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

by J. C. Ferguson

  “Felipe Sanchez, Maria Sanchez, Pedro Lopes.”

  I don’t believe it! The Cubans! Manuel’s mother!

  Chapter 44

  Using tweezers, Callie Mae Courant, RN, picks pieces of sand out of my legs. I stare at her nametag rather than watch the process. I can’t help but notice that each piece of sand leaves behind a small black hole; some are bleeding. I guess the moral is—don’t wear shorts into fire, either the flame kind or the gun kind.

  “Will the soot go away or will I have black freckles on my legs forever?”

  “We’ll try to clean it more after I get all the sand out.” Which doesn’t answer my question. She already had me shower and put on a hospital johnny. Said she couldn’t see my injuries through all the soot and grime. While she cleans my wounds, she asks about all my old leftover scrapes and bruises and doesn’t believe a word when I try to explain them. She gives me a card for an abuse hotline.

  “How are the others that we brought in from the fire?”

  “One of the gunshot wounds is doing fine and the other is in critical condition.”

  Two gunshot wounds? The man in the middle must have been shot, too.

  “All three are suffering from smoke inhalation and dehydration.”

  I cough at the thought of it. She hands me a tissue and I spit black. Yuk!

  Jeremy pokes his head through the curtain. “Nice outfit, Pratt.”

  “Oh, yeah, and you’re so handsome in your uniform.” His face and hands are clean, but otherwise he’s soot from head to toe. Even his hair is soot gray.

  Nurse Callie gives him an evil eye. She must have him pegged as the abusive boyfriend.

  “You ready to leave?” he asks.

  I look at the nurse and she nods.

  “If you can get me some clothes to wear, I’m rarin’ to go.”

  The nurse finishes cleaning my legs, pours peroxide over the black freckles, and smears on some awful goop. Jeremy retrieves my clothes. They look like someone tried to clean them, but they’re dingy and smell of smoke. At least my hair is clean.

  “Can we stop and see Manuel’s mother? Are they going to let her out of the hospital? Does she know we have Manuel?”

  “Jeez, Pratt, one question at a time. No, she doesn’t know where Manuel is. No, they aren’t letting her go yet. And yes, we can stop and see her.”

  “Can I tell her about Manuel?”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. She’ll want to bolt and she’s one sick lady.”

  “Maybe she’ll heal faster if she knows her son is safe.”

  “Okay, Pratt. But don’t bug her about what happened. She’s already told everything she knows. Between the names the Farrells gave us earlier today and the names the Sanchezes gave us, we’ve probably identified all the players.”

  “Any Colombians in her story?”

  “Nope.”

  Maria Sanchez is so thin she barely makes a bump in the hospital bed. Dark circles form a mask under her red eyes and an oxygen mask covers her mouth, making her look like an alien from another planet. Her eyes follow us into her room, showing no recognition.

  “Maria, we’re the ones who brought you to the hospital.” When I speak, her eyes smile.

  She takes off the mask. “Gracias.” Her voice is a raspy whisper.

  “Don’t talk. I want to let you know about your son, Manuel.”

  She grabs my arm with a surprising grip.

  “Manuel is home with my mother. He’s fine. He misses you.”

  Maria tries to roll out of bed but doesn’t have the strength. Jeremy gives me an “I told you so” look. A nurse arrives to chase us from the room.

  “Can we bring her six-year-old son to visit?” I ask the nurse as we leave.

  “Maybe tomorrow. Call first.” She herds us down the hall.

  The minute we’re in the cruiser and headed toward Fort Myers, I start badgering Jeremy for information. “Who set the fire? Why were the Cubans there? How did they get away? Who was the shooter?”

  Jeremy pulls into a gas station and gets out to fill the tank without answering. He goes inside for sodas and candy bars, climbs in, and heads for the drive-thru car wash. I guess he wants to be able to see. As we sit eating our candy bar lunch and watching dirty soap roll down the windows, he tells me the story.

