Rising Moon: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 19)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “I mentioned it to him,” I replied, looping the stern line around a deck cleat on the barge. “We’ll see. You staying with Naomi tonight?”

  He grinned up at me as he knelt and tied off the bow line. “You won’t see me again until at least Friday, man.”

  Together, we walked toward the bar. Even though it was still an hour before noon, there were a good half-dozen vehicles in the parking lot, most of them familiar to me. But I noticed an expensive-looking black sportscar with dark-tinted windows that I didn’t recognize. It looked very out of place among the pickups and Keys cars—inexpensive beaters, commonly driven by locals.

  “Catch you later,” Jimmy said, turning toward the lot.

  “Call me if you need me to pick you up,” I offered. “I think Savannah’s planning a run into town tomorrow and we’ll be here for Rusty’s Christmas party.”

  “I will,” he said. “But we can take Rusty’s old boat if we need to.”

  I waved and turned, opening the door to the dimly lit interior of the Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill, then removed my sunglasses and looked around.

  Though there were windows all along the side facing the canal, they were covered with louvered hurricane shutters to block the sun and still allow a breeze to pass through. Not that it mattered anymore—Rusty had installed central air a while back.

  “Hey, Jesse,” Amy Huggins said from behind the bar.

  “Hey, right back,” I said. “Is Rusty around?”

  “He just stepped out to the walk-in for a case of beer,” she replied. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I moved to my usual spot at the far end of the bar, surveying the room again and nodding at a few people I knew. They were mostly fishing guides waiting on afternoon clients.

  The only person I didn’t recognize looked like a fisherman and he was sitting with one of the guides. Maybe he drove the flashy sportscar out front.

  “Here you go,” Amy said, sliding a mug in front of me. “How’s Flo like the Jeep?”

  Amy was in her late thirties. She and her late husband had built a house on No Name Key, where she now lived alone with their son. Dan Huggins had been killed in Ecuador. Just before the start of the school year, she sold me her Jeep Wrangler to give to Florence.

  “She loves it,” I said. “And it’s perfect for getting her back home and to the beach.”

  “Are y’all ready for Christmas?”

  I shrugged. Getting ready for Christmas had never been a real high priority since Sandy and the girls left. “I suppose. Savannah says we need more decorations for the tree.”

  Voices outside drew my attention—an argument.

  Then I heard the door of the walk-in cooler slam shut out behind the bar. I was already on my feet when I saw Rusty through the window. His heavy footfalls on the deck resonated immediacy.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he shouted.

  I moved quickly toward the back door, as did a couple of the unoccupied guides. That’s just the way things worked. Mess with a local and five more would stand up.

  Pushing the door open, I saw Rusty confronting two men. One was a guy I’d seen around town a few times, usually drunk or high on something. The other man looked Latino, with dark skin and black hair, slicked back.

  “Get lost, Boomer,” the Hispanic man said to Rusty. “You don’t want none of this.”

  “This is my place,” Rusty growled. “I ain’t having no drug selling here.”

  The other guy took off, running toward the dinghy dock, leaving his friend to face Rusty’s wrath.

  I moved quickly across the deck and stepped down to the grass just as the man pulled a switchblade knife from his pocket, flicking it open with an ugly sound.

  “You want some of me, old man?” he asked, a malevolent light dancing in his dark eyes.

  As fast as the knife had appeared in the man’s hand, a Beretta 9mm appeared in Rusty’s. I drew my Sig and leveled it at the man as I strode toward them.

  “The real question is,” Rusty said, grinning at the man, “what kind of cabrón would bring a knife to a gunfight?”

  “Drop the knife,” I said, coming up beside my friend. “Do it now and nobody gets hurt.”

  His fierce eyes cut from Rusty to me and back again. He had only one chance of getting out of this situation unhurt and he knew it. He dropped the switchblade like it was a hot coal.

