Under Full Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 7th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean

by Charles Dougherty

  Her name kept coming up in connection with some unknown Mexican cartel. She had some peripheral involvement in O'Toole's problems before Montalba's takeover, but her exact role had not been clear. Montalba's interest rose when he read the allegations about Leon Contreras. He'd not heard of Contreras before, but it looked as if he might indeed have some Mexican connections. Contreras and Barrera were cousins, too. Contreras's involvement in the disappearance of two of SpecCorp's agents could be significant, as well, especially considering SpecCorp's characterization of Contreras as a "ghost."

  Now that Montalba's people didn't have quite as much of a burden in watching O'Toole, he'd have them check out Contreras and Barrera. If they were connected to a Mexican cartel and O'Toole wanted information on them, Montalba might need to counsel the senator. Maybe O'Toole thought he could set up another drug-smuggling network, now that Montalba was running his former operation. Canaday might bear study, as well, if he was hanging out in the Caribbean these days. Canaday and O'Toole could be looking to make a deal with Barrera and Contreras.

  "I know you!" Friday said, upon entering the small conference room where Victor Murphy sat waiting with Cedric Jones.

  Murphy smiled and nodded, standing up and extending his hand to Friday. "I hear you've lost your memory."

  "Yes, but ... you're Vic, right?"

  "Very good."

  Cedric Jones stood up. "I'm Cedric Jones. You must be Connie Barrera and Paul Russo."

  Connie and Paul nodded and shook hands with both men.

  Cedric Jones said, "Let's all sit down and let these two talk."

  "Do you remember my last name?" the lawyer asked, addressing Friday.

  "Mm ... M-Moore? No! Wait." Friday frowned and put his right hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. After a few seconds, he dropped his hand and looked up. "Vic Murphy," he said, sounding sure of himself.

  "Very good, Pat," Murphy said, watching Friday through narrowed eyes. "Do you remember the reason for our last meeting?"

  "Something to do with condos, maybe?"

  "Uh-huh," Murphy said. "What about — "

  "Wait!" Friday said. "You called me Pat."

  Murphy looked at him, his face giving away nothing. He nodded after a couple of seconds.

  "Boushel," Friday said, rising from his chair and pacing in the small space. "Pat Boushel. That's my name, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Murphy said. "Patrick Michael Boushel. Do you remember any more about the condos?"

  "A development," Pat Boushel said.

  Murphy nodded, waiting. Boushel sat back down.

  "Something went wrong," Boushel said. "But I ... " He shook his head.

  Murphy held his gaze, smiling and nodding, encouraging him.

  "A ... a title problem?" Boushel asked.

  "Yes," Murphy said. "Very good. The property belongs to a large local family. The original owner died intestate long ago, and we had a lot of trouble locating the heirs. You remember?"

  "They started arguing among themselves about whether to sell, right?"

  "Yes. And you got frustrated and went home."

  "Home," Boushel said.

  Murphy nodded.

  "Canada?" Boushel asked.

  Murphy waited several seconds, watching the expressions play over Boushel's face. "Sort of," he said, at last. "But not exactly."

  "I'm Canadian. I feel sure I am, now."

  Murphy nodded. "Do you remember where you lived?"

  "Not in Canada?" Boushel asked.

  Murphy waited.

  "In the Caribbean, somewhere," Boushel said. "And I had a boat."

  Murphy nodded, but said nothing.

  "Cuba?" Boushel asked.

  Murphy nodded. "On the outskirts of Havana, but I don't know how long you lived there."

  "When we were meeting about the condo development, were you representing me? As my lawyer, I mean."

  "Yes. I still am. You have me on a retainer until we resolve the property question one way or the other."

  "A retainer? I'm paying you, then?"

  "A monthly wire transfer," Murphy said.

  "From what bank?" Boushel asked.

  Murphy grimaced and squirmed in his chair. He looked around the table, his eyes pausing on Cedric. "Commissioner Jones, I realize the situation is a bit unusual, but is there a way for me to confer with my client in private?"

  Cedric Jones hesitated for several seconds, and then said, "I think so, but there is still an immigration issue, you understand? Before we allow Mr. Boushel to enter St. Lucia, we would need to see his passport, or some other acceptable documentation from his home country."

