“Blondie?”
“She was adopted. Also Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Madonna, David Crosby—”
“Impressive.”
She smiled. “Oh, there’s plenty more. Senator McCain, country star Avery Rose, the rapper D.M.C., Jesse Jackson, Joni Mitchell, Stud Mahoney, Mike Dirnt of Green Day, Ray Liotta, Roseanne Barr, Rosie McDonnell, Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman, Candy McKenzie, Chief Justice Roberts, Lilli Taylor, Susie Coelho, Justin Bigges… the list keeps going.” She took a breath. “They’re all connected to adoption, one way or another.”
“Are they all showing up at your event?”
She laughed out loud. “I wish. But several will be there, and others too.”
We talked about the precedent for concerts as vehicles to raise attention and money for important issues, swapping examples like Farm Aid, Live Earth, No Nukes, Live Aid, The Concert for New York City after 9/11, Hurricane Sandy Relief.
“I didn’t realize adoption needed that kind of attention,” I said.
Crystal smiled. “Fifty percent of all pregnancies are unplanned, and of them, nearly fifty percent are terminated.”
Ah, Choice. “So this is against—”
“It’s not against anything,” she said. “But one of our goals is to promote adoption to increase grace for people facing unplanned pregnancies.”
She’d said this was John’s passion, but I didn’t buy that story about her college roommate, figured she might have her own reasons too. I also had a sinking feeling that while this all sounded progressive and well-intended, it could create resentment from radical elements on either side of the Choice issue. Were any of those groups crazy enough to kidnap John and try to grab Crystal?
“You need to understand, Buck—Society judges women for their choices. So do their jobs, friends, even family. Abortion in the States outnumbers domestic adoption by twenty-to-one, and not necessarily because women prefer that. It’s because you can hide an abortion—society still forces secrecy. As a choice, adoption is the path least taken.”
“So you talk about changing society,” I said. “How might that lead to John’s disappearance?”
“Because we’re calling for a social revolution.”
I glanced toward her. “Revolution?”
“For society to accept and support women facing unplanned pregnancy? Trust me, that would be revolutionary.”
The hours had passed quickly, and soon it was time to prepare for our approach to St. Thomas. I thought of the contraband treasure maps locked below my seat, and sweat broke out on my brow. My life’s work was far less noble. I may not have resumed my hunt for treasure since e-Antiquity failed, but I hadn’t totally distanced myself from the possibility. I glanced at Crystal, now watching Puerto Rico as we flew over it. Her profile reminded me of Audrey Hepburn.
Focus, Reilly.
I still hadn’t learned for certain why the Thedford’s efforts had produced threats, but at the moment I had a water landing to deal with. I hadn’t flown to Charlotte Amalie for several years, and the sight of cruise ships and boats buzzing around the harbor like water bugs required my attention. The police were expecting us, so I hoped we’d get up-to-date news on John’s disappearance.
After that, we’d see where we stood.
AS WE HEADED TOWARD the busy seaplane base at the foot of Charlotte Amalie I tuned out everything but our route to the splash zone. Seaborne Airlines operated several deHavilland Twin Otters on floats that made frequent daily landings, so the people operating ferries and boats around the harbor were accustomed to seaplanes. Since water landings were no longer allowed in the British Virgin Islands and St. John, the base was one of the busiest in the Caribbean.
Crystal was subdued as we made our approach. When we set down smoothly into the light chop, water flew up above our side vent windows and sprayed off the props. I’d quickly come to appreciate the weight and mass of the Goose—compared to Betty, my former Widgeon, the Beast had much greater stability and felt far more solid on the ground and in the water. Once repainted, fully reupholstered, and the renovations complete, the Beast would be a treasure to operate, but for now the mismatched paint on the fuselage and wings drew curious glances. Maybe they thought we were South American smugglers here to make a drop.
