Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3)

by John H. Cunningham

  “Tell Conch Man I really need his help. His constituents will be all the more impressed with him if he can get some celebrity endorsements.”

  We hung up just as there was a knock on the door.

  Now what?

  Room service dropped off a cheeseburger that turned out to be cold and in a soggy bun, but as hungry as I was, I could have eaten the metal tray. And as tired as I was, after eating it I fell into deep, dreamless sleep—until the phone rang.

  Damn!

  I grabbed the cell phone off the end table and sent half the contents from the dinner tray flying off the bed. It was 3:20 a.m. But I couldn’t even be mad—caller ID said it was Crystal.

  “Buck, I’m so sorry to wake you. I just don’t know what—or who…”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We’re running out of time and I’m… Let’s just say the center isn’t holding.”

  I paced around, trying to blink away the sleep.

  “Has something else happened?”

  “Viktor and I spoke with that detective—you know, the one from VIPD who met us when we arrived on St. Thomas?”

  “Viktor?”

  “He’s on our Board—”

  “Lieutenant White?”

  “I hadn’t heard a thing so I called him earlier and he finally called me back tonight. Those bastards haven’t even been looking for John, all their energy is focused on Stud Mahoney. They say if they’re connected, Mahoney will lead them to John, but they’re not even sure they are connected, so that means they’ve given up—” Her voice broke.

  I walked to the balcony window and stared out over the halos of light in the tropical courtyard while she sobbed quietly on the other end of the phone.

  “Crystal, listen, I’ve been talking to a lot of different people. When I used to search for artifacts around the world, I found that people either parallel to the obvious partners—or in some cases diametrically opposed to them—often provided more indirect yet better information because they had an entirely different network.”

  “Who are you talking about, Buck? I didn’t understand a word of that.”

  I sighed. “Let’s just say I’m building a network.”

  I debated whether or not to let her know that her husband might have left St. John under his own power. I also considered asking for a description of her assistant, but that would lead to more speculation, not assuage her concerns.

  She asked if I was ready to handle the onslaught of arrivals. I crossed my fingers, said yes, and hoped Ray would come through—otherwise, high-rolling celebrities would be stranded at airports scattered around the Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico, which would lead to the collapse of Adoption AID assuming it was still standing.

  I didn’t need that on my conscience.

  “Did the police question you at all, Crystal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, about John. His disappearance.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but they do that to everyone, right? You don’t…you don’t think I had something to do—”

  “No! Just trying to figure out what they’re doing.”

  She was quiet.

  “Have there been any issues caused by the protestors, any more threats?” I said.

  “There was a fight today, between a few of them. It’s tense.”

  “Don’t give up.” A lump formed in my throat.

  “Thanks, Buck…. I wish you were here.”

  I closed my eyes and imagined her the first time we met at Louie’s Backyard.

  “Be safe,” I said.

  I tried Booth’s cell phone. Voicemail.

  “It’s Buck Reilly. You have any news for me? And how about permission to land my plane? Call me!”

  I shoved everything off the bed with a crash and collapsed, hoping for another couple hours of sleep before things got really crazy.

  THE REST OF THE wee hours passed fitfully as I shifted between sleeping and considering what, if anything, I’d learned so far. There were some potential aggressors against adoption, but were any of them motivated enough for kidnappings and bombings? Both Boom-Boom and Diego were charged up over some new opportunity—Mr. Big, as Boom-Boom called him. Could that be a connection? I’d been focused on local possibilities. It was time to view the bigger picture.

  From my flight bag I pulled out a wad of paper. Lieutenant White’s card fell out of the pile. I studied it. He was part of the Criminal Investigation Special Operations Bureau Command located at Burns Field. I called the number and found out they were located just north of the airport and adjacent to the University of the Virgin Islands. Perfect.

  Time to rattle some cages.

  I loaded up my backpack and checked the cell phone for messages, but there was nothing from Booth and nothing yet from Ray.

  After a quick shower I made my way through the hotel complex to the dining area to grab a coffee and croissant for the road. The police station was all the way over on the western side of Charlotte Amalie. I’d jump on the ferry to town, then—

  “Where are you headed, hotshot?”

  Special Agent T. Edward Booth was seated at a table overlooking the harbor, a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, fruit, and muffins spread out before him.

  “Perfect timing, too,” he said. “What’s your room number so I can charge this?”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Booth?”

  “Sit down and let’s catch up.”

  He poured me a cup of coffee. For once, I was actually relieved to see him—maybe his presence here meant he was taking this situation seriously.

  “I trust you’re here to work and this isn’t some boondoggle vacation on the taxpayer’s nickel,” I said.

  “Always the smartass. I didn’t send you that credit card and phone so you could network with felons and whisper late night nothings to married women.” He doused his scrambled eggs in ketchup and shoveled a load into his mouth. “What have you found out—and why’s your cheek purple and yellow? You boxing for gas money again?”

  “I’ve got your credit card for that.” I rubbed my still tender cheek. “I’m doing what none of your people seem capable of—trying to find out who’s opposed to Adoption AID—”

  “There you go again, junior detective on the wrong trail. Why can’t you ever stick to what I tell you?” The eggs caught in a gap between his teeth distracted me.

