  "You lived on a kibbutz? That's interesting."

  "I grew up there, until I was conscripted."

  "Conscripted?"

  "Into the IDF." Marie glanced at Marcia, noticing the frown on her face. "The Israeli Defense Force — the Israeli Army. In the U.S. you would say I was drafted, I think."

  "What did you do in the Army? What was it like?"

  "It was part of the life I knew. I don't know how to say what it was like. It just was what I did. What we all did."

  "Were you, like, a soldier?"

  "Yes, of course. I was a soldier for maybe two years."

  "Were you in combat at all?"

  "Yes. Sometimes."

  "Did you ever kill anyone?"

  "This is a question that you should not ask someone who has seen combat. It is too personal. I don't mean to be rude, but I will not answer this."

  Undeterred, Marcia asked, "You said you were a soldier for maybe two years. Is that how long you were drafted for?"

  "The normal length of service for women was two years."

  "So what did you do when you got out?"

  "I stayed longer. I did some specialized work. When I finally got out, I came here, to Martinique."

  "Why to Martinique?"

  "The Middle East was not safe any longer."

  "I thought Israel was generally a safe country," Marcia said.

  "You have been to Israel?" Marie asked.

  "No, but I have friends in Miami who spend a lot of time there. They think it's wonderful."

  "Yes. It is wonderful in many ways. But for me, too many bad things happened. Please; may we talk about Martinique? My experiences in the Middle East are not for the public. For me, it is a dangerous place."

  "I'm sorry. Forgive me, but your background is tantalizing."

  Marie drove in silence for a couple of minutes.

  "How did you become a tour guide?" Marcia asked.

  "It is one of the things that I do. I must take what work I can find; I do different things. Whatever comes along. I have a friend who owns a helicopter tour business. He is someone I met before I came here to live, so when he has a tour without the helicopter, he maybe sends it to me."

  "How did you learn your way around the island?"

  "When I still worked for Israel, I came here often enough to learn about it. What would you like to know about Martinique?"

  "Sandrine told me there was a lot of smuggling from St. Lucia, because of common language and family ties."

  "Yes," Marie said. "Mostly, this smuggling is drugs. The shipments are funneled through St. L
ucia, and then to here, because it is easier to reach the E.U. from Martinique. You have some interest in this business?"

  "There's a good market for magazine articles about the drug trade," Marcia said. "Do you know much about it?"

  "Some, maybe. From before I … " Marie caught herself and looked over at Marcia. "But not for the magazines. This is dangerous to talk about."

  "What if I told you it wasn't for the magazines?"

  Marie pulled her car onto the shoulder of the road and kept an eye on the rearview mirror until half a dozen cars had passed. When the road behind them was clear, she reached inside her shirt with her right hand and produced a small, glassine packet of white powder. Handing it to Marcia, she said, "You wish to try it? Be very careful; it has not been stepped on much. Not like the stuff you maybe find on the street in the States."

  Marcia grinned and shook her head. "Thanks, but I'm not a user. That's not my interest."

  Marie nodded and returned the packet to her hiding place. She flicked the turn signal down and pulled back onto the road. "So you are only curious, then?"

  "No. I have some friends who might be interested, but not in packets, if you get my meaning."

  "They wish larger amounts?"

  "Much larger."

  "Who are your friends?"

  Marcia laughed and shook her head. "I need to know who we're dealing with, first."

  "You are in a dangerous position, my friend," Marie said. "You have come to us, sought us out. So you have some idea of who you're dealing with. But you are an unknown. Unless someone we know can vouch for you, you may not get back to Miami."

  "Are you threatening me, Marie?"

  Marie looked over and gave her a warm smile. "I am not. Threats have no place in this business. If you make me suspicious, I will kill you. It is simple with me. But with others, maybe it is more complicated."

  "Then I haven't made you suspicious, have I?"

  "No. Not yet. But I need to know who you are before we talk more about this."

  "I am Marcia Levine. You know that. You want to see my passport?"

  "Passports mean nothing. I have many of them, all official, all from different countries. All with different names. Who are you?"