Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3)

by John H. Cunningham

  “Is he playing in that Adoption AID concert on Jost this weekend?”

  The bartender glanced at me, then turned back to washing glasses.

  “Let me call his manager on my speed dial and I’ll let you know.”

  I ordered a beer, drank half in one slug, and reached into my bag.

  “Friend of mine’s the promoter, and he—”

  “Wandered off and disappeared. Yep, know all about it. Cops came around yesterday asking questions.” He looked at my hair and mustache, both due and overdue for a trim. “You’re no cop.”

  “That’s right, I’m a friend. Thedford’s wife asked me to help find him.”

  “Like maybe he ran off with another woman? You a private eye?”

  “Nope.”

  I drained half of the remaining beer and opened my file.

  “Here’s his picture. You remember him from the night of the party? Anything you can tell me that might help me find him?”

  He looked up from washing glasses.

  “Yeah, I remember him, he was pretty buzzed. Yucked it up with the musicians during a break, flirted with some of the babes waiting to take a shot at Kenny, then throws me a handful of cash and stumbles down the steps there onto the beach.” He smiled. “Alone.”

  Innocent flirting or my-wife’s-a- thousand-miles-away flirting?

  “You see him get on a boat down the beach?”

  “Nope, wasn’t that interested, but heard the guy down at American Watersports saw him.”

  American—that’s the group Crystal chartered.

  “You know the guy’s name?”

  “Billy. Kind of a lush.”

  The unreliable witness?

  “Thedford say anything to you while he was here?”

  The bartender looked both ways down the bar, then leaned toward me, holding a glass.

  “Yeah, about five times. ‘Double rum and Coke.’”

  I peeled a ten out of my money clip and dropped it on the bar. I was about to walk off but stopped. Given his last wise-ass answer, the question was probably a waste, but you never know.

  “One other thing.” Head turned to the side, he glanced at me with one eye. “You know how to get in touch with Diego Francis?”

  I heard the glass he was holding drop to the floor and shatter.

  On the other side of the bar, two burly black guys looked up.

  “You got business with Diego?” the bartender said. “Or you just crazy?”

  I finally had his attention.

  “Little of both, I guess.” He set another beer on the counter and leaned toward me. “That’s not a name I’d be throwing around town, know what I mean?”

  I held my palms up.

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “Help your friend, yeah, I get it, but that’s not a good rock to turn over.” He delivered this last part in a whisper.

  Next thing I knew, one of the black guys was on the stool next to me. His friend’s eyes drilled mine from the other side of the bar where they’d both been sitting.

  “I hear you mention Diego Francis?” he said.

  I leaned back and glanced at him. Dreadlocks, tattoos on dark skin, pupils dilated, T-shirt taut over a muscular frame.

  I swallowed. Here goes.

  “Yeah, you know where I can find him?”

  The bartender walked to the far end of the bar and kept his back to us.

  “What you want with him, man?” the black guy said.

  I held out my hand.

  “I’m Buck Reilly.” The man stared at me, ignoring the hand hovering in space between us. I held his stare and didn’t flinch, then took back my hand. “I’m looking for somebody. Thought Diego might be able to help me find him.”

  I glanced over at his friend on the other side of the bar, whose eyes were still laser-focused on me.

  I turned back to—

  WHAP!

  Excruciating pain on my cheek! Before I could react, another vicious blow.

  Then everything turned black.

  I GRADUALLY BOUNCED AWAKE, only to realize I was in the trunk of a car that was traveling along a bumpy road. My hands weren’t constrained, so I felt my face and winced—my jaw was sore to the touch. Damn. In the over thirty Golden Glove bouts I’d fought some dozen years ago, I’d never once been knocked out.

  The car swerved. We seemed to hit every pothole the driver could find. Loud music drowned out conversation, if there was any. Had they been hanging out at the Beach Bar to see if anyone came asking about John Thedford? Or did Diego have lookouts all over town? Were they taking me to see him now, or were we headed to the far end of the island where they’d make me disappear? Hell, I only asked to speak with the guy.

