Fallen Mangrove (Jesse McDermitt Series Book 5)

by Wayne Stinnett

  When Elana Galic and Sabina Duric arrived at the marina, they presented their fake passports to the boat rental agent. They’d been transformed through the magic of technology into Melissa Johansen and Yvette Paulson, from Orlando.

  “We have a boat reserved,” Elana said.

  The man looked at her passport and then at his rental reservations. He couldn’t help notice they were both very attractive and neither wore a wedding ring. “Yes, Miss Johansen. I have a twenty-six-foot Dusky all ready for you. Will you need instructions?”

  “No,” Sabina replied with a smile, noting his name tag. “We’re both avid boaters, Brighton. It’s a Dusky inboard, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Paulson,” Brighton replied. “I just need one of you to sign the rental agreement and provide a credit card.”

  Elana produced a cloned credit card with the name Melissa Johansen imprinted on it and quickly scanned the rental agreement before signing it.

  “You’re all set,” Brighton said with a smile. “It’s full of gas and waiting at—”

  Sabina interrupted him. “You mean diesel, right?”

  “Oh, um, yes of course. It’s fueled up and waiting at dock twelve. You have it for five days and the return time is four o’clock. Will you need bait, tackle, or anything else?”

  “No, thanks,” Elana said. “We’re divers.”

  “Ah, of course,” Brighton said as he handed over the key, which was attached to a little red float.

  The two women went out to the dock and loaded their baggage and dive gear on board. Elana started the engine as Sabina cast off the lines, then stepped aboard. A moment later the two were skimming across the Sea of Abaco, following the course on the GPS toward the position the villa owner had given Tena.

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the dock and easily recognized the big boat that would be their target. It was the only boat tied up to the dock. Elana slowly idled past the big boat and chose a slip halfway down the dock, where she turned and expertly backed the boat into place. Sabina jumped to the dock and tied off the stern line to a cleat, fully aware that she was being watched from the bridge of the bigger boat.

  Once they had the boat secure, the two women started moving their belongings onto the dock. “You see him watching?” Sabina whispered.

  “Yes,” Elana replied, lifting her dive gear bag onto the dock. “He’s coming down now.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I woke after about two hours and put on a clean pair of cargo shorts and a Gaspar’s Revenge Charter Service tee shirt, then went up to the galley. Rusty brought five pounds of a new coffee he’d bought for the Anchor and I decided to give it a shot. He’d told me it was grown on a tiny farm in central Costa Rica called La Minita and said the farm managed the growth of the beans from seedling, to cultivation, to harvesting. That’s a lot of work to go to for a coffee bean, I thought. I usually buy whatever the least expensive Colombian coffee is at the little grocery store on Big Pine. Rusty swore I’d like this better. But to me coffee is coffee.

  While it was brewing, I went out to the cockpit with Pescador to call Kim. Pescador vaulted to the dock and headed straight to his new favorite tree, a large cluster of mangrove roots to the south of the small private beach.

  Kim didn’t answer, so I left a message saying we’d arrived at the resort safely and a little early. After I ended the call, I started back inside. As soon as I opened the hatch, I was struck by the coffee’s aroma. If it tastes half as good as it smells, I thought, I might just have a new favorite coffee.

  Pouring some into my favorite mug, I took a tentative sip. “Damn,” I said out loud.

  Filling a thermos with my new favorite coffee, I headed up to the bridge to get my bearings and study the local navigation chart I’d bought in Nassau. Electronics are a great aid, but I’ve learned to appreciate the old school ways more, like a compass, sextant, and paper charts.

  Many years ago, while going through yet another land nav class in the field taught by a crusty old Master Sergeant by the name of Jake Steadman, a young Second Lieutenant pulled out a newly acquired GPS. It was the dawn of the digital age, but Steadman was old school and insisted on teaching map and compass to new Officers and Enlisted. I was taking the refresher class with a bunch of brand new butter bars and Privates. When Steadman saw the Lieutenant’s GPS he strode up to him and asked what he was doing. The Lieutenant said something to the effect of it was almost the twenty-first century and the Corps needed to keep up with the times.

