Storm Sail

by Charles Dougherty

"Yes. I know there's nothing I can do, and Larry said not to worry, but still ... "

  "I know. Well, it'll be all right. You know that."

  Paul nodded, forcing a smile. "What did you learn about Sadie?" He chuckled. "Did she get over her encounter with the flying fish?"

  "She did, but she didn't say too much. She was taken by the stars — got sleepy and went below an hour or two ago."

  "She tell you where she wants to go?"

  "No. She's vague on Caribbean geography, like most of them."

  Paul smiled. "So we're just sailing along?"

  "Yes. The default destination is Antigua, I guess. She didn't say not to stop there after I told her we'd get in early this morning."

  "Hmm. Kind of odd. Did she say how she ended up down here?"

  "Her agent suggested it. I'm guessing, but it sounds like she's overwhelmed by whatever's going on in her life. She said she needed a getaway."

  "Guy trouble, maybe?"

  "Could be. I asked her if there was a man in her life; it kind of seemed appropriate when she remarked on us being newlyweds."

  "Uh-huh. How's she know that?"

  "I guess it shows; that's what she said, anyway. She laughed and told me she had a lot of experience with relationships."

  Paul smiled. "At her age?"

  "Hey, she's paying the bills. I'm not going to argue with her."

  "No, ma'am. Me, either. So what did she say about the man in her life?"

  "She didn't; she was pretty evasive about that."

  "You want a cup of coffee?" Paul asked. "I put the kettle on."

  "No, thanks. You go ahead."

  Paul went below, reappearing in a minute with a steaming cup of coffee.

  "Mm. That smells wonderful," Connie said.

  "It's not too late."

  "No, I think I'll be able to drop off pretty easily. I'd better skip it."

  "Okay. Anything I ought to know before I take the watch?"

  "No, it's been a delightful evening — never even had to touch the sail trim. She did say one thing that bothered me a little, though."

  "What's that?"

  "She'd been to St. Barth. When I asked if she wanted to stop there, she said that it held bad memories for her."

  "Has she been anywhere else down here?"

  "Well, I don't know. She didn't know St. Barth was in the Caribbean."

  Paul's eyebrows went up. "Flake?"

  "Maybe, but that's what's odd. She doesn't seem ditzy, otherwise." Connie told him about her remark about the Bahamas being part of Florida, based on the way "they" talked about them.

  "Who were 'they?'" Paul asked.

  "The people she was hanging around with. I guess whoever took her to St. Barth."

  "Think she was on drugs?"

  "It crossed my mind, but she doesn't seem like the type; she's a nice enough kid. She's just a little off, somehow. Distracted, I guess is the term I'm looking for."

  Paul took a sip of coffee. "I guess it'll all come out eventually. But so far, this is a strange charter."

  "You mean because of the hurry to get out of St. Martin?"

  "Yes, that coupled with not having any idea where she wanted to go."

  Connie studied his face in the dim glow from the instrument panel. "You've got your cop face on," she said, feeling a tingle as the hair on the back of her neck stood up. "I know that look. What are you thinking?"

  "Damn. Remind me not to try to hide anything from you."

  "You shouldn't need a reminder. Give it up, Lt. Russo."

  "She's on the run."

  "On the run? What makes you say that?"

  "She was in a panic to get out of St. Martin, but she's got nowhere in particular to go. She had a bad experience in St. Barth, didn't want to go back there. She didn't answer your question about the man in her life."

  "You don't think she's in trouble with the law, do you?"

  He shrugged and took a drink of coffee. "Maybe, but it's more likely she's bugged out on her husband or boyfriend. She doesn't have the markings of an outlaw."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Instinct, I guess." He thought about it for a minute. "She's too clean-cut; she doesn't have that squirrely look in her eyes. Looks like a college girl to me — not somebody that's been on the streets, hustling for her keep."

  "Hmm," Connie said. "I'll buy the college girl part, but she's pretty shrewd. I'd say she's street-wise."

  "Maybe, but if she's been living by her wits, she hasn't been doing it long."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "She didn't make me for a cop."

  "How do you know? She made us for newlyweds."

