Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 7th Novel in the Series - Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  Connie studied him for a few seconds and put her mug down on the table. "Paul was about to tell you what we talked about last night, I think. He got interrupted when Sharktooth hailed us."

  "What did I mess up?" Sharktooth asked.

  "Nothing, Sharktooth. But Paul and I were thinking maybe we should sail down to St. Lucia."

  "Mm. They still not gon' let him off the boat, jus' like here."

  "Actually, though, the sail sounds nice," Friday said.

  "Yes, it does," Connie said. "And you mentioned that you thought you'd been to St. Lucia, so we were thinking the sights in Rodney Bay might help shake loose some memories."

  "I'm up for that," Friday said. "Maybe by the time we get there, the police will know something — or Paul's former partner. Luke? Was that the name?"

  "Good for you," Connie said. "Nothing wrong with your short-term memory now, anyway. Speaking of police, though, we thought maybe you could call your friend down there, Sharktooth."

  "Cedric?" Sharktooth asked, a big grin splitting his face as Paul set a tray holding a plate of pancakes with Grenada molasses and a slab of Irish butter on the table in front of him.

  "Right," Paul said. "CCLEC's headquartered in St. Lucia, too, so we thought maybe he could help out a little with them."

  "Who's Cedric? And what's CCLEC?" Friday asked.

  "Cedric Jones," Sharktooth said. "He's the Deputy Commissioner of Police for St. Lucia."

  "And CCLEC is a clearinghouse for law enforcement information in the Caribbean basin," Paul added. "The police here will have already sent along what they know about you to them, hoping somebody may have reported you missing somewhere in this part of the world."

  "I see," Friday said. "Why would this Cedric Jones be interested in me?"

  "He's an old friend of one of my business partners," Sharktooth said.

  "In your tour-guide business?" Friday asked.

  Sharktooth looked at him for a moment. "No. In one of my other businesses." Seeing the curiosity on Friday's face, he said, "I work with some other people; we do a little international trading from time to time."

  "I see," Friday said.

  "I t'ink mebbe I get Phillip to call him, if tha's okay wit' you. Cedric mebbe owe Phillip and J.-P. some favors."

  "Whatever you think's best," Paul said. "We just thought it might help keep the immigration people from getting alarmed if Cedric gave them a heads-up about Friday."

  "Mm-hmm. I t'ink so. I take care of it an' let you know. When you t'ink you gon' leave?"

  "We hadn't gotten that far," Connie said.

  "I vote for sooner rather than later, if it's okay," Friday said. "Maybe it's crazy, but I like the idea of doing something instead of sitting and waiting."

  Sharktooth nodded. "Makes sense to me. Always better to be doin' somet'ing."

  "There's nothing keeping us here," Connie said.

  "We should probably let customs and immigration know we're leaving, even though it's not a requirement," Paul said. "Because of the strange situation."

  "Mm-hmm," Sharktooth said, as he finished the last of the pancakes. "I take care of tellin' them, no problem. I may as well call the lady on the security net, too. They can put out the word tomorrow morning; see if anybody knows Friday."

  "Good," Paul said. "Thanks."

  "Keep the sat phone on; I be callin' you sometime later today," Sharktooth said. "You might as well get under way; wind's fillin' in good for a trip south."

  Leon Contreras sat at the small round table in his room, sharing a box of doughnuts and a pot of coffee with Jorge and Miguel.

  "We found the mystery phone," Miguel said. "It was stuck in a secret compartment in O'Toole's desk. Somebody went to some serious trouble to hide it."

  "Did you get anything from it?" Contreras asked.

  Jorge shook his head. "Not yet. It's not a consumer phone, so we couldn't screw around with it much. We cloned it, though, so we should be able to crack it, with a little help from our Israeli friends."

  "How'd you even find it?"

  "We swept the office for any active devices," Miguel said. "We did that before, when we bugged it."

  "Why didn't you find it then?" Contreras asked.

  "It wasn't there, or we would have," Jorge said.

  "You think it's new?"

