Bluewater Enigma_Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series

by Charles Dougherty

  Velasquez grinned, feasting his eyes, watching every ripple of movement as she untied the belt that held the diaphanous robe closed. She gave a theatrical shrug, letting the silk slide from her shoulders as she stepped in close, her pelvis inches from his face.

  "What's this?" he said, reaching for the thick, creamy envelope, one corner of which was tucked behind the wispy triangle of her thong panties. He put the envelope beside his forgotten breakfast and hooked a finger in the thong, leaning toward her, his lips brushing her lower belly.

  "Open it and find out," she purred, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. "I'll wait."

  He picked up the envelope, catching a whiff of the musky scent that drove him to distraction. Folding back the unsealed flap, he took out a passport and an airline ticket.

  "Surprise!" she said, watching as he opened the ticket.

  "St. Lucia," he said. "But I already have a passport." He frowned as he opened it.

  "Not like that one," she said.

  "Jeffrey Harold Starnes," he read. "He looks a lot like me."

  "There is a remarkable resemblance," she said, leaning against him to look over his shoulder, her left breast grazing his cheek. " But it's been altered enough so that it won't be matched to you by a scanner. He answers to Harry, by the way, so if I mess up and call him Horry, nobody will notice."

  He turned, kissing the side of her breast, and looked up in disappointment as she backed away a little. "It looks like the real thing, but it's too risky."

  "You worry too much," she said, pouting. "It's real, issued by the State Department, just like yours."

  "How?" he asked. "Your mysterious friend?"

  She smiled. "Let a girl have some secrets."

  "Is he CIA or what?"

  "If I told you, he'd have to kill us both. Just roll with it, okay? I knew you shouldn't use your own — talk about risky."

  "Okay. Where are we staying? Somewhere private, I hope."

  "We have a classic sailing yacht all to ourselves for the week," she said. "It'll be very private."

  "But we don't know how to sail," he said.

  "There's crew. A captain and a gourmet chef."

  "Aw, damn," he said, frowning. "You'll have to wear clothes. Bummer."

  "They're both attractive young women — one's French, and the other's Belgian. I'm sure they won't care what I wear — or don't wear. But you, on the other hand ... just don't get any ideas about messing with the help, hot stuff."

  He grinned. "Like I said, you're astonishing. I thought you were kidding about arranging a getaway for us."

  "Your schedule's still clear, right?" she asked.

  "Absolutely, and I'm keeping it that way. No way I'm missing this."

  "Good boy. Are you going to eat your breakfast before you go to the office?"

  "It's cold," he said.

  "I'm not." She slipped the thong from her hips and turned, striding toward the bedroom in nothing but her red spike heels.

  Guillermo Montalba was sipping his second cup of coffee when the encrypted cellphone on his desk chimed.

  "Yes?" he answered.

  "Everything is set. The installation's done; it's all tested. Works great; you'll have Hollywood-quality video recordings. Did you give her the proximity key?"

  "Yes, she has it. She knows to keep it with her credit cards. How close does it have to be to the sensor?"

  "It's not that critical. If it's anywhere within a few yards, it'll wake the system."

  "How do you avoid recording hours of garbage, then?" Montalba asked.

  "The proximity device wakes the system. It doesn't start recording unless there's sound or motion in the immediate vicinity."

  "Do I need to give her specific instructions about it? Like keep it in the room, or anything?"

  "No, sir. It can even be left outdoors. It'll be fine, I assure you."

  "What about retrieving the data?"

  "There's ample storage for hundreds of hours. The preferred method is physical retrieval."

  "I thought there was Wi-Fi." Montalba said.

  "The system supports that for remote retrieval, but it's not well suited to this application. Unless we have a receiver in range for real-time streaming, the download speed's too slow. We'd have to shadow them within maybe 20 or 30 yards all the time to do that."

  "How will you retrieve the data, then?"

  "Swap out the disk drive. It only takes seconds."

  "But that means you have to wait until nobody's around, doesn't it?"

