Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1)

by J. C. Ferguson

  Now Carlotta goes from pale to white.

  “What is it, Ms. Farrell?” Jim asks. “Why were you going to call the police?”

  “I was afraid Jack might kidnap my children. But he wanted me to come with him, so I guess you couldn’t call it kidnapping.” She presses her fingers to her temples.

  “What did he tell you?” Jim asks.

  “He said someone was threatening us and he wanted to take us all away, someplace safe. He told me one of the young men he took on his boat was killed.”

  “Where are your children?” Jim asks. What if the bad guys already took her kids?

  “They’re at school. He wants me to bring them to the boat when they get home. He wants us all to run away to the Bahamas or Costa Rica or even further.”

  “Where is he now?” Mom asks.

  “Here in Naples at the public dock, waiting for me.” This is one tough lady. No tears, but fear is written all over her face. I can see the muscles tense in her jaws. “What should I do? I need to protect my children. Should I go with him? Or should I get the police to pick up Jack? It doesn’t make sense, running away. But if someone’s threatening them, how do I protect them?”

  “No, running doesn’t make sense,” Jim says. “If it’s drug dealers after him, they’ll find him. And I’m sure they’re looking for his boat.”

  “He had it painted and changed the name and numbers.”

  “We can protect you and the children,” Jim says.

  I hope he’s not planning to bring them to my island.

  Carlotta’s phone rings and she jumps almost straight up from her chair.

  “No, you are not taking my children without me.” She screams into the phone. “Wait for me you son of a bitch!” She drops the handset and heads for the door, not waiting to see if we follow.

  “What’s the new name of his boat?” Jim yells after her down the stairs.

  “Carlotta. He had the balls to name it Carlotta.” The door slams behind her.

  By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, she’s nowhere in sight. Jim calls the police and the Coast Guard to stop the boat.

  A Naples patrol car picks us up and dumps us at the public dock. I spot Carlotta as she jumps onto a sailboat and I run. A tall lanky man with sun-streaked hair and a beard unties the boat and they are away from the dock before I reach them. I can see three children at the rail, looking back as they sail away.

  I wait for Mom to catch up to me on her short legs. She’s panting. Jim trots along the docks toward his patrol boat, phone to his ear in one hand, flashing a badge with the other, people scattering to get out of his way.

  “We’d better hurry or he’s going to leave us behind.” I grab Mom’s hand and pull her with me, trying to catch Big Jim. When we reach him, he has the lines free and the motor running. We’re underway as soon as our feet touch the deck. I almost tumble overboard when he hits the throttle. No slow trolling down the bay this time.

  “Do you know which one we’re chasing?” I can see several sailboats ahead.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll catch them. And if we don’t, the Coast Guard is waiting.”

  “Do you have binoculars?”

  He reaches into a compartment and hands me a pair. Wow! Nice glasses. They even have a range-finder and compass inside the eyepiece. I focus on the boat we’re following. “No kids on that boat. And the name of the boat is not Carlotta.”

  I’m looking for a big sloop, but none of the boats close by have their sails up and it’s hard to identify them. I look around without the binoculars. The bay is busy. Ahead, I see two boats with sails unfurled. Both seem to be too far down the bay to be Farrell’s. Back to the binoculars. One tacks and I can see it’s a sloop with dark red sails. I try to focus on the name, but another boat gets in the way.

  “Jim, see the red sails? Could that be them?”

  “Maybe.” He looks doubtful.

  “What do we do if we catch them?” Mom asks.

  “Stop them.” Jim smiles at her.

  I focus on the sloop, and see the Coast Guard coming from the other direction.

  I point. “Will they know if it’s the Carlotta?”

  Jim gets on the radio and chats with some Coast Guard dude, telling him to check the sloop. I watch as they head for the boat, lights flashing. We’re getting closer. I get a good look at the name painted across the transom.

  “That’s it! Carlotta!” In my excitement, I lose my grip on the glasses. Luckily, I have the strap around my neck. Wouldn’t want Jim’s toys to land in the drink. Bad enough that I drown my own toys.

