Under Full Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 7th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean

by Charles Dougherty

  Paul nodded as Connie cranked the helm around, bringing the bow through the wind. The headsails fluttered and then filled with a snap as they were back-winded, bringing Diamantista II to a stop.

  "Should I douse the sails?" he asked. "We're forereaching a little; we'll creep away from her."

  "No, I'd rather open up a little distance with this sea state. I wouldn't be comfortable lying ahull too close to them with all the wave action. Did you catch the name?"

  "No," Paul said. "The transom was awash, and I was focused on the woman in the cockpit when we came alongside. What is it?"

  "Windsong," Connie said. "Wouldn't you know? I'm so sick of them."

  "I'll be damned," Paul said "How did you see that? I missed it."

  "It was painted on the boom," Connie said, the muscles in her jaw jumping as she bit off the words.

  "I'm not sure I can get aboard," Paul said, "but that woman needs help, if she's still alive. You suppose she's Canaday's wife?"

  "Odds are," Connie said. "We can't get close enough for you to board them with this sea running, anyway. I guess we could launch the dinghy, if you're feeling compelled to help."

  "That'll take several minutes," Paul said. "We're only around what? Six miles off the Pitons?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Soufrière might have a patrol boat of some kind; they're a customs port of entry. Let's take a minute and call Cedric. With him pushing, they might get help out here before we could get the dinghy in the water."

  Connie nodded and handed him the phone, keeping an eye on the other boat while he placed the call. He was right about Diamantista II forereaching; they had opened a distance of 50 yards between the two vessels in the time since they hove to.

  "Ten minutes," he said. "They just happen to have a cutter on the way to Soufrière from Vieux Fort."

  "That's good, then," Connie said.

  "He asked us to stand by until they take control of the situation."

  "Fine," she said. "I'm okay with that. That woman looked battered and bloody, didn't she? I wonder what happened?"

  Paul shrugged. "Who knows? She was in rough shape, though. You're right about that. Cedric said they'd gotten a report from some fishermen in Vieux Fort about a dinghy that was abandoned at a small boat dock there. It was marked 'Tender to Windsong.' Nobody saw it come in, but they were guessing it came adrift and somebody towed it in and tied it up. Some of the locals had seen Windsong at anchor there yesterday."

  "That's optimistic; I'd figure somebody stole the dinghy, myself," Connie said.

  "Yeah, me too, but I didn't want to say that. He might take that as an insult to his country."

  "I didn't mean it that way."

  "I know you didn't. Don't worry about it. Here comes the cutter; we'll be on our way in a few minutes."

  "You still okay with that?"

  "Going to the Cays, you mean?"

  "Uh-huh," Connie said. "If you feel like we need to stay involved, I'll cope."

  Paul put his hands on her shoulders and a wry grin spread across his face. "It's our vacation," he said, kissing her and pulling her into his arms. "I'm an old retired cop with a sexy young wife; I'm counting my blessings. Tobago Cays here we come."

  26

  “Hey, Leon?"

  "Yeah, Miguel." Contreras put down the report he was reading. "What do you have?"

  "This one may be hot. The bug in Kilgore's office just picked up a phone call from somebody that sounds like the guy we think may be Scarface."

  "Okay. Can you match the voice print?"

  "No time; we need to haul ass to Kilgore's club. Whoever it was told Kilgore to meet him in his limo in the alley in 45 minutes. Wanna come with me?"

  "I'd like to get through this paperwork. Where's Jorge?"

  "Gone to see what's wrong with the bug on Jefferson's phone. It's dropping out; we got a gibberish recording this morning. All we could tell was it was his investigator reporting in."

  "Shit," Contreras said. "Yeah, let's go. I hate paperwork anyway."

  "Good," Miguel said, changing into a pair of grimy jeans and a smelly, ragged sweatshirt. "We gotta move fast; I need to get in position, and there may be a lot of people around in the middle of the afternoon."

  "Where do you want me to drop you?" Contreras asked as they got in their car. "On that same corner where I picked you up last time?"

  "I don't know. We'll have to play it by ear. Depends on how much traffic there is in the area. That corner's pretty close to the alley. Somebody might notice a homeless drunk like me getting out of a shiny rental car and then burrowing into the garbage. That's why we gotta hustle."

