Those three boats couldn’t do squat against a well-financed criminal organization. No wonder the USVI was a hub for guns and drugs.
“Why aren’t they out searching for my husband?” Crystal said.
Deaver took in a short breath.
“We’ve scoured the entire southwestern coastline multiple times, Ms. Thedford. Normally, if there’s a drowning near Cruz Bay, the currents are pretty predictable—not that it happens that often, mind you. We’ve also deployed scuba divers and asked the local operators to help us dive the harbor by the ferry docks, just in case. Again, we found nothing—in that case fortunately.”
Crystal, her body as rigid as a board, squeezed my bicep.
“You’re familiar with the event that the Thedford’s organization is hosting on Jost Van Dyke this weekend?” I said.
“I am, plus I saw it on the news last night. Pretty amazing line-up.” His sudden smile revealed straight white teeth. “We’ve been coordinating with the police in the BVI to facilitate the Customs process and try to help them get ready for the onslaught of visitors. Last I heard you were expecting around five thousand people.”
“Have you been coordinating the search for John Thedford with the BVI authorities?” I said.
“That’s really VIPD’s job, but we’ve informed them of the situation and asked that they keep a look out, let us know if they hear anything.”
Crystal groaned.
“I’ll be outside, Buck. Officer Deaver, please get those boats back out and continue to search for my husband. Please.” With that, she hurried out.
Deaver watched her go, then turned back to me.
“Poor woman. There’s not much more we can do, frankly.”
“How about foul play?” I said. “You’ve heard about the bomb threat on Seaborne Airlines, I assume?”
“Yes, and I know the police are talking to local sources looking for any information or leads.” He glanced over his shoulder. “There’s a rumor Thedford may have left on a boat, but don’t quote me.”
“Rumor?”
“Came from a local drunk, so his tip wasn’t considered reliable.”
“Can I get the name of the witness?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
Would John have left by boat alone? His history of extra-marital affairs suddenly nagged at me.
I asked Deaver about the various genres of criminal or radical groups Booth had mentioned to me. He had no idea whether any could be connected to John’s disappearance, or if any of them opposed adoption.
“As for gang activity, St. Thomas and St. Croix have more, just due to population,” he said, “but we’ve had some inadvertent killings, some shoot-outs on the island. Trafficking tends to bring that as a byproduct.” He shrugged. “There are factions of Crips and Bloods here, and if you include Puerto Rico there’s a bunch of Latin gangs like Ñeta, Los Huevos, and Bacalao. What with the budget cuts and the vast area of water and number of small craft, it’s like Swiss cheese here. Even the DEA and Coast Guard can’t keep up.”
Why would any of these groups care about a fundraiser to promote adoption?
“Can you share any local gang leader names?”
“Sure.” He raised an eyebrow. “But I wouldn’t recommend trying to talk to them, if that’s what you’re thinking. One name I’ve heard here is Diego Francis, not sure which gang he’s affiliated with. Last year in St. Thomas, there was a sweep made against one of the drug gangs and thirty people were arrested. Unfortunately, the cases were thrown out due to an illegal search and seizure ruling. The big shot amongst that bunch was a guy named Burke, goes by Boom-Boom. A real sweetheart.”
I wrote their names in the back of my small leather notebook.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t suggest trying to talk to them.”
“How about the BVI? Any gang activity over there?”
“Nothing like here. Guns are illegal there, and the penalties are stiff. That’s one reason relations are so strained between our local governments these days. They’re pissed that we can’t keep crime under control over here, and as a result it’s begun to spread all over the islands.”
Perfect. I didn’t want to leave Crystal alone any longer, but had one last question.
“What about water landings? Any chance that would be allowed outside the seaplane base on St. Thomas, either in the USVI or the BVI?”
“Not a chance,” Deaver said. “Given all the other challenges with smuggling these days, seaplanes spell trouble.”
With that, and a request that the Park Service not give up on the search for John Thedford, I left to find Crystal.
Based on Deaver’s assessment about seaplanes, I gave Booth scant odds that he’d be able to get me carte blanche landing rights for the Beast. Then again, with only three boats to patrol these waters, the Park Service wouldn’t be able to do much about it if I decided otherwise.
WITH MY NOTEBOOK STILL in hand, I thought to check what contacts I had in St. John before I rejoined Crystal. I thumbed the pages and a name jumped out at me. Jack Anderson.
I smiled. Why hadn’t I thought of him sooner?
Crystal was outside, sitting on a bench that looked out over the dormant fleet of the U.S. Park Service. I was just about to ask to borrow her phone when I remembered the one Booth sent me was in my backpack.
“That was a bust,” she said. “There’s no urgency to find John.” She glanced up at me and squinted into the late morning sun, the circles under her eyes darker now. “Did you learn anything?”
“I got some names I plan to check out, but only because they’re tied to local gangs.”
“Gangs? Do you think—”
“Back when I was running e-Antiquity, I learned that those who operated outside the law often had more up-to-the-minute information than the police.”
Crystal gave me a weak smile.
