Reaching underneath, I gripped the free corner and pulled it. Peeling off the backing, I used my other hand to smooth the vinyl letters in place. In a few minutes, I untaped the transfer sheet and smoothed the last few bubbles out of the letters.
My boat was once again Island Girl. I'm not sure why that was important to me, but it was part of my identity. Living the way I did, there weren't many fixed reference points in my life. Island Girl was one of them.
Moving the dinghy back alongside, I set my bag of stuff on the side deck and climbed up. After I hoisted the dinghy and put my supplies away, I opened a beer and stretched out in the cockpit under the awning.
I was feeling retired again, at least until I got another message from my client. With any luck, that might not be until tomorrow.
6
The squawk of a loud-hailer woke me from my nap. I looked in the sound's direction and saw an orange U.S. Coast Guard launch — an RB-S, or Response Boat -Small — in their jargon. There were two uniformed men in the pilothouse and two more standing at the side closest to Island Girl, ready to come alongside. There was also a fit-looking civilian in a dark suit, sweat running down his face.
"Good morning, captain," one of the uniformed crewmen said. "Is anyone else aboard?"
"No, I'm by myself. What's up?"
"Courtesy boarding," he said. "Do you have any weapons aboard?"
"No."
He turned and nodded to the man at the helm. I heard the clunk of the two big outboards shifting into forward. Water boiled behind the launch, and they came alongside. The uniformed men vaulted Island Girl's lifelines and turned to help the guy in the suit. He was agile enough, but he didn't have the practiced ease of the coastguardsmen. He got aboard, though, with their help. The RB-S pulled back a few feet, drifting.
"Special Agent George Kelley, FBI," the suit said, approaching me with his hand extended. As I shook hands with him, he said, "You're Jerome Finnegan, correct?"
I nodded, hiding my surprise. This is no routine “courtesy boarding.”
"Come up front with me, Mr. Finnegan. We can talk while they handle the search." Kelley turned and went to the foredeck, ducking awkwardly to get past the rigging.
Search? Odd choice of words for someone involved in a routine boarding, but what the hell. The Coast Guard doesn't need a warrant, not for a U.S. flagged vessel in U.S. waters. But this dumbass just tipped his hand and confirmed that this wasn't a routine boarding. So what does he want?
I followed him up to the foredeck and sat down on the forward end of the coachroof.
"What brings you to St. Thomas, Mr. Finnegan?"
"Finn will do just fine, Mr. Kelley."
"It's Special Agent Kelley. And I asked you a question."
So you're not just a garden variety dumbass. You're an asshole, to boot. Okay. We can do it that way.
I plastered a shit-eating grin on my face and said, "The wind."
"What? The wind? What about the wind?"
"Just answering your question."
"Huh?"
"Get with the program, Kelley. You — "
"It's Special Agent Kelley."
"Right. You asked what brought me to St. Thomas. This is a sailboat. The wind brought me to St. Thomas."
"Okay, smart-ass. We can do this downtown, at the federal building."
"Gonna arrest me, Kelley?" I watched the flush spread up from his collar. "Be careful how you answer that. It might be a trick question."
"What the hell's the matter with you? I'm an FBI agent. Mess around with me and I'll tie your ass up in red tape for days, even if you're innocent. And everybody's guilty of something."
"Really? I've got lots of time. And money for lawyers. Why don't you knock off the bullshit and tell me why you're here?"
"It's a routine Coast Guard boarding."
"No, Special Agent Kelley. It's not. FBI agents aren't part of a routine boarding. And you knew my name before you set foot aboard. So you gave yourself away. Sorry to react this way, but I feel like you're screwing around with me. Why don't we start over and you tell me why you're here? Maybe we can work something out."
"I could still take you downtown," Kelley said.
"Yep. I'd go with you. But if you do that, I'll have to make a phone call to some people in Washington. That's a rule I have to follow because of my old line of work. I can't tell you about that part, but trust me. If that happens, shit's gonna rain down on both of us. It would be a lot better if you told me what you need. Cut the bullshit, and I'll help you if I can."
