Bluewater Betrayal: The Fifth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 5)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Fine," Phillip's voice sounded tinny over the phone's small speaker. "I got your message. Engine okay?"

  "Yes. We just ran it hard for about 45 minutes -- no problems," Dani said. "Any news?"

  "Nothing more on whoever's looking for you, but Paul called a little while ago. He's got an address and phone number for the woman, but nothing on Contreras. Looks like that may have been a bogus name. I've got a call in for the Chief Super down in Kingstown; I'll ask him to fax the copy of the first page in both passports to Paul. Probably won't happen until tomorrow, though. Paul hasn't gotten an answer at Dulzuras's number. He's planning to go see her in the morning. Where are you headed?"

  "Probably Virgin Gorda or St. John to clear in, depending on what we decide and how the wind holds overnight. Connie's reading the guidebooks, trying to decide where she wants to go first," Liz said.

  "Don't forget to stop at Christmas Cove. You'll really like that little reef, Connie. It's seriously underrated as a snorkel spot."

  "Okay. Thanks," Connie said.

  "Sandrine says hello, and dinner's on the table. Have a good sail tonight. We'll talk tomorrow."

  "Hello to Sandrine," they said in chorus, and Dani disconnected the call.

  "One of you take the helm, and I'll get dinner on the table," Liz said. "Might as well keep the same watch schedule we've had, if you're up for eight until midnight, Connie."

  "Sure," Connie said.

  "Fine," Dani agreed.

  "So, tell me about St. Thomas versus Virgin Gorda," Connie prompted Dani as Liz went below.

  ****

  O'Leary sat in the spot that Guy Leclerc normally occupied. As the afternoon passed, more and more people entered Leclerc's bar. With each arrival, O'Leary looked at the bartender. Each time, the bartender had given a barely perceptible shake of his head before he took the new customer's order. It was almost dark outside when a man entered. He peered around in the gloom, his eyes sweeping over O'Leary in the corner, his face betraying nothing. As he turned and reached to open the door to leave, the bartender called out, "Wait, David."

  The man stepped through the door and into the gray early evening light without hesitating. O'Leary moved with deceptive speed. He was on David's heels before the door closed behind them. He clapped a hand on the fisherman's shoulder, gripping the trapezius muscle, curling his fingers into talons that threatened to penetrate his victim's flesh. David turned with equal speed, his fist following an arc that would have continued up and under O'Leary's sternum, but O'Leary was faster. He stepped back so that the fist barely grazed his shirt, and then rocked forward, planting his right foot squarely on David's left kneecap and following it with his weight. David's knee bent the wrong way with a sickening, tearing sound that ended with a loud pop. He screamed in agony and collapsed to the pavement, going into shock from the broken leg. O'Leary opened an unmarked door a few feet farther along the sidewalk and dragged the semiconscious David inside, into the back corridor that led to the storeroom for the bar.

  An hour later, O'Leary was in his hotel room, the encrypted satellite phone to his ear, a glass with a shot of raw-smelling, French-branded Scotch from the minibar in his hand. As he listened to the phone ringing, he lifted the glass and took a sip, gagging immediately, his eyes tearing as he heard Ric Delgado say, "What is it, O'Leary?"

  O'Leary gave in to a coughing fit, finally wheezing, "Just a second." He set the vile French whiskey down and picked up the glass of mineral water, gulping down a big swallow. "Okay. Sorry."

  "The hell's the matter with you?" Ric asked.

  "Shitty French whiskey. Sorry, I…"

  "Where the hell are you? You take care of…"

  "It's happening. I got some more news, though. We got a problem," O'Leary interrupted.

  "A problem? So handle it, dammit."

  "I will, but you need to know about it. Not sure how far it's gonna go."

  "Be quick, O'Leary. I got things to do. This about that broad from the boat in Bequia?"

  "No. That's under control. I been checking up on Guy while he does her. He's been runnin' his own game down here."

  "You mean the skimming?" Ric scoffed. "I know about that; it's why I don't pay these assholes more. Makes 'em happier if they think they're stealin' from me. He don't take too much. You know the score on that."

