An Easy Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 8th Novel in the Series - Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  Guillermo had insisted on it after the Rasta man had threatened her that night. The intruder had wrecked her condo while she was out to dinner. When she had returned, he'd been waiting. She recalled his warning, verbatim.

  "Yo brudder, he gon' get you both killed, I t'ink. He messin' wit' some people he don' know nothin' 'bout. Better he stop now. You tell him that, okay?"

  Then he had grabbed her and pulled her in close, grinning at her and threatening to come back and harm her if Guillermo persisted in whatever he was doing.

  Graciella was a dangerous woman, not easily intimidated, but the man's casual, matter-of-fact threat and his presence in her home had terrified her. Her penthouse was in a secure building with armed guards, yet he had a key to her door and had let himself in. Rattled, she had called Guillermo and given him the message. That had been several weeks ago, and it was the last time they had spoken.

  Guillermo had cut her call short, explaining that he would have to disappear for a while. When she learned that there had been a suicide in one of the units on the seventh floor of her building later that same night, she guessed what had happened. She knew Manny LaRosa had owned the unit where it happened, and that Guillermo had decided LaRosa was a threat. His suicide wasn't the first one her brother had arranged.

  Then she learned that there had been another body in the unit along with LaRosa's and that the face on the second corpse had been obliterated. All she could think of was poor Guillermo screaming when their mother had poured the acid over his cheek all those years ago. Had LaRosa or someone else somehow managed to best Guillermo?

  She hadn't been able to sleep for two days. She had passed the time inside her ruined penthouse, trying to drink herself into a stupor. Then she had gotten the email. It was innocuous enough, but she knew what it meant. She had immediately logged on to the secure cloud account and found a brief message from Guillermo, summarizing his latest plan and spelling out her part in it.

  Her brother was a genius at organizing complex activities. He'd even engineered a distraction for her fiancé so that she would be free to play her part without O'Toole wondering what she was up to.

  Knowing that Guillermo was alive and in control restored her equilibrium, even though he didn't share the full extent of his plan. He had explained that it was evolving and that she should check the secure account frequently.

  His instructions for her had been clear enough. She was comfortable with what he had asked of her; she only wished she could talk with him, hear his voice. But she knew that would come. For now, she'd make do with her memories.

  9

  "Ol' Gator Jaw laughed at us," the lead detective said, holding a mug of sour coffee as he sat across the desk from Luke Pantene. His partner sat beside him, silent as usual.

  "I'm not surprised," Luke said. "We didn't expect he'd own up to meeting with Kilgore. But how'd he react to the question? Was he surprised at all?"

  The detective shook his head. "Not that he showed. That guy's gotta be hell in a poker game. Son of a bitch never gives anything away. That's the reason he's so damn good in court. Guess it comes with the territory."

  "Yeah," Luke said. "Did you keep an eye on him afterward?"

  "Yeah, like you said to. But he didn't go anywhere. How long you want us to keep the tail on him?"

  "You may as well drop it. I wish we could have had a tap on his phone, though." Luke shook his head. "What's happening on that tip about the body in the 'Glades?"

  "Team's headed out there about now. I figured after we finished with you, we'd catch up with 'em. They'll be an hour or two gettin' set up once they're at the location."

  "Good enough. Let me know right away if you find anything."

  "Sure," the detective said, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing at the taste.

  "You got anything else?" Luke asked.

  "The Montalba broad," the detective said. "We wondered what she was up to. We've had a watch on her place ever since the LaRosa thing. No sign of life. She hasn't been there since then, until a couple of days ago. We finally got our pal the security guard to check the use of her key card for the garage. They got a computer record. She was in for a couple of hours, then left. We put out a BOLO on her car, found it in long-term parking at the airport. No idea where she's gone, but the security guard said she was having her place redecorated."

  "You check O'Toole? Maybe the two of 'em are together somewhere."

  "Yeah. He's in Washington, according to his local secretary. And he was supposed to go on some kind of foreign trip from there, but she didn't know much else."