By the time we taxied up to the dock, a handful of police in blue pants and white shirts stood stone-faced to greet us. That wasn’t a surprise, but I hadn’t anticipated the camera crews and reporters behind them.
“We have company, Crystal.”
“I hope they have some news.” Her attention was on the law enforcement officers.
“I’ll help you any way I can, okay?”
“Would you come speak to the police with me?”
I nodded and waited until the props stopped rotating.
“Let’s go.”
Noise from the traffic on the road next to the seaplane base competed with the high-horsepower outboard motors on boats around the harbor. But it was shouts from the reporters that caused Crystal to wince. One of the policemen turned and pushed the more aggressive camera crews back. A gray-haired cop walked forward to meet us as we stepped onto the dock.
“Ms. Thedford?”
Crystal nodded.
“I’m Lieutenant White of the Virgin Islands Police Department.” He paused and glanced at me. “And you are?”
“Buck Reilly. I’m Ms. Thedford’s pilot.”
“Have you found my husband, Lieutenant White?”
The officer squinted. “Not yet, ma’am, but we’re doing everything we can.”
Her shoulders slumped.
“With all the other activity here—related to your show, that is—our force has its hands full coordinating with authorities on Tortola, but I want to assure you that this is a top priority for us.” The lieutenant had an island accent and a habit of putting his thumbs in his gun belt, which made me think he’d seen a lot of old Westerns.
“Where can we reach you if we have news—or questions?” White said.
“We have a room booked at Frenchman’s Reef.”
The lieutenant glanced at me.
“And you, Mr. Reilly?” he said.
“He’ll be at the same hotel,” Crystal said. “Can I reach you on the number you gave me yesterday, lieutenant?”
“Yes, ma’am, same one.”
They agreed to touch base in the morning, gave us their cards, and Crystal and I walked up the dock toward the camera crews waiting by the street.
She suddenly turned into the small building where Seaborne’s offices were located. I followed.
“Ms. Thedford?” A tall, sandy-haired man stood up behind the small counter. “I’m so sorry to hear that your husband’s missing.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jerry Butler, the flight manager for Seaborne here on St. Thomas.”
“Yes, Jerry, I’m here to check logistics with you. Have you been—”
“Ah, well, Ms. Thedford, we have a little problem. Actually, a not-so-little problem.” He took in a deep breath. “We’ve grounded our fleet and won’t be able to help you any longer.”
“Why on earth!”
He looked from Crystal to me, then back to her.
“Bomb threats.”
“Bomb threats?” we said in unison.
“Afraid so. Specific to your event, in fact.”
The color drained from her face.
“How will the performers get around the islands?”
“This morning we had multiple phone calls stating that if any of our planes flew this week, they’d be shot down.” He shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but they stated categorically that we were not to get involved with the Adoption AID concert or our other planes would be sabotaged on the ground.”
What the hell?
Jerry Butler apologized profusely but said their insurer had threatened to cancel them if they lost a single plane, which would put them out of business.
“Grounding our fleet will cost us a fortune, but we have no choice.”
Crystal and I left their FBO, Jerry following us out still apologizing.
“Is that Goose airworthy?” he said as we turned to walk up the dock toward the street.
My gut reaction was that it was a stereotypical floats -vs.-boats snob comment, but then again, the old Beast did look rough. I ignored him and took Crystal by the arm. She was silent and no doubt in shock.
The moment we got to the street, the press descended on us like a mudslide.
“Any news on your husband?”
“Will the concert be cancelled?”
“Are the bomb threats on Seaborne related to your event?”
“Ms. Thedford?”
“Ms. Thedford?”
“Ms. Thedford?”
I shielded her and steered her toward the Frenchman’s Reef ferry down the seawall. The captain was untying the bowline to disembark, so we had to hurry or we’d be stranded amidst the reporters.
One of the newsies grabbed my shoulder.
“Who are you?”
I spun on my heel and shoved his cameraman back with a stiff arm.
