Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Go ahead,” I said, pointing toward the other door to the head as I stepped back to let her in. “You’re cooking, you get the first shower.”

  “Thanks,” she said, striding past me and padding barefoot to the head, clean clothes rolled up under her arm. She looked back over her shoulder. “I’m really sorry I startled you. On the boat, I rarely wear clothes after dark.”

  She turned the knob and went into the head. With just the towel covering her body, her legs looked impossibly long. I forced myself to look away and went over to one of the recliners by the big, south-facing window and looked out.

  Rene, or whatever his name was, did have a really beautiful boat. I knew it was fiberglass, but it resembled older wooden vessels, with a high bow and long bowsprit. Seeing it sitting there, tied to my pier, with nothing else around but a few small mangrove-covered islands, it was easy to allow my mind to look back in time. I imagined how all the Keys looked when the only way to get to these ancient coral and limestone outcroppings was by sail. Harbor Channel, and probably even my little island, might have been a hiding place for privateers.

  From the small table between the recliners, I picked up a book I’d been reading off and on, switched on the light, and sat down. It was a biography about John “Mad Dog” Mattis, a Marine general who’d just been appointed Commanding General of United States Joint Forces Command. A colorful character, to say the least.

  Alone, I thought again, as I tried to make sense of the words I was reading. The distraction was too great and I laid the book on the table beside the chair. Alone for at least a couple of days. With a beautiful woman who likes to go around naked.

  I rarely get my signals right when it comes to women, particularly those who are more than a decade younger. A man doesn’t know whether to be the responsible, older brother, or just act presidential and toss them in a hot tub filled with key lime sauce.

  Taking Mac’s phone from my pocket, I flipped it open. I’d expected him to retrieve it by now. I scrolled through his contact list. Like mine, it was very small. Halfway through, a familiar name jumped out: Mel Woodson, Mac’s girlfriend. She used to be an environmental lawyer in DC and Mac had worked for her dad until he died. Wood and Mac had built or worked on a lot of bridges throughout the Keys.

  I took a chance and clicked the call button. It rang a couple of times, before Mel answered.

  “Mac?”

  I didn’t know exactly what or how much to say. “Mel, it’s Jesse.”

  “McDermitt?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “I have Mac’s phone and some info for him.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment, and I thought I’d lost the signal. They’d added a new cell tower on Big Pine Key recently—which gave me a much better signal, but it was still weak sometimes.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She paused before answering. “Yes. I’m running up from Key West with Trufante. We’ll be passing by your place shortly. If you’re home, I can stop by. Give me an hour and we’ll be there.”

  I told her that’d be fine and to be careful. Harbor Channel can be tricky, especially if you aren’t familiar with the waters. Being dark makes it more so. But she’d grown up here and knew the waters of the back-country like a city kid knew the block he lived on.

  Turning my attention to the problem at hand, I considered what had happened moments earlier with Charity. As far as I knew, it was completely innocent; neither of us had expected the other to be standing two feet away when I turned the light on.

  I was going to have to set some ground rules. I was only human, and I’d seen her naked twice in one day. I’d never looked at her sexually before; she was a friend and occasional co-worker.

  This was going to be a long night.

  The running water stopped after what seemed like twenty minutes. Another few minutes followed and then Charity stepped out, rubbing her head vigorously with the towel. She was wearing a loose halter-style summer dress, white and soft-looking.

  “All yours,” she said, smiling, as water dripped off the tips of her hair onto the dress. “I only used the hot water for a few seconds, but I’m afraid it felt so good having all that room that I may have drained your cistern.”

  “We just had a good rain a few days ago; it’s probably got several thousand gallons in it. Do you always shower outside in the nude?” I asked, perhaps a bit too harshly.

  “Yes,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “Don’t be a prude, Jesse. We both have people we care for, and we’re both responsible adults.”

  Was this the same woman who was despondent when I didn’t start pawing at her just an hour ago? “Adult humans,” I said.

  She grinned sheepishly. “Low willpower?”

