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

by Wayne Stinnett

  “You know I don’t like it down there very much,” I said, frowning. “Besides, if you’re working all night, what will I be doing?”

  She smiled seductively as she pulled a blue blouse on, turned, and slipped into my arms. “You sleep while I’m at work,” she whispered, gently nibbling her way up my shoulder and neck, her lips finally caressing my ear lobe. “That way you’ll have the energy to screw me silly all day.”

  The heat of her flat belly and firm breasts against my bare skin was almost unbearable. I slowly pushed her away from me, though I didn’t want to, and kissed her forehead. “We have to get ready to leave.”

  Hearing the steps outside creak, I reached into my hanging closet, and put on a long-sleeved denim shirt. “That’ll be Charity,” I said, switching on a light.

  As Devon struggled to get her shorts up over her wide hips, I swatted her on the backside. “Get a move on, Marine!”

  She yelped just as I heard a knock on the door. I switched on the living room light, crossed the short distance to the door, and opened it. Charity stood outside in the predawn light, dressed in dark jeans and a light-weight yellow-and-gray flannel shirt.

  I invited her in, the three of us had another cup of coffee, and I filled a thermos. None of us were hungry, so we carried our bags down to the plane and loaded them in the cargo space behind the rear seats.

  Finn sat on the pier, watching us. I squatted down in front of him and scratched his neck and ears. “You have to stay here,” I told him.

  He cocked his head at an angle, trying to understand. He’d known basic commands when I got him and was learning more every day. The inquisitive tilt of his head was more a question of why.

  “Who’s going to take care of him?” Devon asked, putting a voice to his concern.

  “I was gonna ask Rusty to stop out later,” I replied. “Finn doesn’t need much taking care of, though. He can find his own food when he needs to, and the aqua-culture system is freshwater, so he’ll never run out.”

  “I have a better idea,” Devon said, standing under the wing of the plane. “I’ll stay here. I’ve already arranged for Deputy Phillips to pick me up at four, anyway. And I can have him bring me back tomorrow morning, when we both change shifts.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” I said, hoping she was serious. The truth was, I worried about Finn a lot. Though he was nearly a year old and weighed close to a hundred pounds, like most labs he was still an intellectual pup. He was a smart dog, but sometimes seemed to find the dumb way to do things.

  “You’re not asking,” Devon said. “Besides, I can sleep during the day a lot better out here than in Key West. Switching shifts sucks.”

  I kissed her as Charity climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. “Are you sure?” She nodded, and I hugged her tightly. “He has food in—oh hell, you know where everything is. Thank you so much.”

  Climbing into the aft cabin, I handed Devon’s bag back to her, kissed her again, and made my way to the cockpit. Devon untied the lines from the pontoon cleats and held the wing strut, while I did a quick pre-flight and started the big radial engine.

  Idling away from the dock, I waved back at her and Finn, both now sitting on the edge of the pier. She waved back and smiled. It struck me that there weren’t many women who would insist that their man fly off with a beautiful young woman, volunteer to dog-sit while he was gone, then smile and wave good-bye.

  Switching to the Unicom frequency, I announced my intent and position, then switched to Miami Center and requested a VFR flight plan to Miami International.

  “Not the Rusty Anchor?” Charity asked.

  “No need,” I replied. “We can rent a better car in Miami.”

  Miami Center advised me of weather conditions in Miami and wished me a pleasant flight. The sun was rising, but it was hidden behind big burnt-orange clouds. The report didn’t mention any bad weather, but the red sky at night mantra echoed in my head.

  Minutes later, the pontoons broke free of the water and we climbed into the sky. I banked slowly toward the southeast to pick up US-1 and was awed at the horizon, streaked with pastel shades of red, orange, pink, and yellow.

  At three thousand feet, I leveled off and turned to follow the highway north. I switched the intercom on, so Charity and I could talk and still hear ATC if I needed to.

  “Beautiful sunrise,” Charity said. “I’d choose to stay in port, seeing that. But this plane’s a lot faster than my boat.”