  "Okay, okay. I get it," Contreras said, pulling out of the parking lot. "You got all the stuff?"

  Miguel leaned over the back of the front seat, stretching to reach the foot well in back. He retrieved a soiled, frayed backpack and unzipped the main compartment. After rummaging for a few seconds, he said, "Yeah, all set. Too bad it's daytime, though. People like me, we're creatures of the night." He flipped down the makeup mirror on the back of the sun visor and began blacking his front teeth.

  Contreras took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at him and wrinkle his nose. "That you? Or the backpack?" he asked.

  Miguel gave him a gap-toothed grin. "Both."

  "You smell like shit," Contreras said.

  Miguel laughed. "You don't get out in the field enough, boss."

  "How do you do that?" Contreras asked.

  "What? The smell?"

  "Yeah."

  "Don't ask. It's on a need-to-know basis." Miguel was intent, smearing soot on his face while he raked the street and sidewalks with his gaze. "Turn right at the next corner; there's too much going on to get any closer." He looked at the clock on the car's radio. "Time's good. It's gonna work."

  Contreras had negotiated the turn. "Where now?"

  "Next alley. Don't go in. Just slow down and I'll roll out into that pile of garbage bags on the corner. Stay in the neighborhood and keep the cellphone on. I'll call you."

  A few seconds later, Contreras slowed to a walking pace and before he realized it, Miguel was out of the car. His exit was so smooth that the slamming door startled Contreras. As he accelerated, he looked in the rearview mirror to check the heap of trash and saw no sign of Miguel. Contreras turned the next corner and found a parking place.

  Once he set the brake, he slouched in his seat and sent a text message to Jorge asking him to try for a match between the recent recording from Kilgore's office and the man they suspected was Scarface. Then he took the report he'd been reading earlier out of his pocket, and settled in. After a few seconds, he wrinkled his nose and opened the windows, wondering again about the smell from Miguel's clothes and backpack.

  "She must be alive," Paul said, lowering the binoculars. "They've strapped her in a basket stretcher and there's a medic holding an i.v. bag while they move her to the RIB."

  Diamantista II had drifted a quarter-mile downwind from Windsong. Paul and Connie were in the cockpit, watching as the crew from the St. Lucian patrol boat investigated the disabled vessel.

  "Still no sign of Holsclaw, though," Connie said. "Wonder if he's even aboard?"

  "You think he skipped out?" Paul asked.

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I wish the Coast Guard would tell us what's going on."

  "To them, we're just bystanders," Paul said. "I doubt Cedric explained our involvement, especially since we've pulled back."

  "Why have us hang around, then?" Connie asked.

  "In case they have questions, I guess," Paul said. "It's not like they can send a patrol car by our house later, if they think of something they wish they could ask us. You itchy to get moving?"

  "No. Curious to know what they're finding. Those two guys have been below for a while, now."

  "There goes another one; he was one of the medics that was working on her."

  Connie took the binoculars and watched the man as he backed down the companionway ladder
. "He was below deck before. When he came back up, his legs were wet, remember?"

  "Yes. There must be a foot or two of water over the cabin sole, judging from how low she's sitting on her lines," Paul said. "The RIB's coming back from the cutter; they must have gotten the woman aboard."

  Connie swung the binoculars around and watched the RIB pull up alongside Windsong. "They brought a couple of extra people back," she said. "That looks like a portable pump they just lifted onto the side deck — one of those gasoline-powered ones. And one of them just took a duffle bag below deck. The other guy is pulling a hose from the RIB up onto the deck; looks like it's as big around as his arm."

  "They're probably going to pump out some of the water," Paul said. "Bet they're going to take Windsong in tow."

  "You're right about the pump," Connie said. "He connected one end of the hose to it and handed the other to somebody in the companionway. Now they've got a steady discharge over the side." She handed the binoculars to Paul.

  He watched the activity for a few seconds before he raised the binoculars. "They're bringing something heavy up the companionway ladder. It's taking three of them. Uh-oh, looks like a ... yep, it's a body bag. That's gotta be Holsclaw. Wonder what the hell happened?"

  "Me, too," Connie said. "Should we call Cedric and see what's going on?"