“Leave the lady alone or you’ll have to fish that nice camera out of the harbor.” I let my glare linger until I realized the other crews had their cameras trained on me.
Lovely.
I caught up with Crystal and hopped on the ferry just as the captain revved the engine to pull away. We sat pressed between an arguing family and a snuggling couple. Crystal kept a straight face, but I had the feeling she was going to break into hysterics at any minute.
As we neared Frenchman’s Reef, perched high above the point, I studied the cruise ships that filled the western side of the harbor. Massive people-freighters that slogged from port to port laden with enough food and booze to feed five times the thousands they carried. Three behemoths moored end to end, all carrying different flags. Just past them a sun-bleached old sailboat with laundry hanging from its main mast, anchored in front of a huge, sleek, metallic blue luxury yacht. One of the largest private yachts I’d ever seen. Her name was Shaska.
I looked back at Crystal just as she wiped tears off her cheeks.
Damn.
I DROPPED MY FLIGHT bag and duffel in my garden view room at Frenchman’s Reef. Crystal had rooms reserved at several islands for her guest performers and staff. We agreed to meet at one of the outdoor tiki bars in an hour. She didn’t want to eat, but I convinced her she needed to. We went our separate ways to get cleaned up and clear our heads. She said she needed to check her messages.
The police in Charlotte Amalie had been no help. Between Crystal getting attacked in Key West, her husband’s disappearance, and the bomb threats, there was no chance that this was all a misunderstanding.
It had been a long day of flying, and right now I just wanted a shower—
The room phone rang.
News from Crystal?
“Hello?”
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Buck Reilly.”
That voice. Shit.
“And you already managed to get yourself on national television fighting with the press, hotshot. Well done.”
Special Agent T. Edward Booth of the FBI.
“What do you want?”
“To help,” he said. “What else would you expect?”
“This must be bigger news than I expected if you’re sticking your nose into it,” I said. “Are the Virgin Islands even in your jurisdiction, or are you free-lancing toward that next promotion?”
A laugh. “As a matter of fact, the U.S. Virgin Islands are indeed within my purview. We have limited support there, however, so I’m glad you’re—”
“My dance card’s full.”
“So I saw. Looks like the lovely Mrs. Thedford is quite dependent on you. Is she aware of the list of crimes still pending against you?”
“Did you call to bust my balls, or do you have any information that might help me find Crystal’s husband?”
Silence for a moment, then a quiet snicker.
“Junior detective at it again? Well, it’s damn lucky you’re there, son, saves me the gas money to send you down.”
“Wait a minute—what do you need my help for?”
“Because the BVI isn’t in my jurisdiction, and things are pretty frosty with them these days.”
The U.S. and British Virgin Islands were only a few miles apart, but both were territorial and rigidly enforced Customs requirements. Neither government tolerated uninvited foreign law enforcement agencies impinging on their sovereignty. Unfortunately, I’d learned of this first hand on Tortola a few years back.
“Gee, Booth, I can’t imagine you don’t have a stellar relationship with your counterpart in the BVI, given your magnanimous and humble style.”
“Funny. We’ve worked hard to maintain a cordial environment, but with the South American drug and arms trade now utilizing the USVI as a major hub, the murder stats there are the worst of any U.S. state or territory, nearly ten times worse per capita, in fact, so the Brits aren’t real happy with us.”
I hadn’t realized that.
I swallowed the bitter reality that I needed to set my personal grudge aside and see what I could learn that might help Crystal.
“What news do you have about John Thedford?” I said.
“Only that he disappeared on St. John last night. The Park Police have a small installation there, but they’re really not set up for investigative work.”
“Why would anybody threaten these people, Booth? They’re only promoting adoption—hell, they won’t even say anything remotely adverse toward anyone who might have contrary opinions.”
“You mean the bomb threat against that dink-ass airline?”
I wasn’t surprised that Crystal and her husband hadn’t reported whatever threats they’d received. It didn’t seem their nature to let fear slow them down—even if common sense might suggest otherwise.
