Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9)

by Wayne Stinnett

  The moon was bright and high overhead as Cross passed the old fort and slowed down. Ahead, lights could be seen. Two boats were beached on the sandbar itself, a fire lighting several people sitting and standing around it. A third boat lay at anchor a hundred feet out. Cross angled toward the boat at anchor.

  At an idle, he slowly approached the other boat, which he soon recognized as Swimp’s salvage scow. An ugly thirty-footer to start with, it was a heavy boat, and Swimp had added a large cage of steel beams, with a hoist mounted to the aft cross members, making it even uglier and heavier. Stepping away from the helm as his boat slowly approached the workboat, Cross tossed over a pair of fenders, hoping the rust and decay of the monstrosity wouldn’t infect his polished fiberglass, teak, and mahogany.

  Swimp stood at the gunwale, ready to catch a line, as Nick reversed the starboard engine and slowly spun his boat sideways before shifting to neutral and killing both engines ten feet away from Swimp’s anchored workboat.

  “That tub’s an eyesore,” Cross said in a low voice as he tossed a coil of dock line. Both men knew that sound carried further over water, and Nick didn’t want anyone on shore to hear them.

  Swimp raised a long, beefy arm and the line fell across it like a hangman’s noose over an oak branch. Taking the line in his hands, Swimp slowly pulled Cross’s boat toward him.

  “Didn’t know you were back,” Swimp said, his voice having an almost childlike sound. He deftly tied the line off to a rusty cleat on the gunwale. “I’da run the vacuum.”

  Reaching out, Cross took the man’s offered hand. “Good to see you, Swimp. I have some business here tomorrow. Business that’ll cost me a fortune if I don’t get out ahead of it. A smaller fortune if I do.”

  A slow grin spread across the big man’s face. He’d been on the receiving end of a number of Nick Cross’s costly business deals, providing muscle and intimidation to smooth the way whenever it was needed.

  The two men had met on this very sandbar while both were still in high school. Not friends, as they ran in completely different social circles and were a year apart at two different schools, but they did know and respect one another. By then, Swimp had far outgrown his nickname and was known to be an easy brawler. Years later, when Nick had gone off to college, he’d contacted Swimp about eliminating a college rival who was dating the girl Nick wanted. He’d only meant for Swimp to hurt the man, maybe a lengthy hospital stay, and then disappear. Instead, the college man himself had disappeared. A week later, his decomposing corpse was found floating on a mud bank on the Ogeechee River, down below Savannah. That had only cost Nick a thousand dollars, but in the end he’d tired of the girl and broken it off. Swimp’s prices had gone up since then.

  As was always his custom when dealing with Nick, Swimp produced a fat marijuana cigarette from his pocket. Lighting it, he took a deep drag, holding his breath and puffing out his massive chest before extending the joint to Nick, blowing smoke up into the cool night air.

  Cross hated the stuff, but in Swimp’s mind it made the two of them outlaws together. The big man felt that the simple act of smoking the illegal drug together insulated him from Nick’s money and power. So, if it helped him to get Swimp to take care of some dirty deeds, Nick went along. Taking the joint from the big man’s hand, he took a small puff, inhaling slowly, before coughing and hacking as he handed the joint back.

  “Where the fuck do you grow that?” Nick finally sputtered. “On a dung heap?”

  “This is some primo Frogmore weed, you fucking lightweight.”

  “If you say so, Swimp. In my current position, I pretty much had to give it up. You really grow that right there in Frogmore?”

  “Close by,” the big man replied evasively. “So, what’s this job?” Swimp took another hit before stubbing the joint out on his tongue and putting the roach in his shirt pocket.

  Nick stepped aft the helm, to the boat’s big cockpit and took two cold beers from the mini-fridge under the leaning post. He then reached into his pocket and took out the bundle of hundreds. Handing the bundle, along with one of the beers, to Swimp, Nick said, “I need you to salvage a boat for me. But first, you’ll have to sink it out there in the middle of the sound.”