  Steadman rolled out the Lieutenants map on the ground and placed a rock on one corner and the young Lieutenant’s brand new GPS on the opposite corner. “What do you see, Lieutenant?” Steadman had asked.

  “Modern technology on top of old school trash,” the Lieutenant replied brashly.

  Steadman unholstered his sidearm and put one round through the center of the GPS and the map under it. Handing the ruined device back to the Lieutenant, he said, “This is now a piece of shit, Eltee.” Pointing to the map with a nine millimeter hole in it, he added, “That’s still a map.”

  So I studied the many channels, reefs, and obstructions marked on the chart while I enjoyed the quiet peacefulness of the lagoon and the very good coffee.

  Soon, the sound of a diesel-powered boat coming around the northern tip of Lubbers Quarters Cay got my attention. Lubbers Quarters is a small island just east of Tilloo Cut. Looking out over the spit of land behind the Revenge, I saw an open fisherman about twenty-five or twenty-six feet in length running about twenty-five knots. I sat back in my chair and could soon see that it had two women aboard, both dressed in bikini tops and cut-off jeans. The one at the helm was slightly taller than the other, with shoulder-length blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The smaller woman had darker hair, cut short.

  They slowed and then turned, idling into the lagoon right in front of the Revenge. When they reached the halfway point along the pier, the blonde spun the wheel right, reversed the engine, and spun the wheel back to the left, backing the boat expertly up to the dock before shutting off the engine.

  I assumed they were the guests Thom had mentioned were arriving today. When I noticed they were unloading dive gear, I decided to be neighborly and help them up the hill with it. I climbed down from the bridge and with Pescador tagging along at my heel, I walked over.

  “Hi,” I said. “Name’s Jesse. Is Thom, with an h, meeting you here?”

  The dark-haired woman looked up and put a hand over her eyes to see better in the bright late-morning sun. “Oh, hi, there. I didn’t see you. Who is this Thom with an h?”

  “He’s the caretaker of the villas and has a golf cart that goes up that hill much easier than carrying heavy dive gear on foot.”

  The blonde stepped up to the dock and extended her hand, which I took, noting she had a firm grip. “Hi, Jesse,” she said, smiling. “I’m Michelle and this is my friend Yvette. How do we get this Thom with an h to come and help us?”

  “His number should have been on the brochure they mailed you. Doesn’t matter, I’d be glad to volunteer to be your slave.”

  Yvette stepped up to the dock and we shook hands. “Oh, we couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said, with a crooked smile and a wink. “At least not until we get you drunk.”

  I’ve had women come on to me a few times, but usually not so brazenly. “Be only too happy to do it sober,” I replied, which brought a bit of a giggle from both of them.

  I grabbed the two heavy dive bags and said, “Right this way, ladies.”

  Pescador led the way to the foot of the dock and started searching along the edge of the beach, where the lush foliage came right down to the sand.

  “Is that your dog, Jesse?” one of the women asked as I started up the steep hill. Their voices were similar, so I couldn’t tell which one it was

  “He is, but he thinks it’s the other way around,” I replied over my shoulder. “His name’s Pescador.”

  When we got to the top of the hill I stopped and
set the bags down, thinking they had lagged behind me a little on the climb. I nearly got knocked over by my assumption—they were right on my heels.

  “Thanks, Jesse,” Melissa said. “We can handle it from here, I think.”

  “Be glad to carry these on down to your villa. I assume that’s where you’re staying?”

  “Yes,” Yvette said. “We’re in the first one, just below here. Stop by for a beer later this evening.”

  The two women picked up the heavy dive bags, slung them easily on their shoulders, and started down the path to the villas. I stood watching, admiring their retreating forms until Yvette looked back over her shoulder and smiled.

  This could be an interesting few days, I thought and then headed back down to the Revenge.

  Rusty was just coming out of the hatch when I started up the ladder to the bridge. “You found my stash, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Where you been hiding this nectar from the tropical mountain gods?”