  I grinned back and pointed toward the door. “Get to cooking, galley wench.”

  She bounced up on her toes and nearly skipped on out through the door like a teenager.

  “Good job setting those ground rules, McDermitt,” I muttered, marching toward the head and peeling my dirty tee-shirt off once more.

  The door opened and Charity came back inside. “You have company.”

  “That’s probably Mel,” I said. “Mac’s girlfriend. I called her while you were in the shower, since Mac hasn’t come out to get his phone. She said she was on the boat nearby and would come get it for him.” Moving past her to the door, I stopped. “Probably be best if you stayed here.”

  Outside, I could see Mac’s trawler turning into the channel to my pier. I grabbed a kerosene lantern from the outdoor table and lit it before heading down the back steps to the pier.

  “Hey, Jesse,” Mel called out as I reached the bottom.

  Placing the lantern on the deck, I waited. Charity had left her spreader lights on and they illuminated the whole basin area with a soft light. Even in the diminished light, I recognized the man at the helm. Tru’s dental work practically glowed in the dark.

  “Toss me your bowline,” I called out.

  Mel moved forward and threw the line to me, and I tied it off to one of the pier pilings in front of Charity’s boat. Mel quickly moved to the stern while Trufante cut the wheel and reversed the engines, gently nudging the big boat against the pier. She looped the boat’s stern line around another post and tied it off.

  “Should just be a minute,” I heard her say to Trufante.

  Mel stepped up onto the gunwale and over to the pier, walking hesitantly toward me. The woman was as transparent as glass, and her features showed the stress she felt. Definitely not a poker player, as Chyrel would say.

  Not being one to pry, I reached into my pocket and handed her Mac’s phone. “Can you tell him the boat went to Robbie’s Marina on the ocean side of Stock Island?”

  “Sure thing,” Mel said. She paused, as if searching for what she should or shouldn’t say. We all had history: me, Mac, Mel and Wood. Not close friends, but more than casual acquaintances. I was glad for Mac that she’d returned home.

  “Are you still seeing Devon Evans?” she asked, as if delaying.

  Just as she said it, she looked up at the deck, and I heard my door close. I moved slightly to block Mel’s view, but it was too late. Charity walked down the stairs. Mel nervously spun Mac’s phone in her hand.

  “Mel, this is Gabby,” I said. After a pause, I added: “She’s a charter customer.”

  The two women shook hands, and Mel glanced questioningly at me. She seemed nervous and took a step back. “I gotta run,” she said, holding up the phone. “Thanks.”

  I nodded, and she turned toward Mac’s boat. I walked with her to the trawler, where she untied the stern line and hopped back aboard. I untied the bow and tossed the line onto the foredeck, as Trufante reversed the engines and backed out into Harbor Channel. Not an easy task in daylight, but the Cajun made it look simple in the dark.

  Tony Jacobs sat alone at the bar in the hotel lounge. Two women sat at a table watching a big screen TV. After texting Jesse, he called Deuce and told him he was going to just hang around for
a bit. Carmichael had struck him as a drinking man, and would probably hit the bar sooner rather than later.

  “The man does have a nose for things that shine,” Deuce said. “If Jesse thinks this guy has a stash of stolen jewels, he probably does. Don’t stay out too late, though. Your new wife will be pissed at me.”

  The bar was L-shaped, and Tony was sitting next to a large potted palm at the far end, near where the bar joined the wall. “I got a feeling this guy will hit the bar within an hour,” Tony said, then saw Carmichael enter the dimly lit lounge and pause to let his eyes adjust. “Scratch that. He just walked in.”

  The man looked around, sizing up the few people in the place. He paused on the two young women sitting together at a table, lingering longer than would be considered polite, then his eyes shifted toward the end of the bar. Tony saw this through his peripheral vision, but kept his eyes glued to the TV at the other end of the bar, which was showing an NFL game.

  Tony had his half-drunk, glazed, and bored businessman face on. Those who went to bed in a different city every night, staying in hotels near where they were conducting their business, had a distinct look. They’d seen just about everything and been nearly everywhere, so little interested them anymore.