  “Leave and don’t ever come back,” Rusty said. “If I ever see you again, I won’t even ask if you got a new cuchillo. I’ll just shoot you dead and dump your body in the Gulf Stream. Nobody worth a shit will miss you. Comprendo?”

  He glared at Rusty for a moment. “Oh, you will see me again. Of that, you can be sure.”

  Without another word, the man turned and headed toward the parking lot.

  “Who was that?” I asked, sliding my Sig back into its holster at my back.

  “I don’t know,” Rusty replied. “I’ve seen him around a few times and suspected he was a dealer. But this time I caught him in the act.”

  I turned toward the sound of a high-performance engine roaring to life in the parking lot. The black Nissan sportscar I’d seen there earlier roared out of the lot, spraying gravel.

  “How do these people even find your place?” I asked rhetorically.

  Out by the highway, Rusty didn’t have a sign or anything indicating there was a restaurant and bar. Just an old mailbox, leaning slightly. You couldn’t see the place from the highway, just the crushed shell driveway disappearing into the overhanging tropical foliage. It looked like one of thousands of private driveways.

  “The price of advertising, I guess,” Rusty said. “Sid does a great job of filling the place up, but a lot of them are tourists and…that type. You come to town to pick up Tank?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, as we reentered the bar. “His plane lands at twelve forty-five. But I’m meeting Manny Martinez here for lunch.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Rusty said, as Manny and a woman I’d seen around stepped through the front door. “Y’all grab a seat anywhere. Amy’ll get your order. I gotta get back to stocking the bar.”

  I motioned Manny toward a corner table.

  “We saw what happened out back,” he said, as he and the woman sat down. “What was that all about?”

  “Somebody selling drugs,” I replied. “Rusty doesn’t much care for that going on in his place.”

  “Thanks for seeing us, Jesse.”

  “Manny said you were the right guy,” the woman offered. “I’m Donna Murphy, Mister McDermitt.”

  “Just call me Jesse,” I said, as Amy arrived with menus.

  “I’ll have whatever’s fresh, please,” I told her. “Rufus knows how I like it. And a glass of ice water.”

  Donna Murphy nodded, not even looking at the menu. “Same for me.”

  “Me, too,” Manny added.

  “Three blackened hogfish sandwiches coming up,” Amy said, gathering the menus, then heading out the back door to the outdoor kitchen.

  “You’re Cobie’s mom?” I asked Donna, though I already knew.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  She nodded, fidgeting somewhat.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked. “I mean aside from the obvious.”

  “I’ll be straight with you,” she said.

  “I appreciate people who are.”

  Amy returned with a pitcher of water and three glasses, leaving them on the table.

  “Cobie and I live in a trailer near the resort. We don’t have much, and I don’t know how I can afford to hire a private detective.”

  “First off,” I said, “I’m not a PI. I’m part-owner in a security firm up in Key Largo and I own a charter business. Secondly, if there’s some way I can help, I will. I don’t need your money.”

  “That’s what Manny told me you’d say.”

  “So, tell me what happened,” I said. “I’m afraid I only know what’s
been reported on the radio. I don’t have a TV.”

  “It was the Friday before Thanksgiving,” she said. “Cobie had to work at the Kmart that morning. She was supposed to start at nine and left the house about a quarter till. She was planning to stop on the way and pick up a new custom board, then go to Cable Park after work.”

  “Custom board?”

  “A wakeboard,” she explained. “They usually ride them towed behind a boat, but the park has towers with cables that pull you from end to end.”

  “She never made it to work?” I asked.

  “Her car was found there,” Donna said. “But her coworkers never saw her go inside.”

  “And the police didn’t find anything in the car? Prints or something?”

  “No,” she replied, her eyes beginning to well up a little. “The cops think she met someone there and left with them.”

  “What about the store she bought the board from?”

  “It wasn’t a store,” she replied. “A friend of hers, who lives near the airport. He makes custom boards and stuff. His name’s Ty Sampson.”

  “And the police talked to him?”

