by Vince Milam
Typical. So typical. Cryptic and nebulous and left hanging. But something stirred and I’d keep the awareness dial turned up.
Pettis traveled in style. A steward on board asked if we required anything. We both declined and both napped. Three hours later we circled St. Thomas. Ten by three miles, surrounded with paradise-like Caribbean waters. Aqua water glistened, white sand beaches called, and palm trees galore waved in the breeze. The town of Charlotte Amalie overlooked a photo-worthy bay. About as inviting as you could want. This would be my and Bo’s first trip there.
As a US territory, there were no St. Thomas customs as we arrived from the mainland. A Martha Stewart good thing as they might have more than a few questions about the contents of our tourist duffel bags. Pettis arranged a vehicle and driver who met us. A text message from the man himself arrived as we climbed into the vehicle.
Meet you in the hotel bar later.
Fine. The setting for our one and only caucus. A sense of satisfaction with this contract extension settled. A pleasant, short plane ride and meet the jittery Pettis. Stay the night. Maybe Bo and I would make a snorkel trip tomorrow a.m. Then a Raleigh return trip on board a private jet. While the cash register sang. Sweet.
Then I spotted him. It was the incongruity. A look and feel about the guy, here in paradise central, rang instant awareness. A gut jump signaled strong and sure confirmation. We cruised past the small commercial air terminal before a turn toward Charlotte Amalie. He stood and leaned against an exterior wall as tourists filed past. A short ponytail, full beard. Ball cap, bright tourist-shop T-shirt, jeans, running shoes. Sunglasses and a tourist guide opened. And at his feet, a smallish duffel bag. An operator. One of us. You could try and hide it, but when you’d been there done that, it stood out. The vibe, the benign cover and taut underlay. Behind those dark shades, eyes scanned and no doubt about it.
“You see that?” I asked Bo as we passed.
“Delta-do, for sure. Don’t know him. After our time.”
“Oh man.”
“Perhaps languid is off the menu, goober.” Bo unzipped his duffel and—hand inside the bag—chambered a round into the HK assault rifle. The driver heard, comprehended the sound, and stopped his running monologue about St. Thomas.
An event, a crisis, an attack—take your pick. Something was going down. Forces converged, indeed. Delta didn’t show for preventative missions. They showed and engaged and stomped on the proceedings. We scanned figures and faces throughout the drive. Focused on body set, attitude, walking styles. And tourist duffel bags. Spotted one more. His overall vibe edged full-on dangerous, separate from the wandering tourists. But the training to blend in so thorough, tourists never noticed.
Danish colonial architecture filled Charlotte Amalie. I wished I could have enjoyed it more, but all bets toward a relaxed visit were off the table. The driver stopped at a historic old estate converted into a fine hotel. Home for the night.
The unofficial greeter stood away from the main entrance, near an oversized landscape container that housed a bright orange hibiscus plant. Another operator. No beard, but unkempt hair and a two-day stubble. A vacationer, set on relaxation. With another duffel at this feet and a patterned untucked and loose shirt over jeans. The shirt ballooned with the breeze. Underneath, dollars to donuts, a tucked pistol. He wouldn’t waste the two seconds pulling the duffel’s assault rifle.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said. “This is too surreal. And the timing too coincidental.”
“Real as real can be, my brother.”
Bo and I thanked the driver and wandered over. Caribbean salt air blew, palm fronds swayed, and bougainvilleas lit the layers of landscape. The operator eyeballed us as a half-grin grew. Recognition of Bo and me. We couldn’t return the favor, although he held a familiarity. We’d passed each other before.
“Nice day,” I said and lowered my shades.
He returned the gesture. “Didn’t realize they allowed geezers back in the game.” Said with a full smile.
“Bite me. Case Lee. Bo Dickerson. Here on a private gig.”
Nods all around. “So what’s shaking?” I asked.
“Shake, rattle, and roll. So says the other side.”
The other side. The CIA. Delta often worked as the hammer for their pointed-out nail.
“Is it real?” The CIA had sent us chasing a perceived imminent threat, non-existent, more than a few times.
He shrugged a noncommittal response, valid. Who knew until it hit the fan?
