Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  “I’m sorry, have you had any luck finding her?”

  “None, it’s like she dropped off the face of the earth.” Tasha said.

  “Each of us has our mysteries,” I said. “When we get this problem resolved in Nicaragua, maybe I can help look into the disappearance of your sister. I’m sure whoever the hell I work for has some resources I can use to sort through it. This is so damn frustrating. We’re headed to down to Nicaragua and have no idea what I’m going to do once we get there.”

  “I know you’ll figure it out,” said Tasha as she stroked the side of my face. The moon illuminated her face with a soft glow and the lush lips seemed to beckon me onward. No turning back now. It was impossible to carry her down the narrow ladder into the cabin, but somehow we managed to make our way forward to the tiny cabin.

  There’s nothing more sensual than skin still warmed from the setting tropical sun. I kissed her, gently at first, trying to find if there were any boundaries remaining between us, but she was having none of it. She stripped off her few remaining clothes, wrapped her legs around me and began softly moaning as she kissed me deeply. I flipped her over and began slowly teasing her, nibbling her earlobes, alternately sucking and biting her flesh as I worked my way down her body. Her nipples were amazing, taut, upright and begging for my attention. She responded by arching her back and pulling me into her. The sun was almost ready to peek over the horizon when we finally collapsed exhausted into the berth to get a couple of hours sleep before heading south into the unknown.

  CHAPTER 19

  “This guy is deliberately trying to annoy the hell out of me,” said Rivera as he spun his chair in a circle. Thirty minutes late and not a phone call.”

  “Popov will be here,” said Miller. “I made it pretty damn clear to his attorney that we needed to speak to him immediately. I also made it clear that if he didn't come to us, we'd come to Fisher Island, throw him in handcuffs and walk him all the way to the ferry in front of his neighbors.”

  No sooner had he finished the statement than the elevator doors chimed as they opened. Leading the way was Popov, with a large hulking man beside him who was clearly a bodyguard. They were followed closely followed by a small weasel of a man with a bad comb-over who carried an expensive alligator briefcase.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Manny Rivera with the Miami-Dade Police Department. This is Special Agent Miller and Davis,” Rivera indicated as he nodded at the two. “Before we get started, you’ll need to check your weapon at the door.”

  “What are you talking about?” growled Popov. “We got wanded on the way in the building. They checked everything except my underwear."

  “I’m talking about Brutus,” Rivera indicating the bodyguard with his thumb. “He waits outside.” The bodyguard looked expectantly at Popov and on receiving the nod, stepped outside the conference room.

  “I’m Joseph Castiglio, Mr. Popov’s attorney, ” said the other man with a voice that quavered slightly as he spoke. “I’ll need to stay.”

  “Oh, you certainly will Mr. Castiglio,” said Rivera with a smile like the cat about eat the canary. “We’ve been wanting to talk to you about the minor matter of a boat explosion the other day. Pieces of your boat are still washing up on the beach all the way down to Aventura.”

  “Why don’t we start with the boat first?” asked Miller. “State records show the boat belonging to an LLC that is under your name, Mr Castiglio?”

  “Yes, it’s set up as an LLC because I charter the yacht to corporate groups and for weddings.”

  “Have you ever chartered the yacht to your client, Mr. Popov?”

  “Mr. Popov is very prominent in the community and entertains often. He has chartered with me on occasion.”

  “Who chartered the yacht the day it exploded?” asked Miller as he leaned forward.

  “It wasn’t chartered that day. Suncrest Marine had been working on the diesels and the Captain apparently took the boat on a test run,” said Castiglio with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “You’re trying to tell me with a straight face that a Captain with twenty years experience broke every regulation on the books by speeding down the Intercoastal and somehow managed to blow himself and the vessel to Hell and back in the Atlantic. That was just a test run?” said Miller as his face began to darken with anger. “To what would you attribute this series of events?”