  “They float.” Big Jim points at the binoculars.

  “Great, but I wouldn’t want to jump in after them.”

  The sloop luffs her sails. The captain’s not going to argue with the Coast Guard. I see a Naples Police boat approaching them, too. Three boats surround the Carlotta. Jim lets the others deal with the Farrells. We’re away from his territory here, out of Lee County. He chats with one of the Naples cops, explaining that Farrell is wanted for questioning about a shooting at his home.

  A young girl leans over the rail, staring at me with huge brown eyes. She smiles when I wave. Carlotta Farrell takes the girl’s hand and pulls her out of sight.

  Jim climbs onto the deck, conferring with a Coast Guard guy and a Naples policeman. They all disappear into the hatch. Another cop is talking to Jack Farrell. Wife and kids watch. The look on Carlotta Farrell’s face surprises me. I would expect fear or anger; instead, I see relief.

  I’m dying to get aboard and listen in on all the conversations. I want to know who’s chasing Jack Farrell.

  “Do you still want to interview Carlotta?” I ask Mom. If she doesn’t, I do. She would be no help in finding Alex or Manuel’s mother, but I want to know what she’s thinking. Maybe there’s a bit of reporter in me.

  “Definitely,” Mom answers. She looks as itchy as I feel. She wants to get onboard, too.

  The trio of lawmen comes from below deck. The Naples policeman is carrying a small bag of white powder. Gotta be cocaine. Damn! My hopes were on Farrell being one of the good guys.

  Big Jim jumps to our boat and we’re on our way.

  “Territory disputes?” I ask Jim.

  “Nah, everyone’s working together. They’ll take Carlotta and kids home. Jack Farrell’s going to jail. Boat gets confiscated by Coast Guard for carrying drugs.”

  “Will he ever get his boat back?” Mom asks.

  “‘Fraid not.”

  The beautiful sloop Carlotta slowly motors toward the docks, with the Naples patrol boat and the Coast Guard in front of her. We head in the opposite direction.

  “Don’t you need to talk to Farrell about the shooting at his house? Isn’t that in Lee County?” I want to go where the action is.

  “Yes, but it’s not in my district and I’m not even on duty. I’m unofficial today.”

  “Are Carlotta and her kids safe?” Mom asks.

  “The Naples Police will keep an eye on them.”

  “If they’re taking her home, couldn’t we at least go back and talk to her?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be busy talking to the authorities for a while. She won’t want us hanging around. Call her tomorrow and see if she’ll give you a story. Or if you really want, maybe I can bring you another day.” Big Jim’s high voice takes on a lecturing tone, kind of like an old lady reprimanding her kids.

  Mom and I each raise an eyebrow and turn toward the rail, ignoring him.

  Chapter 42

  Mom scoots into her office to report the latest for the newspapers, and Jim and I head for the water where our guests soak in late-afternoon sun. All except Manuel, who wades at surf’s edge, trying to dump buckets of water over the dog’s head. Lucky is adept at running away at the right moment.

  I announce, “Carlotta didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know. Wasted trip.”

  Big Jim gives me a raised eyebrow. Did Mom teach him that?

  So I add, “But we did save
a mother and three kids from kidnapping. And we captured Jack Farrell and his boat.”

  Everyone clamors for the story. I launch into an inflated version of the afternoon’s adventures—chasing Carlotta through the streets and the docks, racing after the sailboat through Naples harbor, the Coast Guard and police Boats blocking off boat traffic while we rescue the family. Lights flash, people shout, guns go off...plenty of added extras for my rapt audience.

  Jim rolls his eyes every now and then, but he doesn’t interrupt.

  Allison jumps in. “When can we talk to Jack Farrell? Do you think he has information on Alex?”

  “Maybe. But he’ll be tied up with the drug police forever in Naples. I want to know his connections. Besides info on Alex, he might be able to tell us who took our little friend’s mother.” I nod toward Manuel, who’s now throwing pieces of driftwood into the water for Lucky to fetch.

