"I always knew you were a smart lady — not just a pretty face. And that solves another problem I've been wondering about," Bert said.
"What problem?"
"Steve's estate. You're going to need a death certificate, or something, right?"
"No. There's no estate."
"What do you mean, no estate? What about all the property? And the brokerage accounts and stuff?"
"Everything we had is in joint tenancy with right of survivorship. I can dispose of anything without Steve's signature, and vice versa. With him dead, or even just missing, it's all mine, with no need for paperwork. We set it up that way in case something happened to one of us."
Bert laughed and shook his head. "Were you planning this all along?"
"I'm not going to answer that," she said, joining in his laughter.
"When are we leaving?" he asked.
"How about this evening? That should put us somewhere off Martinique in the wee hours of tomorrow morning. Steve's going to fall overboard before I get up for my watch. That means he could have been gone for hours before we noticed; we'll get blown off course way out to the west by the time I realize he's missing."
"Where is he?" Paul asked as he climbed into the cockpit.
"He went back to bed; he wasn't feeling well," Connie said. "You didn't see him come below?"
"Maybe I was in the head when he came down. You think he's okay?"
"I don't know. I always heard you should keep people awake after a concussion. Should we go get him?"
Paul shrugged. "Nah. It's been a while since he got the lump on his head. He's probably just exhausted."
"What did you learn?" Connie asked.
"Nothing worthwhile. Nobody's looking for a man overboard, and I got a weird reaction from the coast guard in Dominica."
"Weird how?" Connie asked.
"I asked if there were any reports of people missing overboard, and they said there weren't. They checked notices from all through the islands. Then the woman asked if there was anything else they could help with. I told her about finding him, and that we were bringing him to Dominica." Paul frowned, shaking his head. "'Why are you bringing him here?' she asked me. I told her he needed medical attention, and then she put me on hold."
"On hold? Why?" Connie asked.
"She had to check with somebody. When she came back, she gave me this long story about how Isla de Aves is part of Venezuela. She asked me if he had a passport."
"What?"
"That's what I said, but she was serious. So I went through the whole thing again, to make sure she understood that he had amnesia and didn't know who he was or how he got there. And I told her he didn't have a passport; I figured that should have been obvious. If he had a passport, we'd know who he was, right?"
"Right," Connie said. "Then what?"
"She put me on hold again. After a couple of minutes, another woman picked up the phone. She was the supervisor, or whatever. I didn't catch her name and title. She told me that Dominica would admit him for medical care since it was an emergency, but that since he was our guest, we would be responsible for him as far as immigration is concerned."
"And what's that mean?" Connie asked.
"It means we can't leave him there unless they can identify him and get some proof of his citizenship."
"Uh-oh," Connie said. "That sounds like a real catch-22, doesn't it?"
"Yes. No good deed goes unpunished, as the saying goes. Looks like we have a new dependent, at least until we can figure out who he is."
"We didn't need this," Connie said. "Good thing our next charter's a few weeks out. What are we going to do?"
"I called Sharktooth. I was hoping he could work his magic with immigration. He's going to see what he can do. He'll call back. But he thinks we should still bring him there; he figures they'll work something out. He's also going to talk to the people who run the Caribbean Safety and Security Net."
"Oh, that's a good idea. He's going to put out an announcement on the net, then?"
"Yes; spread the word on the coconut telegraph. If our guy's a yachtie, somebody may know something about him. Sharktooth's going to arrange to get him fingerprinted and get a mug shot, too. He's thinking they may be able to identify him through Interpol. And I'll send copies along to my contacts in Miami. We'll find out who he is, one way or another. Or maybe his memory will come back."
"Well, at least he's pleasant company, if we're stuck with him for a while. Good thing he's not a jerk," Connie said. "It could be worse. Poor guy."
"Senator, a woman just called who said she's from Oscar Jefferson's office."
"Who's Oscar Jefferson, Mandy?" O'Toole asked. "Is he a donor? Or a constituent?"