  "Not the same thing at all. She's been around girlfriends getting married, maybe. Maybe she's been married herself recently. If she'd been on the streets, though, she'd have picked me out as a threat. Believe me, after 20 years, I can read the signs. Go get some rest."

  "Yes, sir. Call me when you're off Jolly Harbour."

  "Aye, skipper. Kiss me goodnight."

  Chapter 3

  Running Under Sail

  "What's his name, again?" Leana Muñoz asked her receptionist.

  "Freddy Thompson," the woman said, her voice so soft over the phone that Leana imagined the man was leaning against the counter in the entrance area, trying to hear what was being said.

  "He said you wouldn't know him, but he manages a small club in South Beach."

  "Uh-huh. And did he say what he wanted?"

  "He said he'd sent you a singer that he thought worked out, one time, and he might have another one for you."

  "Okay. Send him in, but interrupt me after two minutes."

  "Yes, ma'am." There was a click as the receptionist hung up.

  Leana racked her brain; the name Freddy Thompson meant nothing to her.

  "Mr. Thompson," she said, looking up from the papers on her desk when the door opened, "I'm afraid I don't — "

  "It's Freddy, Leana," the man said, grinning down at her. "I run the Pussy's Tail, down on the south end of Collins." He flipped a card on her desk that bore a caricature of a curvy woman in a red cat suit, flaunting her tail as she faced away, her head turned to peer back over a shoulder.

  Leana ignored his outstretched hand, recognizing the name of one of Jonas Pratt's strip joints. This jerk must work for Pratt. "I'm afraid I don't — "

  "There's a gal used to work for me," he said, "then she started singin'. I mean, we're a tittie bar; you know, a strip joint, but she could sing real good. She got the DJ to play some old jazz shit for her sets, and she'd sing while she did her thing. 'Fore I knew it, she started drawin' a different crowd; people come to hear her. Business turned to shit; the kinda people come to hear her didn't tip the dancers worth a damn, and I had to fire her ass. I mean, I liked her, personal, but shit, business is business, you know. She was just in the wrong kinda work, see, so I told her to come see you. You done started representin' her, an' she's moved on. That's good. I always like to see my girls do good, you know."

  "I'm sure," Leana said, looking at the burly man with the two-day beard. Her lips curled down at the corners as she glared at him. She wrinkled her nose, just to be sure he got her message. "What's her name?"

  "Huh?" the oaf asked, his face turning red.

  "This girl. The one that's 'done good.' Who is she?"

  "Oh, yeah. Sadie Storm."

  "Are you serious?" She sneered at him, irritated when he plopped down in her visitor's chair.

  "Yeah, I — "

  "I think you're full of shit. And what is it you want here, Mr. Tompkins? I'm busy. I don't book talent for 'tittie bars.' You'll have to go — "

  "It's Thompson, Freddy Thompson. We owe her some money from the last time she worked; I was hopin' you could tell me where to find her."

  "I don't think so. Leave your email address and phone number with the receptionist. We'll let Ms. Storm know."

  "Wait, Leana ... " he paused, taken aback by the cold look on her face. "Um, sorry ... Ms. M
uñoz, I got another girl what sings good, too. I'se gonna send her to you, but I'se hopin' since Sadie done worked out so good, that maybe you'd see your way clear to a finder's fee. I — "

  "Sorry, Ms. Muñoz," the receptionist said, barging in, her heels clicking on the marble floor. "I have your conference call on line three."

  "Thanks, Sylvie. Show Mr. Tompkins out, please."

  "Thompson," Freddie bleated. "It's Freddy Thomp — "

  "Whatever," Leana snarled, turning her back on him and reaching for the phone on her credenza.

  Less than a minute later, Sylvie came in and sat down in the visitor's chair, laughing. "What a loser," she said.

  "You heard?" Leana asked.

  Sylvie nodded. "The intercom was on. He looked pretty rough; I thought you might need security, so I listened in."

  "You know who he is?" Leana asked.

  "He said he had a club in South Beach."

  "Well, maybe he runs it. I don't know, but it belongs to Jonas Pratt. This jerk's one of his flunkies, no doubt."

  "Yuck," Sylvie said. "I can't believe Sadie was mixed up with them."

