The police had their own suspicions; she'd had several tense months until the furor had died down. Fortunately for her, the District Attorney had decided that there wasn't sufficient evidence to seek an indictment. She put on a show of being infuriated. Taken in by her own act, she had wanted to sue everybody in sight — Harry's children, the press, the police, the District Attorney. Finally, her lawyers had made her see the wisdom of taking the money and disappearing quietly.
Disappearing quietly hadn't included any romantic escapades; she'd had to keep a low profile. After a while, she had discovered the peace to be found in anonymity. She had enjoyed a few flings since then, but nothing that could be called a relationship. She couldn't even remember her partners' names, which was fair enough, she supposed. They had never even known who she was.
She had not expected that she might fall for Gerald Yates. He had just been a target, a way to settle a generations-old vendetta that he probably didn't even know about.
During the bitter years of her childhood, he'd been vilified by her mother as the one who had inherited what should have been hers. She remembered well the scrapbook that the harridan had kept. She saved every article detailing the excesses of the Yates clan, and especially Gerald, the fair-haired boy of Marilyn's generation.
She'd promised her mother that she would marry Gerald and take what should have been hers. Given Marilyn's wealth, the gold from the wreck of the Phaedra was no longer of any importance except as a means to balance the karmic books. Nor was the rest of the Yates family money of any significance to her. Whether Gerald found the gold or not, she knew that her own fortune far outweighed what she could extract from him. Her only motivation in pursuing him had been vindictiveness, and that was a second-hand emotion passed on from her deceased mother.
She had taken up this campaign out of boredom, and now she felt unexpected warmth every time she thought about Gerald Yates. She poured herself a glass of juice from the frosted pitcher on the table in front of her and took a sip.
She knew Gerald had been disappointed when she declined his invitation to go sailing today, but she found herself unable to think clearly when she was with him. She had needed this day to herself to work out her feelings. She decided that she would just play this out one day at a time and see where it led.
And then there was the question of her room being searched. She couldn't imagine who could be behind that. In the absence of any other explanation, she kept coming back to Gerald, but why would he have someone do that?
It could be that Thompson had taken it upon himself to have her checked out. She knew quite a bit about him by now, including his surreptitious relationship with Bond, but she was certain that he had no clue as to her real identity. The Marilyn Muir persona was well developed and documented, but it wasn't who she was. Anyone checking up on Marilyn Muir would find that she was a wealthy young widow, but not wealthy enough to attract attention.
The woman who had been Harry's wife had vanished. She decided that she'd mention the search of her room to Gerald this evening; she might be able to tell something from his reaction. They'd agreed to meet for dinner in the dining room.
Meanwhile, she needed to get dressed for a short hike along the nature trail to Falmouth Harbour. She had an appointment to keep at Pigeon Beach, and she thought she might get some scenic photographs along the way.
****
"He looks like a little boy whose dog died," Dani said. Gerald sat by himself on the foredeck, gazing into the distance as Vengeance sliced through the sapphire-blue water at nine knots.
"He's missing Marilyn," Liz agreed. "I was surprised not to see her on the dock with them this morning."
"They still seem like a mismatch to me," Dani said. "There's some depth to her that's missing in Gerald."
"You mean because she's more reserved?" Liz asked.
"Not exactly, but you're right. She is more reserved than he is. No, he comes across as superficial a lot of the time."
"Superficial? I don't see that. There has to be something below the surface. If you get him talking about writing, he comes alive; there's passion in there. Maybe he deliberately projects a kind of shallow front. I think he's lurking back there, taking everything in. He just doesn't show it."
"That's funny, Liz. I'd say almost the same thing about Marilyn."
"There's more to her than meets the eye, but I think there is with him as well."
"You could be right, but she's better at it than he is."
"At hiding her thoughts?"
"Right."
Liz turned her attention to trimming the sails for a couple of minutes. Satisfied, she returned to her seat on the downwind side of the cockpit and put her feet up. "You never told me what Samuel wanted," she said after a moment.