  “Wanna take the yoke?”

  She didn’t hesitate, taking the second wheel immediately. “My aircraft.”

  “Your aircraft,” I said, raising my hands from the main wheel on the Y-shaped yoke.

  I’d noticed when we’d flown down to Key West that she’d studied the instruments on the fifty-five-year-old plane, and checked them constantly while in flight.

  Charity glanced at the dash for only a second, now that she was familiar with the gauges. “Don’t be surprised if you come home to find drapes and doilies in your house,” she said.

  “Devon’s not like that,” I said.

  “Ha!”

  “She’s not,” I insisted. “She’s a cop and, before that, a Marine.”

  Charity smiled over at me. “She’s a girly girl—but, other than that, a perfect match for you, and every man’s fantasy.”

  “A girly girl?”

  Charity studied my face for a moment. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  She grinned. “Your girlfriend is a switch-hitter.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Her grin broadened. “Devon is bisexual.”

  “She is not,” I retorted. “And just how would you know, anyway?”

  Charity looked forward, through the windshield, as the Hopper droned onward. “She is,” she replied, with an air of finality. “And I know, the same way a rattlesnake knows another rattlesnake.”

  Huh, I thought, dumbfounded. “No way.”

  “You seriously didn’t know? About either of us?”

  I was speechless. Devon and I had been together for more than a month now. It wasn’t like that sort of thing came up in conversation, and most people don’t wear their sexuality around their neck like a sign. I knew the stereotypical limp-wristed gay interior decorator or lesbian trucker with a crewcut weren’t the norm. But something like this I think I would have noticed. Perhaps not with Charity, since we’d never been sexually intimate, but Devon and I had spent most of her time off in bed together. Or a hammock, or a boat, or a few dozen other places.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, incredulously.

  “About me?” Charity replied. “A hundred percent. I like women as well as men. Sometimes more, sometimes less—it depends on the man or woman. About Devon? Maybe ninety-nine-point-nine percent.”

  I thought about that for a moment. On more than one occasion, I’d seen Devon staring at another woman. I’d just always assumed it was a display of territoriality. “What? Did she like—make a pass at you or something?”

  “Hit on, Jesse,” she corrected me. “Or macking, even. Making a pass is a line from the seventies. And no, she didn’t say anything. I caught her a few times looking where usually only men look.”

  I glanced over at her cleavage, where the top two buttons of her flannel shirt were unbuttoned.

  “Yeah,” Charity said, laughing. “Just like that.”

  My face flushed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s no big deal, Jesse. A lot of women our age have experimented. A few find that they like women better, but most realize it was a mistake for them. Then there are some who find that sex with either a man or a woman can be equally satisfying, just in different ways. Does that make sense?”

  I wasn’t very comfortable talking about this and was thankful for the interruption by Miami Approach Control, who instructed me to climb to thirty-five hundred feet and adjust my course out over the ocean, to enter the downwind leg of the landing pattern from the east.


  An hour later, we were on the tarmac outside of Signature Flight Support once more. I arranged for fuel, and asked the girl at the counter where I could rent a luxury car.

  “Hertz has a desk here, sir,” she replied pointing to the far side of the big lobby without looking up from her monitor. “Not sure what they have available, though. The main car rental places are off-property and a shuttle can take you there.”

  I thanked her, and we crossed the lobby. My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. It was Deuce.

  “I’m at the airport,” I said into the phone, stopping by a large potted palm. “Renting a car.”

  “Across Bayshore from the hotel, there’s a grocery store. We’re in the van on the north side of the parking lot, under some trees.”

  “I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “Come straight to the van. Chyrel has a plan.”

  I ended the call and walked with Charity to the Hertz counter. The big clock above the clerk’s head showed it to be nearly ten. With luck, we’d stay ahead of schedule.

  Ten minutes later, I turned out of the FBO’s parking lot and headed east on 36th Street, shifting up through the gears.

  “You wanted flashy,” Charity said. “Only in Miami can you rent a Maserati in the airport.”