  He climbed up and joined me, pouring us both a fresh cup before sitting down on the port bench. “That the boat I heard pull in?” he asked, pointing with his mug.

  “Yeah, two very attractive young women aboard. They’re staying in one of the villas below us.”

  Rusty’s eyebrows danced upward at the mention of the women. Looking up the path he said, “I see movement up on top of the hill.” Following his gaze, I could see Doc and Deuce coming down the path.

  When they got to the bottom, Deuce said, “Charity, Nikki, and Tony are going to walk up the road to a grocery store to get food for this evening. Did I hear you talking to someone a few minutes ago, Jesse?”

  “He’s puttin’ the moves on a coupla young lady tourists that just arrived,” Rusty said, answering for me.

  Deuce gave me the eye. “There weren’t any moves made,” I said.

  “Uh huh,” Deuce replied. “How long’s it been since Jackie last visited you?”

  Jackie is a friend that saved my life last winter. She’s a Navy Doctor and was the surgeon on call at the Navy hospital on Boca Chica when Deuce and I got shot up in Cuba. We got involved a little, but she was transferred to Bethesda over the summer.

  “Jackie and I are just friends now,” I said, wondering why I was being defensive.

  “Yeah,” Bourke said, coming out of the cabin. “Friends with benefits.”

  “It was over a month ago,” Rusty said, answering Deuce’s question.

  “A month’s a long time,” Doc mused.

  Changing the subject, I said, “Is Jules coming with us?”

  “No,” Deuce replied. “She’s got a headache and is trying to get some rest.”

  Rusty looked up, concerned, but said nothing. “Don’t worry,” Deuce said to his father-in-law, “she just needs a little rest. We didn’t get much coming back to the Keys and then all the adrenaline last night. She said she might go down and float in the pool for a while.”

  “Ya know,” Rusty said, looking up at the big, blue house, “I ain’t had a chance to swim in a pool for about twenty years. Maybe I’ll hang out here, too. You know, just until you guys get back.”

  Deuce and I exchanged knowing glances. After all it had been just the two of them against the world for more than a quarter of a century.

  “The water does look real enticing,” Deuce said.

  With that, Rusty climbed down the ladder and started up the dock. “Pescador,” I shouted. “Go with Rusty.”

  Pescador leaped the gunwale and ran after Rusty, nuzzling his hand for an ear scratch before racing up the path ahead of him.

  “Let’s get underway,” I said, starting the engines. “If we hurry, you can meet them at the store and haul the groceries back.”

  Bourke and Doc untied the lines while I plotted a course to Hope Town Harbour. Even running out around Parrot Cays, a small group of very tiny islands just west of the harbor, it was only five miles, but I don’t take chances when running a big boat in unfamiliar waters. I double-checked the GPS against the chart and adjusted the waypoint to a spot just north of the northernmost of the little islands.

  Just as I was pulling away from the dock, Bourke said, “Is that one of your new girlfriends, Jesse?”

  I looked to the left and saw a woman walking out onto the small private beach, but she wasn’t one of the two I’d met earlier. This woman had black hair to the middle of her back and was a few years older, maybe late thirties. She was dark-tanned, wearing a bright yellow one piece and one of those tropical-looking sarongs around her waist, which covered her legs completely. Although it was extremely unlikely, I felt like I’d seen her somewhere before.

  “No,” I replied. “The two women I met earlier looked a bit younger with shorter hair. That must be one of the other guests that Thom spoke about.”

  Turning east and leaving the lagoon, I took one last look back and she was shading her eyes, looking out over the water. Once we reached ten feet of water I pushed the throttles and brought the Revenge up on plane, turning due north. The feeling that I’d met the woman on the beach or seen her somewhere before kept nagging at the back of my mind.

  “Once we have the golf carts at the house,” Doc said, “a couple of us should go to the first property and talk to the owners, tell them what we’re here for and why. Within hours, the news will probably be all over the island. Maybe we can search it this evening, before the whole island gets wind of a treasure hunt.”

  “That will be your and Nikki’s job,” I said. “She can be a lot more tactful than either me, Bourke, or Deuce.”