  “Did you show up here to bust my balls or do you have something to tell me?”

  “The FAA sent a letter of authorization to land in U.S. waters here to the hotel, by fax,” he said.

  “And the BVI?”

  He sighed and took a bite of blueberry muffin.

  “They agreed, tentatively, but that’s one of the reasons I’m here.” He reached into his shirt pocket. I realized it was the first time I’d seen him without his blue blazer. He removed a letter, unfolded it, and handed it over.

  There was an FBI seal on top. The letter mentioned the Beast’s tail number and referenced a conversation Booth had with Duncan Mather, Commissioner of the Royal Virgin Islands Police Force. It said the amphibious plane with this tail number would be allowed to make water landings in the BVI, once inspected by officials to verify that it did not contain weapons or other illegal substances. Instructions and a phone number on Tortola followed.

  I suddenly felt lightheaded.

  “What’s the matter, kid? You just turned white as Wonder Bread.”

  “This is the best you can do?” I didn’t want to tell him that checking in with the Royal VIPD was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “They’re very formal over there. Pain in the ass, really, but once you check in, all should be fine. Unless you’re carrying weapons or dope. You wouldn’t do that, of course.”

  “What have you found out about John Thedford?”

  “There’ve been no new demands over Stud Mahoney, which is what I’m sure you meant to ask. And by the way, Mahoney’s real name is Mike Kuznewski. That’s what’s on his passport
. Guess Polacks don’t make convincing action heroes in Hollywood.” He stopped eating and stared at me. “Anything about Stud Mahoney you want to tell me?”

  “I haven’t heard a thing.”

  His glare lingered. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Tell me the details of his kidnapping. I can’t do shit if I don’t know where to look.”

  “You don’t watch the news, Reilly?”

  “I’ve been too busy doing your job.”

  He curled his lip. “He had a suite on Peter Island, swanky, exclusive resort in the BVI—”

  “I’ve been there, Booth.”

  “Of course you have.” His sneer made me smile. “Few afternoons ago he ordered a big lunch for him and his agent, hot little number doing more than just getting him movie deals, if you know what I mean. Room service shows up thirty minutes later and he’s gone. Room’s a mess and there’s a note says he’s dead if a million dollars isn’t paid within forty-eight hours.“

  “Paid where?”

  “That’s the thing, it didn’t specify further instructions, and there’s been no follow up.” Booth sighed. “His studio offered a hundred-grand reward to anyone who can help find him.”

  No mention of Adoption AID or the concert. Weird. Maybe they were unrelated.

  “Peter Island’s pretty isolated,” I said. “Anybody see boats coming or going during that time?”

  “There were a few, but the room service order was placed from his cell phone, not the phone in the suite.”

  “So maybe he was already gone.” I thought for a few seconds. “Did he ever check in?”

  “Oh yeah, the night before. Big deal, guests went crazy, he made a stink about the first suite not being big enough. Then demanded champagne and caviar on the beach. Typical Hollywood prick.”

  “So if he’s not hidden in some other villa—”

  “The Royal Police went door to door, he’s not there.”

  “Then he must’ve left by boat,” I said. “What about the eyewitness on St. John who saw Thedford leave Cruz Bay aboard a speedboat?”

  Booth’s expression didn’t change. He just stared at me.

  “A red Cigarette, to be precise.”

  “News to me, Reilly—”

  “Officer Deaver from the Park Police mentioned it, and I talked to the witness.”

  “A drunk.” Booth spoke into his food and when he looked up wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Can’t be taken seriously.” He then launched into the semi-insider’s version of radical pro-life and pro-choice fringe groups. These were the people who bombed abortion clinics at one end of the spectrum and supported late-stage abortions at the other. “Radical” didn’t really cover it.

  “Are there any of those types of groups active down here?” Something Crystal mentioned occurred to me. “What about anti-adoption groups?”

  “Historically, no activity here,” Booth said, “and the anti-adoption types have been peaceful so far, but given that this show is being broadcast world-wide, it’s not limited to local groups.”

  “Really?” Crystal never said it was that big. Good grief!

  “Don’t get me wrong, Reilly. These islands may not have the concentration of crazies like your beloved Key West, but they’ve got plenty of nuts. One such loon calls himself Reverend Hellfire and he’s right here on St. Thomas.” Booth laughed, but I didn’t have the luxury of dismissing potential leads.

  “Not your typical Christian pastor’s name. Is he a sole proprietor?”

  “Something like that. Even down here people start religions for tax purposes, but this guy’s off the proverbial deep end.”

  Booth didn’t look like he seemed too concerned about the potential antagonists he’d been describing. He mopped up the remaining ketchup with his last piece of wheat toast and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “How about the international groups you mentioned?” I said. “Why would they be pissy about Adoption AID?”

  This got me his most pedantic expression.

  “Black marketeers are the biggest businesses abroad, Reilly. They don’t like anything to rock the status quo. Not that I think they have anything to do with a little feel-good charity concert, but don’t think the big boys sit back and allow market forces to change without being the ones to manipulate them.”