  “In some parts of Miami,” I said, slowing for the first of what I knew would be many traffic lights, “a Gran Turismo is just another grocery-getter,”

  “Are you sure nobody knows I’m coming with you?”

  “Devon wouldn’t tell anyone,” I replied. “If that’s what you’re worried about. Trust me, our friends will be surprised and happy to see you again.”

  “I do trust you,” she said.

  Charity continued to fidget and make small talk, as I turned south onto North River Drive, passing warehouses, boatyards, rundown buildings, and new chic dining places amid the waterfront decay. Miami River was once a meandering, cattail- and sawgrass-covered wetland, slowly draining into Biscayne Bay. It’d been dredged and straightened to its current state decades ago, in the name of progress.

  Most of the traffic consisted of container trucks and flatbeds, moving slowly while drivers tried to find an address. I passed them when I could, and waited for them to get out of the way when I couldn’t. At least there were no lights.

  We finally turned into the parking lot of The Fresh Market and I spotted the big van parked sideways, facing the hotel across the street. It took up three spots, beneath a large gumbo-limbo tree. I passed the van and parked directly behind it.

  “You ready?” I asked, as I saw the big back door of the van start to swing open.

  Deuce was the first to step down as Charity and I got out of the sports-sedan. Tony and Chyrel quickly followed.

  Charity stepped back, one hand going behind her back. Either Deuce didn’t notice the threat, which I highly doubted, or he just didn’t care. He walked straight toward her, a big smile on his face. “Welcome home, Charity.”

  Before she could move or do anything, they were on her. Deuce wrapped Charity up in a big hug, with Chyrel and Tony joining in. Chyrel was suddenly crying.

  Paul and Andrew stepped down from the van. Beneath his bushy mustache, Andrew was grinning. “I never had any doubt that she’d be back.”

  “Easy conjecture to make,” Paul said, also smiling, though he only knew Charity by reputation. “Based on a good working knowledge of the person’s morals and character.”

  It was an emotional moment. Charity hugged all three of them back, then she came to the big man next to me. Andrew had been sort of the Father Goose to Deuce’s team. Like me, he was older than the other operatives. He had a quiet, self-assured manner about him, and when he spoke with that deep baritone voice, everyone listened.

  Charity wrapped her arms around Andrew’s neck and buried her face against his broad shoulder, sobbing. He held her tightly, like a father would hold his daughter, and let her cry it out. The others gathered around them, patting Charity on the back and reassuring her.

  “We’d better move this inside,” I said, breaking the spell of the moment. “You guys are creating a spectacle.”

  One by one, the seven of us climbed into the van. Chyrel took the seat in front of the computer desk, and Deuce gave Charity his usual seat next to the electronics display. The men sat down in the other three swivel chairs, and Deuce and I stood at either end.

  “Are you back to stay?” Chyrel asked Charity, once I’d closed the back door.

  Charity looked at Deuce, and he nodded. “You have a place here,” he said, “whenever and for how long you want. Colonel Stockwell expedited the paperwork, and we’re all civilian employees of our own private security firm.”

  Paul extended his right hand to Charity. “I’m Paul,” he said. “Paul Bender, former Chicago police detective.”

  “And the former head of the Secret Service’s presidential protection detail,” I added. “Paul holds a PhD in criminal psychology.”

  She shook Paul’s hand then looked at Deuce. “Jesse told me a little about what you’re doing. I’d like to help if you’ll have me, but I can’t make any promises going forward.”

  Deuce glanced across the van at me, and I gave him a slight nod. “You have a place here for however long you want to stay,” he said, then turned to Chyrel. “Tell them what you found out.”

  Chyrel turned toward her computer screen, her hands dancing across the keyboard. A picture of a soldier came on one of the four monitors in front of her.

  “This is the late Captain Dan Huggins, United States Army. He was an engineer officer, and led a team of enlisted technical engineers—five men altogether—to survey possible locations for military bases in Central and South America.”

  “What kind of soldier was he?” I asked, knowing that Chyrel had a penchant for reading between the lines of a service record book.