  “Sounds like a friggin’ mechanical problem to me,” interrupted Popov. “Sounds like you ought to talk to the guys who worked on the boat. If you are going to continue questioning my attorney and don’t have any questions for me, perhaps I should go? I have a business to run.”

  “I just have one question for you,” said Miller. “What happened in your club the other night?”

  “I really have no idea because I wasn’t there, but I had some reports from my employees about the unfortunate disturbance,” said Popov. “Apparently Kyle Jackle, a disgruntled employee we had just terminated, was drunk and belligerent and had to be escorted out of the building by security.”

  “So you deny any knowledge of his beating earlier in the week, the murder of a dancer from your club, and the explosion on board the yacht the other day?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Popov as he stood to exit the room. “I’m just a simple businessman. If you have any further questions, please submit them through my attorney.” With that, the group stood and marched out of the office followed closely by Rivera who escorted them to the elevator.

  “That was about a huge waste of time,” yawned Davis as he leaned back in his chair. “Did we actually learn anything from that?”

  “Not much,” said Miller, “but it’s obvious to me that the attorney is the front man for Popov-there’s no way that little weasel owns a four million dollar yacht. We’ll just keep an eye on him until we come up with a direct link that we can prosecute him on.”

  Rivera walked back into the room with a smile. “What have you got to be happy about?” asked Miller.

  “Just this,” said Rivera as he presented a printout still warm from the printer. “Apparently, sometime yesterday morning, the Coast Guard inspected a sailboat about seventy five miles south of Key West. They had anchored off Cay Sal to repair some damage from a storm the night before. All completely routine, except for one thing. The name on the passport – Kyle Jackle. The report also noted he was accompanied by a young woman with an accent and a EU passport.”

  “My first question would be, where are they going?” asked Miller. “I can’t imagine Jackle going on a pleasure cruise with what’s happened over the past week. The only thing that comes to mind is the emails he smuggled out of Popov’s office last Sunday. Maybe he found the emails or has some information pointing him in a particular direction.”

  “How do we figure out his destination?” asked Rivera.

  “We don’t. The best I can do is task one of NSAs Keyhole Satellites to track them. Clouds, dark of night, storms at sea-it doesn’t matter, they can track them and damn near read their charts if the weather’s nice. The real trick is to find out where that tiny boat is in middle of one very large ocean. Fortunately for us, if they’re headed to Central or South America and they’re moving past the west coast of Cuba, it really cuts down on the number of possibilities. ”

  Davis finally broke his silence, “If I had to guess, I would figure they’re headed to Columbia. We know there’s a Columbian connection with Escobado and Popov.”

  “We can’t be sure,” said Miller. I’ll get the satellite on it so we don’t have to guess. Most important is that we already know there’s a leak somewhere in one of our organizations. Nothing goes into a computer, no emails and absolutely zero conversations outside this group of three. Everyone clear on that?” He looked slowly around the room as the other two nodded their assent.

  CHAPTER 20

  I woke up feeling like a new man. Just amazing how making love to a beautiful woman can completely change your outlook on life. When I woke, Tasha had apparently already gone
topside. I wandered past the galley, grabbed a cup of coffee that was waiting for me and stuck my head though the hatch just in time to see her taking a shower on the rear deck with the hand held shower. The sight of her naked body silhouetted in the soft rising sun was nearly enough to weaken my resolve to be off and sailing south before nine o’clock. I consciously restrained myself and started working through my checklist before leaving the safety of our anchorage.

  While Tasha went below to work on something for breakfast that smelled suspiciously like bacon and eggs, I prepared to start the diesel. Depressed the preheat button for the required ten seconds, pushed the starter and the Westerbeke diesel roared to life. I quickly throttled back to idle and as soon as it reached the correct operating temperature, pressed the remote on the windlass to raise the anchor. The chain clattered aboard and the heavy Danforth anchor clanked into place on the bow. I shifted into gear and eased the throttle forward. Dolce Vita motored smoothly out of the sheltered anchorage and within minutes we were at sea powering steadily through the smooth swells.

