Bluewater Betrayal: The Fifth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 5)

by Charles Dougherty

  ****

  O'Leary sat in the corner of the bar, the remains of his lunch pushed aside. The bar didn't serve food; most of the regulars preferred to drink their midday repast. O'Leary had picked up chicken curry in a Styrofoam box from the fast-food spot on the corner and was washing it down with cold beer when he looked up to see Guy Leclerc come in. He spotted the worried frown on Leclerc's face before Guy's eyes adjusted to the gloom. After a moment, Leclerc saw him and scurried to the table.

  "I got a p-problem," Leclerc said as he sat down across the table, his back to the room.

  O'Leary stared toward the bar, his expression unchanged, waiting.

  "You hear me, Dan?"

  "Did you handle the women?" O'Leary asked.

  "Th-they weren't there."

  O'Leary blinked slowly and swiveled to face Guy, like an alligator surfacing near its prey.

  "I mean, they were there, b-but they left. B-before I got there."

  O'Leary tilted his head slightly, raised his eyebrows, and did the reptilian blink again. He yawned.

  "They went to St. C-Croix. I don't have a visa for the U.S. I couldn't follow 'em."

  O'Leary picked up his beer and took a sip, his eyes never leaving Guy's. He set the beer down and picked up a napkin, raising it to his mouth and blotting his mustache. He stood and stepped around the table, a gesture of his head indicating that Guy should follow him as he went down the short, dark hallway that ended at the door to the storeroom. He opened the door and Guy followed him into the dark room.

  "Close the door, Guy. Turn on the light."

  When the light came on, Guy saw that O'Leary had opened the heavy door of the walk-in refrigerator. The interior looked wrong to Guy; someone appeared to be sleeping on top of the stacked cases of beer. He cast a glance at O'Leary and stepped into the refrigerator, confirming that a man was stretched out on his side atop the waist-high stack of beer cases, his back to Guy. Annoyed, Guy grabbed the man by the shoulder and pulled; the man rolled stiffly onto the floor at Guy's feet. Peering down, he recognized the lifeless body of David Roux, but just barely. The man's face was disfigured by numerous cigarette burns. Guy retched involuntarily, jerking his head around at the sound of the storeroom door closing.

  O'Leary turned the deadbolt, locking the door. "Bartender got a key?" he asked, facing Guy.

  Guy shook his head. "You and me."

  O'Leary nodded. "Good." He took a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it between his lips. "No visa, huh?"

  Guy shook his head. "Right; no way for me to get one in St. Martin."

  O'Leary nodded again, flicking a disposable lighter repeatedly. "Cigarette?" he asked.

  "No. Didn't know you smoked."

  "I don't," he said, lighting the cigarette and puffing several times, expelling the smoke without inhaling any. "But sometimes cigarettes help me find the answers to life's questions." He put the lighter in his pants pocket and took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it about 18 inches from his face and studying the glowing tip. "Surgeon General says it's bad for your health; man knows his shit." O'Leary raised the cigarette to his lips and puffed several more times. Grinning, he took it from his mouth. Moving with the speed of a rattlesnake's strike, he drove the glowing tip into Guy's face, narrowly missing his right eye. Guy screamed and backed up against the beer cases.

  O'Leary looked at the cigarette. "You flinched," he said. "Knocked the coal right off. But don't worry, I got a whole pack. Had to buy more after my talk with your pal here." He planted his feet and swung with all of his weight, driving a fist into Guy's midsection. As Guy crumpled to the floor, he saw O'Leary reach to the side and take a roll of duct tape from the shelf beside him.

  Chapter 22

  Paul knew what to expect before he walked into the shabby-looking club with the neon sign outlining a buxom woman. She was reclining, head back, long hair streaming, breasts thrust to the sky. One leg was raised, the knee bent, the outline of a red, high-heeled pump dangling. The whole thing flashed weakly in the bright sunlight.

  The sign shops must mass produce these monstrosities, he thought. He pushed the door open and stepped into the dim interior. He was surprised at the absence of a doorman, but it was early afternoon and the customers were few. There was an empty stool behind a podium just inside the door. "Be 21 or be gone," the hand-lettered sign on the podium announced. "Two drink minimum. $10 cover charge after 5 p.m."