  She shrugged. “Average. Nothing at all about his service jumped out at me. He was neither an outstanding leader, nor a slacker. He seemed to do his job and little more.”

  “Nothing?” Deuce asked.

  Chyrel smiled. “There are several gaps in his jacket,” she said. “Times where, apparently, he wasn’t doing anything at all. No work reports, no physical fitness reports, no pro and con marks noted… nothing. This made me curious, so I started digging.”

  “Uh-oh,” Tony muttered, winking at Charity.

  “I finally got a hit through facial recognition,” Chyrel said, smiling at me. “Your Captain Huggins was with the CIA.”

  “Are you sure?” Deuce asked.

  “Yeah, one of the photos that came up was taken at a bank in Bogata. Captain Huggins was talking to an operative I recognized from many years ago, another CIA computer analyst turned field agent, so I took a stroll through some computers in Langley. He was definitely a spook.”

  Another screen came to life, showing a picture of Carmichael.

  “This is former Staff Sergeant Wilson Carmichael. He was part of Captain Huggins’s team—a combat engineer with a prior MOS as a watercraft operator. The rest of the team were all construction tech guys, and had all worked with Huggins in the past. Carmichael was the only one of the team that was new, and he was the only one to come back from Ecuador alive, this past July.”

  “How were the other soldiers killed?” Charity asked.

  “Three were shot in the back,” Chyrel replied. “Execution style. Huggins was shot in the head. Carmichael wasn’t with them when the bandits attacked, he was shacked up with a woman from a nearby village. He was court-martialed for dereliction of duty, reduced in rank to private, sentenced to six months at hard labor in Leavenworth, and dishonorably discharged.”

  “Sounds pretty harsh for having a little fun with a local girl,” Tony said. “Wait—six months?”

  “The investigation lasted a month,” Chyrel replied. “From the internal notes that I accessed, the lead investigator seemed to think Carmichael was linked to the murder of the other soldiers. B
ut there were no witnesses, and he couldn’t find any evidence to support his hunch. So rather than charge him with murder, the provost marshal chose dereliction, knowing that if any evidence did turn up to support a later charge of murder they could arrest him then. From what I read, the CID investigator was not only very thorough, he was also extremely patient. A paperwork snafu put Carmichael on release status by mistake, and when he left Leavenworth, he promptly vanished.”

  “We’ll have to contact the Army,” Deuce said. “He’s an escaped prisoner and that CID agent may have something new.”

  I nodded, folding my arms. “We will. He’s not really an escaped con, the Army just screwed up. I’d really like to make the recovery before we turn him over.”

  “Up to a point,” Deuce countered. “If at any time we think we can’t get the jewels back, or anyone else is endangered, we pull the plug and bring in law enforcement and the Army.”

  “Agreed,” I said, looking around at everyone. “And that should be our standard protocol. We’re all civilians now, so any one of us should be able to make the call to pull the plug. At any time.” There was a chorus of various grunts and nods of agreement, but I knew these people; there wasn’t an ounce of quit in any of them.

  “Find out anything on the woman?” Deuce asked Chyrel.

  A third screen came up, showing the mug shot photo of the Hispanic woman. “Rosana Cruz,” Chyrel said. “She’s a dual citizen of the United States and Panama. Born in the Canal Zone to a local unmarried woman and an American soldier. The soldier did little more for her than acknowledge he was the father, thereby providing citizenship. Last known residence was in Nogales, Arizona. Several arrests, mostly drug- and smuggling-related. Convicted once for attempted murder. She served a total of three years at the Arizona State Prison for women in Perryville, just west of Phoenix.”

  “Anything on Carmichael and Cruz together?” I asked. “Past residences in the same place at the same time?”

  “The odds of any two people from different countries living in the same place at the same time are extremely high,” Chyrel said. Then she grinned. “Yet these two lived in close proximity to each other at least three times, in three different parts of the world. And the first time was when they lived in the same apartment building in Cochise, Arizona.”