  The same drug guy we saw in Miami, Che Brown, the one who was shot at the airport, kidnapped Maria Sanchez and crew on their way to Fort Myers. He locked them in the old cabin, leaving them almost nothing to eat and minimal water. Apparently, Dante, the other man Susan Bain identified, after all his buddies were dead or in jail, decided to get rid of loose ends. He set the cabin on fire with the hostages tied up inside. Felipe Sanchez literally put his hands in the fire to free himself and untied the others. When they ran, the drug dealer saw them and followed, shooting the two men. That’s when we found them and Jeremy shot Dante.

  “Why did they think the Cubans would give them the drugs for the people they kidnapped?”

  “Because they were all connected—family and friends. The Cubans who have been bringing people into Florida with Jack Farrell are all part of a close-knit community. The drug guys believed the cocaine was with Farrell or the refugees. Farrell would make enemies in the community if he caused some to be killed, or if he ripped off drugs.”

  The cruiser rolls out of the carwash and into the sun. Jeremy heads north on US41, no more side trips. “Between the Farrells, George Stark, and Maria Sanchez, we think they’ve given us all the players. Apparently, Che and Dante didn’t care if Maria and friends knew who they were. They probably never intended to let them live.”

  “Are you arresting everyone? What are the charges?”

  “They can be charged with kidnapping and arson and maybe smuggling drugs if there’s anyone left to arrest. The Rhode Island boys: Palmieri is in jail, and we have Reny Silva who shot at you in Susan’s parking lot and allegedly shot Bruce Mondrone. But there’s no body. Farrell said the body was missing when he went back to the house. Claimed he was going to call it in, but instead just cleaned up and left. It looks like the local boys killed each other, except the security guard from the airport who’s in jail for shooting his buddy. No one seems to know what happened to the cocaine shipment. Doubt we ever will.”

  “It’s not like on TV. Too many loose ends. Will you ever get all the answers?”

  “Probably not.”

  “No Colombians?” I try to hide my smug smile.

  “No Colombians.”

  We drive in silence for a while. Jeremy looks tired and somber. Does it bother him that he killed the man in the fire?

  “Did you ever kill anyone before?”

  Jeremy pulls over to the side of the road, opens the door, and heads for the bushes. He’s puking his candy bar lunch. Smooth move, Pratt. No tact at all.

  He climbs back into the car. “Sorry about that. The answer is no. I shot people a couple of times, but not dead. They brought the body into the hospital while you were getting your legs cleaned. Crispy critter.” His face is pale and he looks like he might heave again. My big strong cop has a sensitive side.

  I put my hand to his cheek. “Sorry. I have no tact.”

  He leans over and gives me a hug. He smells of smoke and sweat and vomit. I hug him anyway. Maybe I can be Jeremy’s protector.

  Thursday

  Chapter 45

  A package! Yes! I love to get packages. It’s like having a birthday any day. This package is sitting on top of a week's worth of unopened mail on my desk. I tear it open. What is this thing? Did I order it?

  The packing slip says waterproof cell phone cover. Oh, yeah. I forgot. I figure out how to stuff the cell inside and be able to use the phone after only three tries. I suppose it would be easier if I read the instructions. Cute toy, bright yellow, but a little awkward to use. I’ll try it on my boat.

  I flip through the rest of the mail. Mostly junk. What’s this? An insurance check for my car. Yes! I can buy a new car. I’m tir
ed of depending on other people to haul me around.

  When I get to the email, there’s a nice note from the Starks, thanking me for finding George, asking me to try to persuade him to come home, telling me a check’s in the mail. I don’t remember saying I would work for them, and I haven’t sent them a bill. I didn’t even find George, he found me. I won’t return the check, though.

  This is a day for celebrating. Presents to myself, money in the mail, a new car on the horizon. Manuel’s mother and George Stark and even Jack Farrell found. Most or all of the bad guys are in jail or dead. It’s been a wild couple of weeks. Now all I need to do is take a little vacation to reunite Allison with her brother. I know where he is, or I think I do.

  Maybe I should give one more look into his Bahamas account to make sure it’s Alex Rodgers. Hmmm... This is too easy. I thought a Bahamian bank would be difficult. The name on the account is A. Rodgers. Bingo! Let’s see what’s happening. Some of these deposits match the withdrawals in Boston.