  "See if you can get anything out of his office in D.C. Maybe like a schedule, or something. She could be up there with him," Luke said.

  "Okay. Anything else, boss? I'd like to get out to the 'Glades."

  "Yeah, okay. Just a couple of things. When you get a chance, pull up the latest info on Art Jansen's disappearance. That's one. The other is to ask around about a guy with bad scars on his face that's mixed up with drugs. He may be connected with Jansen's disappearance. He might also be somebody O'Toole knows."

  "Is that urgent?" the detective asked.

  "Not yet. Just see what you can pick up."

  "Okay. I'm outta here."

  "Good hunting," Luke said.

  "Where should we take her after Deshaies?" Connie asked. She and Paul were walking back to Diamantista II after securing their outbound clearance from customs and immigration. Marcia was touring the island with William Issacs, planning to be back about noon. "She keeps saying she wants to go where we'd go if we didn't have a guest."

  "Why not take her at her word?" Paul asked.

  "Well, if it were just us, we'd go from Deshaies to Dominica, right?"

  "Probably," Paul said. "So what's wrong with that?"

  "It seems a shame to skip Les Saintes, that's all."

  "But they're the most tourist-ridden spot in the French Islands," Paul said. "I thought she didn't want that."

  "That's what she keeps saying," Connie said, as they stepped aboard Diamantista II.

  "Then let's take her to Deshaies tonight like we planned," Paul said. "We can take her ashore in the morning for coffee and pastries and let her get a look at the town. Then you can tell her about Les Saintes. If she likes the art galleries and the shops in Deshaies, she might like Les Saintes. See what she says."

  "Good idea. I'll tell her that we normally skip Les Saintes unless our guests want to go there, and suggest that we go on to Dominica."

  "Sounds good to me, skipper. Let's finish our carafe of coffee and call Sharktooth. If he's going to be around when we get to Dominica, we'll get him to show her the Indian River, maybe."

  "Okay," Connie said. "And maybe he and Maureen will invite us to their place for dinner. That's definitely off the beaten path. Marcia would like that."

  "Good. Why don't you call him. I want to check the engine oil and go online to see if we've gotten anything new from Luke or Leon since last night."

  "All right," Connie said, taking her cellphone from her shoulder bag. She handed Paul the bag. "Would you stash that while you're below?"

  "Sure," he said going down the companionway ladder. "Should I pass you the coffee before I get to work?"

  "You won't be long, will you?"

  "No, I shouldn't be."

  "Just bring it when you come back up, then."

  "How's Sharktooth?" Paul asked, a few minutes later. He poured each of them a mug of coffee and sat down next to Connie in the cockpit.

  "He's fine. He sends his best, and we're all set for the day after tomorrow. He'll come out to the boat early for a cup of coffee with us and take me in to clear customs. Then he'll take Marcia up the Indian River and show her the plantation in the morning before it gets hot. She can rest in the afternoon, or he'll drive her around and let her see a little of the island before dinner at his house."

  "That should give her something to write about," Paul said, grinning. "Sharktooth is pretty far off the beaten path all b
y himself."

  "I hope he doesn't give her the Voodoo priest routine," Connie said, chuckling.

  "He won't, unless she does something to make him think he should."

  "Did you hear anything from Leon? Or Luke?"

  "Just an email from Luke," Paul said. "He wants a call when we can manage it."

  "Shall we?" Connie put her phone on the cockpit table and switched it to speakerphone mode.

  "Sure."

  "Connie?" Luke answered after a couple of rings.

  "And Paul," she said. "Good morning. We just used my phone because it was handy."

  "Good morning," Luke said. "This c.i. of yours is really something, isn't he? He's tipped us to two murders, if he's on the level."

  "I figured you'd be checking out that first one," Paul said, "not that you can do much about it, if Kilgore's vanished."

  "Yeah, but it'll tell us whether your guy's credible or not. We've got people out in the Everglades right now, checking that location he gave us. If he was right about Kilgore dumping Schultz and leaving his car out there at that visitor's center, Schultz's car's long gone. Not that I'm surprised. Somebody would have stolen it before daylight that same night, most likely. But maybe we'll find a body."

