11
“The fish is great," Friday said. "What is it?"
"Fresh mahi-mahi," Paul said. "Thanks to Sharktooth."
"When did you catch it?" Friday asked. "While I was in with the doctor? It didn't seem long enough for you to go fishing."
Sharktooth grinned. "No. A friend, he use my boat today. He catch the fish, plenty fish. This like rent for the boat."
"That's great," Friday said. "But you gave up your whole day to take me to the hospital. It's very generous of you to give up the fish you got for letting someone use your boat. I'm in your debt."
The big man shook his head. "Sometime, everybody need a little help. Tha's the way t'ings supposed to be. Somebody need help, then you help. It's an island t'ing, mon."
"I'm frustrated that I'm in good health and I'm still a burden to all of you because I can't remember who I am. When do you think the police will know something?"
"It's hard to say," Paul said. "Probably a couple of days, but that's assuming you're in the system somewhere."
"What do you mean, 'in the system,' Paul? Isn't everybody in the system these days?"
"Pretty much," Paul said. "But that doesn't mean your fingerprints and mug shot are. Unless you've been arrested, or been in the military, or had a security clearance of some kind, you may not turn up."
"What about facial recognition software? Surely, I must have had a driver's license with a photo on it. And I had to have a passport, right?"
Paul shrugged. "Odds are, yes. But facial recognition software's not all it's cracked up to be. We'll just have to wait and see. It shouldn't be too long."
"I'm forty-four years old; I've got to be 'in the system,' as you put it. Somewhere, don't you think?"
Paul and Connie traded wide-eyed looks, and Sharktooth asked, "How you know you forty-four, mon?"
Now Friday's face paled beneath his tan. He shook his head and frowned. "I said that, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did," Connie said.
"I don't know. It just kind of bubbled to the surface, like. I can't explain it."
"Mm-hmm. The doctor, he say mebbe t'ings like that gon' happen wit' you. It be a good sign, he say, but tell you not to push. Jus' let t'ings come to you. You try too hard, it mebbe slow t'ings down."
"Yeah, he told me the same thing," Friday said. "But it took me by surprise just now."
"Do you have to go back?" Connie asked.
Friday frowned, squinting his eyes as he looked at her. "Go back? Where?"
"To the hospital," she said. "Do they want to see you again?"
"Oh," Friday grinned, relaxing his brow. "No. Not unless I have double vision, or headaches. Dizzy spells, that kind of thing. He said there was no sign of any swelling or blood clots in my brain, and all my neurological tests were normal. The memory thing will take time, he said. He told me to be patient and let it happen."
"The doctor, he say familiar people and surroundings help, sometimes," Sharktooth said.
Friday grinned and shook his head. "That's a real catch-22."
"Catch 22," Paul said, watching Friday. "Major Major Major."
Friday chuckled. "You read it."
"Yes, years ago," Paul said. "I guess you did, too."
"Everybody uses catch-22 to describe a situation like this," Friday said. "What makes you think I read it?"
"Because you knew where the phrase came from," Paul said. "The book was written before we were born; most people nowadays have no idea where the phrase 'catch-22' came from."
"But I did. Why did you say, 'Major Major Major,' though?"
"He was one of the characters. I thought if you recognized his name, I'd know you were familiar with the book."
"You said you were a cop. Were you a detective?"
"I was, yes."
"I'll bet you were really good at it."
"I did okay. Old habits stay with you. I wasn't trying to trip you up with the book. It was just instinct."
"That's okay. Maybe I should read the book; it might help jar loose something else, if I've already read it. How long were you a cop?"
"Twenty-five years."
"He ran the homicide department in Miami," Connie said. "He was more than just a cop, but he's too modest to say so."
"Miami," Friday said. "I'm almost sure I spent time there. I know I flew to St. Lucia from there, once."
"You been to St. Lucia?" Sharktooth asked.
Friday looked blank and didn't answer. After a few seconds, he asked, "What?"
"You say you flew to St. Lucia one time," Sharktooth said.