  I felt around the inside of the pitch-black trunk hoping to find a tire iron, bottle, anything I could surprise them with, but came up empty. The smell of sweat and maybe piss told me this wasn’t their first grab and go.

  As we continued to bounce along for another few minutes I wondered how Crystal was faring at Jost Van Dyke. Had there been a mass celebrity exodus? Had the police found any leads in either missing persons case? Crap—what if she’d been grabbed too?

  The music stopped, then the car, and in seconds the trunk popped open. I shielded my face from the blinding sun as strong hands gripped my arms. I knew better than to struggle. Yet.

  Jerked up and out of the trunk in one swift motion, I landed on my feet in front of my two assailants. The dreadlocked man who hadn’t punched me held a small pistol aimed at my chest.

  “Listen, fellas, I wasn’t looking for trouble—”

  “Shut your face, fool, or I’ll give you another one of these.” The man who had knocked me out held up his fist, along with a pair of brass knuckles that explained why my jaw hurt so much.

  I held my hands up, slowly.

  “It’s cool, man.”

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” A voice came from up a path bordered with tropical flowers. I glanced around. The property had lush grounds, and I could just see the corner of what appeared to be a large stately home through the palm trees. I also spotted a tall fence topped with razor wire and men dressed in camouflage along the perimeter.

  The source of the voice appeared: A dark-skinned man in black linen pants and a tropical print shirt that would make Ray Floyd drool. About my age but several inches shorter and of medium build. As nice as the clothes were, he had a rough-hewn face scarred from fire or severe acne. And he was smiling—which threw me, because it seemed sincere and yet there was kind of a sneer tucked away in it.

  He turned to the guy who’d cold-cocked me and held his hand up for a high-five. Brass Knuckles slapped his hand and grinned.

  “Diego Francis,” he said. “Always happy to meet a pilot—especially when business is hot.”

  “Buck Reilly.”

  Diego extended his hand. I felt like I’d landed down the rabbit hole, but I shook it off.

  “Saw you on TV in St. Thomas. You was with that lady here for the Adoption AID concert. The one whose husband’s gone missing.”

  I swallowed. Diego smiled.

  “Yeah, that was me—”

  “I know, bro. In fact, I know all about you.” His face either had a permanent smile or was deformed by whatever caused his scars. “When I saw you with that honey I knew you’d come to St. John. Knew you’d sniff around at the Beach Bar, too.”

  Dreadlocks laughed.

  “Last Resort Charters?” Diego said.

  “And Salvage,” I said.

  “And treasure hunter before that. Yeah, bro, I know all about you, even when you got arrested on Tortola.” He paused to get that smile back on his face. “But that ain’t what interests me most.”

  “I expect you know I’m here to help Crystal Thedford find her husband and fly her guests around for the concert?”

  He nodded to my abductors and turned back up the path. Dreadlocks swung the gun toward me.

  “Follow the man.”

  I follow
ed.

  Inside, the home was spectacular, right out of Architectural Digest, Arms Merchant Edition. I flashed back to my suite at the La Concha in Key West, then allowed my mind to rewind further, to my former home—all right, mansion—in Great Falls, Virginia.

  Damn, being broke sucks.

  Diego waved his hand in the air and a uniformed maid appeared with a drink tray. Nobody asked what I wanted, but she poured two glasses of soda water with fresh lemon. I could have used a rum but didn’t want one, not knowing what was on Diego’s mind. I didn’t think his voice matched that of my wakeup caller, but he did have an accent. He could have been the one who’d called John Thedford, but why?

  He sat down in a plush animal print chair—cheetah, or maybe hyena.

  “Do you know anything about what happened to John Thedford?” I said.

  “I guess we’re friends now, right?” Diego said. “You asking me questions and all. You must of skirted the law a bit here and there, hmmm?” There came the weird smile. “Shit, bro, you’re no angel.”

  “Those days are over,” I said. “Last Resort Charter and Salvage, kind of says it all, doesn’t it?”