“Terrorist attack?” I asked.
“So sayeth the spooks.”
“Head spook got a name?” This Delta operator might not reveal more. Bo and I represented inactive duty, retired. We worked a low-key commercial engagement. He was here to perform a much more intense job.
“Stinnett.”
Didn’t know the guy. Nothing unusual there.
“What’s the AO?” I asked. Area of Operations.
“Tourist central.”
The hotels, eateries, and streets of Charlotte Amalie. And the airport. A terrorist attack. Delta wouldn’t show unless it was imminent. Or a false flag.
“Need help?” I lifted my duffel, an indicator.
He slid the shades back up his nose and turned his head, scanning.
“We’re good. You guys did your time. Stick with private ops. But keep low for a day or so. I’ll spread the word you two are around.”
Tight nods and the operator again adopted full vigilance. Appearance-wise, another tourist chilling alongside the hotel.
We checked in at the front desk. “It strikes mighty discordant,” I said.
“The timing,” Bo said. “Strange in anyone’s book.”
“I’m not fitting the pieces. We’re here to hold a rich guy’s hand.”
A strange buzz, a tie to recent events, but separate, distinct. The Caribbean job was an outlier, a kissing cousin, but still related. Pure coincidence wouldn’t play. I’d been involved in a contracted event, a happening. And somewhere I’d inadvertently dragged a finger through a layered cake’s frosting, leaving a small trail. Had to be. Faith in pure coincidence got a person killed. Yeah, something might go down that required a Delta team. A major event. And somewhere in the background, in the shadows, a slender tentacle reached out and had me by the ankle. Too strange, too weird.
“Pieces, parts, and flow,” Bo said. “More things in heaven and earth.”
I lacked his distance and third-party perspective. I was wrapped in this, somehow. Bo wasn’t.
“Thanks, Shakespeare.” I was pulled, hard, toward the immediate. Firmer ground. “We gonna engage if and when this happens? A terrorist attack?”
“We’re the good guys, Batman. Capes optional,” Bo said, accompanied with a wild grin.
We agreed to meet in the bar ten minutes later. I dropped my rucksack in the expansive room, the view incredible. Below, the bay was filled with pleasure boats and two cruise ships. We both carried the duffels into the bar, handy tools just in case, occupied a corner table, and waited for Pettis.
She approached with a saunter that hollered no BS allowed and a demeanor that cried “try it, buster.” A stunning woman—jet black hair, nut-brown skin, high cheekbones. Khakis and knit shirt, a too-large light material jacket. She stood alongside us and flashed a badge.
“Special Agent Johnson. FBI. I know you two gentlemen won’t mind if I join you. Let’s chat about Jordan Pettis.”
Chapter 19
As she sat, Bo—slumped and stretched out, head rested against the chair’s back—asked with a smile, “May I see your badge? But please don’t hand it over if it violates your object space. Or threatens bad karma.” He tilted his head. “I mean, with me touching it and all.”
A half-smile returned. “A little karma change might do me good.”
She handed him the leather-bound badge and ID card and addressed me.
“You’re Tilly?”
Pettis. The SOB set this up, pulled in the FBI, and expected
the world to circle the wagons and protect his sorry butt. While Delta roamed the streets, prepared for an attack of some kind. An event Special Agent Johnson would know about. The CIA had no jurisdiction on US soil, so they would, at a minimum, inform the Feds about impending assaults. The CIA, Delta Force—big stuff for a sleepy FBI assignment in St. Thomas.
“Yeah. Jack Tilly. Out of curiosity, how big is the FBI’s presence on this tourist island?”
Did Pettis have enough stroke for an FBI agent to fly into St. Thomas?
“The field office is San Juan, Puerto Rico. Next door. They term this station a resident office. A one person show.”
“Nice assignment,” I said.
“Not really.” She glanced at Bo who held her badge overhead and viewed it from different angles.
“Julie Johnson. Alliteration at play,” Bo said.
“To the extreme. I go by JJ.” This time she smiled full, teeth bright white.
Oh man. She’d dropped every indicator of officiousness. At least with Bo. I couldn’t fathom how he did it.