"Oh, right," Dani said. Samuel had called as they were approaching the dock to pick up Yates and Thompson this morning. Dani had taken the call, wedging the phone against her shoulder while she manipulated the controls. Liz had been busy with the lines and helping the two men aboard, and then getting Vengeance under way had distracted them.
"It was about the two guys with the Pisces of Atë shirts in the bar last night. Josie overheard them talking about this wreck they'd found yesterday. They dove on it, but they weren't sure if it was the one they were looking for. She never heard them mention a name for it, but they were talking about how it could make them rich."
"It almost has to be Phaedra, doesn't it?" Liz mused.
"Odds are," Dani agreed.
"You still think we shouldn't tell Yates about Bond?" Liz wanted to know.
"I don't think we should, no. You disagree?"
"No, I think you're right. At best, it's none of our business, and he's not been particularly open with us. Besides, I can't make sense out of the relationship between him and Thompson. They don't seem to tell each other much."
"If Gerald's as deep as you seem to think, he may suspect that Thompson's feeding Bond information, like Elaine said."
"Dani, that's not what Elaine said. She said ... "
"I know, I know. She said Bond had a contact who had inside information on where to find the wreck of a Civil War treasure ship off Antigua. How could that not be Thompson?"
"Her friend didn't say 'contact.' She used the word 'investor,' remember?"
"Yes, but ... "
"No way anybody would confuse Thompson with an investor."
"Well, at least neither of us thinks we should tell Gerald," Dani said.
Liz nodded and crouched behind the mainsheet winch, cranking in a couple of turns as she watched the sail.
****
Mickey waited nervously in the greeting area outside customs and immigration at V.C. Bird International Airport. Marc Jackson and Roberto Rodriguez were both arriving on the flight from San Juan. Marc had sounded tense when he called earlier that morning to tell Mickey they were coming. Mickey could tell Marc had been surprised that the elder Rodriguez was coming in person to look for his missing son.
Mickey knew Rigo's father by reputation. Berto, as he was called, neither looked nor acted the part of a drug kingpin, but that was the main reason he was still running loose. The man was smooth, but he was a psychopath. He had married Rigo's mother, Marc's sister, when he was a low-level drug smuggler in south Florida. That had been 25 years ago; since then, he had risen to the top of the organization that brought cocaine into Florida through the Caribbean countries.
According to Rigo, Berto lived in a palatial estate in Puerto Rico, surrounded by sycophants and nubile starlets. A devout Catholic, he had refused to consider divorcing Rigo's mother, and her few suitors had all met with bizarre deaths.
Marc said that Berto had insisted on joining them in Antigua to find out what happened to Rigo, his only son. Mickey wasn't looking forward to the next couple of days. Marc was a terror, but he was a businessman at the core, and Mickey knew how to keep him focused. Helping his partner survive this encounter with Berto Rodriguez would be a challenge that Mickey d
idn't need.
Chapter 21
Jones sat in his hotel room overlooking the Savannah River and the marshlands over in South Carolina as he thought about the recording he'd just played. Yesterday, Jackson had used a throwaway cell phone to call somebody named Berto. The telephone taps had picked up nothing, but Jackson hadn't reckoned on his home office being bugged. Jones was frustrated because he only had Jackson's side of the conversation.
He made a guess from the context that this Berto to whom Jackson had spoken was somehow connected to Rodriguez and Lee. After a short preamble, Jackson had said, "Rigo's off the radar. You heard from him?" A moment later, Jackson said, "Down in Antigua." After another pause, he said, "Yeah. The usual. Deadbeat named Yates, but a damn strange thing happened." There was a pause. "Rigo and Chen were going to, um, do a little work, out on this boat Yates rented. It's run by a couple broads; they were gonna mess 'em up, make Yates watch."
Five seconds passed. "It's a long story; they couldn't hurt Yates — we needed him able to function. That's all irrelevant, anyway, Berto. See, they hijacked the boat and went out in the ocean. Two hours later, the boat comes back without Rigo and Chen. I got a guy down there. We're gonna handle it. I just wanted you to know, because of Gail."