  I gave him a long, long look. “Market forces?”

  “If adoption is more readily available, the prices for babies would drop.”

  Silence followed.

  “Why do I feel like you’re not telling me everything?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What I came here to ask you, face to face, is whether Crystal Thedford has come clean with you yet.”

  My stomach sank. “About what?”

  “About when she lived in L.A.”

  “Said she worked for City of Hope.”

  “You’re a sap, Reilly. Not who she worked for, who she lived with.”

  A flash popped in my head. “She mentioned she’d lived with an actor.” He smiled, but his eyes kept the squint.

  “That’s right, hotshot. Crystal Banks, her maiden name, lived with Stud Mahoney.”

  I nearly spit coffee all over Booth.

  “Now her husband and former lover are both missing.”

  When Jack Anderson told us Stud was missing, the one word she’d said was “Shit.”

  “Watch your ass, kid.”

  I leaned forward. “So she’s under suspicion?”

  “Damn straight, but we know she was home in Maryland when her husband disappeared, and with you when Mahoney vanished.” I didn’t take the bait, my mind still spinning too fast. “Now go get your FAA permission slip off the fax machine, fly over to Tortola so they can laugh their way through inspecting that lobster trap of an airplane, and start island hopping until you find me something useful.”

  He stood. I was amazed to see him in tropical weight khakis and with his blue button-down shirt untucked. He almost looked relaxed, which bothered me.

  “I have a meeting with the Task Force Against Gang Activity now, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  I watched him walk through the patio and into the main building. He had Federal Agent written all over him, and no interest in hiding it.

  Crystal knew Stud Mahoney? Lived with him?

  Crap.

  Based on the directions I received earlier, I knew the Criminal Investigative Bureau was somewhere on the other side of Water Island. I studied the shore, looked past the seaplane base to the west, where the University of the Virgin Islands was situated. Booth had been uncharacteristically helpful, albeit brutal. It then hit me that he said he didn’t know anything about the red Cigarette, but also said they guy who reported it was a drunk. He clearly was still holding back.

  I had to learn more, and fast.

  Could I beat Booth to Lieutenant White?

  THE FAA FAX DIDN’T say much, but I figured it was a Get Out of Jail Free card. I’d ask about it at the airport when I got there. The first pick-up was in 90 minutes: the country singer Avery Rose. I’d never seen her in concert, but she endorsed some cosmetics company that had her face emblazoned on a Five Sixes taxi in Key West, and in the words of Ray Floyd, she was hot—or at least she’d been airbrushed to look hot.

  I hopped aboard the launch from Frenchman’s Reef and we set out toward the dock in Charlotte Amalie. The sky was clear, a light breeze staved off perspiration, and laughter from those on board lightened my heart for a moment. Rather than dwelling on what I hadn’t found out or what Booth had shared, I sat back on the bench and caught some rays.

  Once on shore, I waved down a cab. When I told the driver to take me to Burns Field by the university he gave me a double-take. I didn’t blame him. Based on my appearance, if I were headed to the police station it would more likely be in the back of a patrol car.

  I phoned Captain Jeremy from the cab. He promised to be at the public dock next to the airport in two and half hours. I pulled out John Thedford’s schedule and gave him the contact information for Jamie Foxx, who wa
s coming in by private jet and specified that he wanted to be taken to Caneel Bay on St. John by private boat.

  “No shit!” Jeremy said.

  “After that I need you back at the dock by Cyril King to get somebody else. I’ll let you know the specifics when the time gets closer.” I wasn’t being secretive—I could only plan a few moves ahead with so much going on.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “Text me to let me know you made the pick-up.”

  The cabbie pulled up in front of the police station. The tinted double glass doors opened into a small lobby. In what looked like a bank teller booth with bulletproofed glass was a large black woman in uniform, her hair swirled up in an orange beehive. I tried my damndest not to stare. It wasn’t easy—her fingernails were at least an inch long, with a different exotic design painted on each one. There was a microphone button with a sign that said Push to Speak, so I did.

  “I’m looking for Lieutenant Kenneth White.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is he expecting you?”

  I caught my reflection was in the glass. Unshaven, hair wild after the crossing on the ferry, skin red. I smiled.

  “Just tell him T. Edward Booth from the FBI is here to see him.”

  Now both of her eyebrows lifted.

  “Credentials?”

  “Undercover, don’t carry any.” I kept a straight face. Feds don’t smile.

  She opened the mag lock and pointed to a hallway.

  “Conference room, second door on the right. He’ll be there in a minute, Special Agent Booth.”

  The conference room had a wood laminate table and eight chairs that had faded from mauve to a sickly pink. A picture of the President hung on one wall, facing one of the Police Commissioner for the USVI on the opposite wall. Neither was smiling.

  I sat with my back to the door. White came up behind me and stopped.

  “Come in and close the door,” I said without turning around.

  The door closed. He walked around the end of the table and saw me. His eyes changed from surprise to recognition to suspicion, all in half a second.