“And I’m Bo. Bo Dickerson.” He returned the badge. “And about that not really thing. How does working this island make you feel?”
She was torn between getting down to business mode and talking with Bo. She chose the latter.
“Isolated. Confined.” She sat back, hands across her midriff and inspected Bo. He always looked a mess to me. Clearly not for Special Agent Johnson. “I was raised in Flagstaff, Arizona. A lot of space to move around in.”
“You have Native American blood. It is striking stuff, truly.” He spoke with a soft gentleness, affirming.
She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Part Apache, with Hispanic and white and who-knows tossed in. Classic American mutt.”
“So what I’m hearing is you prefer wider spaces.”
“That’s part of it. Plus the lack of FBI business. And a lack of social activity.”
Enough. These two could hit on each other later.
“What can we do for you Special Agent Johnson?” I asked.
She turned toward me. “Fair enough. Let’s wrap up this wild goose chase with Pettis. Right now, there are much more pressing things for consideration.”
Yeah, like some sort of freakin’ attack requiring Delta operators.
“So let’s keep this short and sweet and focus on Mr. Jordan Pettis,” she continued. “And by the way, there is no Jack Tilly of the Providence Insurance Company.”
Short and sweet was right. I’d left a string of bodies behind, three on US soil. Five if you tossed in Bo’s kills. Best to avoid a lengthy wander down that alley.
“Let’s keep it Jack Tilly for now. I work private investigator jobs. Pettis contacted my client. I investigated Joseph Bettencourt’s death in the Bahamas. And the death of Geoffrey Whitmore of Long Island. There’s connectivity, tenuous connectivity, to Pettis. A large business deal.”
A waiter arrived and took our orders. Diet Pepsi for her and ice tea for me. And a too-long back-and-forth with the waiter about a fruit drink from Mr. Cosmic Vibrations.
The FBI waited until the waiter left. “Your client is Swiss, as I understand it,” Johnson said. “And you contend Bettencourt was poisoned. Whitmore, maybe, drowned. What else?”
That SOB Pettis. He’d shared my private report with an FBI agent. What a freakin’ idiot.
“Ask Pettis. You read the suspected ties with an overland route through Costa Rica. A big infrastructure deal that would compete with the Panama Canal.”
Sufficient information, benign enough.
“Peculiar happenings,” Bo said.
“Yes they are. Peculiar,” she said. “Do you want to explain the ‘met with extreme prejudice on Long Island’ part of your report, Mr. Tilly?”
“I meant our immediate environs,” Bo said. “Here and now. Peculiar and fraught with ill-intent.”
Well done, Bo. Pointed the cannon elsewhere. She locked eyes with Bo, quizzical.
“What are you talking about, Mr. Dickerson? Bo.”
“You have special guests on paradise island. Special guests with special skills. Prepared to ride the whirlwind.”
The blender behind the bar pulsed Bo’s drink. Johnson remained silent, although she cast hard stares toward us both. Warm salt air blew through the bar’s open windows. She adjusted her jacket and placed forearms on the table.
“Who are you people? And don’t feed me crap about private investigators.” She sat back straight. “Are you two here for Pettis or something else or both? Because the something else constitutes my main concern at the moment.”
“It rolls and tumbles, doesn’t it?” Bo flashed teeth as our drinks arrived. “Would you like to try this, JJ? I sense a magical blend.”
I couldn’t believe it. He slid the concoction toward her, and she sipped from the straw. A bit of lipstick remained on the straw.
“The tamarind adds a nice touch,” she said and placed the tall glass within Bo’s reach. “I don’t like job-related mysteries, Bo. Especially the here and now type. I’d appreciate it if you’d fill me in.”
Playing him or true connectivity? Man, I was sitting with Alice in Wonderland.
“Our former selves,” Bo said and took his own sip. “The tamarind is nice. Can you have a former self? A question for the ages.”
I glanced out the open window. Tourists wandered, vegetation moved with the breeze. Laughter drifted from the sidewalk.
“Tell me,” she said. “No kidding. I really do dislike immediate unknowns.”
I wasn’t part of the discussion. Which was fine. Questions from an FBI agent about US turf activities lay low on my wish list. And discussions of our past mapped just fine to Bo’s wheelhouse.