  “Yes,” Donna replied, wiping the corners of her eyes with a tissue from her purse. “Sorry. He told them that he’d texted her that morning, telling her she could pick the board up in the afternoon and he didn’t get home until two.”

  “So, why do you think she went there before work?”

  “She said she was going to. Just before she left the house.”

  “The police cleared the guy?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He showed them his phone and the texts between him and Cobie. They said he had an alibi. He was in Miami picking up fiberglass.”

  “In Miami?” I asked. “Seems odd with all the fiberglass shops around here.”

  “The cops asked him that, too,” she said. “He told them he gets it cheaper from a place up there. Cheap enough to warrant the drive.”

  “Did the police check Kmart’s security cameras?”

  “Where her car was parked wasn’t on the footage,” Manny said. “They require employees to park way out by the highway.”

  “And there’s been no sign of her since? No calls or texts, or Facebook posts or Twitter?”

  “No calls or texts,” she replied. “She doesn’t use Facebook or Twitter. They use Snapchat these days. But no, there’s been no trace of her anywhere since she disappeared. When I called her that afternoon—my brother and his girlfriend were coming in that night—my call went straight to voicemail.”

  “And there’s been no activity on her phone since? What about credit cards or debit cards?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Almost five weeks ago, I thought. Most cops would tell you that the odds were that the girl was dead.

  Donna must have read it in my expression. “She’s not dead. I’d know—a mother would know, right?”

  I glanced over at Manny. He’d mentioned needing “closure” on the phone. I couldn’t read anything in his eyes, but I got the feeling that he wanted me to find Cobie’s body or find out what happened to it, so Donna could accept the fact.

  “Do you have the name of the investigating officer?” I asked.

  “Detective Andersen,” she said. “Clark Andersen.”

  “That’s spelled with an E, not an O,” Manny offered.

  “Do you have a recent picture of Cobie?” I asked.

  Donna opened her purse and took out a snapshot. “I printed a bunch of these from a picture I took of her last month, when she bought her first car.” She handed it to me. “The car isn’t much, but she loved it and was proud that she’d saved up and paid for it herself.”

  I looked at the photo. It showed a pretty, blond-haired teen standing beside a blue Ford Fiesta, smiling proudly. She wore cutoff jeans and a tank top. The car was small and the top of her head barely cleared the roof.

  “Pretty girl,” I said. “How tall is she?”

  “Five-two,” Donna replied. “And just over a hundred pounds.”

  “This is a hard question to ask,” I said. “But has she ever been gone without your knowledge before?”

  Donna shook her head. “No. Cobie’s a good kid, Jesse. And I’m not saying that because she’s mine. She’s athletic and considers drugs and alcohol to be poison to her body. She even does volunteer work at the turtle hospital.”

  I glanced at Manny, who nodded agreement. “I’ve known Cobie since she was a baby, Jesse. She wouldn’t go off without telling Donna. Zero chance of that.”

  “I’ve met Detective Andersen a couple of times,” I said, putting the photo in my shirt pocket. “First thing I’m going to do is go over the Kmart video myself. Then I want to pay a visit to this Ty character and get a feel for him.”

  Donna told me where the guy lived and how to get to there. It was only a couple of miles away.

  “After that,” I said, thinking out loud, “I’ll dig through all of Andersen’s notes and photographs and see if there’s anything there he didn’t tell you about.”

  Donna’s eyes signaled bewilderment. “What would he not tell me?”

  “I doubt he’d withhold anything,” I replied. “But another set of eyes might see something he missed.”

  “I asked him for the case file,” Donna said. “He wouldn’t show me.”

  “Oh, I don’t intend on asking to see anything,” I said with a grin.

  “Then how—” Donna started to say, as Rufus arrived with a big tray.

  “Cap’n Jesse,” he said, with a big toothy grin. “I and I were just thinkin’ ’bout yuh dis mornin’.”

  “Good thoughts, I hope.”

  “Aye, mon,” Rufus said, passing plates around the table.