  "That's not it. You know about the women?" O'Leary asked.

  "Of course. Any player worth a shit's gotta run a string of hookers. You get hit over the head or somethin'?"

  "He's kidnapped Delorme's wife," O'Leary said.

  "Shit! I thought she left…"

  "Yeah, that's what they meant for us to think."

  "They, who?" Ric asked

  "Not sure who's in it with him yet," O'Leary explained. "He's got her and a couple of other girls hidden away in a crib somewhere. He rents 'em out to 'special' customers."

  "Damn! Where'd he get the other girls?"

  "Tourists. They made the mistake of scoring blow from him or Henri. One of 'em had a husband that they got rid of."

  "I'm not liking this. Clean it up," Ric ordered.

  "There's more. Delorme's wife's some rich asshole's daughter."

  "What difference…"

  O'Leary interrupted. "Her old man sent some private eye from England to find her. He's been sniffin' around Marin, and he sent some local to La Duprey to find Henri."

  "How'd he get on to Henri?"

  "Don't know."

  "How'd you find out all this shit, O'Leary?"

  "Henri's brothers tried to blackmail Guy."

  "Guy told you this?" Ric asked.

  "No. Guy's in St. Martin right now, dealin' with that other problem. Guy told me the brothers were puttin' the squeeze on him, lookin' for money for Henri's widow, or they'd tell this English detective about the drugs."

  "How'd you get the rest of this?"

  "Henri's brother, David. He told me."

  "You believe him? Why?"

  "He wouldn't a lied to me. It was like what they call one of them, you know, a death-bed confession."

  "Jesus, O'Leary. That'll cause more questions."

  "Nah. He disappeared."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah."

  "Get that goddamned Leclerc and find out what he's been up to."

  "Of course. Should I take care of the detective? And what about Delorme's wife and the others?"

  "Wait'll you find out what Leclerc knows. Don't go wastin' nobody else without talkin' to me," Ric said.

  "I understand."

  "And hurry up about it."

  "Yeah," O'Leary said, an angry flush rising on his cheeks as he realized that Ric had hung up on him.

  ****

  Guy sat in the back room of the bistro across the street from the ferry terminal in Marigot, St. Martin. He was waiting to meet a man whose brother was a clerk in the French coast guard office. The French were clever, having learned some useful lessons in their colonial era. Their officers were rotated frequently and were seldom locals, so it was difficult for criminals to corrupt them; they weren't around long enough to make it worth the risk. The clerical positions in the administrative offices were filled from the local labor pool, however.

  It wasn't hard to find someone in the office who had access to records and was amenable to accepting token gifts in exchange for what might as well be public information. After all, their reasoning went, anyone could watch and see what vessels cleared in and out each day. The crew members would certainly volunteer information about ports of call and cargoes, so printing an extra copy of clearance documents wasn't such a big deal. If somebody was willing to pay for the convenience of not having to watch and ask questions, why not take the money? Guy recognized the man when he peered into the door. He waved and pointed to the empty chair across from him.

  The man took a moment to scan the vacant tables in the back room before he joined Guy.

  "I have the information," he said, with no preamble.

  "So? Are they here?"r />
  The man smiled. "First you must pay."

  "How much?"

  "The usual amount will be enough."

  Guy put his hand on the table for a moment. When he removed it, a crumpled bank note remained. The man picked it up and smoothed it on the table in front of him. He nodded with satisfaction, folded the note in half, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. He put a folded sheet of paper on the table.

  "The clearance for the yacht, Vengeance," he said.

  Guy picked up the paper and unfolded it. He studied it for a moment. "You bastard! You ripped me off!" He glared at the man across the table.

  The man shrugged. "It is the information that you requested; delivered as promised."

  "But it says they left yesterday for St. Croix. They weren't even here for 24 hours."

  The man nodded. "So? You asked if they had cleared in. They cleared in and out on the Dutch side, all in the same day. We should have charged you more for having to access the Dutch database." The man stood up and left Guy sitting at the table.