  Jorge shook his head. "Could be, but the secret compartment it was in looked like it had some wear on the latch. Maybe O'Toole had it with him when we swept the place the first time."

  "Was the office clean except for that?" Contreras asked.

  "It was the first time we swept it," Jorge said, "but we found all kinda shit this time. We ain't the only ones watching him."

  "No?" Contreras asked. "Somebody else is checking up on him?"

  Jorge laughed. "Two somebodies. And then he's got his own audio recording system installed, too. But that was there before."

  Contreras laughed and shook his head. "Damn. I guess there's no way to tell who put the other stuff in, huh?"

  "Not really, but we can ask around. We got some pretty good pictures of the stuff; we'll send it along with the cloned phone."

  "Would the other systems have picked up your intrusion?"

  "We took care of that. They're all using wireless for remote monitoring. We hacked 'em and looped them before we went in."

  "Did you find anything that might help figure out who he was talking to from the fishing pier?" Contreras asked.

  "Yeah," Jorge said. "The prepaid phone was in his top desk drawer. It's a throwaway. We cracked it on the spot. It only had one call in its memory, and the time matched with our recording from yesterday afternoon."

  "Don't keep me in suspense, you two. Who'd he call?"

  "We don't know," Jorge said.

  "I thought you cracked the phone," Contreras said.

  "Yeah," Miguel said. "We cracked it, and we got the number he called. It's not a regular phone number. It's a relay; the first number is in the Cayman Islands. We haven't been able to get past that."

  "Why not?"

  "I think it's set up to recognize the originating phone. It won't forward calls from any other phone."

  "So, whoever set it up must have given O'Toole the phone," Contreras said. "Maybe you can track down where it came from and find out who bought it."

  "That's worth a try, but don't count on it," Jorge said. "I've heard of a way to set up a relay like that that will lock on the first phone that calls it and only forward calls from that phone in the future."

  "Damn technology," Contreras said. "Can you spoof the originating number?"

  "That might or might not work. These things can be smart enough to allow the call and then query the phone for its ESN before setting up the next link."

  "ESN?"

  "Electronic serial number," Miguel said.

  "If you swiped the phone, could you make a call and trace it?"

  "We don't have to swipe it," Jorge said. "We cloned it, too, in case we wanted to do something like that. There's another problem with that approach, though."

  "More high tech shit?" Contreras asked.

  "Maybe, but that's not the biggest problem."

  "Okay, I give up," Contreras said. "What's the biggest problem?"

  "What are we gonna say when they answer? If they went to this much trouble on the front end, they'll probably have some password protocol to make sure the caller is legit. Maybe voice recognition."

  "Could you get a trace by calling and hanging up?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. That's gonna spook whoever's running this, though. They'll disappear in a second or two if somebody gets through to the end number and hangs up. I sure as hell would."

  "Yeah, I see that," Contreras said. "But they'd still need to communicate with O'Toole, so they'd have to start over, right?"

  "I guess," Jorge said. "You're thinking if they started over, we'd be watching?"

  "Yeah," Contreras said. "Watching O'Toole, so we'd see who set it up, at least on his end."

  "Mi
ght work," Jorge said. "It's risky, because they'll be on their toes, for sure. You want to try it?"

  "Let me think about it for a while. Is there any other way to get past that first number?"

  "We'll do a little checking. Maybe now that we're set up to monitor calls to that number, we'll learn more."

  "Good," Contreras said. "Get some sleep."

  13

  Guillermo Montalba studied the report his people had sent him. O'Toole might be a problem. At the beginning of their relationship, the senator had seemed eager enough to let Montalba handle his illicit drug business, relegating O'Toole to the role of a passive investor. Of course, Montalba reminded himself, he had not left O'Toole another option, and the senator was sharp enough to have realized that.

  Montalba considered whether the senator might be playing him, and if so, what his reasons might be. O'Toole's income from the drug business was growing at an extraordinary rate since Montalba had been running it. The profits had more than doubled in the few months of Montalba's stewardship.