  His eyes fell on Donna and he frowned. “Do not fret, Miss Donna. Little Cobie will return. Cap’n Jesse see to dat.”

  After lunch and more questions, I went out to the parking lot with Manny and Donna to say goodbye.

  “How did that waiter know my name?” Donna asked.

  I turned to her. “You’ve never met Rufus before?”

  “I’d remember if I had,” she replied.

  “He’s Rusty’s chef,” I told her. “He’s lived here for twenty years but doesn’t go much of anywhere. I don’t even think he has a car.”

  “He brings fish by the resort every week,” Manny said, opening the passenger door to his car. “Maybe that’s how he knows you.”

  “I’ve never met him. And how does he know Cobie?”

  “Rufus is an odd sort,” I said. “He stays to himself for the most part and often speaks in riddles.”

  Secretly, I wished he hadn’t said anything to Donna about her daughter. I couldn’t guarantee her I’d find the girl. Not after five weeks.

  Donna got in and leaned over the console to open the door on the driver’s side for Manny.

  “I’ll do all I can, Donna,” I said. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Jesse.”

  We bid each other goodbye, then I walked over to where The Beast sat in the shade of a buttonwood tree.

  My truck had started out as a Keys car and still looked the part. I’d bought it about the day I first arrived in the Keys, so it was sort of a part of me now. Pushed back under the trees, the old ’73 International Travelall appeared to be an abandoned wreck, with faded light blue paint, a roof and hood almost completely covered with surface rust, and reddish-brown streaks down the sides. But if you looked closer, you’d see that the patina was sealed with clearcoat and the tires were newer and oversized.

  I got in and started the engine. The sound of the big diesel gave away The Beast’s true colors. She was a wolf in sheep’s clothes—only the body panels and frame were original. The interior, drivetrain, and suspension were all modern. My late wife, Alex, had dubbed it The Beast and the name just stuck.

  Five minutes after pulling out of the shadowy, crushed shell driveway, I was at the airport. It was still a good fifteen minutes before
Tank’s plane would arrive, so I took my phone out and made a call.

  “Livingston and McDermitt Security,” Chyrel said.

  “It’s Jesse. Are you busy?”

  Chyrel Koshinski was always busy. But she was a multi-tasker and relished any challenge. I explained what I wanted her to do and she said she’d call me as soon as she had anything.

  After ending the call, I went inside to escape the heat. It wasn’t summertime hot, but it was the Keys. The sky was clear and the temperature was probably in the mid-eighties, a little hotter than usual for just before Christmas.

  Looking out the window, I spotted the Super King Air on approach. The sleek-looking Beechcraft twin turbo arrived just about every day, flying out of Daytona Beach. If I didn’t have Island Hopper, a King Air would be at the top of my list. Well, that, or an old DC-3. Or any Grumman flying boat.

  I remembered a guy in Key West who owned a Grumman Widgeon. He did some charter work and treasure hunting and was once a pretty big deal in the antiquities business. About twelve years ago, he’d helped me unload a bunch of emeralds Amy Huggins’s late husband had brought back from South America.

  I disliked asking favors, but if anyone knew of a flying boat for sale, it’d be Buck Reilly. Ray Floyd, his long-time friend and business partner, was also an airframe and powerplant mechanic. He worked on Island Hopper, taking care of things that were beyond my ability.

  As the King Air came back along the taxiway, I pulled up Buck’s number and stabbed the Call button.

  “Last Resort Charter and Salvage,” Buck answered.

  “It’s Jesse McDermitt.”

  There was a pause for a few seconds, as if he was going through a Rolodex in his mind.

  “Find any bright, shiny things lately?” he asked.

  “Not really my thing,” I said. “I wondered if I could pick your brain about an airplane?”

  “What plane and where?”

  “Not any specific plane,” I replied, watching the shiny King Air turn toward the FBO. “I’m thinking of upgrading. You remember my little Beaver?”