  Chapter 21

  Connie stood on the small platform on Vengeance's bowsprit looking down at the sandy bottom beneath 12 feet of glass-clear water. The anchor dangled beneath her feet, ready to be released when the yacht came to a stop. She held the remote control for the windlass in her right hand, watching for a clear spot of sand and marveling at the surreal feeling that she and the boat were suspended in mid-air. The sun was high enough in the sky that she could see the shadow that she and the yacht cast on the bottom. As the last grassy patch gave way to clean sand, she waved her left hand, signing for Dani to put the engine in reverse. When Vengeance came to a stop, Connie released the anchor, watching as it struck the bottom and raised a cloud of sand.

  By the time the sand settled, Vengeance was moving slowly astern; Connie payed out the anchor chain just rapidly enough to avoid putting a strain on it while ensuring that it was not piling up on the bottom. She was counting the marks on the chain as it ran between her feet, measuring the amount that she had let out. As the third mark went by, signifying 90 feet, she raised her left hand again and stopped releasing chain. She watched as the chain was lifted from the bottom in a catenary curve by the momentum of the heavy boat. As the chain became progressively more taut, the yacht stopped for a moment and then began to drift forward, pulled by the weight of the chain as it sunk to the bottom. Connie signaled for Dani to open the throttle. As Vengeance began to move backward again, the chain stretched out until it was almost straight. After nothing changed for 30 seconds, Connie turned and made a cutting motion across her throat with her hand. Dani shut the engine down.

  "Welcome to the BVI," Dani called, as Connie stepped back into the cockpit. "Good job with the anchor."

  "Thanks." Connie looked around for a moment, studying their surroundings. She stared at the forest of masts, visible across a small peninsula that formed a breakwater for the entrance channel to a big marina. "Lots of boats in there. I didn't know Spanish Town was so big."

  "Second largest town in the B.V.I.," Liz said. "Road Town, on Tortola is the biggest."

  "How many people live here?"

  "Oh, 3,000 plus, I think," Dani said.

  "With so few people, it seems like we'd stand out here, then," Connie said. "I thought you said the B.V.I. would be a good place to hide for a few days until we figure out what's happening."

  "There are probably more charter boats here -- crewed and bareboat -- than anywhere else in the world. And wait until you see how many little islands there are with nooks and crannies where we can hang out," Liz said.

  "And every one will be jammed with boats. Even if somebody knew we were here, they'd never find us," Dani said.

  "And you still showed St. Croix as our next port of call when we left St. Martin?" Connie said.

  "A little extra cover never hurts. Let's launch the dinghy and go clear with customs." Dani was already untying the lashings that held the RIB on the coach roof.

  "Then what?" Connie asked. "I need a nap."

  "I'll go in and handle the clearance. You can crash if you want. We can spend the night here and head down to the marine park at the Baths early in the morning, if you want to explore before the crowds get there."

  "Crowds?"

  "There are a bunch of dayboats that bring people from the cruise ships in Tortola, besides all the charter boats," Liz said. "The Baths are a big attraction, because of the reefs and the rock formations. There's a limit of a couple of hours on the moorings, and you can't anchor."

  "So then what?"

  "We're only a few miles from all kinds of places. That's why the B.V.I. is so popular with people on charter vacations. We'll just see what you feel like after we snorkel the Baths," Dani said, rigging the main halyard to hoist the dinghy over the side.

  ****

  Paul Russo pulled his car to the curb and sat for a moment, studying the run-down apartment building on the western outskirts of Coconut Grove. It looked as if it might once have been a cheap motel; it was an L-shaped, two-story building wrapped around two sides of a cracked parking lot. The lot was about half full of cars, most of which looked as tired as the building. The downstairs units opened onto the parking lot while the ones upstairs opened onto a crumbling concrete balcony with a railing that was bowed and bent along its length. Where the columns supporting the overhanging roof and the railing emerged from the concrete, the exposed edge of the balcony showed rust-stained cracks. It looked as if it wouldn't take much to tear the railing loose, although Paul thought it might take the balcony with it. Across the narrow parking lot from the building, colorful graffiti covered an otherwise dingy, two-story expanse of cinder block that was the sidewall of a defunct discount grocery store. Paul checked his notepad, verifying the apartment number before he shut off the engine and got out of the air-conditioned car, locking the door behind him.