  Paul lowered the binoculars and looked at her, taking in the scowl on her face. "What's the matter?"

  "My curiosity's working overtime. Let's call him."

  "Wait a second, skipper. You wanted out of this, remember? Time together, vacation, just the two of us, and all that?"

  "But that was ... I didn't think ... never mind," she said, shaking her head.

  "You're caught up in this, aren't you?" Paul asked. "What changed?"

  "I'm not sure," she said. "A body bag?"

  "What do you want to do, Connie?"

  "I guess go on to the Tobago Cays, but I'd like to — "

  She was interrupted by a call on the VHF. "Diamantista II, Diamantista II, Diamantista II, this is SL 02. Come in please."

  She picked up the microphone hanging by the helm. "This is Diamantista II, over."

  "Thank you for standing by, Diamantista II. You are free to proceed with your voyage. The captain extends his thanks for your report. Over."

  "But what's happening? Over," Connie asked.

  "You are free to proceed. We are taking the distressed vessel in tow. Have a safe voyage. Saint Lucia Coast Guard SL 02 clear and monitoring channels 16 and 22 alpha."

  Paul saw the frustration on her face. "Tell you what, skipper, let's get moving. We're going to be late getting into Bequia. If we don't hear from Cedric, we can give him a call in the morning and get an update."

  Still scowling, she looked at him. "Can't we call him now?"

  "Let's give it a little time," Paul said. "They'll want to get Windsong to protected water and have a crime scene team go over her. The Canaday woman's probably going to the hospital, and the medical examiner's going to take some time with the body, whoever it is. Cedric will know more in the morning."

  "Okay. I'm sure you're right." She grimaced. "You want to ease the working sheets and tack the headsails? Once we're moving, I'll come about and we can take up our course. I'm going to put some more west in it while we're crossing the channel and see if we can miss the wind shadow of St. Vincent."

  "Good plan," Paul said. "We'll have a faster trip that way than we would motoring close inshore, and with luck, the wind will back and give us a close reach into Bequia."

  "That's the way I have it figured," she said. "Let's do it."

  "Hey, Leon, Miguel," Jorge said, as the two men entered the motel room where they had their equipment set up. "Where you guys been?"

  "Watching Kilgore meet the guy in the limo," Contreras said. "You get the text I sent?"

  "Yeah, sure. Voiceprints matched," Jorge said.

  "You sure?" Miguel asked.

  "Yeah, I am. What the hell? You think I forgot how or something?"

  "No, don't go nuts on us. What the hell's wrong with you?" Miguel said.

  "Sorry," Jorge said. "I'm having a bad day with all this high-tech shit."

  "Still having trouble with the bug at Jefferson's?" Contreras asked.

  "I got it fixed, finally. Pain in the ass. Whose voiceprints are they? Was it Scarface?"

  "No," Miguel said. "The guy in the limo looked like a movie star."

  "No shit? I figured we had Scarface, for sure," Jorge said.

  "Yeah, me too," Contreras said. "Miguel's right, though. This guy had smooth olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes. Not a mark on his damn face. I gotta wonder if he even shaves. Miguel got some good shots of him."

  "Huh," Jorge said. "Did you learn anything good?"

  Contreras shook his head. "Not sure yet."

  "It was strange," Miguel said. "We got a pretty good recording, but he gave us the slip."

  "You couldn't get a tracker on the limo, then?" Jorge asked.

  "Yeah, we did," Contreras said. "Then I picked up Miguel and we followed the tracker. Found the damn limo parked at the curb a few blocks away with nobody in it. Plates tied it to a rental company, so we thought we were good. Turned out it was a cash-under-the-table rental, so the trail stopped there. Guy at the rental company recognized the driver's picture from the stakeout, but that's all he could give us. He never saw the passenger."

  "Smooth, huh?" Jorge said. "Sounds like they maybe done this before."

  "Yeah. The conversation with Kilgore was odd, too. Whoever the movie star is, Kilgore takes orders from him. He gave Kilgore a message to deliver to O'Toole's pal, the shyster."

  "Gator Jaw Ryan?" Jorge asked.

  "Yeah," Contreras said.

  "What message?" Jorge asked.