“My associate and I, as decrepit as we might appear, were special ops. The force which cannot be named.” He smiled wide. Delta didn’t officially exist. The world’s worst-kept secret among, well, everyone. The military, clandestine services, books, movies—you name it. But the façade remained, and helped. Added mystique.
“You’re both former Delta? And showed up now?”
Great point, Special Agent Johnson. Where was the tie? Did Pettis have connectivity with the Company? Did the Company have a hand in requesting our appearance on St. Thomas? Jeez, this was weird.
“I believe at Mr. Pettis’s request. A simple meeting regarding business dealings. He’ll have to elaborate,” Bo said. “You know, salt therapy is considered beneficial for the skin. You’re living proof of that, JJ.”
She touched her cheek and, I swore, blushed a bit. Oh man. Well, at least we’d left the world of Long Island extreme prejudice.
“I actually think it may be drying. The constant salt breeze.”
“I have some eucalyptus-infused shea butter you might try.”
A man wearing khakis and a polo shirt approached. Topsiders, no socks, and a Patek Philippe watch. He paused, looked at the three of us, pulled a chair, and sat. I welcomed the interruption.
“Good, good. You’ve all met. Which one of you two is Tilly?”
Jordan Pettis had arrived. I wondered if Special Agent Johnson would arrest me if I punched out the dumbass.
“I’m Tilly. And this is important, Pettis, so listen. If you ever again reveal a private report or private conversation of mine with any third party I’ll nail your ass to a wall. Literally.”
“Hey. I paid for it.”
“Then I’ll set you on fire. I mean it. You get that, asshole?”
Dead silence. I was beyond pissed—this guy had shattered the Case Lee engagement rules. He’d revealed my work to a Fed. And God knew who else.
“Part of your marketing strategy, Tilly?” Johnson asked, chuckling. “Is this how you drum up future business?”
“Chill, Special Agent. You two continue discussing skin care. This is between me and my clown of a client.”
Pettis, wide-eyed, scooted his chair toward Johnson. Protection.
“Look, look. I’m in danger. We can all agree to that. I
was setting the stage, Tilly. That’s all. Lay it out there so the FBI might actually do something.” He pointed toward Bo. “And who are you?”
“Another man of mystery,” Bo said. He sat back, crossed his hands across his belly, and addressed Special Agent Johnson. “About that something else you mentioned. If it happens, please be careful. The lightning moment, a fuse lit—it’s always filled with full-blown peril, JJ. Toward all parties. My associate and I speak from vast experience.”
“What are you two talking about?” Pettis asked. “What about me?” The waiter approached Pettis and was promptly waved away. “Let’s focus, people. I’m in danger.”
“Maybe,” I said and joined Bo and Johnson with hard assessments of the world as seen outside our bar window.
A dark mindset threaded thoughts. Ties and relationships, unknown, threw questions. A terrorist attack, maybe. On edge, the stage wobbly, nothing solid. Bo scooted his chair for a better outside view. Johnson checked her phone—a nervous move as no calls or texts had sounded. The possibility of a false call to action loomed. In the past our Delta team stood around more than a few times when the spooks misread the tea leaves. So I’d take care of Pettis and remove him from the immediate, then focus on the backdrop of potential imminent danger.
“You paid for this meeting. Here’s my advice,” I said, turning toward my client. Pettis checked his expensive watch. “You got a pressing appointment, bub?”
Half-petulant, he paid attention. “Go public,” I continued. “Announce your Costa Rica endeavors are off and will never happen. Back to bits and byte, Pettis. Stick with what you know.”
“What? I’m working on more LPs right now. The train has left the station, once again.”
“LPs?”
“Limited. Partners. Investors for the project.”
“Let them be disappointed. Pull out.”
“You’re not getting it, Tilly. There’s a lot of buzz with the possibility of an early IPO once capital expenditures start rolling. It’s shaping up to be a ripe, ripe deal.”
I stared at the idiot.
“Someone or some organization doesn’t want you doing this deal. And will orchestrate your death to see it stopped. How’s that for buzz?”