  "Yeah. Well, Pratt's not quite as repulsive as that piece of garbage — at least not outwardly. And anyway, she's done with that now."

  "You don't think they're going to try to find her?"

  "Of course they are. Once that jerk reports in, they're bound to try something else; watch your back, okay?"

  "Sure, but isn't there something we can do? I mean, like the cops, or something?"

  "Pratt's got half the MBPD on his payroll, but don't worry. I'll make a call to a friend of mine. He'll put the fear of God into Pratt."

  "I like this outer anchorage better," Sadie said.

  "I do, too," Connie agreed. They had just come from the customs dock inside Jolly Harbour, where she had handled the clearance procedures while Paul and Sadie enjoyed the last of the morning's coffee in the cockpit. "There's more privacy out here, and I think the views are better. Wait until you see the sunset this evening."

  Connie put the engine in reverse, bringing the boat to a stop where she wanted it to sit once the anchor was down.

  Paul was up on the foredeck, watching for her signal. She raised her hands and shrugged, looking around. He nodded, indicating that he liked the spot. She put the boat in gear again and crept forward about three boat-lengths. She let the boat coast to a stop, and Paul released the anchor, giving her a wave when it was on the bottom.

  Connie shifted into reverse, and as the boat gained sternway, Paul payed out chain, keeping the least bit of tension on it. When he reached the 90-foot marker, he used the brake on the windlass to stop the chain wheel. The momentum of the boat brought the chain up bar-tight, and he put his right index finger in the air and made a circular motion. Connie cracked the throttle open to dig the anchor in, and they both studied the shoreline for 30 seconds to be sure it was holding. Paul caught her eye and nodded, and Connie throttled back and put the transmission in neutral. He set about rigging a snubber to absorb any shock loads from wave action.

  "That's like watching a dance routine, or something," Sadie said. "You guys almost read one another's minds, don't you?"

  "Well, when it comes to boat handling, we do," Connie said, smiling.

  "I think I'll get some sun, before it gets too hot," Sadie said, standing and turning to the companionway.

  "Don't forget sunscreen," Connie said. "The UV is much more intense down here; the sunlight has a shorter path through the atmosphere than it does up north. It'll burn you in minutes, if you aren't careful."

  "Thanks for the reminder," Sadie said, stepping onto the ladder and disappearing below.

  "What's up?" Paul asked, joining Connie in the cockpit.

  "She's changing into a swimsuit, I think. She wants to get some sun before it gets too hot."

  "Think we're staying here today, then?" he asked.

  "Probably. She's tired from the trip, and we might as well get back on a normal schedule ourselves. Why do you ask?"

  "I was thinking we should rig the cockpit awning, if we're staying put."

  "Good idea; the shade will feel good in a couple of hours. You go ahead and get started on it. I'll lay out a pad for her on the foredeck while you get it ready."

  "Get what ready?" Sadie asked, emerging from the companionway in a tiny string bikini.

  "The cockpit awning," Connie said, pulling a rolled-up lounge pad from the cockpit locker. "Come on up on the foredeck with me and let's get you set up for your sunbath."

  "Man, it sure didn't take long for the shit to hit the fan," Jonas said. He spun his swivel chair around to face Freddy, who was just settling himself on the couch.

  "Who was that?" Freddy asked.

  "Never mind. How long ago did you talk to her?"

  "The dyke? 'Bout an hour. Why?"

  "She's sure as shit connected to somebody. I've done already had my ass chewed for bothering her. What the hell did you say to her?"

  "I was real polite. Shit, I mean I could tell she didn't want me callin' her Leana, so I even made a point of sayin' Ms. Muñoz, and shit like that, even though she looked at me like I was a dog turd."

  "You sure you didn't threaten her?"

  "Hell, yeah, boss. You told me to treat her real nice. I know how to threaten — I didn't do nothin'. What the — "

  "We ain't' gonna get another shot at her. That's for damn sure. You get anything from her?"

  "Not yet."

  "The hell do you mean, not yet? Either you found somethin' out, or you didn't."

  "I will. I planted a bug in her office."

  "A bug? No shit. Where'd a dirt-bag like you learn to do shit like that?"

