“Yeah,” I said. “Keep me posted on anything you hear, okay?”
“Will do.”
I ended the call and turned the helm seat around, switching on the chart plotter. Then I laid in a course for the west end of Little Thatch. It was exactly eight miles away, the line on the plotter pointing directly to where we’d seen the flash.
Mitzi put a hand on my shoulder. “An explosion?”
“Cops are heading there now,” I said, not turning around. “Not far from where your cousin found the body last week.”
“He didn’t find it,” Mitzi said. “Bryce went out on di call, but a young couple on dere honeymoon found di body.”
“Call your cousin,” I said. “See if you can find out anything about an explosion in that same area.”
She took a cell phone from her pocket and looked at the screen. “Just one bar,” she said, scrolling through her contact list.
Mitzi touched the screen and held the phone to her ear. “Bryce, dis is Mitzi. What is going on out on Little Thatch?”
She listened a moment, then said, “Yes, we know dat. Will you call me when you get dere?” She looked down at the phone and shook her head, looking at me. “Di signal is gone. But he promised to call. Bryce knows what we do.”
“I assume he has a satellite phone?”
“Yes.”
I opened the cabinet below the console and handed her my sat phone. “Call him back and tell him to call you on this number.”
She quickly punched in the number and waited. “It is Mitzi again. When you find out anything, call me on dis number.”
She listened a moment then said, “Yes, John and one other. It is his phone I’m talking on.” Another moment passed as she listened. “Okay,” she said and ended the call.
“What’d he say?” I asked.
“Dey already arrived. Di explosion destroyed di house di couple who found di body were staying in. Dey were outside on di beach and are okay.”
“That’s a relief. Why’d he ask about John?”
“Like I said, he knows what Armstrong Research is involved in, and he knows John.”
“I don’t suppose he said anything about what caused the explosion, did he?”
“He did,” Mitzi said, a grave look on her face. “Di couple said dat a boat came close to shore and fired some kind of rocket at di house.”
“Wait here,” I said, rising from the helm seat. Without waiting for an answer, I scurried down to the engine room and took the main engine offline, then pulled the lever that engaged the dogs for the two Mercedes powerplants.
Mitzi was waiting in the cockpit when I climbed up through the hatch and into the salon. Seeing me, she came inside. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to Little Thatch,” I said. “You have to come with me.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to take that young couple aboard, so whoever tried to kill them won’t get another chance. Can you move the dinghies to the mooring ball and cast off?”
“Right away, Captain. I was born on a boat.”
Going up to the command bridge, I raised the hidden panel, revealing the controls for the twin engines, and started them. It only took a few minutes for Mitzi to release us from the mooring ball, and then I quickly turned Floridablanca toward the bay opening.
A waxing crescent moon hung about thirty degrees above the horizon off to port. When Mitzi returned to the bridge, I brought the engines up to speed. We were soon traveling at twenty-five knots, across a sea that was nearly as tranquil as a pond. Not that it mattered. Floridablanca was all steel, including the cabin and pilothouse. She could bull her way through very rough sea conditions.
I checked the radar; there were few boats out on the water, none close. Most were stationary, already anchored for the night. Two boats were underway, one heading southeast, three miles directly ahead of us, and another heading away from us to the east, six miles off our starboard beam.
Switching on the AIS, I saw that the boat heading east was a sailboat called Write of Passage. The boat ahead of us wasn’t showing an automatic identifier.
Floridablanca rode high when going fast. So, she wasn’t very maneuverable at speed. Unlike Gaspar’s Revenge, the old Seaton could roll if turned too quickly at high speed. That was the downside of her all-steel construction.
The boat ahead was bearing away to our starboard side, so I angled a bit more to the west, to allow plenty of room, but not so much that I couldn’t see them.
“Open that top drawer to the right of the computer monitor,” I told Mitzi. “There’s a small black case in there; open it, and hand me the scope.”
She did, and I powered the 3x night-vision scope on, raising it to my right eye. The boat was easy to spot, as it was moving at about twenty-five knots, creating a white wake and bow wave that stood out in the light of the moon.
“Take the helm,” I said, stepping aside, but not releasing the wheel. “Keep us on the course the chart plotter is showing. I want to get a better look at that boat.”
When Mitzi had control, I stepped out of the pilothouse and went forward, steadying myself against the low bulkhead of the Portuguese bridge.
Finding the boat again, I zoomed to full magnification and watched it. It wasn’t a collision danger, but it was heading away from where we were going.
When it passed far enough and I could see the stern, there was no name there. It was a center-console about thirty feet in length, with twin outboards. Two men were standing at the helm.
Through the night optics, I could tell by the shade of their shirts that they were both wearing either light blue or pink T-shirts. I assumed the former.
I went back inside and took the helm again. As Mitzi stepped aside, the boat rolled slightly to port, throwing her off balance. I caught her easily around the waist and pulled her close until she regained her footing.
Mitzi put an arm around my shoulders and her other hand on my belly, stepping up on her toes, her mouth just inches from my ear. “I was hoping you’d grab me like dis up on di roof.”