  The man took a seat at the corner of the bar. From where he sat, he could see himself and what was behind him in the mirror. Tony glanced at Carmichael as the bigger man scraped his stool on the floor. He nodded, as is the polite thing for a person to do in a public place when thrust together by chance.

  Carmichael nodded back, dismissing him, as if accepting him as exactly what Tony wanted him to—a bored traveler. The bartender came over and took the man’s order, then glanced at Tony. Tony waved him off. He still had half a drink in front of him, the other half having been poured discreetly into the potted plant beside him.

  Pretending to watch the game again, Tony could just see the man out of the corner of his eye. Carmichael was staring intently at the two women again. Tony calculated that he was an inch or two taller than Tony’s own five-nine, and though the man outweighed him by a good fifteen pounds, he didn’t carry it well. Tony guessed him to be in his early thirties, maybe a year or two younger than himself, but he looked like he’d given in to drink and food indulgences with very little, if any, exercise, a long time ago.

  As a former Navy SEAL, Tony sized men up by ticking one of just two columns in his mind. For this guy, he ticked the box in the No Weapon Needed column.

  “Who’s playing?” the man asked.

  Tony ignored the question for a second, then turned his head toward Carmichael. “Huh? What?”

  “The game? Who’s playing?”

  “Oh,” Tony said, then added a bit of a slur to his speech. “Iss the Falcons, at Green Bay. Packers just scored, but I think it’s too little too late. They’re down by three at the two-minute warning.”

  The two girls shouted and high-fived one another as the Falcons recovered an on-side kick.

  “Iss over,” Tony said. “Just gotta run the clock out now.”

  Carmichael leaned closer toward Tony. “Say, you think those two are working girls?”

  Tony looked at him, genuinely confused. “Working—like prostitutes, man?”

  “Yeah,” Carmichael said, eyeing the two women once more. “Think they are? Most women can be, it’s just a matter of price. Wave enough hundreds and any woman will crawl between your legs.”

  Maybe in the circle of women you run with, Tony thought. “If I was you,” he said, hiding his disgust for the man, “I wouldn’t ask. They could be cops. You’d have better luck online or even in the Yellow Pages. Hell, this is Miami, man.”

  “The Yella Pages?” Carmichael asked. “Seriously?”

  Tony detected just a hint of upper Midwest in the man’s voice. Probably a small town. “Like I said, this is Miami. If you have the money, everything’s for sale. It’s just that not everybody sells everything. Better off in the hands of a pro. I’m a pro. If you’re an auto mechanic, come to me for tools, don’t buy tools from a dentist.”

  “Huh?” Carmichael said, tearing his eyes off the women and looking over at Tony.

  “Buy tools from a tool pro, like me,” Tony said. “Iss the only thing I sell. Don’t ask a dentist which one is the better torque-wrench. Same for female companionship. Go to a pro. Asking just anyone could land yo’ ass in jail, man.”

  Carmichael called the bartender over, then leaned in and asked the man a question Tony couldn’t hear. The two women cheered again. The bartender stepped back and seemed to study Carmichael’s face a moment. Carmichael slid his palm toward the bartender, then eased it back a little, showing him the corner of a hundred-dollar bill.

  The bartender glanced around the bar then reached for the bill, nodding at Carmichael, and spoke just loud enough that Tony overheard. “I can make the call. Be about thirty minutes, and you’ll need a grand for each girl. In cash. What room are you in?”

  Carmichael didn’t even bat an eye at the price. “Room nine-twelve.”

  When the bartender went to the other end of the bar and picked up the phone, Carmichael grinned over at Tony and winked. “Or just ask a bartender. Worked for me in the Caymans a few days ago, and Ecuador a few months back. And I didn’t even speak the lingo there.”

  Carmichael tossed down his drink, dropped a twenty on the bar, and left. Tony waited and, when the bartender had his back turned, added to the alcohol content of the palm tree next to his stool. Then he motioned the bartender over, with a shake of the empty glass. The man mixed his drink and brought it to him, taking the empty glass away.