  “You want me to sink a boat? Then salvage somethin’ from it?”

  “Exactly,” Cross replied. “On board will be a crew of niggers and two white women. There will also be a briefcase that belongs to me. I don’t care if the niggers are found or not, probably best if they are. They’re known drug smugglers from Jamaica, so if they’re all shot up, the authorities will assume it was a drug deal gone south. But I want the two women’s bodies buried in the pluff so far back in the marsh even the gators and buzzards won’t find them.”

  Swimp looked at the wad of cash in his fist. This wasn’t the first time Nick had asked him to kill someone, and aside from the college man that first time, the bodies of the hookers had never been found. Swimp knew all about Nick’s sadistic side, just from how the hookers had looked when Nick was through with them. Most hadn’t needed a whole lot of killing. What Swimp held in his hand was double what Nick had paid him for those.

  “This’s a little different, Nick. You’re talking about at least four people? And I bet the two women ain’t hookers that nobody will miss.”

  Cross studied the big man in the flickering glow of the firelight a hundred yards away. Half the money in the briefcase would have been paid to the Jamaican gang leader anyway, if he’d done the job the way he was supposed to. Double-crossing him left only one option in Nick’s mind. They all had to die.

  “The briefcase you’ll salvage will have a good bit of money in it,” Cross explained. “That money you’re holding there? That’s just to cover any expenses you might have. Half of what’s in the briefcase should never have left my house. The other half is what I paid for these niggers to do a job, and they double-crossed me, asking for twice the final payment. It’s yours if you finish the job they didn’t do and make it all go away. Once it’s done, we’ll meet here again, and you can return the other half of the money. A hundred thousand dollars, and it’s all yours if the bodies of the two white women are never seen again. No fun and games, though. A bullet in the brain and a fast trip to the marsh.”

  After the sun disappeared, the wind began to die down and the sand fleas and mosquitoes came out in force. “Time to button up the hatches,” I told Sheena as I stood. She suddenly realized what was happening, swiping at her arms as the little bugs swarmed her exposed skin.

  She extended a hand, and I took it to help her up. I sensed the same sort of electric charge from her touch as before. In the salon, Chyrel was at the settee, Craig and Keenan crowded around her looking at the screen of her laptop. Tony was leaning on the counter in the galley, talking to Andrew and Art.

  “Hey, Jesse,” Chyrel said. “Camera’s up and running. We’ll be able to get really good quality video with this. It even has image stabilizer, so the rocking of the boat won’t screw it up.”

  “Y’all are gonna want to keep the doors and hatches closed,” I said, leaning in to see what they were looking at. Though the sun had gone down, it was still partly light outside, and on the screen, I could see two women walking behind a barricade of some kind. “Bugs here can carry off a small child. What are you looking at?”

  “That bridge we went under near the wharf,” Chyrel said. “Those two are walking across it.”

  “That’s gotta be a mile away,” I said.

  “The camera has a laser designator,” Sheena said. “Kind of like what you Marine Recon guys use to paint a moving target for pilots to hit with their missiles. Once acquired, the camera will track and focus on the target automatically.”

  “Poor suckers,” Keenan said. “We work mostly trying to bring down the big cartels. They have a ton of money, but they can’t even come close to keeping up with the government’s technology. Bad guys just don’t stand a chance.”

  “I think we got everything all set,” Chyrel sai
d. “I can pick up your Wi-Fi signal from the house. I’m gonna go up there and play with this some more so you guys can get some rest.”

  “Want me to carry something?” Sheena asked. “I’m going up to the house as well.”

  “Got all I need right here, thanks,” Chyrel replied, closing the laptop and sliding it into her case.

  The two women left and I heard their footsteps as they ran up the ramp from the dock, cursing the bugs. “Seriously,” I told the men, thinking back to my time on Parris Island, “try to keep everything closed up. The sand fleas of Parris Island are legendary. There’ve been songs about them.”

  “What’s with you and Sheena?” Tony asked from the galley.