I was thankful for the low-level red lights in the pilothouse, as I felt my face flush.
“Yeah, um—”
On the nav-desk, my sat phone rang.
“You are a bull, Captain Jesse,” she said, patting my belly and smiling up at me. “But dis have to wait. Dat’s probly Bryce.”
She picked up the phone and answered it without looking at the screen. Pulling it suddenly away from her ear, she held it against her breast for a moment.
Finally, she extended it to me. “It’s John.”
I held the phone to my ear. “Glad you called, John. Mitzi’s cousin said someone fired an RPG at the house the couple who found the body was staying in. We’re headed there now.”
“Why is she with you?”
“Because her cousin’s in charge of the investigation.” I replied. “He’s not likely to turn material witnesses over to a complete stranger. We’re going to bring them to your house.”
We arrived off the western tip of Little Thatch Island twenty minutes later. Three police boats were there, two on the beach and one just offshore, its engine bubbling quietly as it pointed into the slow-moving current. As we approached, the boat started moving toward us.
The house was smoldering; small fires still burned all around where it had once stood. There was little left to indicate a building had once been there.
“Call your cousin and let him know we’re here,” I told Mitzi, then pointed toward the demolished house with my chin. “I’d like to talk to him and the couple that was staying there.”
She made the call, and a moment later, the police boat came alongside. “Drop your anchor here, Captain,” a uniformed officer called over. “I will take you and Miss Lettsome ashore.”
We were only in fifteen feet of water,
so I dropped the hook. Floridablanca drifted back until I’d paid out ninety feet of rode. I locked the windlass brake and backed down on the anchor until I was sure it was secure on the sandy bottom.
A few minutes later, I stepped off the police boat into waist-deep water near the beach. Then I turned and helped Mitzi down, and we waded ashore together. There were three cops running a bucket brigade from the pool behind the house, dousing dozens of small blazes.
I knew from experience that the RPG warhead had been an HE round—high explosive. If it had been white phosphorous, there would be a lot more fire.
The concrete block and stone house had simply been blasted apart. There was little left but the foundation.
We approached two black men in shorts and button-down shirts—casual attire that signaled the island equivalent of plain-clothes cops. They were talking to a sandy-haired man and a woman, both tall and athletic-looking, dressed in shorts and T-shirts.
“Bryce,” Mitzi said, as one of the men broke away and came toward us. “Dis is—”
“McDermitt,” I said, extending my left hand, and handing him a card I’d taken from my shirt pocket. “Jesse McDermitt. I work for Armstrong Research as sort of a scout, you might say.”
“He sometimes works with John,” Mitzi added, glancing up at me for a moment.
Detective Lettsome turned my card toward the light from the flames, then put it in his pocket. “I could have guessed dat, seeing you come here in John’s boat. I am Detective Sergeant Bryce Lettsome.”
I shook his offered hand. “Floridablanca is mine now. John sold her to me.”
“Ah, I see. You do di job for Armstrong dat old John Wilson used to.”
“That’s pretty much it. I understand this was caused by a rocket-propelled grenade. Lucky it wasn’t WP.”
The detective studied my face, then looked me over in the flickering firelight, pausing at the tattoo on my forearm. “Yes, I am certain dat is what we will find. What can The Royal Virgin Islands Police do to help Armstrong Research?”
“Actually, I think it’s the other way around.” He looked at me, puzzled. “The lives of your witnesses are in danger. Likely your life as well. Where do you plan to keep them?”
“Dey canceling di rest of dere stay and flyin’ out tomorrow. If we need dem later, we bring dem back.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “That’s about what I figured. Think the people who did this might also come to that conclusion? Maybe have someone watching the airport? If an RPG did this, imagine what one would do to an airliner.”
Lettsome looked quickly over toward where the house had once stood, then turned slowly to look at me. “A very good point, Captain McDermitt. I hadn’t considered it. What do you propose?”
“Just call me Jesse,” I replied, nodding my head toward the southwest. “John’s house, up on the hill over Pirate’s Bight.”
The detective looked out to sea. I knew what was going through his mind. No cop wanted an outsider taking over an investigation, or even contributing. Particularly civilian outsiders.
“We have another asset who will be here in the morning,” I added. “They’ll be safer there than on a plane or even in your jail.”
“You seem to have a lot of knowledge about my case,” Bryce said.
“Not really. Just looking at events and guessing what the next step might be. On the way over, I saw a boat heading away from here. Two men aboard.”
“We saw dem on radar but had to get here first. Did you get di boat’s name?”
“No name on the stern,” I replied.
“Dat’s too bad,” Bryce said, motioning the other cop and the couple over.
“They were both wearing blue shirts.”
His head snapped around. He knew what that meant. “How could you see di color?”
“I couldn’t really,” I said. “I saw them through a night-vision spotting scope. Everything’s gray-green.”
“Den how do you know dey were blue?”
“I’ve used the equipment a few times before; twenty years as a Marine sniper. You learn to recognize what colors the different shades of gray-green represent. They were either blue or pink. I’m guessing blue.”