  Across the bar, the two women at the table cheered again and Tony looked up at the screen. The Falcons’s quarterback had just knelt with the ball, with twelve seconds to go. The Packers were out of timeouts.

  When the game ended, the two women went to the bar to settle their tabs, then left. Other people filtered in, some taking seats at tables and others at the bar.

  Forty minutes had passed since Carmichael left, when two women came in, overdressed for the hotel lounge. One of them remained at the door, while the other went to the bartender. They were both dressed for the chic South Beach club scene. Not the short skirts and skimpy tops the street-walking prostitutes wore to advertise, but very fashionable-looking, form-fitting dresses that a nightclubbing socialite might wear. Or a high-end call girl.

  The bartender spoke to the woman for a moment, then she turned and the two women walked out together, turning in the same direction that Carmichael had taken. Tony poured the last of his fourth drink into the potted palm and rattled the bartender’s attention.

  In for a dime, in for a dollar, he thought, as he pulled up Tasha’s number and called her to explain he’d be working late. Hope I don’t kill this poor tree.

  I didn’t sleep a whole lot. The wind picked up a little just before midnight, and the clanking of the halyard on Charity’s boat and the gentle creaking of her fenders against my dock was a constant reminder that she was out there. And probably naked.

  When the east-facing window in my bedroom began to show the first faint light of dawn creeping in, I threw off the sheet and went to my hanging closet. I pulled on a clean pair of well-worn jeans, grabbed a long-sleeved work shirt, and went into the living room. I was planning to fly up to Miami to have a look at this Wilson Carmichael in person. Octobers don’t get very cold in the Keys, but at a higher altitude it would be a little chilly.

  Thrusting my right hand through the shirt sleeve, I grabbed the doorknob and opened the door to let Finn out, still struggling to get my left arm in its sleeve.

  Charity was standing just outside the door. “Good morning,” she said, as Finn sniffed her hand then ran down the back steps. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a red tank top, both of which accentuated her deeply tanned skin, reminding me instantly of her lack of tan lines.

  “Thanks for dinner last night,” I said, stepping out and closing the door behind me. “It’s been a while since I
had a steak.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “I love a good steak. Have you thought about how you’re going to ask Director Stockwell?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact.” I turned toward the back deck. “I’m flying up to Miami, and I’ll call him when I’m in the air. I’ll say I just flew over a boat that looks like yours, and ask him if he’s heard from you.”

  “You know what kind of boat the Dancer is?” she asked.

  “He told me once that it was an antique sailboat designed by John Alden. Aren’t many of those on the water, I bet.”

  “That might work.” She fell in beside me as I followed Finn to the back steps. “What can I do around here while you’re gone?”

  “The keys to the little Grady-White are in it,” I replied, “as are the keys to my flats skiff. The fob on any of the boats’ keyrings will open the door. Catch something fresh, and I’ll grill it for dinner.”

  “That, I can do,” she said, as we walked down the back steps to the clearing. “Is this guy dangerous? Want me to come with you?”

  “No to both,” I said, laughing. “I’m old, but I ain’t dead yet. And, from what I gather, you need some decompressing time. Mother Ocean is good for that.”

  “Ocean is my potion, I need vitamin sea,” she sang.

  “So, you hang out here and relax,” I said. “I’ll be back before dark. Nobody is scheduled to come up here until next weekend, and by now people know to schedule ahead. Carl and Charlie won’t be back until Sunday. This time of year, there aren’t very many boats in this area, so it’s unlikely any strangers will happen by. But if one does, don’t kill them.”

  She stopped at the foot of the north pier. “I don’t kill indiscriminately.”

  Turning around, I looked at the hard set of her jaw and the fire in her green eyes. “You were sent after just one man in Mexico,” I said.

  She didn’t blink an eye. “And killing all of those terrorists was the only mission that gave me any satisfaction.”