  "Kilgore's supposed to tell Ryan that he got word from a drug dealer in St. Lucia that there's a contract out on Holsclaw and Steve Canaday. Also on O'Toole."

  "O'Toole?" Jorge asked. "No shit?"

  "No shit. He said O'Toole," Contreras said. "Funny though. Limo guy asked if Kilgore knew who Ryan and O'Toole were. Kilgore knew who Ryan is, said he knew people who used him. But he acted like he never heard of O'Toole."

  Jorge sat, his brow wrinkled, for several seconds. Then he shook his head and asked, "What could be going on, Leon?"

  "I can't make sense out of it," Contreras said.

  "Me either," Miguel said.

  "There is one thing even more strange about that," Jorge said. "You know the flaky bug on Jefferson's phone? That I went to fix this morning?"

  "Yeah, what about it?" Contreras asked.

  "It was recording okay. The problem was with the remote access — the part that — "

  "Spare us the technical details," Contreras said. "You got recordings, you say?"

  "Yeah, good clean ones," Jorge said. "Yesterday, Jefferson heard back from the questioning of Marian Canaday and Bert Holsclaw. You can listen to the whole thing later, but what's weird is that Holsclaw called Kilgore to put the hit on Canaday."

  "Wait," Miguel said. "Holsclaw called Kilgore? But Canaday was in St. Lucia. Kilgore's in — "

  "Miami," Jorge interrupted. "I told you it was weird. Anyway, Kilgore put Holsclaw in touch with somebody in St. Lucia that owed him a favor. That's where the hitters came from — St. Lucia. But Kilgore knew all that, and the guy in the limo musta not known Kilgore was the one that set up the hit."

  "Okay," Contreras said. "I'm confused. We gotta map this out on paper, but first, you got anything else hot? I'd rather wait to listen to the recordings. Let's brainstorm this while it's all fresh."

  "Yeah, okay," Jorge said. "One thing you ought to know, though. Jefferson told them to interrogate Barrera and Russo, ASAP. That was yesterday. They were planning to hit them at sea today, somewhere between St. Lucia and Bequia. West of St. Vincent, I think he said."

  "Shit," Contreras said. "O'Toole told the SpecCorp people the same thing. They're aiming at today, too. They may be about to hav
e a bad day."

  "You mean your cousin and her husband?" Miguel asked.

  "Somebody," Contreras said. "I don't know about Jefferson's people, but based on the last time they tangled with Connie, I think SpecCorp's in trouble."

  "Think you ought to give her a heads-up, anyway?" Jorge asked.

  "Yeah, maybe so. She takes care of herself, but giving her a heads-up wouldn't hurt, I guess. You two get started on mapping out what we know. I'll see if I can get her on the horn."

  27

  “Thanks for seein' me, Mr. Ryan. I've always heard good things about you from my uh ... friends," Kilgore said.

  "Your friends?" Gator Jaw asked, eyeing the man across his desk, trying to decide if the bulge under his jacket was a pistol, or if he just wore cheap clothes.

  "Lot of 'em are clients of yours, see."

  "Clients, huh. I don't talk about my clients."

  "No sir, I reckon not," Kilgore said, swallowing hard and frowning.

  "And you, Mr. Kilgore? You lookin' for representation?"

  "Representation?" Kilgore asked, the creases on his forehead deepening.

  "Legal representation," Gator Jaw said, watching Kilgore's face for a couple of seconds. "You need to hire me, boy?" he asked, seeing that Kilgore was confused by the term 'representation.'

  "Not exactly, leastways not right yet, but if I was to need me a lawyer, I'd be comin' to you."

  "I see. What brings you here, then?"

  "I hear tell you're tight with Senator O'Toole. Fishin' buddies, like."

  Gator Jaw stared at Kilgore, revealing nothing, waiting.

  "That so, Mr. Ryan?" Kilgore had a stern look on his face.

  "Most folks that want to be my friends, they call me Gator Jaw. You interested in bein' my friend, son?"

  "Yessir, I reckon."

  "You reckon." Gator Jaw swiveled his chair, put his feet on the corner of his desk, and leaned back. He stared out the window, looking away from his visitor. Opening his center desk drawer, he took out a large pocket knife, flicked it open with one hand, and started cleaning his fingernails.