  "That's correct, but we can handle that. You said that retrieving it at the end of their stay would be satisfactory."

  "Yes, that's right, but what if there's a failure?" Montalba asked. "How will you know?"

  "The system is 100 percent redundant, and we can pass close enough periodically to stream a few seconds and make sure everything's working. We just can't sit next door and stream it all the time, okay?"

  "Yes. What about the other stuff?"

  "It's in place. Hidden, like where somebody would hide their stash. It's out of sight, but easy enough to find if you know what to look for."

  "And you've got the fix in with the authorities? I don't want anybody going to jail."

  "It's taken care of. They'll confiscate it and give them a lecture and a written warning, just as you ordered. Of course, they'll expect a bribe. Does the woman know where they need to be on that first day?"

  "Yes," Montalba said. "She has written instructions. If there is a scheduling problem, she will let me know and I'll call you. About the bribe, though ... "

  "Don't worry. They'll drop enough hints for even Velasquez to figure it out."

  "Are they flexible on the amount?" Montalba asked.

  "Yes. It's mostly for show. They're being well paid by our people."

  "Excellent," Montalba said.

  "Anything else?"

  "About the equipment," Montalba said. "Can you leave it in place after this mission?"

  "If you wish."

  "And once it's awake, how long will it continue to function?"

  "Indefinitely. It's powered from the ship's batteries, so as long as their electricity is on, it will record."

  "What about the storage? What happens when it's full?"

  "It loops back and overwrites the oldest recording, but remember, there's hundreds of hours' worth of storage, and it only records when there's sound or motion."

  "If I have her leave the proximity key, can I eavesdrop on the crew after she's come back to the states?"

  "Yes, sir. You'll have to let us know when to retrieve the storage, but that's it. Actually, it would be better not to rely on the proximity key, in that case. I'll just have them reprogram the system for continuous recording when they retrieve that data at the end of next week's exercise."

  "Speaking of that, are your people set for her arrival?"

  "Yes, sir. Still next week, is that correct?"

  "That's correct."

  "Please let us know if it changes. I'm going to give the team a little break until then, unless you object."

  "No, that's fine," Montalba said. "Thank you. I'll be in touch."

  3

  "Well, that was frustrating," Dani said, stirring hot sauce into the bowl of black bean soup she'd ordered for lunch. She and Liz were sitting at a sidewalk table outside a hole-in-the-wall Cuban restaurant off Lincoln Road Mall in Miami Beach.

  "I guess it went about the way I thought it would," Liz said. "The detective didn't offer much hope, did he?"

  "No," Dani said, raising a spoonful of the soup to her lips, testing its temperature before she tasted it.

  "But maybe they'll get fingerprints from that letter. Whoever it was did a good job of forging your signature."

  "Yes, thanks to scanner apps for cellphones, no doubt. But I'm not holding my breath on the fingerprints."

  "Why is that?" Liz asked.

  "Anybody sharp enough to do that would have been sharp enough not to leave prints on the paper." Dani tasted h
er soup and added more of the pepper sauce.

  "But the manager said the man took the letter out of an envelope and handed it to him. How could someone handle paper like that without leaving fingerprints?"

  "Silicone's the way I'd have done it," Dani said.

  "Silicone?" Liz asked, picking through her bowl of lobster salad. "How does that work? You mean like the grease?"

  Dani shook her head. "The sealant. You spread a thin film over the pads of your fingers and let it cure. If you use the clear stuff, it's not noticeable. It fills the grooves, so the most you leave is a smudge, if there's even that."

  "Where do you come up with that kind of thing? After all this time, you still surprise me."

  Dani shrugged. "My misspent youth. How's the salad?"

  "Good. Is your soup okay?"

  "Okay, but not as good as what you make."

  Liz smiled. "Thanks. It's the pork belly; that's my secret."

  "Isn't fat just fat?" Dani asked.

  "And silicone's just for flat-chested women, right?" Liz teased. "It's all in what you do with it."

  "On a serious note, partner, what are we going to do now? We're missing the boat."

