"Yes," Paul said over his shoulder as he began rolling in the headsails. "They serve some really fine local seafood. Most of them are run by people who live right in the same building." He clambered onto the coachroof and dropped the mainsail, furling it along the boom as he spoke.
Connie dropped the mizzen sail and stowed it. Then she reached down and started the diesel. She put the engine in gear and began to work her way into the anchorage.
"I don't see anywhere for us to tie up," Marcia said.
"There's not, really," Connie said. "We'll pick a spot and drop the anchor. We usually take the dinghy into that little fishing-boat harbor in the southeast corner. Everything's an easy walk from there."
"I'm pretty tired," Marcia said. "The motion of the boat's relaxing, but I think it wore me out."
Connie chuckled. "Sitting still on a moving boat uses a lot of muscles that you don't think about. We'll have an early dinner aboard and go ashore in the morning, if that suits you. We can clear in with customs online at the internet cafe and get some coffee and pastries for breakfast."
"Get ready to enjoy some of the best French pastries you ever tasted," Paul said.
"Sounds great," Marcia said. "What's in town?"
"There are some little shops, an art gallery or two — not much, but it's pretty. Definitely worth an hour or two."
"And then what?" Marcia asked.
"Whatever you'd like," Connie said. "There's the hike up the river, or if that's too ambitious, we can sail south a few miles and stop at Pigeon Island. The Cousteau Underwater Park is there, if snorkeling appeals. Or we can just keep going. If we were on our own, Paul and I would probably sail from here to Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica."
"I've read about Dominica," Marcia said. "It sounds interesting. They're pushing themselves as a place for ecotourism, right?"
"That's right," Connie said. "We can spend a little time ashore here in the morning and make it into Prince Rupert Bay about dark. It's on the northwest corner of the island, and we have a good friend who lives there."
"Let's plan on that, then," Marcia said. "Will I get to meet your friend?"
Connie smiled. "Yes. We called him earlier, guessing that's what you'd want to do. He'll take you on a tour of the Indian River, and then we'll have dinner at his house with him and his wife. You'll see things the average tourist would never see."
"That's great," Marcia said.
"Good," Connie said. "This look okay, Paul?" she asked, as Diamantista II coasted to a stop in an open spot near the northeastern corner of the harbor.
"Perfect," Paul said. "What's the depth?"
"Two and a half meters. Want to drop the hook?"
Paul nodded and put a toe on the windlass control switch. As the anchor chain rattled out, Connie shifted into reverse, backing slowly as the chain payed out.
"That's good," Paul said.
Connie took the transmission out of gear as Paul hooked a snubber on the anchor chain. He waved to her over his shoulder and she shifted into reverse again, watching his hand signals. When the chain was stretched tight, he raised his right hand and waved it in a circle as she opened the throttle a bit.
They both watched the nearby shore to make sure the anchor wasn't dragging. After 30 seconds, Paul turned to face her and made a cutting motion across his throat with his right hand. Connie nodded and took the transmission out of gear. Bending to the engine control panel, she shut down the diesel.
"That looked rehearsed," Marcia said, "the way you did that."
"We've done it a few times," Connie said. "Let's have sundowners in the cockpit before Paul starts dinner. We've got an unusually clear horizon to the west; we should get a glorious sunset."
"The M.E.'s gonna have a tough time with this one," the lead detective said.
Luke had taken his call on the speaker phone in his office. "Predators?"
"Yeah, and just decomposition. Whoever it is has been in the swamp for what? Several months, right?"
"Probably. M.E. think there's any chance of an i.d.?"
"He won't commit. The body was dismembered. Bones scattered around. He's not sure how much he's got. There's a skull, though, so maybe some chance with dental work. Unless there's some way to come up with a DNA sample from Schultz. That was his suggestion."
"I'll see what I can do. Maybe we can get a warrant for the club, but he's been missing a long time," Luke said. "You know anything about his living arrangements? Was he married?"