“It will be up to di Snyders, but I must first make a phone call.”
“What’s up to us?” the sandy-haired man asked, as Lettsome fished a phone from his pocket.
He was my height, with hair shorter than the trend—neatly trimmed. His eyes seemed to take in everything. The wife was only a few inches shorter, a tall six-foot, and very pretty. She had long straight hair, dark blond. They looked like typical, well-educated, intelligent professionals. But the man had a military or police bearing that was unmistakable.
“My name’s Jesse,” I said. “This is Mitzi.”
We shook one another’s hands. Both of them had firm, sure grips.
“Jerry Snyder,” he said. “And my wife Alicia. Are you with the police?”
Lettsome turned away and began talking on the phone, his voice low.
“No,” I said. “But we’re here to help.”
Lettsome returned, stuffing his phone back into his pocket after the short call. “You are to contact Ambrosia when you leave, Captain McDermitt.” Then he turned to the Snyders. “I doubt dere will be anyting here you can recover. We have arranged a place for you to stay on a nearby island. Dis man will take you dere.”
“I thought you said you were going to fly us home,” Jerry said. “Our passports were in the house.”
“I understand,” the detective said. “It may be dangerous for you to fly. We think dese people targeted you.”
“Why?” Alicia asked, clutching her husband’s arm.
He turned toward her. “Because we found the body. We’re material witnesses in a murder investigation.”
“You’re a police officer?” I asked.
“Newport Beach PD,” he replied. “California.”
“Then you understand Detective Lettsome’s abundance of caution,” I said, nodding toward the demolished structure, “about putting you on an airplane.”
He looked toward what was left of their honeymoon getaway and I could see the realization in his eyes.
“Yes, I understand.” Jerry looked back at me. “But you’re not a cop?”
“Captain McDermitt works for a private research company,” Lettsome said. “Oceanographic research. Dey do a lot of work in dese islands and are very well-known and respected by di Virgin Islands Police.”
Jerry Snyder looked me over. “You don’t look like an oceanographer.”
“I’m not,” I said. “An associate has a beautiful house built on the hillside above Bight Bay, down on Norman Island. You’ll be very comfortable there.”
“We were very comfortable here,” Alicia said, seeming very distraught.
I gave her my most disarming grin. “Yeah, but it’s not likely to be as comfortable a place now. You’ll be safe where we take you.”
“Okay,” Jerry said. “But we don’t have anything; just what’s in our pockets. All our clothes were in the house—everything we brought with us.”
I glanced down at Mitzi. “There are stores on Norman, right?”
She nodded and I turned back to the young police officer. “We can stake you.”
“I don’t take charity,” Jerry said with fierce conviction
“It’s not charity,” I replied, liking the kid even more. “Let’s just call it an investment in relationship-building between private enterprise and the Virgin Islands government.”
u
Once we were back on Norman Island, John was waiting for us on the beach. It was almost midnight and everything had been closed for hours. Only the essential security lights were still on.
“Have you eaten?” Mitzi asked the Snyders when we landed.
“Not since lun
ch,” Jerry replied.
“I’ll open di restaurant.” She moved toward the building as John approached the dinghy. He was carrying a large black box by a handle.
John glanced over at Mitzi’s retreating form, then looked back at me curiously. “I got everything all set at the house.” He turned to the young couple and extended his hand. “I’m John Wilson.”
They introduced themselves and shook hands. “Y’all go on inside and have a drink on me. I bet you’re still a bit shook up. We’ll catch up to you in a minute.”
When they left, John fixed me with a blinding stare. “What’s going on between you and Mitzi?”
“Whoa, John. Back the boat up. She came out to share a drink, and that’s when we saw the explosion. That’s it.”
I had no idea if this outburst was because of something between him and Mitzi or because he knew the extent of my relationship with his daughter, Sara.
“You see to it,” he said, jabbing me in the chest with a thick finger. “You hurt Sara with your running around, and I’ll make you cry, boy.”
John was a senior citizen by any definition. Except physical. He was four inches shorter than my six-three, but we were about equal in weight, and he didn’t carry any extra baggage. Definitely not a man I’d want to confront.
“John, I’m a one-woman man. Have been for quite a while now. My running around days are long gone. Sara and I don’t talk about the future, but neither of us sleeps around.”
“Be careful,” he warned, cutting his gaze toward the bar. “That woman’s a barracuda. No man can resist her for very long. And no one man can ever satisfy her.”
I didn’t quite know how to take that. So, I chose humor, recalling Mitzi’s question about our employer. “Should I be armed?”
“And legged, too,” he replied, grinning. “And always be ready to use ’em.”
We went up the steps and I held the door for him. The Snyders were sitting at the end of the long bar and Mitzi was behind it, an apron around her narrow waist and her back to us.
“What’s on the griddle?” John asked, placing the black case on the floor.
“You get picky in your old age?” Mitzi asked, without turning around. I couldn’t be certain, but I sensed a bit of wicked humor in her words.
Rising Water Page 9