  “Hey,” Bourke said, feigning insult. “I can be tactful.”

  I laughed and said, “Sorry, but telling someone to go to hell and making them feel happy to be on their way, just to be away from you, isn’t tact.”

  “Jesse’s right, Doc,” Deuce said. “The three of us are probably a little too scary-looking to ask a homeowner if we can search their property with metal detectors.”

  We were approaching the southernmost island of the Parrot Cays. This one and the next one to the north are the only two that are inhabited. It was maybe three acres, not much larger than mine. The next one was about an acre and had only one house on the east side. As we approached the next island, a glint off of something reflective caught my eye just ahead and to the right.

  Sitting ten feet above the water has its advantages. As we passed the northernmost island, I saw a boat beached on the far side of it. Lifting the binoculars I always keep close at hand, I trained them on the island. There was only one person in the boat, kneeling in the forward cockpit and leaning over the casting deck.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked Deuce, handing him the binos. “Far side of that little island.” Deuce stood and trained them on the island as I made a long, sweeping turn around it, heading toward the mouth of the harbor.

  “A guy in an eighteen-foot flats skiff, beached. He’s not moving and the outboard is down.”

  Anyone who operates a flats skiff knows to raise their engine before going into really shallow water. Easy way to shear a pin if you don’t. Something didn’t smell right. Literally. We exchanged quick, nervous glances and all four of us were suddenly very alert. We’d all smelled it before. Too many times.

  I pulled back on the throttles and brought the Revenge down off of plane. Idling forward, I turned toward the skiff with the corpse on board while reaching forward and switching the sonar to forward scan.

  Quickly, I pulled out the chart from the cabinet under the helm and unrolled it across the wheel. “Water’s deepest on this side, but the three-foot line is still twenty feet from shore. The wind’s out of the south, so I’ll nudge the bottom, drop the anchor, and pull back ten or twenty feet. Doc, go unstrap the Zodiac. Bourke, the engine and gas tank are under the ladder down in the engine room. Deuce, grab a few earwigs from under the bunk.”

  By the time I’d dropped the anchor and pulled back, setting it in the shallows, Doc had the inflatable in the water and was walking it by the pa
inter to the transom door.

  While he and Bourke were mounting the engine, Deuce came out of the cabin and tossed one of the little communication devices up to me. I put it in my ear and turned it on. As the three men climbed into the Zodiac, I heard Deuce say over the earwig, “Com check.”

  The three of us answered back as Bourke started the little outboard and went racing off toward the island. A few seconds later, he shut off the outboard and raised it out of the water, coasting forward until the boat beached about ten feet from the skiff.

  “Hey, mister,” I heard Deuce shout. “Are you all right?” The man on the boat didn’t move. Not that we expected him to. I was watching through the binoculars and could see that he was only wearing a pair of khaki shorts. A light blue shirt and some other black clothing, maybe a jacket, were laying on the casting deck.

  Doc got to the man first, moving around to the upwind side. He checked his neck for a pulse, but even from here it was obvious the man was dead. He had long blond hair and his face was turned my way. His skin was pale and his empty eye sockets stared at everything and nothing at all.

  “He’s dead,” Doc confirmed. “Skin’s splotchy and blistered and it looks like a sea bird or three have been nibbling at him. They always go for the eyes first.”

  Bourke picked up his shirt and checked the pockets, then set it back down. Then he picked up what I’d thought to be a black jacket and held it up in the breeze. “Is that a woman’s dress?” I asked.

  Turning it inside out, he examined the label. “Yeah, an expensive one, too. Badgley Mischka, size two.”

  Deuce was checking out the boat aft and said, “Ignition’s still on and the gas tank is bone dry. The prop’s dug into the sand and nearly worn off. He beached at a good clip and left the motor running, engaged.”

  “Anything under him?” I asked.

  Doc lifted the dead man by the hair until he was nearly upright, then both he and Bourke turned away, retching.

  “His package is hanging out of his shorts and crabs have eaten half of it!” Bourke exclaimed between retches.