FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6)

by Lawrence de Maria

  But he was glad, at least, that the D.C.S. was not as hidebound as other agencies. It had good agents, and Anne Rasmussen was one of the best. And unlike most people in the agencies with all the letters, she was always quick to answer his calls.

  “You ready to sign on with us, Jake?”

  That was how Rasmussen always started their conversations. She, and her bosses, had been impressed with Scarne on the Viron case, and constantly tried to recruit him. They dangled the possibility that his time in the Marine Corps could be tacked onto any new Government service for purposes of advancement and retirement.

  “I haven’t said no, Annie, but now is not the time.”

  “Do you string all your girls along this way?”

  “You bet.”

  They chatted for a while. Finally, she said, “This isn’t purely a social call, is it?”

  “I need a favor?”

  “Is it legal?”

  “I don’t know, Annie. You tell me. If I give you a couple of passport names can you find out if they’ve left the country, and where they might be?”

  “You must be joking? I could probably tell you what they had for breakfast today. Hell, and I think it’s legal. Give me the names.”

  Scarne did.

  “By the way, the passports are phony.”

  “This have anything to do with national security.”

  “No. Just run-of-the-mill crime.”

  “Believe it or not, I find that refreshing.”

  “If it helps, they may have traveled to Martinique.”

  “I’ll call you back. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Thanks, Annie. I owe you.”

  “I think you have the owesies backwards.”

  Next, Scarne called Vincent Anastasia.

  “Alana is alive and I’m pretty sure I can locate her.”

  “Where?”

  “The Caribbean, possibly Martinique. And, as we suspected, I believe she is there of her own volition.”

  “Tell me.”

  Scarne spent a quarter of an hour explaining what he’d done. When he finished, Anastasia said, “Where does a two-bit college teacher get the balls to snatch one of his students? And what the fuck are they teaching at these schools now? Drugs and forgery?”

  “I don’t know, Vinnie, but the kidnapper must have a past. The guy who helped him out with both the drugs and passports said Willet was not the teacher’s real name. It was Brandeford, which is what he used on the fake passports.”

  What followed was such a long silence that Scarne thought he might have lost the call.

  “Vinnie? You still there?”

  “Did you say Brandeford? Lucas Brandeford?”

  “I didn’t say Lucas, but, yes, that’s the name. I guess he kept his first name. I don’t know where the Willet came from.”

  “Lucas Fucking Brandeford,” Anastasia rasped. “Sweet Jesus.”

  “You know him?”

  Another long silence.

  “Scarne, when you find him let me know.”

  “I think I should tell Maura.”

  “No! Leave that to me. Just find the son-of-a-bitch!”

  The line went dead. Scarne stared at his phone. What the hell?

  ***

  A half hour later, Anne Rasmussen called back.

  “Those bogus passports must have been pretty good. Lucas and Alana Brandeford flew out of Miami and are in Sint Maarten, not Martinique. And there is no record of them leaving the island. It’s the Dutch part of the island of Saint Martin. The French side is Saint-Martin, with a hyphen. The French love hyphens. Don’t ask me why. But I hear each side has its own charm. Do you want me to notify the locals? Or our passport folks?”

  “God, no. I have to take care of this myself.”

  “A little fun in the sun?”

  “Somehow, I don’t think so. Thanks, Annie. Next time I’m in D.C., I’ll buy you the best dinner in town.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  Scarne had no intention of scouring an entire Caribbean island for Alana Dallas, even in the off-season when there were presumably fewer people. The permanent population, according to a Google search, was still in the vicinity of 80,000. He was not even sure on which half of the island she and Brandeford might be. He walked over to Sealth’s office and filled him in.

  “Noah, do you think Juliette could call some of her old pals in the Sûreté and find me a reputable private investigator on the French side of St Martin’s Island? Someone who can keep his mouth buttoned?”

  An hour later, Scarne had a name and phone number of a former French police detective who had retired to Saint-Martin and ran a small investigative service in Marigot, the main town and capital on the French side of the Caribbean island.

  “Juliette says he is very discreet. Does a lot of work all over the Caribbean tracking down Americans running from financial frauds and lawsuits. Made a fortune after the market crash.”

  “Does he know the Dutch side of the island?”

  “Yes. Has contacts in all the casinos and real estate offices. Not to mention the government, both of them.”

  Scarne called the man, whose name was Farron Bastian. Leaving out the reason he wanted Alana Dallas and Brandeford found, but providing just enough information about scuba diving and diamonds to give him something to go on, he stressed the need for both discretion and speed.

  “You have not asked my rates, Mr. Scarne.”

  “I don’t want to know your rates. I will pay you $5,000 if you can find them within a week. I will wire you half the money now and Fax you some photos. I don’t want receipts or written reports. Do you understand?”

  “Oui. Assurément.”

  “I’ll be on a plane tomorrow,” Scarne said.