This time, there was a longer pause, and then Jackson said, "Well, Yates claimed there was gold. I didn't know Rigo told you. Yeah, sure. I'll meet you in San Juan in the morning and we can fly down together."
After Jackson finished the call, he muttered, "Oh, shit," and then there was the sound of plastic cracking. Jackson had told his secretary to book him on a flight to Antigua via San Juan for early this morning.
Jones had dispatched a team of four seasoned commandos to Antigua as soon as he heard the recording. Their orders were to observe Jackson and identify this 'Berto.' Jones had already decided that Jackson and company had to be eliminated, but not until he learned everything that they knew.
It was clear to him that Jackson was after the gold, and Jones had no intention of sharing it. He still hadn't made a decision about Beauregard. After all, the man had hired him and dropped this opportunity in his lap. But Beauregard was a greedy bastard, considering that Jones and his people were doing all the work.
****
His guest was doing his best to look relaxed and in control, but Berto Rodriguez could read the signs. Jackson was a gambler; he had a good poker face, but every time Berto spoke to the man, he noticed that Jackson would swallow nervously and the little network of blood vessels on his left temple would betray his racing pulse. Berto found it amusing.
He'd known Jackson a long time — nearly 25 years. Rigo would be 24 this year. He shook his head. Rigo was his only child. He'd come to terms with Rigo's homosexuality a few years ago; he figured it was Gail Jackson's revenge. At least the boy was tough. Berto had kept him out of the drug business. It wasn't a question of wanting something better for him. His sexual orientation was a liability to Berto in the circles where he did business, a reflection on his own manhood. He couldn't afford that.
Any sign of weakness on his part was an invitation for someone to shoot him down and take over his action. He frequently voiced his disdain for Rigo among his business associates. At the same time, he couldn't be seen to let someone else push his son around. If Jackson had let something happen to Rigo, then Jackson's life would be forfeit, Gail's reaction be damned.
He was indifferent to Jackson's fate, but he realized he'd probably have to kill Gail as well. She knew too much. If Rigo were dead and he had to do Jackson, he'd have to do her, too. In some ways that was a relief, although he didn't want to be responsible for her death.
Killing was against the Ten Commandments, but this was a matter of survival, and there was always Confession. He'd given up trying to understand the Church's position on divorce. He could kill her and be forgiven, but if he divorced her, he'd go straight to Hell. God has his reasons, no doubt, but Berto couldn't make sense of them.
He understood the need for absolute obedience to arbitrary rules; he made and enforced enough of them himself. If you were the boss, you had to do shit like that. It was all part of the job. Being God was probably not much different — just more peons to keep under your thumb.
It might not come to that, but Berto figured chances were slim that Rigo was still alive. He wondered if that little Chinese fairy had offed him. He never trusted that guy, not from the first time he'd met him. He was weird with all that polite bowing and shit before he wiped the floor with somebody. Little bastard could fight; Berto had to give him that. He'd seen him in action on the street in San Juan before Rigo had come out of the closet.
If it was Chen Lee, he'd shoot the little son of a bitch before he got within arms’ distance. Otherwise, who knew what kind of spooky moves Lee would put on him.
Jackson had this Thompson guy figured for the heavy if something bad had happened to Rigo. Thompson had the training. If any of the people on the boat could have killed Rigo and Chen, Thompson was the most likely.
All these Anglo assholes knew one another. They grew up together, Thompson and this Yates guy. Jackson, too, even though he pretended that he was different. Berto had checked them out with his source in the Savannah Police Department.
These guys had known one another since grade school. There was a lawyer mixed up with them, too. Same story on him. Dick something? No, that wasn't right. Dix. Dix Beauregard. That was the guy who'd called Jackson and arranged to pay off Yates's marker.