  “I was about to ask Craig here the same thing,” I replied. “I feel like I’m the one being surveilled, when I’d think she should be concentrating on the arrest tomorrow.”

  “That’s just her way,” Craig said. “When the time comes, she’ll be the consummate pro. She’s one tough-ass lady you don’t want to be on the receiving end of in a fight. Smart as a whip, too. She seems to understand the criminal mind better than most agents I’ve known. Until it’s time to kick ass and take names, she just likes to live life to the fullest and relax when she can.”

  The seven of us moved to the salon. Sitting on the couch and the two folding chairs I’d brought in, we discussed all of the what-ifs for nearly an hour. The two DEA guys contributed quite a bit, laying out how Tony should act and carry himself. Tony’s Jamaican accent was passable, they said, but if Cross had spent a lot of time around men higher up in the Jamaican gangs, he’d need to adjust his attitude.

  Finally, with nothing more to talk about, and not really planning to be a part of the takedown anyway, I handed Tony the keys to the Revenge. “You wreck it, you bought it,” I said.

  Tony chuckled. “Yeah, I can see the payment plan my salary can afford. You’ll be old and gray before that happens.”

  Rising, I went to the hatch, Finn following behind me. “Where’s my room located?” I asked Craig.

  “First floor,” he replied. “Master bedroom is on the left, one of the kids’ rooms is down a hall on the right, across from the garage door. My room’s upstairs. All three bedrooms have their own full bathroom.”

  Outside, the air was heavy and humid as Finn and I hurried up the ramp to the gate. Tree frogs in the live oaks all along the river were in full chorus, nearly drowning out the crickets.

  Chyrel was at the table in the dining room when Finn and I entered the house. Her laptop was open and other electronic gizmos lay around the table, some attached to the laptop. I could hear running water from the other side of the house.

  “Think there’ll be any problem tomorrow?” Chyrel asked. She’d been deployed with the team a few times, but I suddenly realized this would be the closest she’d been to where the action was going to take place, and she seemed a bit nervous about it.

  “Nah,” I said. “Just one old guy who probably won’t even have a nail file in his pocket.”

  She grinned and nodded toward the closed door to the master bedroom. “She was asking me about you.”

  “She said she checks out the people she works with pretty deeply.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t asking about your shooting ability,” Chyrel said, still grinning. “She wanted to know personal stuff. If you were seeing anyone, stuff like that.”

  I told Chyrel I was turning in and went down a short hall on the right side of the house. A door on the left side of the hall, I assumed was to the garage. Turning the knob to the bedroom, I switched on the lights. The bright colors were a bit overwhelming. Yellow walls competed with a blue-and-orange comforter on a double bed. All around the room were stuffed animals, most of them brightly colored horses with long, equally bright manes and tails, but of a contrasting color. Finn walked around the room, sniffing everything.

  “My house has a lot better things to smell,” I told him. “Just pick a spot anywhere you want to sleep.”

  A stack of clothes lay folded on the bed, and I recognized them as my own. I picked out a pair of boxers and laid them to one side, plus a pair of cargo shorts and a Gaspar’s Revenge tee shirt, which I placed on a chair by the bed. The rest, I carried to a bench to take down to the Revenge in the morning.

  Picking up the boxers, I went to the head and turned on the shower, careful not to turn it too hot or too cold. The running water I’d heard had to be Sheena. In less than ten minutes, I toweled off and padded barefoot to the door to turn off the light and then stretched out on the bed.

  Laying there in the ridiculously colored room, I couldn’t help but think there was something we’d missed. I tossed and turned for an hour trying to put my finger on it, my thoughts being interrupted by the memory of Sheena sunning on the foredeck. Maybe I’d become cynical in my old age. There had to be some underlying interest for her to stick close to me. Simple physical attraction couldn’t be all there was to it. Not that I’m an ugly guy. I still have my hair, with very few grays, and I try to stay in shape. At least as good a shape as a man pushing fifty can be. Finally, I put her out of my mind and tried to focus, to separate my mind from who I am and think like a criminal.