"Are you threatening me, Finn?"
"Nope. I'm offering to help you. You were the one making threats. All I'm doing is trying to put our conversation back on the rails. I'm sorry I ruffled your feathers, but the easiest way out of this for both of us is for you to just shoot straight with me. We've both been around the block a few times, I'm sure."
He scowled at me for several seconds. "Your paperwork says you're retired. But were you some kind of cop? A spook or something?"
"I really can't answer questions about that, okay? I was telling you the truth about that phone call I'd have to make. It would be better if you and I could work this out right here, between us. Sorry we got off on the wrong foot."
"Okay, but don't push your luck, Finn. I have some questions. You give me straight answers, and we'll forget all this happened. Unless the boys find something they shouldn't. I can't do much about that."
"Fair enough. Tell me what you need."
"You had a woman aboard for a few weeks. Mary Elizabeth O'Brien. We think she hitched a ride with you from Puerto Rico to Bequia. That right?"
"Yes, that's right." As far as it goes. "Can you tell me what this is about?"
He chewed on his lip for a few seconds.
"It's a long story, but it starts with a double murder in Florida," Kelley said. "A developer and his wife who were laundering drug money. Guy named Dailey. Mean anything to you?"
"I read about it in the papers, but the story fizzled out. Did they catch whoever did it?"
"That's why I'm here."
"I don't know anything about the Daileys. Or drug money."
"No. But we think the O'Brien woman might know something. That's why we're trying to track her down."
"I see. Like you said, she hitched a ride with me. She said she was between jobs, looking for a paid crew position on a big yacht."
"Why would she have gone to Bequia?" Kelley asked. "Seems to me there would be better places to find crew jobs."
"Yeah, you're right. She said she was burned out on Puerto Rico, wanted to find something on a European yacht, maybe. She told me she'd had a job on a big yacht out of Miami that got her to Puerto Rico, but it didn't work out." I expected him to pick up on that. Ask me questions about it. At least the name of the yacht.
"But why Bequia?"
"Sorry. I got sidetracked. I was headed for the Eastern Caribbean. You sail?"
"No. Why?"
"I didn't want to tell you stuff you'd already know. To get to the east on a sailboat down here, it's easier if you take a less direct route. Her best bet for crew jobs on European yachts would have been maybe St. Martin, or Antigua, or one of the French islands. But that would have meant pounding straight into the trade winds from Puerto Rico. So we took off at an angle to the wind. Picked one that gave us the best boat speed. And that took us to Bequia. To go north from there to the other islands, it's an easy sail with the wind on the beam, see."
"Okay. So you're saying Bequia wasn't really a destination? Just a stop along the way?"
"Exactly."
"And you just happened to be going where she wanted to go? That it? Or were you going to Bequia anyway?"
"I'm retired, remember? I just sail for the fun of it. One island's as good as another, for me."
"Must be nice to live like that."
"I'm not complaining. It beats working, for sure."
"And then the two of you sailed north to Ste. Anne, Martinique, from Bequia. That
correct?"
Now, how did you know that? Mary and I went to great lengths to change our names and the boat's name so we couldn't be tracked through any of the customs and immigration databases. That's why Island Girl was named Carib Princess when I got here. For that matter, how the hell did you find me this morning? It's only been two hours since I changed her name back to Island Girl.
"Yeah, that's right. Martinique."
"How long were you in Martinique?"
"Two days, give or take. Living like this, it's tough to keep track. You want me to check my logbook?"
"Not just yet. That's okay. And from there, you went to St. Lucia? Rodney Bay?"
"Yes."
How the hell does he know? Was somebody following me?
"She was still with you? In Rodney Bay?"
"No. She found something in Martinique, I guess. I got a text from her saying goodbye. That's when I left."
"So she didn't come here with you, then?"
"That's right. I sailed here solo from St. Lucia."
"Why'd you go to St. Lucia first?"