"I don't think so. We woulda had somebody callin', lookin for him, if he'd been married. But I'll check up on it."
"You said the body was dismembered," Luke said. "The killer do that?"
"M.E. figures it was gators. It was definitely a dump job, though. Concrete blocks and chain. Looks like your c.i. was on the level."
"Yeah, it does," Luke said. "Now that we know that, we got some more work to do."
"He give you something else?" the detective asked.
"Yeah. Art Jansen."
"Jesus, captain. Kilgore do that one too?"
"He didn't hang it on Kilgore," Luke said, not wanting to mention the alleged killer's name yet. "And all we have is a general location for the body. I have a location where he was killed, but it might be tough to find any trace evidence after this long."
"Still in the 'Glades?" the detective asked.
"Yeah, but nowhere close to where you are. I'll fill you in when you get back here."
"All right. We're gonna wrap it up here pretty soon; it's gonna get dark. The crew's planning on comin' back out tomorrow to keep dragging for body parts, but I'll probably skip that. You want us to come by this evening, yet?"
"No. Get some rest. We'll catch up in the morning."
"Good enough. See ya then."
"Yeah," Luke said. He disconnected the call and took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. Swinging his chair around to reach his computer, he began typing out an email to Paul and Connie.
12
"Bummer!" Marcia said. "I was looking forward to sailing. Where's the wind?"
"We're in the wind shadow of Guadeloupe," Connie said.
"But it was blowing like crazy in Deshaies before we left."
"It's always breezy in there," Connie said. "The mountains and the shape of the north end of the island funnel whatever wind there is right through the harbor."
"Wind shadow," Marcia said, frowning as she listened to the rumble of the diesel. "So how far out would we have to go to be out of the shadow?"
"Good question," Paul said. "You'll make a sailor yet. As tall as the mountains are on Guadeloupe, and as big as the island is, we'd have to be maybe 15 miles out to the west to be in clear air."
"So we have to run the engine? I guess I got spoiled yesterday."
"Well," Connie said, "if we had to, we could ghost along the coast at a knot or two and work our way out without the engine. We'd eventually find some decent wind. But that would make for a long day. We'll be able to sail in a couple of hours, probably, if we hold this course. There's better breeze off the southern part of the island. And once we round Pointe du Vieux Fort at the southern end, we should have a good sail past Les Saintes and on across the Dominica Channel."
"Is this typical?" Marcia asked. "This wind shadow thing?"
"Yes," Paul said. "The bigger the island, and the taller the mountains, the more pronounced the effect is. Guadeloupe is one of the worst, because it's so wide from east to west. The shadow's less pronounced off the southern part of the island because of the way it's shaped — it gets much narrower as we go south."
"So before sailboats had engines, people would have taken different routes?"
"Yes. And they would have paid more attention to the tides, too," Paul said.
"But I read that there aren't big tides in the islands, didn't I?"
"That's right," Connie said. "Even though the tides don't change the water level much, they still produce some strong currents. Sometimes as much as a knot or two, and that can add to or subtract from
the surface currents produced by the wind."
"A knot or two doesn't sound like much," Marcia said.
"No, but if you're sailing in light wind, you might only be going through the water at three or four knots, so it could make a big difference in your speed over the ground. And then there are the effects of the land masses on the currents to consider, as well."
"You make it sound complicated."
"Getting from place to place under sail alone is definitely more of a challenge than firing up a diesel. Imagine what it was like a couple of hundred years ago, before boats had engines. And there weren't even accurate charts back then."
"That's fascinating," Marcia said. "Do people still have those skills?"
"Sure," Connie said. "That's when sailing becomes more of an art than a simple matter of going where you want, when you want. Using the engine is cheating, in a way."
"So how long will it take us to get to Dominica — if we cheat like this?" Marcia asked, smiling.
"Around five hours," Connie said. "We'll have lunch as we're passing Les Saintes, at the north edge of the Dominica Channel, and we'll get into Prince Rupert Bay and get anchored sometime before the cocktail hour."