  Aside from the reason for O'Toole's phone call yesterday, there was the question of who else was spying on O'Toole. Montalba's people had picked up two other wireless feeds from O'Toole's office besides the senator's own monitoring system. Both were encrypted, and they were of a type not available to the public.

  Montalba's people reported that when O'Toole and his friend Gator Jaw Ryan had met yesterday, Ryan had asked about O'Toole's relationship with Steve Canaday, the developer. O'Toole had denied knowing Canaday, but Montalba wasn't so sure. Canaday had disappeared, and his backer, Oscar Jefferson, wasn't happy about it.

  Jefferson had invested a few hundred million with Canaday on his latest project. Ryan had told O'Toole that Jefferson was saying some of the money had been intended to bribe the senator to secure environmental approvals. The senator denied knowledge of this, but Montalba knew Jefferson's track record. Jefferson no doubt had a reason for his allegations. If Jefferson and his investors decided to put pressure on O'Toole, it might disrupt the drug business that Montalba and O'Toole were running.

  Then there was the question of how and why O'Toole knew Kilgore had killed Pinky Schultz. O'Toole might have an investigator hunting Canaday, but the odds that someone looking for Canaday would be watching Schultz were slim, by Montalba's reckoning.

  Whatever the reason, Montalba had to deal with the Kilgore issue sooner than he had planned. Kilgore had been clumsy. If O'Toole knew about the hit on Schultz, Montalba had to assume that others did, as well. Before Kilgore attracted more attention to their business, Montalba would replace him.

  Meanwhile, he would have his people find out who O'Toole was using for this investigation that had stumbled over the Schultz killing. The contacts that O'Toole had developed during his years in the senate could bring some dangerous people into the game. Montalba was running O'Toole's drug business, but what else was the senator up to?

  "Does the name Leon Contreras mean anything to you?"

  O'Toole was once again walking up the street outside his office and talking on the encrypted phone provided by SpecCorp. He had pocketed the phone and left his office in anticipation of the call, knowing how punctual these people were. He wasn't disappointed; the phone rang within minutes of the time the man had called yesterday.

  "No, I can't say that it does. Why?"

  "We think he may be the person who has you under surveillance."

  "Who is he?" O'Toole asked.

  "Right now, we don't know, but we've seen him before. He was implicated in the disappearance of two of our agents in California several months ago."

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  "We're working on that; we don't have all the information yet. The two agents who disappeared were sent to interrogate him about some work we were doing for you. You recall that job? It was the one you cancelled because of subsequent events."

  "Hell, yes, I recall that job. You guys billed me a friggin' fortune for no results."

  "We have a different view of that, but if you're unhappy, you should take it up with your higher-level contacts. I'm just a field operations manager."

  "Fair enough," O'Toole said. "Refresh my memory; I vaguely recall that name, but I can't remember how Contreras fit in."

  "A certain federal agency was monitoring the email of a woman you wanted to know more about."

  "Connie Barrera, right? That one?" O'Toole asked.

  "Yes, that one. Contreras was an email contact of hers, and he was suspicious to us for a couple of reasons."

  "Drugs, right? He was connected to the drug trade?" O'Toole asked.

  "Possibly. He's an ex-con who did hard time for smuggling drugs from Mexico."

  "And what else?" O'Toole asked. "You said a couple of things."

  "He may have had a family connection," the man on the phone said.

  "With Barrera? Do I remember something about his being her cousin?"

  "Correct."

  "And she's mixed up with one of the cartels, right?" O'Toole asked.

  "That connection was rumored, but never proven."

  "And did your agents interrogate him back then?"

  "They had an unproductive meeting with him. At your request, we sent them back to take him to a safe place for extended questioning. Their last check-in was as they entered the gym where he had his office. They were never heard from again. We were unable to find any trace of them. Their belongings were left in their hotel rooms, and their rental car was found abandoned in the desert east of Bakersfield, California. There was no sign of them anywhere."

  "And I'm sure you must have checked up on this Contreras afterward."

  "We did. One of those agents was a friend of mine. I did some follow-up work myself. Contreras is a ghost."