His secretary looked down at the steno pad that she always carried. "I don't know, Senator. She said he wants to schedule a meeting with you to discuss something that a man named Steven Canaday was working on with you."
O'Toole shook his head. "Steven Canaday? The big developer?"
"I guess so. She didn't say, but she sounded like she thought you'd know what she was talking about."
"I recognize his name, but I don't think Canaday's a major contributor."
"Want me to get someone to check?"
O'Toole thought for a moment. "Yeah, go ahead, but it's not urgent. I have no idea what this is about. I'm not working on anything with Steven Canaday, that's for damn sure."
"What should I tell her?"
"She still on the phone?"
"No, sir. I told her I'd check with you and call her back."
"Good. Have a seat, Mandy. Let's call Mr. Ryan. He runs in those circles; maybe he'll know who this Oscar Jefferson is. Feel free to chime in if you think of anything."
O'Toole spun his swivel chair to face his credenza and hit the speakerphone switch on his multi-line telephone. He touched a speed-dial button, and after two rings, Ryan answered the line that he reserved for O'Toole.
"Hey, Willie! How they hangin', boy?"
"Hey, Gator Jaw. Behave yourself; I got Mandy on the line with me."
"Good. I'd druther talk to her ennyhow. How you doin', Miss Mandy?"
"Fine, thank you, Mr. Ryan. And you?"
"Better than I was 'fore I heard your voice. What can I do for y'all?"
"Mandy just got a call from somebody wantin' to arrange a meetin' with me for a fellow named Oscar Jefferson. Said it was about somethin' I was workin' on with Steven Canaday."
"Shit, Willie! 'Scuse my language, Miss Mandy. What're you doin', gettin' mixed up with them people, boy?"
"That's why I called, Gator Jaw. I don't know who the hell this Jefferson is."
"Well, I do, but first, you got somethin' goin' on with Canaday?"
"No, I don't. I mean, I recognize his name, and all, but I'm not workin' on anything with him."
"Well, that's good, Willie. Real good, boy. Word is Canaday's death bait."
"Death bait? Why?"
"He's into some people for big money, and some of them ain't known for their patience, if you get my drift."
"Some of 'em your clients?"
"Well, if'n they was, that would be privileged information which I couldn't share, but that kinda people, yeah."
Besides being O'Toole's former college roommate and long-time confidant, Dilbert W. "Gator Jaw" Ryan was the foremost criminal defense attorney in the southeast. He was infamous for keeping some of the country's ugliest mobsters out on the street.
"Who's this Jefferson, then?" O'Toole asked.
"Money. That's who. Lots of it. He's prob'ly been bankrollin' some of Canaday's projects."
"Is he clean or dirty?" O'Toole asked.
"Dirty, Willie. Nobody ever pinned nothin' on him for sure, but with that kinda money, you know he's dirty."
"Should I meet with him? Or is that likely to come back to bite me?"
"Hmm," Ryan said. "Tell you what, Willie. Maybe you ought to let me be the go-between, leastways 'til we see what he wants. How'd you leave it with him?"
> "I didn't talk to him. Mandy's supposed to get back to whoever it was from his office."
"Leave it with me, then. That's good."
"Should I call her back, Mr. Ryan? To let them know you'll be calling?" Mandy asked.
"Uh-uh, Mandy. Just lose the message. I got it under control. Better if there ain't no indication y'all responded. If'n it looks okay, I'll fix it up for you to meet him somewhere, Willie. Y'all enjoy the rest of yo' day, now."
"Hey, Leon?"
"Yeah, Miguel. What's up?" Leon Contreras sat at a makeshift desk in the cheap hotel room he was using for an office.
"The intercept on O'Toole's phone. We just had a couple of unusual calls. That guy the Treasury people are watching — Oscar Jefferson. His secretary called. O'Toole didn't take the call; he and his secretary called his friend the crooked lawyer about it."
"Gator Jaw Ryan?" Contreras asked.
