"What are you saying, Paul? You think somebody hit him?"
"Either that, or he fell and hit his head on the edge of an opening, or the edge of a counter, or something like that."
"But then he wouldn't have fallen overboard, would he?" Connie asked.
"You're starting to think like a detective," Paul said. "To me, that's a suspicious injury, assuming he was on a sailboat. If he'd been in a car accident, it wouldn't be strange. Or if he'd been on a power boat. But even on a power boat, given where the knot is, I don't see him falling overboard as a result."
"So you think somebody hit him and threw him overboard? But why did they leave the vest on him?"
Paul shrugged. "Maybe there was a struggle on deck. Somebody cracked him a good one with a beer bottle and he fell over before anybody could stop him. I don't know."
"But they wouldn't just leave him, would they? That's really cold."
"You know how hard it is to recover a man overboard, even for a skilled crew under calm conditions. On a short-handed boat at night, or during a squall, it's even tougher. That's assuming they tried."
"Oh, that's awful, Paul."
"Yes. Well, we've read a lot into a knot on his head. I could have it completely wrong. You know how my thoughts run in situations like this. We may never know what happened, and we don't need to. We'll get him ashore and maybe spend an evening with Sharktooth and Maureen and get on our way to Grenada. Let's get some sleep, skipper."
4
Having dragged the corpse downstairs, Kilgore paused for a breath. He left Pinkie Schultz's body wedged on the last three steps to make room for the door to swing back. Before he opened the door, he disarmed the alarm system.
It was four a.m. The club had closed 20 minutes earlier; the staff had just left. While Kilgore waited for the club to close, he had called the janitorial service and arranged for them to come an hour later than usual. He didn't want witnesses.
He cracked the door open far enough so that he could see that the alley was clear. Satisfied, he walked 50 yards to Schultz's car. He pulled Schultz's keys from his pocket; he had taken them before he'd moved the corpse. He looked around again to be sure no one was watching.
He moved the car to within a few feet of the door. Leaving the engine running, he pulled the trunk release and checked that the trunk was empty before opening the door to the club. Taking a rubber doorstop from his pocket, he propped the door open.
He had wrapped the corpse in a sheet of vinyl before he dragged it from the office to avoid leaving a trail of evidence when he moved it. He grabbed the feet and pulled it into the alley. Lifting Schultz's body by the shoulders, he rolled it headfirst into the trunk. By shifting his grip and sliding the bundle in, he never had to bear the full weight. Pinkie Schultz wasn't a big man, but he was heavy.
Kilgore closed the trunk lid and retrieved the doorstop. Stepping inside the club, he reset the alarm system. When it began to beep, he let himself out and locked the door. He glanced at his wrist watch; he had plenty of time before the cleaning crew came.
He considered going back inside to sanitize Pinkie's office, but he decided not to. The office was secure; it had a heavy steel door with a combination lock. The cleaners couldn't get in there. Only Kilgore knew the combination now. He would take care of the mess in the office later.
With a last look around, he got into the car and drove out of the alley. He still had time to get to his favorite spot in the Everglades before dawn. He'd left a Jeep there earlier, with a couple of concrete blocks in the back.The blocks would keep the body submerged until the alligators recycled it.
He didn't notice the man half-buried in the pile of refuse at the corner of the alley. Even if he had, another drunk who had passed out while dumpster diving wouldn't have worried him. Those losers never noticed anything.
As the car turned onto the street, the man in the trash heap spoke into a throat mike. "He loaded something that looked like a body wrapped in a shower curtain into the trunk. He turned right on Collins."
"I've got him on the scope." His partner's voice whispered through the earpiece hidden under his greasy hair. "Pick you up in 30 seconds."
"Want me to hoist the main?"
Connie was surprised by the offer. Paul had just raised the anchor and was lashing it on the bow roller while she worked her way out of the anchorage at Isla de Aves. "Sure," she said, after a couple of seconds. "Why not? The winch handle is — "
"I see it," Friday said, as he turned away and put one foot on the coachroof.