"I did. Say that, I mean. It just popped out. I'm trying to remember more about it, now, but it won't come."
Connie and Paul traded glances at that comment, but neither spoke.
After a few seconds of silence, Sharktooth said, "Time to go. Maureen, she have my dinner ready soon."
"You just had dinner, Sharktooth," Friday said.
"Don't tell, please." Sharktooth feigned worry. "She t'ink I need to lose weight. Hard time to get enough to eat when she watchin'."
"O'Toole got a strange phone call this morning," Miguel said. He was sitting in a rental car half a block from O'Toole's office, talking with Leon Contreras on a cellphone.
"Strange?" Contreras asked.
"Yeah. We heard it ring and he answered it, but then he just listened. After a minute, he left the office and walked up the street. While he was walking, he got another call. I'm guessing it was on the same phone, but I can't say for sure."
"What? Why not? I thought you and Jorge had intercepts on his office phone and were using mobile equipment to monitor his cellphone."
"Yeah. Both his cellphones; the regular one and a prepaid one. But this wasn't either one of those. We heard it ring on the bug in his office, and he fished it out from under his desk. Musta been hidden somehow. He answered it by saying, 'Yes?' He listened for a few seconds and disconnected. Then he put the phone in his pocket. The video's working good, by the way."
"Good," Contreras said. "So, he put the phone in his pocket and left the office?"
"Right. And walked up the street. After a couple of blocks, the phone rang, and he answered it and kept walking while he talked."
"Did you get his side of it with the parabolic mike?"
"No. Too much traffic. The call didn't last but a couple of minutes, and he mostly listened. Once he disconnected, he went back to the office."
"Think you and Jorge can get into his office again and find that phone?"
"Yeah, we're on it. Maybe tonight; we'll have to see what he's up to first."
"All right. Anything else?" Contreras asked.
"Yeah. He didn't stay in the office long. He was there a few minutes, and then he headed for the fishing pier where he met Ryan the other day. He walked out to the end of the pier and made a call on the prepaid cellphone. We got this one on the recorder — both sides. I'll email it to you, but I gotta tell you, don't get too excited yet."
"Why's that?" Contreras asked.
"We got no idea who he called. Jorge's working on it, but the number's a relay somewhere. He's not too hopeful."
"Can you summarize the conversation?" Contreras asked.
"Yeah." Miguel gave a quick overview of what O'Toole and the other party had discussed.
"So, whoever it was didn't want to talk to O'Toole?" Contreras asked. "Wouldn't answer his questions about Pinky Schultz one way or the other?"
"That's right," Miguel said. "But whoever's doing O'Toole's investigating sounds dangerous good."
"Yeah, they do. It's gotta be SpecCorp. And they spotted you and Jorge. That could be a problem."
"I think we're okay, Leon. We were both disguised, and the car was borrowed."
"Borrowed from who? Can they trace it?"
"We kinda found it in a nightclub parking lot. By now, the cops may have recovered it, but there's nothing to connect it to us. Whatever idiot left the keys in it can't tell them anything once they trace it back to him."
Contreras chuckled. "Let's find out who's on the other end of the mystery phone. My bet is it's SpecCorp. And is there any chance you can get a voice print from the recording of O'Toole's other call?"
"Yeah. Jorge did that, already. We just need something to match it to."
"I have a hunch," Contreras said, "but it won't get us anywhere yet."
"What's that?" Miguel asked.
"I'm betting it's the scar-faced man you and Jorge saw O'Toole talking to in the car that night he and Ryan killed Art Jansen."
"Hmm," Miguel said. "No idea where to go with that one."
"Me either. But if we ever spot that guy again, maybe we can get a recording of his voice."
"What do you think?" Paul asked. He and Connie sat in the cockpit, gazing at the stars. Friday had gone to bed early, claiming he was tired from his day at the hospital.
"He's a lot more assured, now, even though he can't remember much," Connie said, taking a sip of wine.
"Yeah, isn't he?"