I’d decided to keep the “unreliable” witness who said he’d seen John leave on a boat to myself for now. I held my little leather book up.
“But there’s another guy I’m hoping is on-island, because he could be a good source.” With that I dug the phone out of my pack, punched in the numbers, and listened to the ringing on the other end.
“Hello?”
“That you, Jack?”
There was a brief silence. “Who’s calling?”
“It’s Buck—Charles Reilly.”
Crystal raised her eyebrows.
“King? What do you know!” Jack’s voice lifted. “How can I help you?”
“Any chance you’re on St. John?”
“Sure am, got a closing tomorrow.”
I glanced at my watch. “You still a regular at Morgan’s Mango?”
He laughed. “Yeah, pretty much every damn night.”
“Can you meet me there for an early lunch?”
We agreed to meet in thirty minutes. Morgan’s Mango was right across the street, so I led Crystal to a seat in the front corner, me facing the street.
“Who’re we meeting?” she said.
“Guy named Jack Anderson, a developer from New Jersey I met in Virginia. He bought a beautiful hundred acres of private land here on St. John years ago and developed the finest gated community on-island. When he was excavating one of the home sites his crew dug into a crypt of Calusa Indian artifacts. One thing led to another and he called me to help him out.”
“Help him out how?” Crystal said.
“When any kind of old artifacts are found on a property, it stops construction projects dead in their tracks. In this case, the local government required an archeologist to come sift through the site with a toothbrush to determine what was there in order to decide whether they’d allow construction to continue at all. The schedule in the contract for the buyer had a drop dead date if Jack missed delivering it by more than three months. By the time he found me, sixty days had already elapsed and he was at risk of losing a couple million dollars.”
“Were you able to cut through the red tape?”
&n
bsp; “At that time, e-Antiquity was pretty well known and had historians and archeologists on retainer, so I came down with a renowned professor of archeology from the University of the Caribbean. We were able to make a quick determination and had one of our extraction teams expedite the documentation and withdrawal of all the pots, tools, plates, bones—everything was excavated and placed into padded cases.”
“What happened to the items you recovered, Buck?”
“The government kept it all. It was one of the few instances where we didn’t keep any of the recovered items, so we took a nice fee and Jack was able to meet his schedule.”
“Yes I was,” said a voice from the stairs below us.
Jack Anderson walked up the curved outdoor staircase to the restaurant’s entrance. His beard was now fully gray, though he still had a ponytail.
“And Kenny Chesney was very pleased with the finished home,” he said as he reached our table. “I never told him the cause of the delay.”
I made introductions. When Crystal mentioned that she and her husband were behind the Adoption AID concert this weekend, Jack’s expression turned serious.
“Can’t imagine today’s news is gonna help,” he said.
“Was there news of John?” Crystal said, her voice shrill.
“That actor, Stud Mahoney. He’s been kidnapped.”
Crystal covered her face with both hands. Only one word escaped between her fingers.
“Shit.”
I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward me. I felt her shake, then she sucked in a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry,” Jack said. “I thought you knew.”
If that wasn’t the nail in the coffin of Adoption AID, I didn’t know what would be.
“How do you know he was kidnapped?” I said. “Was it on television?”
“The radio. Just heard it on the way over here. The DJ said there was a note asking for a ransom, and that Mahoney’s production studio is offering a hundred grand for any information that leads to his recovery.”
Crystal dropped her hands. I could see in her eyes that she’d noted the anomaly as well. I knew she’d be in a hurry to find out what was going on and field the inevitable barrage of calls, texts, and emails from all the star-handlers, so I got to the point.
“Jack, I apologize, but this isn’t strictly a social call,” I said.
“Didn’t think it was.”
“Given the news of the kidnapped actor, we’ll need to find out what’s going on, but I wanted to ask what you know about local gang activity here on St. John, and in the Virgins in general.”
He rubbed his beard and I swear it made an audible sound, like sandpaper.
“Gotten pretty bad these last several years,” he said. “Murder rate’s the worst in the U.S.” He took in a deep breath. “Along with the usual—drugs, prostitution, turf wars—”
“Do you know the names of any of the gangbangers, and particularly their leaders?”
“You kidding? Every time we started a new house we got hit up for protection money.”
I raised my eyebrows. Jack nodded.
“Head honcho here on St. John’s a guy named Diego Francis,” he said. “Ruthless SOB. Supposedly killed his own sister for turning tricks and cutting him out—anyway, he lives in a compound over in Fish Bay.” He gave me a cold stare. “If you’re thinking of going to talk to him, then for God’s sake watch your ass. He’s a security freak. The cops won’t go near the place.”
I glanced at Crystal. She was already getting up out of her seat, her cell phone buzzing like an angry hornet.
“So what’s his main line of interest, this Diego Francis?” I said.
“Guns. Supposed to be like the Springfield Armory over there.”
Ugh, I hate guns.
WE STOOD BY THE ferry dock. Crystal agreed to turn off her phone until we could decide what to do.