  The generic disco music was deafening and one nude girl was winding herself sinuously around a gleaming brass pole in the spotlight. While his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he studied his surroundings. There was no waitress in evidence, so he walked to the bar. The heavily tattooed bartender looked like a starving biker. He watched Paul through a curtain of greasy, unkempt hair that hung loose to his shoulders. "Junkie," Paul thought as the man jerked his head to the side, tossing the hair out of his line of sight. He peered at Paul, a blank expression in his bleary, red-rimmed eyes.

  Paul hefted himself onto a barstool that was squarely in front of the man. He nodded at Paul, an expression mid-way between a sneer and a grin revealing the broken stumps of a few dark yellow teeth. He reached into the pocket of the leather vest which hung open over his naked torso and brought out a hand-rolled cigarette which he stuck in his mouth. Paul took in the grimy black jeans held up by a wide leather belt with a Harley-Davidson buckle as the man fumbled out a disposable lighter and lit his cigarette. Paul was mildly surprised when he caught a whiff of plain old tobacco.

  "Getcha sump'n'?"

  "Bud in a bottle," Paul said.

  "No bottles. All we got is draft. Bud or Bud Light."

  "Bud draft, then."

  The man reached below the bar and came up with an eight-ounce plastic cup. He drew the beer carelessly and slopped it on the already sticky bar when he set it in front of Paul, his hand shaking. "Five bucks. Cash -- no tabs."

  Paul took out a twenty and laid it on the bar, pinning it with his hand.

  The man looked at it. "No change. Too early." He put his hands on the bar, one on each side of Paul's, and leaned in close, putting his weight on his skinny arms as he grinned, his fetid breath almost knocking Paul off the stool. Paul leaned in toward him.

  "Tell me something and maybe we won't need change," Paul whispered.

  "Whaddaya wanna hear?" The man backed away, his attempt at intimidation forgotten as he took a drag on the cigarette.

  "I'm looking for a girl who dances here. Kandi Dulzuras."

  "Lotsa girls dance here. You got cop all over you. I don't tell cops shit."

  "I'm private. I'm thinking she and I, we might be able to help one another out. I'm not gonna cause her any trouble."

  The man worked his tongue around in his mouth, finally sticking it out and picking a shred of tobacco from the end of it. He studied the fleck of tobacco for a moment and then took another drag.

  "Coulda been a girl with a name like that here a few times. They all got funny names; it don't mean nothin'. They come an' go. You'd have to ask Rudy."

  "Rudy?"

  "The boss."

  "Where do I find him?"

  The man put his hand on the end of the twenty opposite Paul's and looked him in the eye, raising his eyebrows. Paul lifted his hand and the man picked up the bill as he inclined his head in the direction of a booth back in the darkest corner of the bar, the one farthest from the stage. Paul twisted on the stool and saw a big, well-groomed man in a sport coat watching him. He picked up his beer and walked back to the man's table.

  "You Rudy?"

  The man nodded.

  "Can I sit down?"

  Another nod.

  "I'm looking for a girl."

  "You're a cop."

  "Private."

  "Bullshit. You're Paul Russo. MPD homicide."

  "Retired. Do I know you?"

  "No, I doubt it. I've never had any dealings with homicide."

  "Good for you. Why do you know me?"

  "I've made it my business to k
now the cops. Comes in handy when you run a place like this."

  "I imagine it does."

  "My customers aren't usually pillars of the community; sometimes they make trouble. It helps to know who you can trust."

  "Uh-huh."

  "For what it's worth, you always had the rep of being a straight shooter. Sorry you're retired; the city needs honest cops."

  "Thanks, Rudy. Like I said, I'm…"

  "Lookin' for a girl," Rudy interrupted. "Given your reputation, that would mean you're lookin' for one girl in particular, as opposed to 'a' girl."

  "Kandi Dulzuras. Her landlord said she worked here. She's got a kid…"

  "You should bust that bastard -- landlord my ass. Scum."

  "I can't bust him, but I did sic the health department on him about his plumbing problems."

  "Good."

  "You know her landlord; then you must know Kandi."