"I know that tone of voice, detective. You're suspicious of him."
"That may be overstating it a little," Paul said. "But I think he's remembering more than he lets on." He took the glass from her hand and took a sip.
"There's more," she said, looking at the bottle on the cockpit table. "Want a glass?"
"Maybe in a few minutes. I don't want to lose my train of thought."
"Tell me what's on your mind. You think he's recovered his memory?"
"Some of it, at least. I think he was recalling a lot more than he shared."
"You think he's hiding something?"
"Maybe, but not necessarily. He could just be trying to make sense out of the pieces that are coming back to him. It's hard for me to imagine what that would be like."
"Me, too," Connie said. "That whole Catch 22 thing was bizarre."
"It was a little strange. I think the character reference I threw at him triggered some recollections that he didn't want to share."
"Why do you say that?"
"He immediately made the connection that Catch 22 was a book. He blurted, 'You read it?' as soon as I mentioned it, but then he started pretending not to know anything about it."
"You thought he was hiding something? Why would he do that? I mean, it's just a book."
"Not hiding something about the book," Paul said. "I think he was trying to hide the fact that his memory is coming back. Or at least hide the extent of his recovery."
"Why would he do that?"
"Exactly," Paul said. "Why?"
"He wants to figure things out before he tells us?" Connie asked.
"Uh-huh," Paul said. "Maybe. That's one explanation, anyhow."
"But that seems normal enough, to me," Connie said. "Why does it make you suspicious?"
"Remember what I said about people who feign amnesia?"
Connie took a sip of wine and frowned as she recalled their earlier discussions. "They have some motive?"
"Yes. Same thing's true of people who feign confusion; that's what I think he was doing."
"Feigning confusion?" Connie asked.
"Yes."
"What makes you think it was feigned?"
"He ran through the same patterns both times," Paul said.
"Both times? You lost me."
"Sorry. He played the St. Lucia thing the same way as he did the Catch 22 reference. When Sharktooth called him on it, he said, 'I did say that, didn't I,' implying that he wondered why he'd blurted out those things."
"That seemed natural enough to me," Connie said. "Not to you?"
"The first time, yes. But the second time? He had an almost calculating look about him. Now that I'm thinking about it, he did it again, too, when he said he was 44 years old. Remember?"
"Yes, but I'm not sure what calculating look you saw."
"Facial expression, body language?" Paul said. "Cop's instinct, I guess. I think the St. Lucia reference was contrived, too."
They were silent for several seconds, and then Connie spoke. "But I brought that up, didn't I? When I told him you ran homicide for the MPD?"
"You brought up Miami. He was the first one to mention St. Lucia."
"It triggered his memory when I said Miami," Connie said.
"Could be," Paul said. "But you looked a little surprised at the time, like you thought something was odd about the way he said it."
"I was surprised. Maybe we should take him to St. Lucia and see if it jogs his memory more. He and Sharktooth both told us about the doctor saying familiar surroundings could help."
"Yes. I thought you might be thinking that."
"You think he's trying to play us," Connie said. "to get us to take him to St. Lucia?"
"Maybe," Paul said. "You see something that argues against that?"
"I gave him the opening, with Miami," Connie said. "What if I hadn't said that?"
"St. Lucia's only a hundred miles — a day's sail. How hard would it have been for him to work it into the conversation if you hadn't mentioned Miami?"
"Not hard, I guess. But you make him sound so ... so manipulative," Connie said.
"I'm not making him sound any particular way. You chose that word."
Connie studied Paul's face in the moonlight for a moment. Then she nodded and asked, "So, what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking we should go to St. Lucia and see what happens. We're stuck with keeping him on the boat anyway. What's the risk, versus staying here?"
"I see what you mean. Think we'll have trouble with customs and immigration there?"
"Maybe, but his situation is documented now. He's in the CCLEC system. And Sharktooth's got a solid relationship with the police commissioner, that Cedric Jones guy. We could ask him to call Cedric; maybe he can grease the skids for us. What do you think?"