  Murphy nodded. "I understand. I'd like a few minutes alone with Mr. Boushel. If we stayed in this conference room and you waited outside, would that be all right?"

  "Oh, I think so. I thought you meant — "

  "No," Murphy said, smiling. "I'd like to cover some things with Mr. Boushel in private, and then perhaps I can help him get replacement travel documents."

  "Very well, then," Jones said. "Connie? Paul? I think I can find us some coffee in the outer office."

  16

  “Are you sure?" Bert asked.

  "I was married to him for 15 years, Bert," Marian said. "Of course, I'm sure."

  "But how can that be?" Bert asked. "We were 100 miles from the nearest land, you said."

  "I saw him, Bert. He got out of a dinghy with a man and a woman and went upstairs to the Port Authority office."

  "Shit! Did he see you?"

  "I'm sure he didn't. I was inside one of the boutiques; I just caught a glimpse of him through the window. I turned away that instant, and besides, the place was so dim and cluttered that he couldn't have seen inside."

  "What the hell are we going to do now? He went in the Port Authority office? Where the cops are?"

  "That's right."

  "How long ago?"

  Marian looked at the clock. "Half an hour. I came right back to the boat, but you weren't here. What took you so long in the shower, anyway?"

  "I had to wait my turn. And then I got carried away by all the hot water. You know how that is. But there were two guys in there talking about an announcement on the security net this morning. Now that you think you saw Steve, I'm wondering."

  He hesitated, frowning, and Marian asked, "Wondering? About what?"

  "They said something about a man with amnesia who was found at some deserted island a few days ago."

  "What island?" Marian asked.

  "Isla something."

  "Isla de Aves?" Marian asked. "I've heard of that; people go there to look at the birds."

  "Maybe. Where is it?"

  "I don't know, exactly," she said. "Let's check the cruising guide." She took a glossy, spiral-bound book from the shelf over the chart table and flipped to the index in the back, running a finger down the page. When she found Isla de Aves, she paged through the book to the sketch chart that showed a large part of the eastern Caribbean. "There it is," she said, tapping the sketch with her finger as she turned the book for Bert to see.

  After a few seconds' study, he said, "I guess it could be. We went right through the middle, kinda." He traced their course with his finger. "Between there and Guadeloupe. It seems like a long way for him to swim."

  "He was wearing an inflatable PFD," Marian said.

  "Yeah, but he was unconscious when I threw him in. Shit, I thought he was dead after I cracked him with that winch handle. You think he ... " Bert shook his head. "They said he had amnesia. Maybe he doesn't remember now, but — "

  "Don't get carried away, Bert," she said, interrupting him. "We don't even know if it was Steve they found. Let's go online and see if there's anything on the safety and security net's website." She opened the laptop on the chart table and waited for it to boot up. Signing on to the marina's Wi-Fi, she opened the browser and clicked on the bookmark for the website.

  "Damn," she muttered, as a picture of a bedraggled-looking Steve Canaday appeared.

  "It'
s him, all right," Bert said.

  They read the sparse information in silence, and then closed the computer.

  "That was posted this morning," Marian said. "And it's been, what, six days? Seven?"

  "Since I threw him over? Yeah. Seven, I think."

  "So, he still hasn't recovered his memory," Marian mused. "That's a good sign. Maybe he won't."

  "But the police will recognize him," Bert said.

  "Not from that picture, they won't," Marian said. "He was all shaved, hair combed, looked good as new when I saw him a little while ago."

  "What are we gonna do now?" Bert asked. "What if he remembers? We could be in deep shit, Marian."

  "We could finish the job," she said.

  "Finish the job? You mean ... " Bert shook his head, his lips curled down in distaste.

  "That's exactly what I mean. You've got a bigger stake in this than I do; you're the one who tried to kill him."

  "Wait a minute, damn it! You're in this up to your eyeballs. You're not hanging the whole thing on me."

  "I've been living in terror of you ever since you dumped him over the side. What choice did I have but to play along with your fantasy?"

  "That's bullshit, and you know it, Marian."

  "The question is whether a jury will know it." Marian gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes and twirled a finger in her blond curls. Her fake smile changed to a smirk and she said, "It would be for the best if he died — permanently, this time."

  "We don't know where he's staying, even," Bert said.