  "Maybe. That shithead caters to dancers. Several of the girls have stayed in that dump. Lots of girls dance here; they drift in, dance a while, leave. They tip one another to the cheap places to live. Probably one in three got names like 'Kandi.' 'Peaches' and 'Flame' are popular, too. Could be this Kandi you're lookin' for was one of them if he sent you here. You got a picture or anything?"

  "No, afraid I don't. What about your employment records?"

  "It ain't like that with the dancers. The bartender, the bouncer, the janitor, they're employees. The dancers, they set their own schedules. They work for tips."

  "You keep a cut?"

  "No. Lotta places do. I don't think that's right. I make my money on the booze and the cover charge. Some of these girls, they got fans that follow them from place to place. Them, I might double or even triple their tips while they're here, but they gotta be somebody gets their name in lights at the big clubs over on the beach, you know what I'm sayin'? The girls bring in the business; they keep their tips."

  "So you don't know where I can find Kandi Dulzuras, is that right?"

  "Yep. I'm not sayin' she didn't dance here, mind you. Sounds like she probably did. But if you ask me where any of the girls live, the best I could do is send you to that dive that led you here. Sorry."

  Paul nodded and stood up, leaving his beer on the table. "Thanks for your time."

  "No problem. Sorry I couldn't help. This Kandi, is she in trouble of some kind?"

  "No, I don't think so. She's just missing. Thanks again."

  Paul started for the door, but stopped in mid-stride, turning back to face Rudy. "Just one more thing."

  "Sure, if I can help."

  "You know if she was friends with a guy named Contreras? Gus Contreras?" Paul watched a look of puzzlement spread over Rudy's face.

  Rudy shook his head. "Never heard the name, but that doesn't mean she didn't know him. Why? Who is he?"

  "I don't know. Just thought I'd ask. If Kandi shows up again, ask her to give me a call, okay?" Paul handed Rudy a card with just his name and telephone number on it.

  "Yeah. Sure, no problem."

  "Thanks," Paul called back over his shoulder as he pushed through the door.

  He unlocked his car and opened the door, reaching in to start the engine. As he stood in the open door waiting for the air-conditioning to take the edge off the oven-like heat radiating from the interior of the car, he took out his cell phone and called Luke Pantene.

  "Hey, Russo."

  "Hey, yourself. You busy?"

  "Nah. Just eatin' donuts and drinkin' shitty coffee. I'm due in court in a few, so I'm kinda idling. What's up?"

  "Know a guy named Rudy who runs a strip joint called Pussycats out by the airport?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Kandi Dulzuras worked there before she disappeared. He was kinda evasive; he also recognized me by sight. Said in his line of business, he needed to keep track of honest cops."

  "That's a little weird. This Dulzuras disappeared?"

  "Well, for now, it looks like she skipped out in a hurry -- like she's on the run."

  "Hmm. Want me to ask the vice bunch about Rudy at Pussycats?"

  "Yeah, if you don't mind."

  "No problema, 'migo. It'll be a little while though. I gotta run; due on the witness stand in five minutes."

  "Thanks."

  "Later, Paul."

  ****

  Ric Delgado sat in his den, his feet on the big desk and the encrypted sat phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. He held a notepad propped on his hard, flat stomach, doodling with a felt-tipped pen as he waited for the connection. He heard a click as the ringing stopped.

  "Yeah, Ric," barked the slightly distorted voice of Dan O'Leary.

  "Where are you? Can we talk?"

  "Yeah, sure. I'm in my hotel room. What's wrong?"

  "Where's Leclerc, first?"

  "Here."

  "With you?" Ric asked, his inflection rising in disbelief.

  "No. Not with me. He's here in Martinique."

  "Why?"

  "The women gave him the slip; he found out they were going to St. Croix and he couldn't get a visa, so he came back here. Got in this afternoon."

  "You had a chance to talk to him about the Delorme woman?"

  "Yeah. I was about to call you when the phone rang."

  "Where is he right now?"

  "He's stashed somewhere safe; he ain't goin' anywhere. Take it easy."

  "He still alive?"

  "Maybe. He ain't ever gonna be pretty again, though. Not sure a lady's man like him would want to go on, you know? Want me to…"

  "Not yet. Not until I give you the word, dammit."

  "What's got up your ass?"

  "Somebody's lookin' for Kandi."

  "That's no surprise."