  Wow! He withdrew fifty thousand about three weeks ago. Now he’s depositing cash. That boy has found a way to make serious money. I see deposits going in every day for the last week, sometimes twice a day, totaling close to a million bucks. I don’t believe what I’m seeing. What sort of business brings in that kind of money? Drugs?

  Don’t get sidetracked, Pratt. Where is he? He has to be on the island where this branch is located, or close by, if he’s depositing cash. It’s time to find Alex. Where’s the name of that dive shop? Ah, Salty Sam’s. And the daughter’s name is Amanda or Mandy. I try dialing the number with the phone in the case. It works!

  “Salty Sam’s.” Wow! I can hear through the case.

  “My name is Ernestine Pratt and I’m looking for Alex Rodgers. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I know the SOB. He ran off with my daughter.”

  “Whoa. I’m a private investigator trying to find Alex for his sister. Do you have any idea where they are?”

  “No. But if you find them I’ll pay you to let me know so I can go kill the bastard and get my daughter back.”

  “You have no clue where they might be?”

  “Nope. But they have one of my boats and some of my dive gear. The boat’s named Safety Stop if that’s any help, and the gear is all stamped with Salty Sam’s.”

  What name is your daughter stamped with? I hold in that remark and ask, “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Amanda Adams. And I’m Sam Adams, no relation to the beer,” he growls, not inviting flip remarks.

  “Thank you, sir. I hope I find her.”

  That is one angry man. Not much help in finding Alex, though.

  What’s that noise? A door? No one should be back yet. No one should be here. Mom, Big Jim, and Manuel went to Naples to see his mother, dropping George, Susan, and Allison in Fort Myers along the way.

  “Ernie. You here?” That’s Maggie’s voice.

  “In my office, Maggie.”

  “I have a surprise for you.” I can hear her feet thumping through the house.

  “I love surprises. It’s a great day for surprises.”

  “Ta da!” Maggie stands in the office door with her arms spread wide, then she steps aside and bows. “Your charming, sexy, suave, New York brother has arrived.”

  Bert stands there grinning.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, nice greeting, Ernestine.”

  I give him a hug. “I didn’t expect to see you for a while since you departed just a few days ago.”

  “I took a leave. Allison invited me to go with you to find her brother. She said you have a pretty good idea where he is.”

  “Even better this morning. I suppose Allison is getting antsy about going. Why didn’t you call her to come get you at the airport? She’s in town.”

  “He wanted the pleasure of my company.” Maggie thinks Bert is hot, even if she is twice his size and old enough to be his mother. “Gotta go to work. Nice to see you, honey-bun.” She blows Bert a kiss as she leaves the room.

  “Thanks for the lift, Maggie.” He blows her a kiss.

  “I wanted to talk to you before I see Allison.” Bert unloads papers off of a chair and sits. “I called Maggie, and she told me everyone was out and about, except you. She offered to pick me up at Punta Rassa.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  “I’ve been checking on Tony Martinelli.”

  “Are you going to join my business?”

  “I might, it’s kind of fun. We could call the business ‘Bert and Ernie, Show and Tell.’”

  “Very original. And we could do a commercial and sing ‘Rubber Ducky.’”

  “That’s the spirit, Sis.”

  “What about Tony?”

  “This guy’s not broke. He doesn’t need Allison to finance his school.”

  “Why are you doing this? For Allison?” Is Bert serious about her? He took a leave of absence. Bert is usually only serious about his work and making money. Maybe her money grabbed his attention.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Anyhow, Tony’s connected. And I don’t mean only to money. He’s connected to some pretty scary family.”

  “George Stark hinted at that.”

  “George Stark?”

  “Alex Rodger’s friend. The one that went sailing off into the Caribbean with him. He’s staying here. Didn’t Allison tell you?”

  Bert shakes his head. He looks puzzled.

  “She’s not sleeping with him if that’s what you’re worried about. His girlfriend Susan is here, too.”