  “See, I like people who had money and lost it,” he said. “Makes ‘em hungry. I like hungry. I was born fucking voracious and look what it got me.” He held an arm out.

  I didn’t like where this was headed, but I had no leverage.

  “The Adoption AID concert is a pretty innocent gig—”

  “Tell that to those two dudes missing in action.”

  “I hope to get the chance,” I said.

  He laughed, then sat back in his chair, sipped his bubbly drink, and… smiled?

  I glanced over my shoulder. The two goons who’d brought me here lingered in the background, watching us. Dreadlocks still held the gun and Brass Knuckles was spinning a knife.

  “I want Last Resort Charter to make a delivery for me,” Diego said.

  “I’m booked at the moment—”

  “Not any more, bro.”

  “But my plane’s on St. Thomas, and I was hoping you could help me—”

  His belly laugh cut me short.

  “You were hoping I would help you, huh? That’s rich, Buck Reilly. That’s really rich.”

  “You got something against adoption?” I said.

  He startled me by jumping up out of his chair.

  “You fucking crazy, bro?” His eyes burned holes into mine, and his scarred face no longer even hinted at a smile. I heard the two goons behind me shuffle closer.

  “You obviously haven’t done your homework, have you? Before going around Cruz Bay asking about me you might of used your head first.”

  He pounded his index finger against his own skull.

  “I was a fucking orphan, bro. My mumma was a heroin addict. Never knew who my old man was, but then she didn’t live long enough to tell me shit anyway.” His face was now inches from mine. “Adopted? Shit, no such luck here. No insta-family to the rescue, just a kid on the streets, doing whatever he needed to stay alive then thrive.”

  Interesting.

  “So while you’re making a buck flying that pretty lady around with some fancy singers and movie stars, don’t talk to me about fucking adoption like you give a shit—”

  “I was an orphan too.”

  Diego gave me a long, measuring look, then nodded.

  “Huh, makes sense. Overachiever, pushing the rules, breaking some. Broken relationships, loner.” He smiled without a trace of sneer. “Knew I’d like you, man.”

  What the—? Diego had done his homework, and he processed information fast. But what he didn’t know was that my adoptive family was great and that I’d only recently learned I was adopted in the first place.

  “If I find those missing men you’ll owe me, right?” he said.

  “There’s a reward out for the actor,” I said. “But if John Thedford and Mahoney don’t turn up soon, the charity concert will get cancelled anyway.”

  Diego slid his palm down the side of his jaw, which reminded me of the pain in mine. He walked back to his chair and drained the soda. I took in the rest of the room. Latin-themed original art and sculpture, tropical paintings mixed with tribal scenes. But there were also motion sensors in every corner, cameras with red lights aglow, and bars on the closed windows. I’d seen this veneer of culture built on criminal empires in more than one place around the world.

  “So you don’t know anything about their disappearances?” I held my breath.

  “What’s the range on that old-ass plane of yours?” Diego said.

  “About a thousand miles, empty.”

  “And full?”

  “Depends on the weight.”

  “Heavy,” he said.

  “Maybe eight hundred miles,” I said.

  “Fly better than it looks?”

  For the first time I smiled.

  “So far.”

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “An opportunity’s arisen that could…well, let’s just say it could take my business global.” His eyes took on a distant look. “I have a vision and I need to be ready to take advantage—fast—in order to capitalize on it. Know what I’m saying? I’d hate to miss that chance when the time comes. I’d really hate it.” His eyes focused—on me. “So when I call, you need to come or it’ll be you that makes me miss my chance.”

  An argument percolated in my throat, but I swallowed it. Diego looked past me.

  “Yo, Spice, take Mr. Reilly back to where you found him.” Then, to me, “Gimme your phone number.” He pointed to a pad of paper on the side table.

  I explained that my phone was new and I didn’t know the number. It was in my bag, back at the Beach Bar.

  Dreadlocks, a.k.a. Spice, muttered something and left me alone with Brass Knuckles and Diego until he returned from his car with my backpack. I kept a straight face, wrote the number of Booth’s phone down and shouldered my bag.