  "Rudy ain't seen her in a coupla days. She skipped; left her shit in that dump she lived in. Stiffed that asshole that runs it. Nobody knows where she is."

  "You said not to do her, so I didn't…"

  "I never said you did, but it's time now. Get back up here and…"

  "I'm spread a little thin here, Ric. First you don't want me to hurt nobody. Now you want me to waste three women on a sailboat somewhere in the Virgins, and Kandi, too. God knows where she's got to. I got a stiff to dump, plus I still got Leclerc to deal with, not to mention runnin' the business down here until I replace him. Figure out what's most important to you and call me back."

  "Where the hell do you…"

  "I ain't eaten since last night, and I been busy. I'm goin' downstairs and get me a big plate of that chicken curry shit these damn Frogs call 'Colombo,' and a couple beers to wash it down. Maybe if the waitress is pretty I'm gonna bring her back up here and…"

  "You son of a bitch. You don't mess with me," Ric interrupted, screaming. "I'll have your…"

  O'Leary smiled as he pressed the disconnect button. He clicked the power switch off and slipped the phone into his pocket. On his way out, he paused at the mirror by the door to lick his index finger and smooth his mustache and eyebrows.

  ****

  Connie took a sip of her rum punch and set the glass on the table. She gazed out at the moored boats in front of the open-air restaurant at the resort on North Sound in Virgin Gorda. Vengeance swung on her mooring among all of the plain white charter boats like a swan among ducks.

  Connie was treating her friends to dinner ashore, and they had dressed for the occasion. She and Liz wore lightweight cotton, flower-print dresses, and Dani had even forsaken her normal attire of khaki shorts and white polo shirt with a Vengeance logo for a dressy white blouse and a pair of dark blue, calf-length linen slacks. She had drawn the line at shoes, however, even though her friends had on dressy sandals. "Somebody's got to pull the dinghy up on the beach," she had muttered as the others fussed over what to wear.

  Connie studied Vengeance, trying to define what it was about the vessel that turned heads everywhere they went. She had not started shopping for a boat of her own, but she decided right then that she would only buy one if it made her heart race the way Ve
ngeance did. She wondered why anybody would want a boat that looked just like all of the others.

  "She's pretty, isn't she?" Dani asked, returning from the ladies' room and reading Connie's thoughts from the look on her face. She pulled out her chair and sat down.

  Connie smiled, still focused on Vengeance. "She sure is. My boat has to be beautiful. That's at the top of my list."

  "I still look at her sometimes and can't believe she's ours," Dani said. "Makes it all…"

  "Hey!" Liz said, rising in her chair. Her eyes were locked on the wide-screen TV that hung over the bar. She leaned forward, trying to see more clearly. "That's Contreras!"

  "Where?" Connie asked.

  "On the TV news."

  "Why's he on the news?" Dani asked, turning to see what Liz was watching.

  "I don't know." Liz watched intently, but the still photograph had been replaced by two bleached blondes with lacquered hair jabbering at each other. The fact that the sound was inaudible didn't diminish their obvious over-dramatization of whatever they were talking about. "It's a Miami station. Best I could tell, that was a ribbon-cutting at a new condo development somewhere around there."

  "We'll call Paul after dinner," Dani said. "He should be able to find out where it was; that looked like a newspaper photo, anyway."

  They were distracted when the handsome young waiter approached. "Have you ladies had a chance to look at the menu? And can I answer any questions for you?"

  "Sorry. We need a few minutes. Can you bring us another round of drinks, please?" Connie asked.

  "Yes, ma'am. Coming right up."

  Chapter 23

  Dan O'Leary stared out at the marina, watching the people ambling along the docks as he took his first sip of Scotch. His third-floor room overlooked the waterfront, and after he had eaten an early dinner, he had bought himself a half-liter bottle of the real thing. He smiled, remembering the exchange with the clerk who had waited on him in the liquor store. O'Leary had demanded "real Scotch -- none of that cat piss you Frog bastards make."

  "You speak like an Irish, but you have the manners of an American," the man had remarked as he set a bottle of Dewar's on the counter. He had paled at the look that O'Leary gave him as he put a 10-euro note down and picked up the bottle. By the time the man had rung up the sale, his hands were shaking so violently that he had trouble picking up the change from the register drawer.