“That’s not enough?” I said.
He paused. “Sounded like maybe you knew something.”
“Any theories?”
“There’s no shortage of wackos down there, Reilly. Not as flaky as Key West, mind you, but there’s major gang activity—and then you have pro-statehood organizations, anti-statehood too, along with a bunch of quasi-racist activity—”
“Racist?”
“Those born in the USVI and down-islanders are at each other’s throats. A real paradise, as long as you don’t peek under the veil of fantasy.”
Even though Booth was being more forthright than ever, I didn’t relish his call for help. Crystal needed my exclusive attention.
“Here’s the deal, Reilly. I have the U.S. side covered with the VIPD—”
“I met a tight-lipped cop named Lieutenant White from VIPD today.”
“Right, Kenneth White, seems okay, but what I need is for you to be my eyes and ears in the BVI. No investigating, no bull in a china shop, just an observer with daily reports back to me. Can you handle that?”
I’d helped him a couple times before, under duress. Given that my old e-Antiquity partner was still in a federal penitentiary for stuff much like what I’d been accused of, I had no easy way to decline being Booth’s amateur operative. Again.
The only problem was that I had a history in the BVI. Did Booth know about that? It had to be in my file, but hell, maybe it was buried under the rest of my… experiences.
“I’m helping Crystal Thedford shuttle her performers around, but I’ll also be looking for information about her husband while I’m at it, so…” I had an idea. “Actually there is something you can do.”
“I’ll send you the credit card and cell phone again—”
“Aside from that.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Water landings are illegal in the BVI and outside St. Thomas. I could be a lot more nimble and penetrating if you could make a call and get them to waive that for me. Professional courtesy between law enforcement agencies and all.”
Booth was silent. Given his summary of poor rela
tions between the BVI and the USVI, would he even be able to swing that?
He sighed. “I’ll work on it.”
“You do that. Send me the phone and credit card ASAP. I’ll be on the move in the morning.”
“I’ll have them couriered over tonight. Remember, one-fifty per diem. This isn’t a vacation for you and the beautiful Ms. Thedford.”
I remembered Crystal’s tears on the ferry.
“No shit, J. Edgar.”
With that I hung up. So much for a nap.
I barely had time for a shower before I was to meet Crystal, and I knew if I wasn’t there she wouldn’t wait. Damn Booth. But I was already up to my knees in this situation. It’s not like he asked me to do something I wasn’t doing anyway, and now I’d have some financial help. Of course, that help came with strings—handcuffs, you might say—and Booth just rubbed me the wrong way.
The FBI’s interest in the disappearance of Crystal’s husband was good news. But given that they were calling me for help, I had limited confidence it would add up to much.
CRYSTAL SAT AT THE tiki bar staring into the Caribbean Sea. Steel drums set the tone around the pool. A one-man band with three pans was perched at the far corner of the patio. Crystal had changed into a tank top, and if I didn’t know her story I’d have assumed she was a beautiful woman relaxing on vacation. I even fantasized for a mini-second that she and I were here together. Then cleared my throat.
“Hey, Crystal. Anything new?”
Her eyes refocused in my direction.
“Everything’s turning to shit, Buck.”
“What do you mean?”
“The news about John’s disappearance is getting out and it’s all falling apart, fast. My assistant’s been inundated with calls from the managers and agents of our celebrity guests.” Her delivery of this news was so deadpan I figured she was either remarkably calm or in shock.
“Worried calls or pissed-off calls?”
“Worried, so far.”
The bartender arrived with a toothy smile. I asked for a Carib beer and Crystal ordered a margarita.
“Any news on your husband?” I said.
“Nothing that will help us find him.”
This while averting my eyes. I remembered I’d been hired as a charter pilot, not a private eye, and I hadn’t really done anything yet to earn her trust—aside from fighting off her attacker at the Casa Marina.
3 Crystal Blue Page 4