  “Oh, Susan was here when I left. Anyone else new besides George?”

  “No, unless they bring Manuel’s mom here.”

  “You found her?”

  “Yeah, long story. But, getting back on track, why are you telling me and not Allison about Tony?”

  “I don’t want her to think I’m snooping. You can tell her. She’s paid you to snoop.”

  “Our new company can be ‘Bert and Ernie, meddlers and snoopers.’”

  He gives me a grin. “There’s something else. I don’t understand why Allison wasn’t more bummed when Tony walked off with a hundred grand.”

  “That seems strange to me, too, brother of mine. Maybe there’s more to this story than she’s telling.” I know she exaggerates something fierce and skips whatever she doesn’t like. The woman is a teller of tall tales, some true and some not so true. But I don’t mention that to Bert.

  “Tell me about Manuel’s mother and anything else that’s happened.”

  I fill him in on events since he left—the short version. He responds with a few grunts and surprised expressions when I talk about fires and shootings and kidnapping.

  When I’m finished, he tells me to stand and he walks around me. “You don’t look any worse than the last time I saw you. But you were pretty beat up then, too.” He leans over to inspect the pockmarks on my legs.

  I punch him on the shoulder. “I’m surprised Allison hasn’t told all. She loves a good tale.”

  “Not much time for tall tales on short calls.”

  “What? No phone sex?”

  Bert grins and blushes a bit. Guess they were too busy to discuss what was going on.

  “How’s Monica?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I guess that romance is dead.”

  He changes the subject. “You know where Allison’s brother is?”

  “In the Bahamas. I even know what island.”

  “Great! When can we leave?”

  Saturday

  Chapter 46

  This is so cool! We’re flying in a small plane over the Bahamas. It’s absolutely gorgeous, glorious, brilliant, stunning, dazzling, splendiferous... Can’t think of the perfect word for what I see. Dark islands and puffy white clouds against a background of sky and water in all shades of fantastic blue and green. Out of sight!

  I click away with my camera, the real one, not the camera in my cell.

  Jeremy is flying. I did
n’t know he could fly. Although he does have ways to make me fly. There’s more to this man than I suspected. I’m playing copilot and he’s sort of showing me things as we fly. I’m learning to fly a plane!

  My mood is flying, too. I have a real lead on Alex, not just bank records. A marina I called said they’ve seen Safety Stop in the area with a man and a woman onboard. Gotta be Alex and Amanda.

  I wanted to take a boat ride on this trip, maybe sail. But the rest of the crew didn’t have the time or patience. So we’re flying and I love it. Allison and Bert are in the backseat. We’re headed southeast, following the chain of islands, looking for an island called Inagua. Not much conversation going on. One thing about a small plane is that you can’t hear yourself think over the engine noise. Besides, we’re all busy gawking.

  Checking the chart, I try to figure out which island is off to our left. Looks like Crooked Island, which means we’re about a hundred miles from Inagua. This is a longer trip than I thought. I think of the Bahamas as this little group of islands right off the coast of Florida. But something like seven hundred islands stretch over seven hundred and fifty miles from one end to the other.

  “Hey, Pratt. You sound like a travel guide.”

  I must have been talking out loud. I do that sometimes when I’m having a conversation with myself.

  Jeremy starts calling the Inagua airport, but he gets no response.

  “Why doesn’t anyone answer?”

  “Because there’s no one to answer. It’s a courtesy call to let people know you’re in the area and headed for the airport. That way, if another plane is coming in, we won’t run into each other.”

  Nice thought—planes running into each other. I picture a car wreck in the sky.

  As we get closer, I can see what might be Cuba stretching across the horizon. That is one huge island. Inagua is closer to Cuba and Haiti than it is to the other Bahamian islands. There’s a lake on Inagua with funny squares marked off at the south end. Salt ponds, I’ll bet. Morton Salt has a large plant on this out-of-the-way island. You can find these tidbits of info on Google. Can’t get away from civilization. When we circle to land, a pink cloud of flamingos rises over the lake. Awesome! I definitely want to learn to fly; gives you a whole new perspective.