"That wind thing, again. To get a better angle on the wind. Sailing downwind's not as tricky as sailing into the wind, but some angles to the wind are better than others, even downwind."
"I see. And you came here because…"
"Homesick for the good old U.S. of A. Anything else I can tell you?"
"No, not for now. You gonna be here for a while?"
I shrugged. "I just got here. Still recovering from the trip. But there's nothing to keep me here. The good part of being retired is I have no plans. And I stick to them religiously."
He frowned at that.
"That's a joke," I said.
He nodded. "Looks like they finished checking over the boat."
I looked over my shoulder and saw the two coastguardsmen sitting in the cockpit, one with a clipboard in his hand.
"Should we join them?" I asked. "They're probably looking for my signature."
"Yeah."
Kelley took a business card from the side pocket of his suit coat and handed it to me. "Call me if you think of anything that might help us find the O'Brien woman."
I nodded and put the card in the pocket of my cutoffs. "Sure."
"Or if you decide to leave St. Thomas," Kelley said.
"Okay," I said. Don't hold your breath waiting for that call, asshole.
I stepped into the cockpit, and Kelley stayed on the side deck, waving for the RB-S to pick him up.
"Everything looks good, skipper. I found your vessel documentation on the chart table, so I just need your signature." The senior man handed me his clipboard.
I scrawled my name at the bottom.
"I think we got everything put back like you had it," the man said, as I returned the clipboard to him. "Only thing I want to mention is, you got a lot of expired flares. You should get rid of them; they're hazardous. You should just keep the ones that are still current."
"Right," I said. "Thanks. You saw I've got them bagged up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Looking for a good place to get rid of them. That's why they're bagged. Any suggestions?"
"Some chandleries will dispose of them for you," he said.
"I'll keep that in mind."
The two of them stood. "Safe voyage, skipper," the senior man said. They stepped onto the side deck and waved the RB-S over again.
I watched them leave the anchorage, headed southwest toward Charlotte Amalie. When they were out of sight, I went below to fetch a beer. I needed to think through this Kelley thing. The coastguardsmen behaved like they were carrying out a routine, random boarding, but Special Agent Kelley didn't pass the smell test. He knew too much about my itinerary.
7
Once below deck, I checked to see how well the two coastguardsmen did at putting the boat back together after their search. Island Girl's been boarded and searched by Coasties before. They're usually good about leaving stuff the way they found it, unless the owner irritates them.
These two were no exception. I knew what to look for, so I could tell they went through every locker, every nook and cranny.
The clothes that Mary left behind might cause questions. They were too small to fit me, even if I were to play the part of a cross-dresser. The two men were trained professionals. I'm sure they didn't miss Mary's stuff. Not just clothes, but typical female things.
Would they remark on that to Kelley? Sure they would. He might be dumb, but not that dumb. He would ask if they found signs of another person living on the boat. So he might not buy the story that she didn't come with me to St. Thomas.
Thanks to the tip-off from my old boss earlier, I knew the feds were looking for Mary in connection with the slaughter in Ste. Anne. Kelley tied her to the murder of the Daileys back in Florida, but he didn't say anything about the bloodbath on Frankie Dailey's yacht in Ste. Anne. I wasn't naïve enough to think Special Agent Kelley was finished with me.
I considered ditching Mary's stuff. I kept it until now, figuring she would be back, but she knew the score. She wouldn't be upset if I tossed it. At this point, though, that might cause more trouble than just hanging on to it. Kelley already knew it was aboard.
There were things about Kelley that didn't add up. He called me Jerome Finnegan. That was the name I adopted when Mary and I went underground after her trouble in Bequia. It also matched the U.S. Coast Guard Certificate of Documentation for Carib Princess.
Both pieces of information were on the paperwork I filled out when I cleared into the U.S. with customs and immigration in St. John yesterday. They also tied back to my outbound clearance paperwork from Ste. Anne, Martinique, and Rodney Bay, St. Lucia.