"And will we go ashore this evening?"
"We won't get there in time to clear in with the authorities," Connie said, "so we shouldn't. Technically, that would be illegal."
"Besides, there probably won't be much going on there in the way of nightlife," Paul said. "Except on the weekends, most people turn in early."
"And on the weekends?" Marcia asked.
"It's a 48-hour party. The music's so loud, you can't sleep, even out in the harbor. Unless our guests are party animals, we try to avoid Prince Rupert Bay on the weekends."
"What kind of partying do they do? Drugs? Alcohol?"
"Mostly alcohol," Paul said, trading glances with Connie. "Drugs are illegal. But I'm sure some people smoke weed. That's everywhere down here. Doesn't mean it's a good idea for a stranger, though. I wouldn't recommend that you encourage your readers to look for that kind of diversion here."
"Is it like Connie was telling me? Would they shake down tourists?"
"Dominica is one of the poorest islands, but the people are incredibly generous and welcoming," Paul said. "I've never heard of that kind of corruption there, but I suppose it could happen. Most likely, though, if the police noticed a tourist using drugs, even weed, they'd arrest them. Maybe they'd let them off with a warning; it's always hard to guess how that kind of thing would turn out."
"Sharktooth could probably give you a better answer, if you're really curious," Connie said.
"Sharktooth?" Marcia raised her eyebrows.
"Sorry," Connie said. "Sharktooth's our friend who lives in Prince Rupert Bay — the man who's going to give you a tour of the Indian River, and have us to his house for dinner."
"What kind of name is Sharktooth?"
"It's what he answers to," Paul said, with a grin. "Among his other businesses, he runs a water taxi, and it has a big set of dried shark's jaws on the bow. The boat's named Sharktooth, and that's what everybody calls him."
"He has other businesses?" Marcia asked. "Like what?"
"He's in the import/export business with some other friends of ours, and he and his wife own an art gallery," Paul said. "I'm not sure what else he might be into. He's an interesting man, well-educated. He's been involved in Dominica's government off and on over the years, too. You'll enjoy getting to know him."
"I'm sure I will. What does he import and export?"
"Various things," Connie said. "Mostly heavy machinery. He's part of a consortium that deals almost exclusively with governments."
"Oh," Marcia said. "Not local stuff then. No drugs, right?"
"Not him," Paul said. "That's for sure."
"How did you get to be friends with him?"
"We met him through the women on Vengeance," Connie said. "He's done some business with Dani Berger's father, and she's known him all her life. She introduced me to him, and we hit it off."
"In fact, he married us," Paul said.
"He married you? He's a minister?"
Connie laughed. "That wouldn't be a surprise, but I don't think so. He's a magistrate, kind of a judge. Like a justice of the peace in the States, but with more authority."
"Did you get married in Dominica, then?"
"No. In Martinique," Connie said. "But the ceremony took place on Sharktooth's boat, which is registered in Dominica, so we were technically married under Dominican law."
"He took his water taxi to Martinique?" Marcia asked. "I thought a water taxi would be a little boat."
"Yes, you're right. But he has a big, high-powered speedboat that he uses to travel from island to island."
"For carrying freight? The import/export business you mentioned?"
"No. Just for his personal travel," Paul said. "It's as fast as flying on the little puddle-jumper planes they use down here, and he's not crazy about flying."
"He does sound interesting; I'll bet I can write an article just on him and his wife."
"Maybe so," Connie said. "But make sure you let him know if that's your intention."
"Oh, of course I would," Marcia said. "Speaking of articles, we talked about the Berger woman and her partner before."
"Yes. Liz Chirac's her business partner. They're the ones who taught me to sail and introduced me to Paul."
"Right. I remember that. I'm fascinated by the idea that two young women are running a big charter yacht like yours. That must be unusual."
"Maybe a little bit," Connie said. "Mom and pop operations on a boat this size would be more typical."