  “Hey, you hungry yet?” asked Tasha with a cute little perky tone as she stuck her head into the cockpit. Clasped in one hand was another steaming mug of coffee and in the other a plate heaped with three eggs and bacon. Apparently the night before had agreed with her as well.

  “This is fabulous,” I said inhaling the food within minutes. “Any chance for seconds?”

  She grabbed the plate and reappeared a minute later with the plate piled high again. Aah, the life of a Captain is a good one. After a few minutes of cleaning up from breakfast, it was time to raise the sails. I swung Dolce Vita's bow into the wind and Tasha manned the helm.

  “Tasha, just hold her into the wind for a minute.”

  “I've got it,” she said holding the wheel in one hand and cradling her coffee in the other. I walked forward on the cabin top, released the sail ties and pushed the button on the halyard winch. Within seconds the heavy sail had been hoisted and was flopping loosely as we motored into the breeze.

  “Tasha, fall off to port and set a heading of 210 degrees while I’ll unfurl the genoa.” I looked up to see the sails fill with the wind and start to drive the boat westward. We still had two hundred fifty miles to sail to the West to safely clear Cuban waters. Once we reached that point, we could finally turn to the South and set a course for Nicaragua.

  “Hey, look who’s joined us off the bow,” I said pointing at the pod of dolphins surfing on our bow wave.

  “I’m going forward to make friends,” Tasha said. She grabbed the lifelines and scampered forward to the bow sticking her head over the rail to see the dolphins playing just off the edge of the wave. It looked like a couple of females shepherding a pup in between them. A few minutes later, Tasha returned to the cockpit and settled in for a relaxing day at sea.

  “Looks like we have two hundred forty miles until we turn south-that should take us around thirty hours or so.”

  “Sounds great-I found a couple of books down below and as long as they hold out, I’ll be OK,” Tasha said as she snuggled back into her comfortable corner of the cockpit. I rigged another fishing line off the stern for trolling and we settled in for a long day of sailing.

  Long sea passages are a series of routines. This one was no different. Every twelve hours, I started the diesel for an hour to keep the batteries charged and the freezer cold. I regularly checked lines and sails for any chafing. Checked the bilge to make sure the bilge pump was doing its duty and that we didn't have water coming in from a broken fitting or hose. Monitored the SSB radio for any weather updates. Checked the radar so we wouldn’t be surprised by any ships appearing over the horizon. Should have been boring, but it was a relaxed rhythm reinforced by the movement of the sea and wind. In spite of that, there were always surprises.

  "Tasha, take a look at this," I said, pointing off the stern quarter. Swimming a few feet under the surface of the water was a group of maybe a hundred rays swimming parallel to our course. Just another moment on the ocean that was ours alone to share.

  CHAPTER 21

  Escabado sat in his frayed wicker chair trying not to think about how damn hot it was. He slapped again as yet another no-see-um landed and exacted its bloody toll. Too bad there was not an easier way for him to travel. It had become increasingly difficult for him to travel from the US back to Central America to attend to his business interests with the No Fly List and computer systems that the Department of Homeland Security had put into place over the past few years.

  This latest trip, he left the United States smuggled aboard a charter fishing boat that brought him on the first leg of his journey to the remote island of Walker’s Cay in the Bahamas. Most of that time was spent hiding below decks and with the violently rolling waves created by the storm churning the ocean, he had been seasick most of that time. He would have gladly killed the captain and fed him to the sharks if it would have made the nausea stop for five minutes.

  He had been waiting for a full day hidden in a small, dilapidated cottage on the south end of the island waiting for his other transportation to arrive. He had been coming here for years when Walker’s Cay had been one of the premier deep sea fishing destinations in the world. The island had lost its charm for him after the devastation of Hurricane Francis back in 2004. The destruction was nearly complete with most of the buildings and infrastructure destroyed. The wealthy tourists who had once frequented the hotel and marina back then were long gone, but there remained a few forlorn weather beaten cottages still standing and more importantly, Bahamian Customs officials who could be paid to turn a blind eye to his coming and going.