"Yeah. Jefferson wanted to talk to O'Toole about some project O'Toole was supposed to be working on with a guy named Steven Canaday. Canaday's apparently a developer, from the conversation O'Toole had with Ryan. Ryan thinks Jefferson's probably feeding dirty money to Canaday."
"Any clue as to how they fit in with O'Toole?"
"Not yet, but Ryan told O'Toole to stay away from Jefferson. Ryan's going to check him out and get back to O'Toole. Oh, and O'Toole claimed he wasn't working on anything with Canaday. Ryan said the word on the street was that Canaday was in hock to some people who were getting impatient with him; Ryan called him 'death bait.'"
"Canaday?" Contreras asked.
"Yeah. You want us to stay on O'Toole?"
"Yeah, definitely. We need to know what Ryan finds out, and see what you can get on Canaday, too."
"Okay, boss. You got it."
6
The man they were calling Friday was staring at the overhead paneling in his stateroom. He'd been awake for a few minutes, trying to figure out where he was. The gentle, surging motion and the slanted surface of the bed meant he was at sea on a sailing vessel, but it wasn't the one he knew. It took a moment for that to register; it wasn't the one he knew. He must have spent some time on a sailing vessel, but not this one. This one belonged to those people, Connie and Paul. Who owned the other one? Connie and Paul made him welcome, but why was he here?
He rolled to a sitting position and paused, waiting until he adjusted to the rhythm of the vessel's movements. He stood, bracing a hand against the bulkhead. The angle of heel was about 10 or 15 degrees, and the vessel felt solid, stable. They must be close-hauled in a steady breeze and moderate seas. They were headed for Dominica. Connie and Paul had told him that. Dominica was familiar for some reason, but why? Had he been there?
He went into the head and relieved himself, noticing that the toilet had an electric discharge pump. That wasn't familiar, either. His boat had a manual discharge pump on the toilet. His boat? He frowned and shook his head, bending over the sink and running a little water into his cupped hand. He shut the water off — mustn't waste fresh water — and splashed his face. He found a towel hanging near to hand, dried his face, and stepped out into the main cabin, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings.
Seeing the chart fixed to the table at the nav station, he sat down to look at it. Someone had drawn a faint course line that extended from Saint John in the USVI to a tiny speck called Isla de Aves. Another course line extended from there to Dominica. There were neatly labeled position fixes with dates and times along the line from St. John to Isla de Aves, but none on the line to Dominica. Then he saw there was another line from Isla de Aves to Grenada, also without position fixes. Had Connie and Paul been planning to go to Grenada? Did they change their plans because of him? How did he come to be here with them?
Dominica and Grenada — both place names were familiar to him, but he didn't know why. If he had been to either place, he couldn't remember it. But they'd been planning to stop in Dominica, he thought. They? Who were they? Somebody familiar to him, he knew. Not Connie and Paul. Grenada had some meaning for him, but he couldn't recall what it was. Whatever it was, though, it was his alone. He hadn't shared it with them, whoever they were. Somebody besides Connie and Paul.
A shadow fell over the chart table. He looked over his shoulder to see the woman, Connie, backing down the companionway ladder. She turned when she was below, stopping when she saw him at the chart table.
She smiled at him. "Feeling better?" she asked.
He tried to smile back, but the skin on his face felt chapped; it was painful. He nodded. "Yes, thanks."
"Checking our position?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Just trying to figure out where I am."
"We're about 10 hours out from Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica, " she said. "That's if this northeasterly wind holds."
He tried to smile again. "Thanks, Connie. You're Connie, right?"
"That's right," she said.
He nodded again. "Thanks, but that's not quite what I meant by figuring out where I am."
"Oh?" she said.
"How'd I get here? On your boat, I mean?"
"Paul and I were on our way from the Virgins to Grenada, and we'd always wanted to see Isla de Aves. Since we were in the neighborhood and didn't have charter guests, we decided to stop. You were there; you were in pretty rough shape — dehydrated."
"Have you already told me all this?" he asked. "You have, haven't you? I'm sorry."
She smiled at him. "It's okay. Is any of it taking root?"