But they didn't match what was in the official records in Bequia. Mary and I cleared in there with passports in different names. The vessel documentation I used was for Island Girl, not Carib Princess. Mary was using the identity of Mary Elizabeth O'Brien then. And that's what Kelley called her this morning.
When we went on the run after her problem in Bequia, I started using the Jerome Edward Finnegan passport. I also got Mary a new U.S. passport in the name of Mary Helen Maloney.
At that point, Island Girl became Carib Princess. Island Girl was owned by a Delaware corporation, so none of my names showed up on that Certificate of Documentation. But Carib Princess was owned by Jerome Finnegan. That was confusing. It was meant to be confusing.
Kelley should have expected to find Jerome Finnegan on Carib Princess this morning. And he should have expected that Mary was using the Mary Helen Maloney name. That was if he got his information legitimately.
Instead, he found me — answering to Jerome Finnegan — on a boat bearing the name Island Girl. That wouldn't match any data he had, and he didn't remark on it. So Kelley must have found the boat's location independent of the name on her transom.
There were several ways to explain that, but the most straightforward was also the most disturbing. There was a satellite tracker hidden on the boat. I knew that, but Kelley shouldn't have, unless he was connected to the Dailey-O'Hanlon mob.
Before I killed Frankie Dailey, he confessed that his goons hid the tracking device aboard when they tried to kidnap Mary in Bequia. That was how Frankie found Mary and me in Ste. Anne.
Based on all the effort I put into covering my trail, I suspected that Kelley must know about the tracker. That would explain how he knew our itinerary after we left Bequia. It also explained how he found the boat in Christmas Cove, St. Thomas, with a different name on her transom.
The unsettling thing about that was that I thought only two people knew about the tracker — Frankie, and me. Frankie's dead, and I didn't tell Kelley about the tracker.
Frankie could have told one of his cohorts about the tracker. So Kelley could have gotten our itinerary from whoever Frankie was working for.
But most of Frankie's cohorts died in Ste. Anne, when they made the mistake of tangling with Mary. So Kelley was in touch with them back then. Or he was workin
g with somebody else who knew the story about Mary and the Daileys and Rory O'Hanlon. That was possible, too. That would mean Kelley was connected to someone high in the hierarchy of O’Hanlon’s old mob.
My client said Frankie was a confidential informant for the FBI. That might explain how Kelley found me, except for two things. First, I didn't believe Frankie was an informant. It didn't make sense. And second, Kelley acted wrong. Maybe he was just a jerk, but he should have played straight with me. He had no reason not to, and he didn't do that.
The bits and pieces of information I picked up from Mary argued against Frankie's cooperating with the FBI. Mary's story was convoluted, but she shared a lot of information about the Daileys and O'Hanlon during our time together.
Early in our friendship, she told me a bunch of lies. I don't blame her for that; it took her a while to decide to trust me. Then she began to tell me the truth. The parts she told me that I thought were true matched the parts that Frankie told me when I interrogated him right before I killed him.
Frankie's parents, the Daileys, were laundering drug money for his uncle, Rory O'Hanlon. O'Hanlon was Frankie's mother's brother — Frankie's uncle. Frankie caught his parents skimming and ratted them out to his uncle.
O'Hanlon hired Mary to kill Frankie's parents. As part of the package, Mary was supposed to recover the mob's money and a lot of incriminating records. Mary, being Mary, recovered everything and kept it for herself. It was more complicated than that, but that was close enough.
Frankie and his uncle tracked Mary and me, her somewhat unwitting accomplice, to Ste. Anne. They snatched her, planning to force her to turn everything over to them. They forgot how good Mary is at what they hired her to do in the first place, and she killed the lot of them.
Mary vanished and left me to deal with Frankie, who came to pick me up and take me to O'Hanlon after they snatched Mary.
I was good at what Mary does for a living, too. As I mentioned before, we were in the same business, just working for different people. After Frankie answered a few questions, I fed him to the fish.
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