  What are Cross’s options? I wondered. He knew Pat and Chrissy were still alive. Or more precisely, that’s what he’d been told by the Jamaican. He knew that Whyte suspected that he’d sent us. But, if Cross had wanted them dead, why would Whyte think he’d sent a rescue party? Cross had to know at least a little about Whyte, but nothing was found that indicated they’d ever met, and Whyte had said they hadn’t.

  You’re trusting the word of a smug druggler now? I thought. Whyte had nothing to gain by lying and a boxful of money if he didn’t. Cross was sure to think that Whyte would bring Pat and Chrissy here to Beaufort. He’d want to know they were indeed still alive before forking over another two hundred grand to have them killed by the same guy that hadn’t completed the job in the first place.

  “Fuck!” I said, sitting up. I jumped out of the bed, grabbed my cargo shorts and was hopping on one foot toward the door, trying to get them on, when the door started to open.

  Instinctively, I somersaulted back toward the bed. My hand went straight for my Sig on the nightstand as I came to rest in a kneeling position next to the bed. I turned over, sitting with my back against the side of the bed and my feet spread in front of me. My shorts were tangled around my left ankle.

  The door came fully open, the light from the hallway spilling in and silhouetting Sheena in the doorway. She wore a long tee shirt, which did almost nothing to hide her body from the light behind her.

  When she saw me aiming at her, she moved her hands away from her body. “I’m not armed, Jesse. Nice boxers, by the way.”

  “You coulda been shot,” I said, standing up and pulling my pants up. “We have to get everyone up. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I was hoping you might want some company,” Sheena said, stepping into the room. “Chyrel snores. Why are we getting everyone up?”

  Grabbing my tee shirt, I pulled it on over my head and stood in front of her. Her tee shirt was a faded yellow and nearly threadbare, probably used for sleeping in for many years. It had a faded black-and-white picture of a man’s crotch with the words “Sticky Fingers” on it.

  “There’s something we overlooked,” I said, unabashedly looking her over from head to foot, grinning. “And right now, I’m wishing I hadn’t thought of it until later. Go get dressed. I’ll call Andrew.”

  “Tell me about your surveillance team,” I said to Craig once everyone was assembled in the living room. Tony had stayed aboard the Revenge. There wasn’t any need to tell Pat my suspicions yet. When he’d asked why, I told him to just light the citronella candle in the top drawer of the bridge to keep the bugs at bay, and keep an eye out. He needed no more information than that, and his attitude changed—he became the sharp tip of the spear that I knew all of them to be.

  “Two teams,” Craig replied. “Two com
pletely different vans, changing out every four hours. There are a pair of vacation rentals across the street from Cross’s house. They both have a fairly clear view of the whole property and an unobstructed view of the gate.” Scrolling through his Blackberry, he continued. “Cross arrived at seven sixteen. Ten minutes later, a black man in a pickup left. The same man returned less than thirty minutes later, carrying grocery bags. No activity since then.”

  “What are we missing?” Sheena asked. She’d changed into jeans and a blue blouse, which only added to the sparkle of her eyes.

  I paced the room, thinking. “Craig says you’re the go-to person on criminal thinking. Our own forensic psychologist said Cross has a narcissistic personality, maybe worse, and probably has some sexual deviancy problems that he hides in his public persona. Assume he’s a longtime criminal for a second. What would he do to someone who double-crossed him?”

  Sheena thought about it for a moment. “If this were his first offense, he’d probably go along, spend the extra money to get the job done. It wouldn’t occur to most normal people that the criminal they’re dealing with would do the same thing over and over until they were bled dry. If he’s got a long history of unknown crimes, he might not arrive at that conclusion and fully expect another betrayal.”

  “That’d be reactive,” I said. “What if he went proactive?”

  “Double-cross the double-crosser?” Andrew asked. “On the extreme end, seeking retribution and killing those who betrayed him?”