"Just a second," she said.
"What's the matter?" Friday asked, turning back toward her.
"Clip that onto your harness," she said, pointing at a tether that was draped over the cockpit coaming. "It's already hooked to the jackline."
"I'll be okay," he said. "It's calm enough."
"No," Connie said. "Ship's rule – when we're under way, nobody steps out of the cockpit without being tethered."
"Okay; that's cool," he said, hooking on and climbing onto the coachroof.
Paul stood up and turned around, a look of surprise on his face when he saw Friday undoing the sail ties that furled the main along the boom. He came back from the bow and joined Connie in the cockpit. "What's up?" he asked. "I didn't hear you guys — wind, I guess."
"Nothing," Connie said. "He offered to raise the main. Let's see how he does."
"I see he's hooked on."
"Only because I insisted," Connie said, watching as Friday fastened the halyard to the sail's headboard and took up the slack. He wrapped three turns of line around the halyard winch at the foot of the mast.
"He didn't think he needed a tether," Connie said.
Paul shook his head. "Slow learner, I guess."
"Yes. He seems to know what he's doing, though."
Friday tugged the tail of the halyard into the jaws of the self-tailing winch and took a winch handle from the holder on the mast. He fitted it to the winch and gave it a half-turn, watching to see that the self-tailer had trapped the halyard. He stood up, giving Connie a nod. He waited, casting an occasional glance at the sliver of island receding behind them.
Connie saw the water turn from pale green to a bright, translucent blue as the depth increased. She checked the depth sounder and turned the helm, beginning a slow swing to the port to bring the bow into the wind. When she judged that they would pass to the south of the shallows around Isla de Aves, she put the bow directly into the wind and throttled back, watching the man at the mast.
Friday looked up at the masthead, checking the wind vane. Turning back to face her, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. He bent to the winch, both hands on the double grip of the handle. Grinding in the halyard, he was cranking clockwise to use the winch's fastest gear ratio. She and Paul watched as he began to labor a bit when the sail was about halfway up the mast.
Before either of them said anything, he stopped grinding and swiped a hand across his brow, wiping the perspiration from his eyes. With no wasted motion, he went back to work, this time cranking counterclockwise, engaging the winch's lower gear to give him more mechanical advantage. Connie worked the helm and the throttle to keep the bow into the wind so that the sail didn't fill, and Paul turned to the mainsheet winch, picking up the sheet, ready to trim the sail.
Friday stopped grinding the winch and looked up at the masthead, then back at Connie. She nodded and gave him another thumbs-up. He picked up the tail of the halyard and made it fast to the cleat closest to the winch. He sat down on the coachroof next to the mast, waiting.
"Sheet it in," she said, and turned the helm to the starboard, a few degrees.
Paul took up the slack in the mainsheet as the sail filled with a crack. Diamantista II heeled to the starboard and surged forward. He waved for Friday to come back into the cockpit as Connie bent to the engine control panel and shut down the diesel.
"Well done, Friday," she said, straightening up.
"Thanks," he
said, beaming with satisfaction. "Shall I unroll the staysail?"
"You rest for a minute or two," Paul said. "I'll get it, and then you can do the Yankee."
"You've done some sailing," Connie said.
Friday shrugged. "I guess so."
"I know so," Paul said. "You raised the main like you've been doing it for years. You don't remember sailing before?"
"Not really," the man said, frowning. "But it's all familiar to me, for sure."
Paul had the staysail unfurled and drawing. He tweaked the trim on the main a bit. "How's the helm, skipper?" he asked.
"Fine," Connie said. "Just a touch of weather helm, but let's get the Yankee up and see how she likes it."
Friday turned to the starboard primary winch and un-cleated the sheet, taking in the slack. "Lazy sheet clear?" he asked, as he put a winch handle into the socket on top of the winch.
"Lazy sheet's good," Paul said. "I'll tend it; go ahead when you're ready."
Friday nodded and leaned back against the resistance of the working Yankee sheet, unrolling the sail. As it filled, his hands flew, taking in the slack as the sail began to flog.