  "What else is on your mind?" Paul asked.

  "The guy with the scarred face," Luke said. "Ring any bells for you?"

  "No," Paul said, "except the coincidence of an unidentified corpse with his face missing."

  "And he isn't Berto," Luke said. "I wondered about that, too. You have any thoughts?"

  "Yeah," Paul said. "But they don't seem to go anywhere yet. Either it's the scar-faced guy, and somebody didn't want you to know, or — "

  "Or it's not, and somebody wants us to think it is. Right?" Luke interrupted.

  "Right," Paul said.

  "I've got people asking around about the scar-faced man. And by the way, we asked Gator Jaw Ryan why Kilgore wanted to talk to him."

  "And?" Paul asked.

  "He laughed at us," Luke said. "Damned shyster. I got to get going. I'll drop you an email about the Everglades, and whatever we get on scar-face, okay?"

  "Yes," Paul said. "I'll pass your reaction back to my c.i."

  "Yeah. Let me know if he gives you anything else."

  "Sure," Paul said.

  "Stay safe, you two."

  "You do the same," Connie said, disconnecting the call.

  "Guess I'd better go send Leon an update," Paul said, getting up and going below deck. "Back in a couple of minutes. Save me some coffee."

  "Senator O'Toole," the fresh-scrubbed young Army major said, "that call forwarded from your office in Florida will be coming through in a moment."

  "Thanks, sugar," O'Toole said, his eyes lingering on her chest until she crossed her arms. He looked up and saw the flash of anger in her eyes.

  "The General asked me to remind you that the connection to your office is secure, but the caller may not be on a secure line."

  "Okay, hon. That's fine."

  "And he said to remind you that our presence here is classified. You shouldn't mention our location. Do you have any questions?"

  "You busy tonight?"

  "As far as you're concerned, sir, I'm busy every night." She turned on her heel and strode out the door, slamming it behind her.

  O'Toole was chuckling softly when the phone rang. He lifted the handset to his ear and said, "Yes?"

  "Hey, Willie?"

  "Gator Jaw?"

  "Yeah, boy. Damn if you ain't hard to get ahold of. Where the hell you at?"

  "I ain't supposed to say. Some of that national security shit."

  "You on the beach somewhere? That little gal that answered sounded mighty cute."

  "Gator Jaw, I ain't supposed to be takin' calls. This place is dangerous. There's people shootin' at one another right outside. Now what the hell you want?"

  "Cops came to see me yesterday, askin' did I meet with somebody name of Kilgore. That sound familiar?"

  "What'd you tell 'em?"

  "Not a damn thing, but I thought you oughta know, in case they was to ask you."

  "I don't know anything about anybody named Kilgore. And there ain't no way in hell the Miami cops are gonna get to ask me, anyhow. That all you want?"

  "Yeah, but you might wanna check up on Graciella."

  "Graciella? Why?"

  "She ain't been around her place for a while. Cops found out she wasn't in the building since that killin', until a coupla days ago. Then she came by for a little while and left. They found her car at the airport. You know where she's at? I can prob'ly find out, if you want."

  "Why is that any of your business?"

  "You been my best friend a long time. You ain't been engaged to her but for a few months, now. Just thought I oughta tell you. Lookin' out for you, like."

  "Thanks, Gator Jaw, but it's all under control."

  "Whatever you say, boy. Have fun, wherever the hell you at."

  "Bye, Gator Jaw."

  O'Toole hung up the phone and walked to the door. Opening it, he leaned out and spotted the pretty major. Waving her over, he went back into his temporary office. When she came in, she stood at attention in front of his makeshift desk, waiting.

  He made a point of running his eyes up and down her lean, fit frame, taking his time, knowing she was growing angrier by the second. "Sugar?"

  "I'm Major Collins."

  "Okay, Major Collins. Get me Delaney at SpecCorp on a secure line, sugar."