“Stud Mahoney was adopted, Buck. That’s why he’s here.”
She fell into my arms. Sobs wracked her body as I held her close and tried to think of what to say. The situation was spiraling out of control, fast, and there was no point in feigning optimism. So I just held her until she cried herself out, her face buried in my neck.
Her hair smelled of jasmine. I breathed it in deeply, turned my head down, and gave her a soft quick kiss on the cheek.
Crystal broke free, wiped away tears, and looked away from me.
“I have to get to Jost Van Dyke,” she said. “I’m so worried about John, but what can I do? I have to try to keep things together so when they find him we can…we can…”
“Carry on with the show?” My voice was a near whisper.
“Right. Yes.” She was still dabbing at her eyes.
“I’ll stay here and see what I can find out about John and Stud Mahoney. You focus on keeping the celebrities on board.”
Her shoulders slumped.
My hand never left her back as we went inside and bought her a ticket on the next ferry. It left for Tortola in fifteen minutes. She’d clear Customs there and take the next one to Jost Van Dyke.
Back outside, I walked her to the canopied waiting area. She hadn’t said a word. Confused emotions paralyzed my tongue.
“I have no choice but to try and keep this thing together,” she said finally. “We’ve put everything on the line—” She pressed a fist to her mouth and willed the tears away. “Are you still going to fly people around if I can keep the event on track? Because the people start arriving tomorrow and the day after—”
“I won’t abandon you, Crystal. But there are a few things here I want to check out—”
“The Westin!” she said.
“The what?”
“We had a room booked at the Westin. John was going to stay there until tomorrow.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t recall if I told that to the police. I know he’d already checked in, he called me from there the afternoon he disappeared.”
A worker on the ferry opened the gate and began loading baggage piled by the ramp. People started to press aboard.
“Okay, I’ll check that out too,” I said. “Now get moving—wait!” I retrieved Booth’s cell phone from my bag and we exchanged numbers. “Let’s touch base later today, but call me sooner if you hear anything about John or Stud Mahoney. Okay?”
“Right, and one last thing…” Crystal reached into her bag, pulled out a folder, and opened it. Her husband stared out at me. “I had this printed at the hotel on St. Thomas last night. I thought they might come in handy.”
“Good thinking.” It was a different photo from the one on their website, but he still had the great smile. “Now get moving or you’ll miss the boat.”
She nodded, then a determined expression settled on her face. She started to go, spun back and gave me a bear hug.
“Thank you so much, Buck. I know you’ll call me with anything you learn too.”
I stood on numb legs as the ferry pulled away. When Crystal waved from the back of the boat a shiver passed through me. I was in danger too, and not from gangs or bombs or kidnappers.
The cell phone rang and I jumped. Unless Crystal was calling me already, it could only be one person.
The screen read: YOUR MASTER. I answered the call.
“Very funny, Booth.”
“What the hell’s going on with this Adoption AID show? The promoter disappears, now a leading man has been kidnapped? Maybe your lady friend should cancel—”
“Get to the point—”
“The point is that you’re now off the case of the missing promoter and on the case of the missing movie star—”
“I don’t think so.”
“Listen, Reilly, this isn’t an option—hell, they interrupted regular programming on every major network to break the story about Stud Mahoney being kidnapped. Nobody gives a damn about some do-gooder—”
“Maybe they’re connected, Booth, ever think of that?”
“Different M.O. altogether, hotshot. Nothing but silence followed
the promoter’s disappearance—”
“A bomb threat on Seaborne Airlines is silence? The phone call I had in the middle of the night telling me to stay away from the Adoption AID concert is—”
“What phone call—”
“Two people in the Virgin Islands, both here for the same reason, both disappeared, and you think it’s a coincidence?”
My finger hovered above the END button.
“Reilly! Don’t you hang up on me, Reilly!”
“You’ve got me for another ten seconds,” I said.
“And why did you call that real estate developer on St. John?” he said. “You better not be doing side business with federal prop—”
“Are you going to check up on every call I make?”
“Damn straight—”
END. I stabbed the button with my rigid index finger, over and over.
Eat shit, Booth.
“YEAH, I WAS WORKING here that night, what a party,” the bartender said.
The Beach Bar was at the end of the beach at Cruz Bay, past a few restaurants and behind the retail stores out on the road that paralleled the shore. It was nothing more than a bar with stools on both sides covered by a canopy, with a small seating area cum stage at the far end. According to the cops, it was the last place John Thedford had been seen.
“What was the party all about?”
“Drinking, listening to music, trying to get laid. What else?”
The bartender was pushing fifty, pudgy but tan. His beard was at least four days old, his gray hair was tied into a ponytail, and the letters B-E-E-R were tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand. Not-so-subliminal advertising to his patrons.
“That’s it?” I said. “Just a typical night at the Beach Bar?”
“That, and Kenney Chesney here for an acoustic show. God love him.”
I tried to remember if Crystal had mentioned him on her list of participants.
“Is he playing in that Adoption AID concert on Jost this weekend?”
3 Crystal Blue Page 6