  CHAPTER 21 - A BETTER IDEA

  Sint Maarten, once a Dutch Territory, is now a “constituent country” of The Kingdom of the Netherlands. It takes up approximately 40 percent of St. Martin’s Island, a 34-square-mile Caribbean island 190 miles east of Puerto Rico. The northern 60 percent, known as Saint-Martin, is governed as an “Overseas Collectivity” by France. The 80,000 people living on the island are roughly divided equally between the two sections. Both share gorgeous natural landscapes, including high mountain peaks, deep valleys, lagoons and spectacular beaches. The island’s economy runs on tourism, with upwards of a million visitors a year, attracted to either the French side’s nude beaches, shopping and food (a unique Caribbean blend of French and Indian cuisine), or to the nightlife, casinos and jewelry available on the Dutch side.

  Sipping a Guavaberry rum daiquiri in a chaise lounge by the infinity pool at the oceanfront five-bedroom house he rented, Lucas Brandeford reflected on how much he preferred the Dutch part of the island. He loved to walk its roads at night, listening to the crickets and tree frogs and smelling the fragrant jasmine. It also provided the best scuba diving he’d ever experienced and was socially more lively, something that surprised him. He would have thought the French portion of the island would be more fun. Well, the Frogs could keep their nude beaches — which were only a 20-minute drive in any event. With unlimited funds now, he liked the action Sint Maarten’s 20 casinos offered. His favorite was the Casino Royale. It was garish, with show girls and a Cirque du Soleil, and probably nothing like its famous and romantic namesake in Monaco. But win or lose, Brandeford felt like James Bond whenever he went there, especially with a beautiful woman on his arm.

  That woman now walked out to the deck overlooking the sparkling blue waters of Cole Bay. It was a stunning afternoon, so clear that the neighboring islands of Saint Barthélemy, Anguilla, Saba, Sint Eustatius and Saint Kitts were easily visible in the distance. She dropped her covering robe and plunged naked into the infinity pool, which was but one of the attractions of the magnificent villa, which also featured a home theater, a huge deck with Jacuzzi and a wide swath of private beach. The black security guard with the gold earring who stood at the back of the deck turned to see the woman as she dove, and then resume
d looking out to the beach. A native of the island, his name was Emile Jobert and was the only guard allowed near the pool when the woman swam nude. He was six-foot-three, handsome, powerfully built and much smarter than the other two bodyguards Brandeford employed. He was also vigorously gay.

  The woman finished her laps and swam over to Brandeford. She put her arms on the side of the pool.

  “When are we going into town?”

  “Town” was Philipsburg, the capital of Sint Maarten, with its cobblestone streets and colonial-style buildings lining Front Street. It was a world-renowned shopping mecca.

  “Whenever you want,” Brandeford answered. “Although I can’t imagine there is anything left for you to buy.”

  She laughed.

  “It’s not as if we will run out of money, Lucas,” Alana Dallas said. “Unless you gamble it away.”

  They both knew that was unlikely. Brandeford was not a gambling addict. Besides, their relationship had subtly changed. Alana controlled the purse strings. Her knowledge of diamonds and how to market them was crucial. She kept Brandeford sexually sated and, in effect, had final approval over how he spent their money, whether it was on their rental home, the bodyguards, their cars (two modest BMW convertibles; his blue, hers red) and his gambling, which, except for the occasional tournament, never exceeded $1,000 a week. Even if they didn’t invest any of their money, Alana had laughingly told Brandeford, it would take about 300 years of steady losing before he went through all the diamonds.

  Alana went in to change and Brandeford picked up a pitcher and poured himself another daiquiri — the local Guavaberry rum was the best he’s ever tasted. He still could not quite believe how things worked out after he first spotted Alana Dallas in his English class at Columbia. Brandeford was slightly drunk, and his mind flashed back to that night in the rented cabin at Pecks Pond when he thought he was a dead man.

  ***

  He was suddenly awake. Something was wrong. He did not know what it was, or how he knew it. A month of living in the woods had attuned his senses to strange sounds and smells. The constant worry about discovery, plus the care he took with his prisoner, contributed to his heightened alertness.

  True, the girl was a lot easier to handle now. He treated her with consideration. He’d even spent time in her room watching the television set he allowed her to have. They both became fans of Family Feud. With the remote he gave her, she could at least have something to distract her when he was out, even if she was cuffed to her bed. Some of their conversations were almost normal, even friendly. She asked him about his scuba gear and he told her about his passion for the sport, which because of his reduced circumstances, he could only practice in local waters, like Pecks Pond. She had opened up about her father. Given her age, Brandeford was naturally curious about that. He’d even harbored the suspicion that she might be his own daughter. There was no obvious resemblance; except for her blond hair, the girl was the spitting image of her mother. But he was still quite relieved when she told him about the anonymous sperm donor.

  Alana seemed resigned to her fate, whatever it was to be. That fate was something Brandeford had more and more trouble contemplating.

  Brandeford sat up in his bed. It was pitch dark, with little light coming in from the open window. There were some normal forest noises but the cabin was quiet. It was cool outside; there was no need for fans or any of the small room air-conditioners. He looked over at the night table next to the bed. The small digital clock glowed 3:36 AM. Everything seemed normal, but he knew it was not. He realized he was sweating and his throat was dry. He had not been dreaming, so it was not a nightmare, at least not an imaginary one. He sensed danger, mortal danger, in the room.