  He could have dealt with all of those annoyances, but he also had to put up with Popov’s annoying attorney. Popov had insisted that Castiglio leave the country for a few days to put him out of reach of the FBI. He knew that if the Feds managed to get their hands on him for questioning, he’d squeal like a rabbit surrounded by a pack of hungry dogs. It was amazing after a day of listening to this maggot whining that he hadn’t cut his fucking throat and left him in the bushes for the land crabs.

  Their transportation for the next leg of the trip would be aboard a Grumman Albatross. As far as Bahamian Customs were concerned, the plane was leaving Walker’s Cay and flying to a dive site on the barrier reef just off the coast of Belize. The Grumman was uniquely suited for this kind of trip. The amphibious plane could take off on water or land and with a range of over twenty-eight hundred miles could reach most destinations in Central America without refueling. This one had been rebuilt from the ground up for a famous island singer and still had the luxurious interior that helped to mute the throbbing roar of the big radial engines. John Pierre, the captain of the Albatross, completed the checklist and the warm-up of the engines. His copilot, Alexandra, a dark haired beauty from Argentina was completing the preflight checklist. John Pierre glanced over at her and swore silently to himself as he tried to ignore the ample breasts straining against her uniform top.

  He glanced over at her again, got a quick thumbs up as she completed the last checks and slowly taxied to the end of the runway to take off into the ten-knot breeze blowing over the end of the runway. Stepping down hard on the left brake, he swung the aircraft one hundred eighty degrees on the runway and stepped on both brakes to hold his position while he ran up the engines to full power. From the shadows at the side of the runway, two shadowy figures ran to the side door as it swung open for just a few seconds.

  The crewman leaned down, gripped the outstretched hand and pulled first Escabado and then Castiglio sprawling into the waiting cabin. “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Pierre looking backward in the cabin at his new passengers as they dusted themselves off. “If you’ll have a seat, we’ll be on our way.”

  Escabado leaned back in his comfortable leather seat in the small cabin of the Grumman and lit a fine Cuban cigar while the crewman fixed him the first of many drinks for the evening. Castiglio continued to squirm nervously around in his seat as he tried t
o figure out the locking mechanism for the seatbelt. In the cockpit, Captain Pierre stood on both brakes, reached up to the throttles overhead and applied full power to the engines. He released the brakes and the Albatross rolled down the runway slowly gaining speed. Much like its ungainly namesake, the flying boat finally lumbered into the air. It would be a long night-the Albatross had a cruise speed of one hundred fifty knots and they had one stop scheduled in Cuba for fuel and to restock Escabado’s dwindling supply of Cuban cigars. Escabado was particularly looking forward to the prospect of spending a couple of days there. He couldn’t wait to renew an old acquaintance with a couple of Cuban hookers who had made some of his earlier layovers quite memorable. Within fifteen minutes, the aircraft had finally ascended to its cruising altitude of ten thousand feet.

  Escabado gestured at Castiglio who stood and prepared to move forward into the cockpit. Alexandra rose from her copilot’s seat and moved toward the rear to sit with Escabado. As she passed Castiglio in the cabin, she teasingly stroked his neck and smiled at him. Castiglio smiled an uncertain nervous smile and she leaned closer. He could smell the faint scent of jasmine perfume and he closed his eyes briefly overwhelmed with her closeness and raw sensuality. She put both hands on his chest and shoved him violently backwards into the cabin door. The door, which had been deliberately left unlatched, exploded outward as Castiglio fell from the plane. Alexandra leaned out the door and watched as the attorney disappeared screaming into the darkness with his arms flailing. The air rushing violently through the cabin ceased as she carefully latched the door shut and separated the cabin from the cockpit by closing the heavy curtains. Alone with Escabado, she knelt in front of him and slowly began unbuttoning her top as he stared with undisguised lust. The pilot at least was able to relax for this leg of the trip as the plane flew southward under autopilot-her job was just beginning.