  She gave a curt nod and turned away. Digging in the heels of her combat boots with such force that the empty coffee cup on the desk rattled in its saucer, she stomped out of the office.

  10

  Reuben Griffin rocked back in his swivel chair and put his feet on his massive mahogany desk. He was in his office in the back room of his nightclub on the outskirts of Castries, St. Lucia. An American expatriate, Griffin had been in St. Lucia for a long time. He'd never considered that he might live in the U.S. again. Then he'd gotten the phone call yesterday shortly after lunch.

  His meeting with the scar-faced man had gone well, though he still didn't know the man's name, or much else about him. The man had worn a bandage that covered part of his face, but Reuben had been able to see plenty of scar tissue — more than enough to confirm the rumors he'd heard about the damage to the man's face.

  Reuben could live with the uncertainty about the man's identity. His offer was too attractive for that to get in the way. The only problem for Reuben was that he'd have to find someone to run things in St. Lucia, at least for a while.

  He'd been honest with the man about that; he'd worked too hard to build up his island empire to let it go. Besides, he had a personal stake in St. Lucia, now. He'd married a local woman and was raising a family with her. Unfortunately, his son wasn't old enough to take over his business. Nor was Reuben sure he wanted to start his son on such a career. He'd had in mind that his children would grow up to be respectable members of the community.

  The scar-faced man, sitting in the saloon of Reuben's sport-fishing boat as they drifted along, had expressed his understanding. He'd stressed, though, that sorting out the business in the southeastern U.S. would be a full-time endeavor for some period of time. Once Reuben had it organized, the man had no objection to his dividing his time between Miami and St. Lucia. His estimate was that Reuben would need six months to a year to put together a solid operation in the southeast.

  Reuben thought that might be a pessimistic view, but he didn't say so. He'd known Pinkie Schultz and his people longer than the scar-faced man had. They didn't have his organizational skill, nor were they sufficiently ruthless, in his opinion. When Reuben had asked what had happened to Schultz and Kilgore, the man had simply said, "They aren't there any longer. They're gone. Don't worry about them."

  The man had agreed to let Reuben ponder his offer for 24 hours. Reuben didn't tell him, but he had made his decision before the man climbed back into his speedboat and raced away into the distance.
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  He was going to do this; it was too good an opportunity to pass up. As for his holdings in St. Lucia, his brother-in-law, Charlie Caruthers, could manage them for the interim period. If Charlie did well, Reuben would make Charlie's new job permanent. Then Reuben could spend more time fishing, once he got things in order in south Florida.

  Charlie was already part of the operation in St. Lucia. He was Reuben's right-hand man, so there wouldn't be any hiccups in the transition. Reuben had discussed it with him over breakfast this morning.

  He'd also told Charlie that he planned to expand his Caribbean interests to some of the other islands, particularly the French islands. He would need Charlie to check out the competition, keeping tabs on some people right away. This was Reuben's cover story for having Charlie spy on the people that the scar-faced man was interested in.

  His new, unnamed partner had told Reuben that they needed to determine whether these people were potential partners. If so, there was the opportunity to expand into the European market. If not, the people would have to be eliminated, as they were encroaching on his business in the southeastern U.S. The scar-faced man had mentioned the names Berger and Barrera, but those meant nothing to Reuben. He'd need Charlie to get to work on that right away.

  The scar-faced man said the Bergers and Barrera had ties to southern Martinique. That was convenient, as Charlie had married a woman from Ste. Anne, Martinique. She was part of a big Creole family, and Charlie was involved in several of his in-laws' somewhat shady businesses. He visited southern Martinique often, smuggling cigarettes and liquor across the St. Lucia Channel in his small fishing boat.

  Reuben looked at his Rolex and reached for the telephone. He entered the number that the man had given him and listened to the series of clicks and pops as the call went through several relays.

  "Yes?" the man answered.

  "I'm in," Reuben said.

  "Call me when you're in Miami. I'll tell you where to pick up the keys. I've already had the club transferred to your ownership."