  Liz looked at Dani's poker face until Dani lost it, choking on her mouthful of soup as she fought not to laugh.

  "How long have you been waiting to spring that one on me?"

  "It just came to me," Dani said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. "Honest, it did."

  "Uh-huh," Liz said, giggling and shaking her head. "Anyway, thanks. I needed that. I'm still in shock."

  "I know. Come on back, Pollyanna. I miss you. It's just a boat," Dani said.

  "I'm trying; I know you're right, and I feel silly for being so sentimental about her. But still ... "

  "I feel the same way, Liz, but you just have to suck it up and move on. 'Illegitimi non carborundum,' as Phillip used to tell me when I was a sappy teenager trudging through the Central American jungle with him."

  "What? That almost sounds like Latin."

  "Almost," Dani said, spooning up more soup.

  "But it's not, is it?"

  "I don't know; fake Latin, I think. It means, 'Don't let the bastards grind you down.'"

  Liz laughed. "I like that. That's a good thought to hold onto when we call the insurance people."

  "It's going to be okay, Liz."

  "You don't think they'll give us a hard time?"

  "No. The agent's done business with Papa for longer than I can remember. They're not cheap when it comes to premiums, and they're not cheap when it comes to claims, either. You get what you pay for, and they know us. That counts for more than most people think."

  "So what do you think they'll do? Are they going to mount some kind of search?"

  "Yes. No doubt about that."

  "How long?"

  "You mean until they settle with us?"

  Liz nodded, chewing a mouthful of salad.

  "That's going to be up to us, most likely. They'll search for her, though. They'll want a recovery if they can manage it, but they'll pay us off quickly, if that's what we want. We've got a business to run; they understand that."

  "I'd like to give it as much time as we can, Dani. Is that okay with you?"

  "We'll take it a day at a time, how about? We don't have to set any deadlines just yet. It's not like we have a charter on the books right away."

  "Good," Liz said. "Thanks. I'll work my way through this. Non me dedam nisi pugnavero."

  "What?" Dani asked. "You'll have to help me. Latin was a long time ago, for me."

  "'I won't quit fighting,' roughly. I'm not letting the bastards grind me down. Not without a struggle, anyway."

  "Atta girl!" Dani said. "Let's kick ass and take names."

  Miranda Velasquez maintained her composure until she got off the phone with her husband. Then she closed the bedroom door and shrieked like one of the banshees her Irish grandmother told her about when she was little. Hoarse after a few minutes, she opened the door and crept down the hall to the nursery, looking in on little Diego, hoping she hadn't awakened him.

  Happy that he still slept, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a drink. Six months into her second pregnancy, she knew she shouldn't indulge in alcohol, but she was sure the craving she felt was in her genetic makeup. All the clichés about the Irish and strong drink had their roots in fact; she was certain of it. Her entire family sought solace in the nectar of the gods, as her father had called it. There wasn't a sober one among them.

  She took the glass with three fingers of good Irish whiskey out onto the patio and sat in the shade. Holding the glass up to the soft light filtering through the moss-laden oaks, she contemplated the golden liquid. When Horry had first brought her here, before they bought the property, she'd thought the outsized house would be their castle. Now it was her prison, and he was the warden, the Cuban son of a bitch.

  Her mother had warned her about the "spic devils," as she had called the Cubans. "Don't marry him, Miranda. They spend all their money on shotguns and mistresses, just like the 'Eyetalians,'" Mary Rose McGuire had said. Miranda had dismissed her mother's bigotry at the time.

  Even now, confronted with Horry's philandering, she was put off by her mother's racism. But, as with the clichés about the Irish and alcohol, her mother's bias had some foundation. Her husband was a perfect example of the macho Hispanic stereotype.

  She raised the glass to her lips, inhaling the eye-watering fumes from the 90-proof whiskey. She shuddered and kept her lips tightly closed as her nostrils burned. She set the whiskey on the table. She wouldn't do it. Not now, not today, not when there was a child in her womb. Even if the child's father was Horatio Velasquez.