  He flinched from the hot, humid air and fought not to gag on the sour stench of rotting garbage that assailed his nostrils as he crossed the street. He climbed the stairs to the rickety balcony, conscious that several people were watching from slits between the mismatched, grubby curtains that covered the first-floor windows. He thought that if he had still been on the job, he would have called for backup before he went up the stairs. It was that kind of place. He knocked on the door of unit 203, noticing that the numbers had been painted over and redone with a marker pen of some sort. After several tries with no answer, he went back down the stairs. He had seen one unit that looked somewhat better than the rest and guessed that it might be the office. It had a rattling, wheezing window air-conditioner -- the only one in evidence -- protruding from the filthy wall next to the door. He saw there was a big deadbolt lock installed above the rusting doorknob. He pounded on the door.

  "Yeah, yeah. It's open -- don't knock the damn building down," a male voice shouted.

  Paul turned the knob, but the door didn't swing open until he put some weight against it. Then the bottom of the door scraped across a gouged vinyl floor as it swung in. He looked into the room -- clearly the rental office.

  "Get yer ass inside and close the door. You're lettin' the heat in. Whaddya want?" The speaker was slouched in a crooked swivel chair, his feet on a cluttered, dented metal desk. He was staring at a wall-mounted television across the room. Paul couldn't see the screen, but the grunts and moans emerging from the speaker system told him more than he cared to know about the man's taste in video entertainment. The man was scrawny, wearing a dirty wife-beater T-shirt and greasy, frayed jeans. His hair was thinning on top but hung down the back of his neck in a well-oiled mullet. Several days of scraggly beard adorned his face. There was a momentary silence in the soundtrack. "I ain't callin' the damn plumber again. You goddamn people think you can put yer garbage down the friggin' toilets; you can just live with yer shit."

  When Paul didn't respond, the man finally turned his head and looked at him for a second or two. "Got no vacancy. Get out."

  Paul step
ped in and kicked the man's legs off the desk. The broken swivel chair tumbled to the side, spilling him to the floor. With more agility than Paul had anticipated, the man got his feet under himself and charged, head down, aiming for Paul's solar plexus.

  Paul took a half-step back and pivoted as he crouched, landing a forearm smash to the side of the man's neck, stopping him in his tracks. Before he recovered, Paul brought a hammer blow down on the back of the man's neck. He collapsed to the floor, face down. Paul backed up and watched as he slowly rose to all fours, shaking his head.

  "I'm not interested in moving in. I'm looking for one of your tenants."

  "Who?" The man still hadn't gotten up.

  Paul picked up the television remote from the desk and turned off the television. "Kandi Dulzuras."

  "Gone. Owes me a week's rent, too. Bitch. Left her shit behind -- guess she was in a hurry. Glad to see the last of her and her brat, anyway. Don't usually rent to people with kids, but I thought maybe she'd, well, you know. Figured she might need to work off some rent sometime if she got in a bind."

  "She on the game?"

  "Probably. Said she was an 'exotic dancer,' though. Ain't they all?"

  "You know where she worked?"

  "You a cop, or what?"

  "Or what," Paul said, placing a foot on the man's knuckles. "You were saying?" He increased the pressure a bit.

  "Last I knew, she was dancin' at a place near the airport called 'Pussycats'."

  "What did she do with the kid when she went to work?"

  "Day care center at the Catholic church down the street. Pretty little girl. I offered to keep her. Little girl like that needs a man's attention, you know. I coulda taught her… "

  Disgusted, Paul lifted his foot and kicked the man in the ribs.

  "The hell you do that?" the man groaned.

  "Call the plumber. I'll give you two hours. Then I'm calling the health department." He turned and walked out, not bothering to close the door.