"They must have an interesting story. Any chance we'll run into them?"
"We could," Connie said. "I don't know what they're up to right now, whether they have guests aboard. We bump into them occasionally, especially when we're both idle."
"I wouldn't mind interviewing them. That would make a good article. Do you know how they came to be in business together?"
"Dani's father's French, from Martinique, originally. When she was a child, he and his partners were trading in the Caribbean basin. Her parents were divorced when she was little; her mother's American. She'd spend summers and holidays with her father when she was growing up, so she's been in the islands all her life. Her dad owns several big crewed charter yachts in the Med, and she used to crew on them for pocket money. She's always sailed. She and Liz met when Liz was on a sabbatical down here and got to be friends. That's about it, as far as what I know about them."
"Interesting. Is Liz an American?"
"No. Belgian."
"I hope we meet up with them," Marcia said. "Any way for you to touch base and see if it's possible?"
"I can give it a try. The wind's filling in a bit," Connie said. "Let's get some more sail up and see if we can kill the diesel."
Senator William O'Toole sat in his makeshift office, listening to the rumble of distant artillery fire. He was contemplating what he'd just learned from SpecCorp about his fiancée.
As Gator Jaw had told him, Graciella had been missing from her penthouse since the night a couple of weeks ago when a murder-suicide had occurred in her building. Hacking into her credit card records, SpecCorp had discovered that she'd been staying in a suite in an upscale hotel in South Beach.
Delaney said that all indications were that she had been by herself; there was no evidence of infidelity on her part. Still, O'Toole was worried that she was involved in something that he should know about.
Delaney's people had found out that her penthouse was being redecorated. That made no sense to O'Toole; she'd completed a total renovation just months ago. When he made that protest to Delaney, he'd been stunned to hear that the same contractor was doing the work, and it had been necessitated by vandalism.
The entire interior had been wrecked, including the furniture. The carpets were ruined, as well, soaked with the blood of a goat which had been crudely butchered in the living
room. The goat's carcass had been left in the entrance foyer.
SpecCorp had been unable to learn more about the incident, except to determine that no police report had been filed. To O'Toole, that implied that Graciella was hiding more than just the vandalism. She must know who was responsible. Further, she didn't want anyone to know about it.
He had pressed Delaney to find out who was behind the destruction, and what had motivated it. Delaney had suggested the theory that it was perpetrated by an old lover, jealous of her coming marriage to the senator.
O'Toole knew that Graciella was no saint. She'd kept quiet about her past, but she'd been in the public eye for years. While she'd had a number of high-profile romantic relationships, there had been nothing to explain something like this, to his knowledge. He ordered Delaney to investigate further.
To O'Toole, the vandalism smacked of an effort at intimidation, and by a well-organized criminal, at that. SpecCorp had learned that one of the contractor's people thought there was a Voodoo connection because of the way the goat had been slaughtered.
Voodoo and intimidation pointed to the Caribbean, and that almost certainly meant drugs. With his presidential aspirations, O'Toole didn't need a fiancée with connections to the cartels. He'd spent months of hard work putting distance between himself and his own connections to drug trafficking.
On top of the questions about Graciella, there was today's email from his secretary, the one in his Florida office. She sent a brief summary of activity every day: phone calls, correspondence, token gifts, campaign contributions, the routine trivia that came from staying in touch with his constituents.
Today, though, one message had sent a chill down his spine. A Captain Luke Pantene with the Miami police had called. He wanted to talk with the senator at his earliest convenience about a man named Art Jansen. The captain said that Jansen was believed to have had some recurring contacts with the senator, and the police were looking into Jansen's disappearance.
O'Toole was certain that this must be connected to the visit by the police that Gator Jaw Ryan had called him about the other day. What did the cops know? They'd asked Gator Jaw about Dick Kilgore, and now they had questions for O'Toole about Jansen.
An Easy Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 8th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean Page 9