"You make a good case for going; there's no real reason to stay here, is there?"
12
Bert and Marian were having coffee in one of the restaurants in the Rodney Bay Marina. After two men from the Royal St. Lucia Marine Police unit had spent an hour with them aboard Windsong filling out endless forms, they wanted to get off the boat.
"Well, that was simple enough," Bert said, "but it took longer than I expected. They sure went over the boat with a fine-tooth comb."
"Was I convincing?" Marian asked.
"I thought so. You look like death warmed over, and you gave a good impression of being stunned, in shock."
Marian had called the St. Lucia Coast Guard at four a.m. to report Steve's disappearance. She had spun her tale of waking up when her alarm went off and discovering that he was missing. Bert, their guest, had still been sound asleep in his cabin.
Steve had been expected to wake Bert up between ten p.m. and midnight. When she learned that he had not awakened Bert, they realized Steve could have gone overboard any time between the beginning of his watch and 4 a.m. when Marian's alarm went off.
Marian and Bert had last seen her husband at about sunset, almost ten hours earlier. The Coast Guard had made note of the vessel's position when her husband had come on watch, and her position when Marian noticed he was missing.
The Coast Guard's duty officer determined that a search by Windsong's crew would be futile. Steve could be anywhere along the vessel's route, which was roughly 80 miles during the period in question. That was without allowing for drift, which could have moved him as much as 15 to 20 miles to the northwest of the point where he fell overboard. The initial search area would be close to 2,000 square miles of ocean. It was still dark, and Marian and her guest were distraught.
The Coast Guard had advised her that they would initiate search and rescue operations immediately, and that she should proceed to the marina in Rodney Bay and call them when she arrived.
"Wonder how long they'll keep the helicopter up?" she asked.
"What difference does that make?" Bert asked. "They're not going to find him."
"No, but I can't call my lawyer until they officially decide he's not going to be found, can I?"
"I suppose not," Bert said. "It might look bad if you start asking questions like that while they're still searching for him."
"It's damned annoying that these people won't let me off your boat."
"Yes, well, you have to look at it from their point of view," Connie said.
"Maybe we'll get an i.d. for you soon," Paul said. "That would help things along, I think. If you just knew who you were, it would open several options for trying to recover your memory."
"You guys are great; I owe you, big-time. But I know I'm in your way. One of these days, you're going to have a charter, and then what?"
"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," Connie said.
Friday chuckled at Connie's garbling of the metaphor. "I'm kind of going stir crazy," he said.
Paul smiled. "We were talking last night after you went to — "
"Mornin', Diamantista!" Sharktooth called as he approached in his water taxi, interrupting Paul. "Too late for a little breakfas'?"
"Come on aboard," Connie said, stepping onto the side deck to take his bow line. "We can find something for you to eat, I'm sure." She tied off the line to a midship cleat as Sharktooth put out fenders and climbed over the rail, a stern line in his hand.
"You're just in time," Paul said. "I've got plenty of pancake batter left; I was wondering what to do with it."
"Always glad to help," Sharktooth said, sitting down in the cockpit and pouring himself a mug of coffee. "Looks like you put out a mug for me, even."
"Never know who might drop by," Paul said, getting up. "I'll go get some pancakes on the griddle while you catch up on things with Connie and Friday."
"Catch up?" Sharktooth asked. "Somet'ing happen?"
"We were just talking about how to pass the time while we wait to hear from the police on the fingerprints," Connie said.
"Mm-hmm," Sharktooth said. He took a sip of his coffee. "I could mebbe do a islan' tour." He looked at Friday. "Long as you stay wit' me, I t'ink we be okay wit' the p'lice."
"That's generous of you, but I'd feel like I was imposing," Friday said. "I'm feeling restless, like I should be going somewhere, looking for answers, kind of."
Connie studied him for a few seconds and put her mug down on the table. "Paul was about to tell you what we talked about last night, I think. He got interrupted when Sharktooth hailed us."
Under Full Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 7th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean Page 8