When he couldn't pull in any more of the sheet by hand, he set it in the self-tailing jaws. He began cranking the winch handle clockwise until the sail quieted down. He looked at the main and the staysail and gave the winch handle a couple of turns counterclockwise, keeping an eye on the luff of the Yankee. "Looks good to me," he said. "How's she feel, skipper?"
"She's happy," Connie said. "Thanks for your help."
"Yes," Paul said, "thanks."
"It's the least I can do. You guys saved my life."
"Well, I don't know about that, but a good hand is always welcome aboard," Connie said.
"How's the course?" Paul asked.
"It's good for now," Connie said. "It's early days, yet. We'll see how everything settles in the next hour or so."
"How long will it take us to get to Dominica?" Friday asked.
Connie studied the instruments over the helm for a few seconds. "We're making almost ten knots over the ground. If we can hold our course and speed, we should be there a little after sunset."
"Will you heave to, then?" Friday asked.
Connie frowned, a puzzled look on her face.
"To avoid entering in the dark?" Friday added.
"Oh," she said. "No. It's an easy entrance to Prince Rupert Bay — a couple of miles wide, no hazards. We've anchored in the dark there lots of times."
"I'm going to go below and see if I can raise the Coast Guard," Paul said. "See if anybody's reported you missing."
"It was a body, all right. He had it rolled up in plastic until he dumped it."
"Where, Miguel?" Leon Contreras asked.
Miguel inclined his head toward the third man in the room.
"Down south of Pinecrest, in the Big Cypress National Preserve. He had a little jon boat stashed in the weeds off a gravel road. We got the GPS coordinates of where he left the car, but I'm not sure we could ever find where he ditched the body," the third man said. "No way to follow him once he poled that boat out into the 'Glades."
"Yeah, okay, Jorge," Contreras said. "Any idea who it was?"
"Probably Schultz," Miguel said. "He used Schultz's car to get to the Shark Valley Visitor's Center. He had a beater Jeep stashed there that he used to get into the swamp."
"He left Schultz's car at the Visitor's Center, then?" Contreras asked.
"Right," Jorge said. "We lost him once he came out of the swamp; he took the Jeep back to Miami, I guess. The tracker was on Schultz's car."
Contreras nodded. "How'd you follow him into the swamp?"
"Jogged," Miguel said, "He couldn't drive very fast; he wasn't using lights, and the trail was overgrown."
"Once he got in the boat, we couldn't follow," Jorge added, "but he wasn't in the boat long. Couldn't have gone far."
"He had concrete blocks," Miguel said. "He probably weighted the corpse and left it for the gators. You want us to go looking?"
"It'd be a waste of time," Contreras said. "We'll just keep an eye on the club and see if Schultz shows up in the next few days. That's gotta be his corpse."
"You want us to keep an eye on Kilgore, then?" Miguel asked.
"Yeah. Let's see what he's up to. There must be a go-between. O'Toole sure as hell wouldn't have anything to do with a lowlife like Kilgore."
"That's who we want, right?" Jorge asked. "Whoever took Art Jansen's place in the chain of command?"
"That's right," Contreras said.
"No word on the scar-faced man?" Miguel asked.
Contreras shook his head. "Nobody's seen him since you two spotted him talking to O'Toole the night O'Toole and his buddy Ryan killed Jansen. The car he was in came up blank."
"Blank?" Jorge asked. "What do you mean, blank?"
"The plate was counterfeit," Contreras said. "It was a number that didn't exist; it was outside the DMV's numbering scheme."
"That's crazy," Miguel said. "What kind of screwball would do that? Suppose he got stopped for something?"
Contreras shrugged. "A screwball who was damn sure he wouldn't get stopped, maybe. I don't know. Or maybe somebody who'd blow away a cop without thinking twice. Remember, whoever he was, he had the brass to take on a U.S. Senator."
"Why don't we just come down on O'Toole?" Jorge asked. "We got him and that Gator Jaw Ryan asshole dead to rights on murdering Jansen. Me and Miguel saw 'em do it."