  “You be ready for my call and I’ll let you know when I find something about your people,” Diego said.

  “When you find something?”

  The smile-cum-sneer was back.

  “These are my islands, bro. Nothing gets past me for long. And when the time comes, you’re going to help me step up to the next level in exchange for me finding your lost sheep.”

  Perfect.

  “And when the concert goes down,” he said, “I want a front row seat and an introduction to Jamie Foxx and Denzel Washington. Heard they’ll be there.” He smiled—a real one. “They some bad motherfuckers.”

  I took some comfort from the fact that on the return trip I was in the back seat, not the trunk.

  THE CELL PHONE IN my pocket rang as Dreadlocks and Brass Knuckles drove me back toward Cruz Bay. The caller ID indicated it was Crystal, but I didn’t want to talk to her with Diego’s goons listening in so I hit END.

  The small car rocketed down a hill near Chocolate Hole toward the intersection below.

  “You guys can let me off here,” I said.

  “The Westin?” Dreadlock said.

  “No, here’s fine.”

  The car screeched to a stop.

  “When Mr. Francis calls you, be sure to answer,” Brass Knuckles said. “Otherwise, we’ll come find you.”

  I jumped out, rubbing my sore chin as they sped off. They drove a blue Hyundai, and I made a note to avoid it if I saw it again. Nice-sized trunk, though.

  A steady stream of pick-up truck taxis packed with tourists spewed out of the road leading toward the Westin, the largest hotel on the island. I retrieved Crystal’s number and hit SEND.

  “Buck, I’m so glad you called back.” She was out of breath. “Everything okay on St. John?”

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s paradise here, what could be wrong? How about on Jost? I take it you made it there okay.”

  “Oh, I made it. The ferry worked out fine and Customs was a breeze, albeit on island-time.” She paused. “But when I got here, I found out Scarlet—that’s my assistant—was under
stating the amount of shit that’s been going on.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  A brittle laugh.

  “What’s not the deal would be more like it,” she said. “There’s no new news on John or Stud, and the latest problem is protestors—Pro Life, Pro Choice, Pro-Statehood, religious groups, and some I’m not sure about yet.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my temple.

  “Are they threatening you in any way?”

  “No, but if looks could kill, I’d need armed bodyguards just to survive the walk from the dock to the stage.” Her voice wasn’t shaky but it had an edge.

  I urged her to contact the authorities, then told her I’d just arrived at the Westin and wanted to check John’s room for any clues.

  “Good idea—no point in coming here now,” she said. “I need you to pick up people in San Juan and St. Thomas tomorrow and fly them to where they’re staying. And then we have to get people here for rehearsals. A couple of my board members are helping too.”

  A lump formed in my throat.

  “I can’t land my plane in BVI waters, Crystal. The government won’t allow it. And there’s not many places I can land in the USVI, either.”

  Silence.

  “Crystal? Are you there?”

  “I was thinking. We have those speed boats from St. John on retainer. Talk to them. The owner’s name is Bill something…. Bill Hartman, that’s it. Can you talk to him?”

  Billy the boozer, I presumed. I promised I’d see him and she said that if John’s luggage and briefcase were still in his room at the Westin, there was a schedule of arrivals and logistics for ferrying people around.

  We hung up as I arrived at the Westin. After a lot of persuasion, the hotel manager agreed to give me a key to John Thedford’s suite. The police had already been there but the rooms weren’t sealed since they hadn’t detected anything suggesting foul play. Thedford was paid up through half of next week, so all his possessions were still there.

  I took in the beach-front view from the balcony. God knew how many rooms were spread out over close to fifty acres on the palm-lined shores of Great Cruz Bay. Verdant hills formed a horseshoe around the turquoise water, the masts of countless moored sailboats swaying in the afternoon breeze. Looking down I watched children run around the compound, squealing with delight as their parents watched from their deck chairs and sipped umbrella’d drinks.