"Yes, I think so. You mind going over it again?"
"Of course not," she said. "Why don't you go up to the cockpit? Paul and I can fill you in. I want to mark our position and get some cold juice to share with Paul. You want anything?"
"Juice sounds great," he said, getting up and going to the companionway ladder.
"What the hell do you mean, O'Toole wouldn't take my call?" Oscar Jefferson said to his secretary. "For all the money we're paying him, he should be begging me to call him."
"I'm sorry Mr. Jefferson. I didn't make myself clear. He wasn't there; his secretary was going to get a message to him and have him call."
"It's been over an hour, Paige. Do you know if she got the message to him?"
"No, sir, I don't. Excuse me for a minute; I'll call her and — "
"No, never mind. Get me Steve Canaday; I'll give him hell and he can rattle the Senator's cage for me."
"Yes, sir. I'll put him through to you as soon as I reach him. If he's out on that boat of his, it may take me a little while. He could be out in the Gulf Stream, or something. When my husband goes out there, sometimes they're out of cellphone range."
"Here," Jefferson said, taking a card from his desk drawer. "He gave me a number for the satellite phone on his boat several months ago when he was screwing around in the Bahamas that time. If you can't get him on the cellphone, give this a try. It may still work, I don't know."
"Yes, sir. Thank you," she said, taking the card and backing out of his office, closing the door behind her.
"Is that your phone?" Bert Holsclaw asked, as a snatch of elevator music emanated from below deck. He and Marian were finishing lunch in the cockpit.
"No," she said. "Steve's. He's got that stupid ringtone." She stood up and scrambled down the companionway. Bert could hear her cursing as she rummaged through the drawers under the chart table, trying to find the phone. The music stopped in midstream.
"Hello?" she said.
Bert heard nothing for several seconds, and then she said, "I'm sorry, but he's not here right now."
Another few seconds passed, and she said, "Look, I don't know what you're talking about. Steve's not around; I don't know when he'll be back. Besides, he's retired."
She reappeared in the cockpit, Steve's phone in her hand.
"Who was it?" Bert asked.
She shrugged. "Some woman. She said she was calling for Oscar Jefferson. She said Steve was supposed to set up a meeting for Jefferson with Senator O'Toole, and he hadn't done it.
Something about a deal they're working on."
"With Steve?" Bert asked. "I thought he'd pulled out of everything."
"Yeah. He did. Or told me he did."
"Me, too," Bert said. "How'd you leave it with her?"
"She was still talking when I hung up. I told her Steve was retired."
"I heard that much. Wonder — "
The phone rang again, interrupting him. Marian looked at the screen. "Same number," she said, touching the icon to decline the call, sending it to voicemail. She turned off the phone.
"What are we going to do about that?" Bert asked.
"Ignore it," she said.
"That's not a good long-term solution."
"Look, Bert, I'm not stupid. I know it's not a long-term solution, but it'll stall this guy. We need a couple of days; that's all."
"Cellphones can be tracked," Bert said. "Should we ditch it?"
"No, I don't think so." She shook her head. "I'll need to deal with this pretty soon."
"Deal with it? How?"
"Steve worked several deals with Oscar Jefferson. He's been to our house a couple of times. I'll have to call him, I guess."
"I thought you said Steve wasn't working on anything these days."
"Not that I know of, he wasn't. But maybe he didn't tell me."
"So how are you going to deal with it, Marian?"
"Once we've reported Steve missing, I'll go through his voice mail and return the calls, tell people he's dead and the business is shut down."
"But what if it's not?"
"I don't understand, Bert. What are you asking?"
"What if Steve still had deals working? Then what?"
"Then I'll have to work something out. His deals are all personal; I mean, without him, there's not a business, right?"
"But you said everything was joint. Shouldn't you be calling your lawyer?"
"Yeah, sure. But first, Steve's got to be officially gone, Bert. Think this through, will you? We just need to stall for a day or two. Then I'll call my lawyer and he can sort it all out."
Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 7th Novel in the Series - Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 4