This Thompson guy was some kind of Green Beret or SEAL or some shit like that. Supposed to be tough, but nobody trusted him. Word on the street was he got kicked out of the service for stealing drugs and selling them. Crooked bastard. Amateurs like him messed things up for the pros; Berto was of a mind to kill Thompson just because of that.
First, though, he wanted to find out what happened to Rigo and where all this damn gold was. Word was there was tons of it. That was enough to get Berto's attention; gold was almost as good as dope, and it was legal.
He sat up straight and glanced over his pilot's shoulder. He could see Antigua ahead. He chuckled at the memory of Jackson's reaction when the two cops had 'arrested' him in the gate area in San Juan where he was waiting for Berto. He was cool until they walked him out the gate and down the stairs onto the tarmac beside the commuter plane. Berto was pretty sure the shithead had soiled himself when they shoved him in the back seat of the Mercedes with Berto. Smelled like he had, anyway.
Berto didn't fly commercial, not since that time they took his damn gun away years ago. Silly bastards, like they thought an honest Cuban-American businessman like him would hijack one of their precious planes. When he wanted to go to Havana, he had ways to get there without all the hassle.
****
Dani and Liz had just picked up their mooring and were still tidying up on deck when a small, ragged-looking RIB sputtered up alongside. Dani stepped down from the coachroof where she and Liz had been fastening the cover over the mainsail and reached down to take the visitor's bow line.
"Good afternoon, Dani," Samuel said, lifting his tattered straw hat in a salute of sorts.
"Good afternoon, Samuel. I'm surprised to see you in Jolly Harbour," Dani said.
"I'm doing the brightwork on a 59-foot Hinckley that's up on the hard. I jus' finish for the day when I see Vengeance come in, so I stop by."
"Well, why don't you come aboard and visit?"
"I don' wan' to trouble you. I was going to call later on the phone, but ... "
"It's no trouble. We were just about to sit down and relax with a cold drink. Come on up and meet my partner."
"Please," Liz added, having joined Dani on the side deck. "I'm Liz Chirac, Samuel. Dani's told me about you. Come on up. I'll just go fetch some drinks. We've got just about everything — beer, wine, juice, soda. What can I get you?"
"A beer would be nice."
Liz nodded and turned to go below. Samuel clambered over the lifelines and followed her to the cockpit while
Dani tied off his dinghy painter. He and Dani were sitting in the shade of the Bimini awning when Liz came up with three bottles of cold Carib on a tray. She sat down and passed the beers around.
"Dani tells me you did the brightwork on Vengeance right before we bought her. Your varnish has held up well."
"Yes, thank you, ma'am. But you and Dani have kept her nice. I t'ink she is my favorite of all the boats I work on. A beauty, and the teak is, well, it's hard to find joinery so nice on boats these days."
"You're kind to say so, Samuel. You said you were going to phone later?" Dani asked.
"Yes. The lady, Ms. Muir, she was in her room most of this morning, but jus' before lunch, she walked the trail across the ridge to Pigeon Beach. She was making pictures."
"Someone followed her?"
"Well, not exactly. One of Josie's sisters walks to work that way sometimes. She passed Ms. Muir going the other way and called me because Josie told her 'bout me being interested in the mon that search her room, so she thought mebbe I would want to know 'bout Ms. Muir. So then I call Ezekiel."
"Okay," Dani said, frowning as she tried to follow Samuel's story.
"Who's Ezekiel?" Liz asked.
"Jus' a frien'. He has a little bar at Pigeon Beach, an' a stand to sell t'ings to the touris's. So anyway, I call him to see if she went all the way to the beach." Samuel paused and took a sip of beer, nodding his head as he savored the cold beverage.
"Did she?" Dani asked.
"No. She stopped at Ezekiel's bar, jus' at the edge of the beach. Tha's as far as she go. She talk to the mon in the bar for a while, then she walk back to the Admiral's Inn."
"What man at the bar? Ezekiel?" Liz asked.
Samuel shook his head and swallowed another sip of beer. "The mon my brother say owns that boat you asked about the other day, Dani."
Bluewater Bullion: The Seventh Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 7) Page 13