"Aside from the minor detail of blowing our cover, there's the fact that you wouldn't live to testify," Contreras said. "You got a death wish?"
"I'm not easy to kill, Leon. Besides, they don't know we saw them."
"No," Contreras said, "but you're forgetting who these people are. They're not your ordinary drug dealers. O'Toole's one of the most powerful and well respected people in the country."
Miguel said. "Leon's right. We need for O'Toole and Ryan to hang themselves and leave us in the background, like always."
"Yeah, I got it," Jorge said. "Live to fight another day. I know you're right, but it pisses me off that guys like O'Toole get to run around loose and we gotta stay in the shadows. Back in the day when I — "
"You were a street punk," Contreras interrupted. "You didn't even know people like O'Toole existed."
"Got it out of your system now?" Miguel asked.
"Yeah. I'm okay," Jorge said. "I don't want to go back to those days. No more than you two. Sorry."
Contreras studied Jorge for a moment, trading looks with Miguel. "Okay," he said. "Let's call it a night. Good work; we'll get 'em. Even guys like O'Toole screw up eventually."
5
“We need to get Steve off the crew list," Marian said. She and Bert were lingering over the remains of their breakfast. They sat in the cockpit of Windsong, sipping their coffee as they watched the lifting of the mist that hung over Prince Rupert Bay every morning.
"What's that?" Bert asked. "Get him off the crew list? I don't understand what you mean."
"When we cleared out to leave the B.V.I., all three of us were on the clearance paperwork," Marian said.
"Okay. So what?"
"So when I cleared in here, I took all three passports to customs and immigration and listed him as still being part of the crew."
"But he wasn't here," Bert said.
"Yeah, but they don't check. You didn't go in with me, and you're on the crew list."
"I'm lost, Marian. What are you getting at? Why did you put him on the list here, anyway?"
"Because they do check the departure paperwork from your previous port. Steve was on there. I didn't know what to do, so I just put him on the list for Dominica."
"Why didn't you tell them he'd fallen overboard?"
"Think about it, Bert. What would have happened if I had done that?"
"They would have asked where he fell over? Maybe sent out people to search for him, right?"
She shook her head. "I've been thinking about this ever since w
e ... well, since, you know."
He nodded, a questioning look on his face.
"What's the first thing you'd do if somebody fell overboard?" she asked.
"Try to pick them up?"
"Yeah. Did we do that?"
"Well, no. But they have no way of knowing that. You could have said we tried, but we couldn't find him."
"Uh-huh. And what's the most likely thing that we would have done in that situation?"
Bert frowned for a few seconds. "Called for help?"
"Bingo. Did we do that?"
"No, but maybe we tried and couldn't get an answer. VHF radio's not that powerful, is it?"
"Come on, Bert. We've got SSB; we were checking into the weather net while we sailed down from Florida, and the net control station's in Canada. Besides, we've got a satellite phone. We could have called all kinds of people for help. And then there's the EPIRB. We could have tossed it over the side to mark where he fell over, and rescuers would have had his position. They could have homed in on the EPIRB to start a search. We didn't do any of those things."
"We were in shock, maybe? But I see your point. We're kinda screwed, huh?"
"Not totally. I've got a plan. But that's why he's still on the paperwork. We need to get out of here before something happens that causes them to find out he's not with us, because then we would definitely be in trouble."
"How's leaving going to help?" Bert asked. "He'll still be on the paperwork. And don't you have to check out?"
"No, actually I don't. As long as we leave within two weeks of the day we got here, we're good to go. Dominica's got this quirky rule to make it easy on the charter boats."
"So we leave. Then what? We're still going to have the same problem when we clear into the next country, right?"
She grinned. "No. We're going to say we were making an overnight passage to somewhere like Bequia, maybe. Steve's going to fall overboard sometime during his night watch, and we'll go into panic mode as soon as we discover it. We'll call the coast guard, probably from somewhere west of St. Lucia, and deal with it all then."
Under Full Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 7th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean Page 3