  Brandeford’s hand, slowed by fear, slid toward the shotgun that he’d propped against the wall between the night table and the bed. His fingers felt for the weapon, and only found wall. Had he forgotten to put the gun there? Had it slipped down to the floor, perhaps when he rolled over in his sleep?

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he tried to make out any shape that did not belong in the room. It was impossible. Then he heard a faint creak, from the left corner of the room. An animal? Was he panicking because a possum or squirrel had gnawed through the screen or slipped through a crack in the rafters? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  His hand found the lamp on the night table. He pulled the small chain and the room was suddenly bathed in light. He looked toward the corner of the room from which the sound had emanated. As his eyes adjusted, his heart jumped in his chest.

  Alana Dallas was sitting calmly in the small rocking chair that was the only other piece of furniture in the room. She rocked forward and he again heard the creak that had so frightened him. Across her legs was the shotgun.

  “Hello, Mr. Willet,” she said. “I’m glad you are awake. I have a lot of questions for you.”

  He found his voice, although it cracked.

  “Questions?”

  “Yes.”

  He hoped it was a nightmare. It wasn’t.

  “How did you get out?”

  Alana smiled.

  “The remote.”

  “The remote?”

  “Yes, it works on handcuffs and doors. Isn’t modern technology marvelous?”

  Now, she laughed at the dumbfounded look on his face.

  “I’m busting your balls. I took the remote apart. There are some wires inside, very useful for picking locks.”

  Brandeford started to say something but stopped when she put up her hand.

  “And now you are wondering where a sweet little thing like me learned how to pick locks, especially on handcuffs. Well, as it turns out, I have an uncle, who is not really my uncle, more of a family friend, named Vincent Anastasia, who used to play with me when my mother was busy, which was all the time. He is wonderful, although I’m sure if he was here right now he’d slice you into little pieces. He taught me all sorts of little tricks. Lock picking, hot wiring car ignitions, you know, practical things.” She hefted the shotgun briefly. “I’m not sure my mother would have approved, but like I said, she wasn’t around much. Every kid should have an Uncle Vinnie.”

  His eyes darted around the room.

  “Right now, Mr. Willet, you are wondering whether you can reach me before I get a shot off,” Alana said. “You are even wondering whether I know how to shoot this shotgun. Well, you will never make it. This is a 20-gauge Mossburg pump, with a shell in the chamber and two more in the magazine. I have one just like it back home, except in that one I’ve taken out the wooden plug from the magazine, so mine holds about seven shells. Totally illegal, of course. Uncle Vinnie showed me how to do it. Taught me to shoot, too. I have lots of guns. You wouldn’t even reach the end of the bed before I splattered you all over the walls. Now, sit back and relax and answer my questions.”

  “Why? You are going to kill me anyway. Or have someone in your family do it.”

  “Not if I like your answers.”

  After 20 minutes, she shook her head in wonder.

  “So, your real name is Lucas Brandeford. Where did the Willet come from?”

  “My mother was a Willet. It’s my middle name.”

  “Why didn’t you change your first name, too?”

  He shrugged.

  “It made it easier to get by, especially in the beginning. Most people use your first name.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. So, all this is happenstance. If I had not walked into your class, you would never have kidnapped me.”

  “No.”

  “All these years you wanted to get back at my mother, but did not know how. I must have been a gift from heaven.”

  “She ruined my life. I lost my job, my career. I’ve been barely able to make ends meet. I had to change my name. It’s a miracle I even got an adjunct position at Columbia.”

  “You are sure it was my mother who planted the drugs?”

  “What do you think?”

  Alana Dallas laughed.

  “Yes,
it’s her style. Mom does not take prisoners. She can be a cold-hearted bitch.”

  Alana looked at him shrewdly.

  “Am I the only one in the videos?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you haven’t asked for a ransom yet.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanted to see if they followed my instructions.”

  “You needn’t have worried,” Alana said bitterly. “My mother wouldn’t go to the police. If she can get me back her way, fine. If not, I’m expendable.”

  Brandeford was stunned.

  “You can’t mean that.”

  The girl laughed harshly.

  “I mean, she’ll kill you if she finds you, but that’s pride, not love. And I think she’ll have a hell of a time finding you without going to the cops. Which means we have a chance.”

  “A chance?”

  He could barely get the words out.

  “How big a ransom were you going to ask?”

  Brandeford swallowed.

  “I was thinking a million dollars, maybe two,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Cash, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Small unmarked bills, like 20’s, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You know for a Harvard man, you aren’t too bright, Luke. I should probably shoot you for thinking I’m only worth a million or two. And do you know how much cash would weigh, and all the ways the bills can be traced, and how hard it is to move it around. Jesus, the least you could have done is set up a Swiss or Cayman Island bank account or something and have the money wired into it.”

  She actually put the shotgun down next to the bed. Brandeford was too confounded to do anything but say, “I wouldn’t know how to do any of that.”