  She couldn't do anything about her disaster of a marriage, but she could still be a good mother. She picked up the glass again and poured the whiskey onto the ground.

  If her father, "Big Mike" McGuire, were still alive, he'd thrash her slime-ball husband within an inch of his life. Of course, she wouldn't have told her father how Horry treated her, but she wouldn't have had to.

  The irony was that her father was responsible for her husband's political career. If Horry hadn't tasted such power, maybe he wouldn't have strayed so often. Miranda laughed at herself despite the tears running down her cheeks. She shook her head. Still making excuses for him. Still in love with him, she admitted to herself, even after all this.

  She knew he had a woman somewhere in the area. He barely even made an effort to hide it, and that was only because of his public image. He didn't see anything wrong with it, she was sure. He felt entitled to some comfort in exchange for his many sacrifices. He'd told her as much, and she, the "brood sow," as he referred to her, wasn't able to cater to his needs.

  She'd show him. She wasn't sure how, but once this child was born and she was back on her feet, she'd deal with the bastard. One week retreat with the "movers and shakers of the party," his ass. She wasn't fooled for a minute. He was off on some junket with his latest floozy, probably funded by his constituents' contributions. She'd nail his sorry ass, but good. Brood sow, was she?

  "You were right about the insurance claim," Liz said. "Now we just need to figure out what we want to do — wait to see if they find her, or start looking for a replacement."

  "I think I know how you feel about that," Dani said. "I understand; I feel the same way, in spite of my comments about her being just a boat."

  "Should we set some kind of deadline for ourselves?" Liz asked.

  "Probably," Dani said, "but we don't need to do it today. The claims adjuster said it would be a few days before they got through their process. I think we should give it a little time; we've had a rough day. How about a nice long walk before dinner?"

  "That sounds good," Liz said. "I could use the exercise. Have you checked — "

  The ringing of Dani's cellphone interrupted her.

  "It's Elaine," Dani said, looking at the phone's screen. She accepted the call and switched the phone to speaker mode. "H
i, Elaine. We're both here. We've got a problem."

  "What's that, ladies?" the charter broker asked.

  "While we were off gallivanting around New York, somebody took Vengeance," Liz said.

  "Took? You mean like they stole her?"

  "Yes. We spent the morning with the marina management and the Miami Beach police. We just got off the phone with the insurance company," Dani said. "Don't tell me you've got a charter for us."

  "Okay."

  "What do you mean, okay?" Liz asked.

  "You said not to tell you I had a charter for you, so I won't."

  "You do?" Liz asked.

  "Yes," Elaine said. "In one week, with a pickup in Rodney Bay, St. Lucia."

  "Can you shift it to Connie and Paul?" Dani asked. "There's no way we can deal with that now. Not that I can see."

  "I could try, but the woman specifically asked for you two. Maybe I can get you a bareboat lined up to use. Your insurance company might pick up part of that. You could ask, anyway."

  "Who is it?" Liz asked. "Somebody we've had before?"

  "No, her name is ... let me look ... Beverly Lennox. And her companion is named Jeffrey Starnes. She's surprising him with the trip."

  "How did she find us?" Liz asked. "Does she know one of our clients?"

  "I don't know. She said she'd looked at your web page. I warned her that there might be a timing problem because you were on vacation. She was insistent, so I said I'd try to track you down and see if we could make it work. I knew you'd be back last night, but I was worried about whether you could make the pickup, with Vengeance in Miami."

  "It would have been tight," Dani said, "but I guess it doesn't matter now. That's odd, though, that she'd be so insistent."

  "Yes. I thought maybe you'd recognize the names, or something," Elaine said. "Should I check on chartering a bareboat for you?"

  Dani and Liz locked eyes. Dani shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

  "You might as well," Liz said. "It'll keep us from sitting here, fretting about what to do."

  Dani nodded. "We've got a business to run. See what you can do, and keep us posted. Think you can sell her on a substitute boat?"