  "Come on, boss. I may be a dirt-bag, but I ain't no dumb-ass. I bought it at the place down there off Lincoln Road."

  "What's it got, like a tape recorder or somethin'?"

  "Nah, they use chips for all that now. It's tiny."

  "So how we gonna get the recording?"

  "The little gizmo I put in her office, it's like a transmitter or somethin'. The recorder's out in the alley behind her office. I just go swap out the chip and put a new battery in it every day. I already got — "

  "Well, she's done called somebody. Reckon it woulda picked that up?"

  "Probably got her side of it, anyhow. I got — "

  "Go swap that chip right now, or whatever it is you gotta do."

  "Hang on, boss. I been tryin' to tell you. I — "

  "Don't be tellin' me to hang on, you piece-a shit. I'll — "

  Freddy leaned forward and put a black cylinder the size of a big cigar on the coffee table and pressed a button while Jonas Pratt was yelling. The sound of a woman's voice emanating from the cylinder interrupted Pratt's tirade.

  "Thanks for taking my call; I need a little air cover," she said.

  There was a silence of several seconds, and then she said, "It's about one of my clients — well, really she's more of a protégé. She was involved with Jonas Pratt; started out in one of his clubs and ended up as his favorite plaything, I guess. She's way out of his league; how she got into that mess, I don't know. We all make mistakes when we're hungry, I suppose. Anyhow, she's come to her senses and left him, but he's sent one of his goons around here looking for her. He gave me some bullshit about owing her money, but I — "

  There was another pause, and then she said, "Freddy Thompson."

  After a brief pause, she said, "Right, thanks. She's out of the way for now, down in the islands."

  After another brief pause, she said, "No, not there. I figured that would be too obvious. I called Elaine Moore, chartered a yacht for a month. I don't even know where they're going."

  She sighed, sounding relieved. "Thanks. And yes, I'll get in touch with her and warn her that he's looking, but we kind of expected that, given what an asshole he is."

  There was the sound of a phone being placed in its cradle, and the creaking of a swivel chair.

  "Guess you heard enough to get the
gist, Sylvie," the woman said.

  "Yes. Want me to call Elaine?"

  "Please. And see if she's got a way to get a message to that yacht. We need to let — "

  There was a pop, and the recording ended.

  "What happened? Why'd it stop?" Pratt asked.

  "That's probably when I switched the chip, or whatever, micro-SD card, I think it is. I figured I ought to make damn sure it was workin' right away, while I could still maybe get back in there if I had to. You know, like I forgot somethin', maybe. Sylvie's her secretary."

  Pratt nodded. "You done good, Freddy. Track down this Elaine Moore broad and let's find out about this here yacht that little Miss Hot Stuff's on."

  "You want me to — "

  "I want you to stay clear of Moore; sounds like whoever the dyke was talkin' to probably knows her. We don't need no more trouble. Maybe figure out where this Elaine is and send somebody to break in her office, steal some computers and shit to cover his tracks, but get the name of that yacht. One of them junkies you use can do that; keep you and me out of it."

  Freddy nodded. "Okay, boss."

  "That was one more great lunch, Mr. Russo," Connie said. She and Paul were swinging in hammocks in the shade of the cockpit awning. Sadie had gone below for a shower and a nap.

  "Thanks, skipper. Think she enjoyed it?"

  "She cleaned up the leftovers. I'm not surprised she had to take a nap," Connie said, smiling at the memory.

  "She looks like she hasn't been eating enough lately," Paul said, "or ever, for that matter."

  "Yes, she's pretty slim," Connie said. "It's hard to believe she's the same age as Dani and Liz. I don't mean because of her appearance, though. It's her manner, I guess."

  "You're right. I guess she is about their age, isn't she? She's a little younger, maybe, but the same generation, anyway."

  "I'm not sure why that hit me." Connie said. "Her personality's nothing like theirs, that's for sure."

  "In some ways, she seems ... I don't know ... child-like," Paul said.

  "Child-like?"

  "I was going to say innocent, but occasionally she gets this look in her eyes ... " Paul said.

  "I thought you said earlier that she didn't have the mark of having been on the street."