  "What do you mean, a ghost?"

  "He doesn't exist."

  "I thought you said he was an ex-con. People like that leave tracks."

  "Normally, they do, yes. But the real Contreras died in prison; somebody killed him. Looked to be gang related. This guy assumed his identity, and we have no idea who he really is, or who he works for."

  "And what makes you think he's the guy who's watching me?"

  "He flew to Miami before he disappeared. All his tracks put him in your vicinity, but he must be using a different identity. Leon Contreras has disappeared, but his electronic trail points your way."

  "Find him," O'Toole said, "and let me know when you have him located."

  "Definitely."

  "Any news on Canaday?"

  "Not yet. Our people are in Dominica, but his yacht isn't there. We're working on it. That's all I have. I'll call you tomorrow, same time, unless — "

  "Wait!" O'Toole said.

  "Yes?"

  "Do an updated background on the Barrera woman. I'd like a fill-in on her for your next call."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I don't know how to thank you guys; you've been so good to me," Friday said.

  "It's no more than any decent person would do if they found someone in your situation," Connie said. "But you're welcome."

  "You're a good shipmate," Paul said.

  "That's kind of you to say, Paul," Friday said.

  "I mean it. You've carried your share of the sailing. It's fun to have a good sailor aboard."

  "I hope I remember more when I get to St. Lucia. It's stressing me out, not knowing my own name."

  "Well, maybe it'll help," Connie said. "Had any more random recollections? Any idea why St. Lucia rang a bell for you yesterday?"

  "Actually, I've had the strangest thing bugging me ever since we started talking about St. Lucia."

  "What's that?" Paul asked. "You remember some place you went on the island, or what?"

  "Not a place. A person, but I don't know why. He comes to mind whenever I think of St. Lucia, but I don't know if I met him there, or what."

  "Can you describe him?" Connie asked.

  "Hmm," Friday said. "I've got a pretty clear mental image of him. Let'
s give it a try."

  "Go for it," Paul said, tweaking the main sheet a little bit. Diamantista II surged through the two-meter swell on a close reach in 15 to 20 knots of east-southeasterly wind.

  "We're making good time, aren't we?" Friday said. "Diamantista II's a sweet-sailing boat."

  "Nine and a half knots through the water," Connie said, touching the screen of the chart plotter above the helm. "And it looks like we've got a favorable current. We should get in around nine o'clock, if this keeps up."

  "Want to try describing this guy you associate with St. Lucia?" Paul asked.

  "Sure. I didn't mean to change the subject; it's just that memories like that seem to pop into my mind more readily when I'm not trying to pull them up. I've got him now, though. He's tall. Maybe six feet, one inch. Wearing a business suit and a tie."

  "That's odd, for an island memory," Connie said. "The suit and tie, I mean."

  "He's in an office, with a lot of books with fancy bindings."

  "Is he heavy? Or thin?" Paul asked.

  "Medium. Maybe about my build. He looks fit, like an athlete. Could be a runner, or maybe a tennis player. I dunno."

  "How old do you think he is?"

  "Mm. A light-skinned black man, with not too many wrinkles. A little gray hair at the temples. It's hard to say. Not remarkably old or young."

  "What about his manner?" Paul asked. "Is he sure of himself? Shy? Outgoing?"

  "Maybe between 40 and 50 years old," Friday said, backtracking. "And he's got an easy, self-assured manner, not a jerk, like a lot of lawyers."

  Connie and Paul traded glances. "Why do you say that?" Connie asked.

  "Paul asked about his manner," Friday said, looking at Connie and raising his eyebrows, a confused frown on his face.

  "That's not what I meant," Connie said. "You said he was not a jerk like a lot of lawyers."

  "Damn! I did say that," Friday said. "You think maybe he's a lawyer?"

  "I have no idea," Connie said. "You must have thought he was a lawyer."

  "Anything else come to mind?" Paul asked.

  "He had several framed certificates on the wall, like diplomas or something. Fancy looking. And a thick roll of blueprints on the credenza behind the desk."