  George looks nervous. Must think Farrell will contradict his changing story. “Did I hear you talking this morning about tracing Alex through bank records?”

  “Yes, I may have tracked him to the Bahamas.”

  “What if I can get you an account number for Jack Farrell in the Caymans?”

  “Whoa! That would be great! How could you do that?”

  “He told me he would transfer some money from his Caymans bank. He needed money to disguise his boat, you know, paint and new sails. He said I was due some money for bringing the Cubans in, so I gave him my local account number.”

  “I thought you said you were broke. Farrell, too.”

  “I am. At least the last time I checked. He hadn’t transferred anything. I figured he was blowing smoke. But I haven’t looked in the last couple of days. You said he changed the name of his boat, so he must have gotten some money to work on it. Maybe he sent me some.”

  “It’s worth checking. I hope for your sake he did.” Something spins in my memory. Something I saw when I was perusing Alex’s account. “Did Farrell transfer any money to Alex?”

  “He might have. He talked about paying Alex back. Alex financed most of the original trip.”

  “When I was in Alex’s account I saw some money coming in. Didn’t pay much attention. Figured it was from his other funds. I’ll look again.”

  George follows me to the house. He gives me his info and I log in.

  “Hey, you’re not broke anymore. Five grand deposited on Friday.”

  “Wow! I figured a couple of hundred just to get by. Where did it come from, can you tell?”

  “No. I need to sneak in the back door.”

  “You mean hack my bank? Can you do that?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” He looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “Hey, you offered.”

  “Okay, okay.” He looks at the floor. He’s hiding something. What if everything he’s told us is a lie?

  I poke and prod and at last get into his database. Then I hack into Alex Rodgers’s account and find two entries in October and another more recent out of the same numbers as George’s deposit. This has to be it. From a Grand Cayman bank, direct. Now let’s see if I can get into Farrell’s Grand Cayman account. That will be tricky.

  George sits and watches over my shoulder. I talk to him while I let my right brain concentrate on the computer. Hacking is one of those Zen things; if you concentrate too hard, it will never work.

  “George, tell me about the Colombians who broke into Farrell’s house and shot Bruce.”

  “I don’t even want to think about that. He was my friend.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend.” I guess I wouldn’t feel too much like talking if a friend of mine died. “But we need to find Manuel’s mother and the Colombians may have her.”

  “They weren’t Colombians,” George mumbles.

  “Who weren’t Colombians? The guys who killed Bruce?”

  “Nah, they were Wise Guys, from Rhode Island. Jack knew them.”

  “I could have sworn the first time you told this you said Colombians.”

  “Jack said if we talked to the police or anyone else not to say who these guys really are. Cause if they ever discover we ratted on them, we’d be gone like Bruce.”

  “Don’t you think that’s true of the Colombians, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We think Colombians were harassing the Cubans in Miami.”

  “They could be the ones who tossed Jack’s house the first time.”

  “What are the Rhode Islanders’ names?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks at the floor.

  “What day was it, the day Bruce was shot?”

  “Thursday.”

  That was before we caught Palmieri, before the Miami drug guy was killed. “Gator man Sam Palmieri, the guy that got caught here on Fisherman’s Island. He was from Rhode Island.”

  George twitches when I mention Palmieri. He looks at me for a second and I see recognition in his eyes.

  “You know Palmieri?”

  He shakes his head. He’s lying. He knows them, knows their names.

  “Who met you in the fishing boat that took the Cubans? The guys from Rhode Island? Are these two groups connected? The ones at Farrell’s house and the ones who brought the Cubans to this island?”

  He doesn’t answer, just shrugs and stares at his bare feet, wiggling his toes.

  “You know giving false information to the cops will get you in a shitload of trouble. What do they call it, impeding an investigation?”

  George turns pink beneath his freckles. “I can’t tell you anything.” He leaves my office, stumbling in his hurry to get away.

  I want to go after him, but all at once I’m into Jack Farrell’s Grand Cayman bank account. I don’t even know how I got there and I might not be able to do it again. I hear the front door slam. George can’t get far. I yell from the window. “Don’t let George run off again. He went out the front.”

  Jeremy and Big Jim sprint toward the street, leaving me to concentrate on performing computer magic.

  The screen has my full attention, and after a few minutes, I’ve tracked several transactions backward around the world. Each of them takes a different track, but they all start in a Providence, Rhode Island, bank. This time I can do what I wasn’t able to do in the Bahamian bank. I identify the owner of the account.

  I run to the water where everyone is gathered. George is sandwiched between Jeremy and Big Jim.

  “Guess who was paying Jack Farrell. Alligator Guy, Sam Palmieri.”

  “Can you prove that?” Big Jim asks.

  “Well, yeah. But I don’t know if it’s legal how I got the information.”

  “We can use it to put the pressure on, or maybe we can dig it up legally now that you’ve led the way, Detective Pratt.” Jeremy gives me a crooked smile.

  “George, why were you running from me? Do you know this guy Palmieri?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “This is one of the safest places around for you, George,” Big Jim says. “Even safer than jail. Definitely safer than sleeping on the beach.”

  “He has money now. He won’t need to sleep on the beach,” I tell them.

  “If you don’t start helping us a little, we have plenty to throw you in jail,” Jeremy says. “Palmieri’s in jail.”

  “I did help. I gave Ernie access to my bank account.”

  “Yeah, he did. That helped me find Palmieri. But tell us about him and the others. Maybe it will help us find Manuel’s mother.”

  “Jack Farrell has a lot more information than I do.”

  “But he’s sitting in jail in Naples on drug charges. We don’t have access to him,” Jeremy says.

  “I don’t think these guys had anything to do with kidnapping the Cubans. It was probably the Colombians.”

  Here we go with the Colombians again.

  “Quit making excuses, George.” Allison buts in. “Tell us what you know.”

  “You won’t want to hear it, Allison.�
��

  “Why? Is Alex involved?”

  “No. It’s Tony.”

  For once Allison is speechless.

  “Tell us the real story, George.” I’m beginning to think you can believe nothing out of his mouth, the story changes so often.

  He starts with the tale of living on Fort Myers Beach and running into Farrell. The same story he told before.

  “You’re spinning a yarn, sailor,” says Allison, who loves to spin tales more than anyone. “What does all this have to do with Tony?”

  “I guess I’m trying to put it all together for myself, as well as for you.”

  “Go ahead, we’re listening.” At least I am. Jim looks like he’s sleeping and Jeremy is playing with Manuel and Lucky.

  Now the story changes. “I didn’t just call Alex and ask him to come down. I took a trip to Boston to try to convince him to sail with us and throw in some money. Farrell went with me. We met a couple of times with people he knew in Boston, trying to raise money. We had lunch with a variety of characters. One of those lunches was with Tony and Palmieri. Farrell was giving his spiel. I didn’t know at the time he was talking about drug. He talked about shipments, transportation, stuff like that.

  “When I mentioned Alex, Tony’s eyes lit up with interest. He suggested Alex could afford to invest in the project.”

  “Anyhow, I never saw Palmieri again until these people barged into Farrell’s house. One of them shot Bruce. It wasn’t Palmieri or the Cubans that were with them, it was the other guy.”

  “Cubans?” It seems George knows a lot more than he lets on.

  “Couple of Miami guys, maybe Cubans.”

  “Who was the other guy? Why did he shoot Bruce?” I see Jim’s ears twitch when I ask the question.

  “Because he wouldn’t shut up. Kept telling them we had nothing to do with their damn drug shipment. That the Colombians must have it.”

  “Who shot Bruce?” Jeremy is now paying attention. “What’s his name?”

  George hesitates and Big Jim pulls a pair of handcuffs from his shorts pocket and dangles them in front of him.