  "But the couple who brought him in must be the ones who found him," Marian said. "The website said they run charters on a ketch named Diamantista II. We could see what they know about where he is."

  "How are we gonna do that without getting ourselves all tangled up in this mess, Marian? We can't just motor up in the dinghy and ask them. Suppose he's there?"

  "Yeah, I know. But we're already tangled up in this mess, as you put it." She glanced at the ship's clock on the bulkhead. "Tell you what. You work on that problem. It's time for me to call my lawyer."

  "Thanks for all your help," Paul said to Cedric Jones as they sat drinking coffee in the bullpen area behind the public part of the customs and immigration office.

  "It's little enough of a concession," Jones said. "I hope that Mr. Murphy will be able to help him get some travel documents."

  "Is there a Canadian consulate or embassy here, or is it in Barbados like the U.S. one?" Connie asked.

  "Barbados, I'm afraid," Jones said. "But I think Murphy has a corresponding attorney in Barbados. Most of our lawyers who handle real estate matters do. Barbados is a financial center, you see."

  "So, you think he'll be able to get a replacement passport for Fri — oops!" Connie laughed. "I guess we need to get used to calling him Pat."

  "Probably. Having a chartered attorney vouch for his identity should help matters. They may give him some temporary travel documents in short order. That would be sufficient for us to admit him to St. Lucia, and get him out of your way. I'm sure you have other things to do besides take care of a shipwrecked amnesia victim."

  "We're okay with it," Paul said, "But we were looking forward to having this cruise to ourselves."

  "Cruise? Where were you coming from when you found him?"

  "We'd been in Miami for a gathering of some friends, and we were making our way to Grenada. We're picking up a charter there in a couple of weeks."

  "Miami," Jones said. "Were you there for Mario Espinosa's surprise party?"

  "Yes," Connie said. "You heard about it, then."

  Jones smiled. "Yes. J.-P. invited me. I wish I could have been there. It was a rare chance to see so many old friends together, but I had a conflict. I go way back with J.-P. and Mario. Sharktooth, as well."

  "And Phillip?" Connie asked. "He was there, too."

  "Yes, of course. Phillip also, but I was no longer working with them by the time he joined their business. He's sort of a newcomer, you see."

  "Nobody told us that you had worked with them," Paul said. "I had the impression that you were somebody they'd known for a long time in your official capacity."

  Jones laughed. "It's because of my 'official capacity,' as you put it, that I dropped out of the business. When I became a policeman, it would have been inappropriate to continue my financial involvement with them."

  "Ah. I understand that," Paul said.

  "I'm sure you do, Captain Russo. It's an honor to meet you, by the way. I've heard of you for years. Do you miss police work?"

  "Well, yes and no. It's — "

  "Excuse me, Commissioner," a uniformed officer said. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I understood that you had requested a copy of the preliminary report on the Windsong matter." She handed him a manila folder.

  "Yes. Thank you, Lt. Wilkes," Jones said.

  When the woman was out of earshot, Connie asked, "Not to be nosey, but I've seen a yacht named Windsong a couple of times in the last few days. Is that — " She stopped when Jones smiled and nodded.

  "Yes, I suspect it is. Where and when have you seen her, if I may ask?"

  "I spotted her at the dock in the marina this morning, but the first time I saw her was when we were pulling into Prince Rupert Bay. That would have been three days ago."

  "Was she at anchor there?" Jones asked.

  "No. She was under way; they were leaving as we came in."

  "You're sure of the day?"

  "Yes, but I could check our inbound clearance paperwork from Dominica if you'd like."

  Jones shook his head. "Not yet. Could you say how many people were aboard?"

  "There were two people on deck," Paul said, "a man and a woman. They passed close abeam and the woman waved. She was at the helm; the man was on the bow. There may have been others below; we wouldn't know. What's up?"

  Jones shook his head and flipped through the folder, pausing for a moment. He put a finger on the page and stared off into space for a second. "The dates don't match, but it's probably just a mix-up. They lost a person overboard on an overnight passage. They called the Coast Guard yesterday in the early morning. The Coast Guard had a helicopter up most of the day, flying a search pattern along their route, but they didn't find anything. Two people were asleep when the man fell over, so it could have happened anywhere along about an 80-mile track."

  "A person on watch solo with no tether, I guess," Connie said.

  Jones nodded. "Exactly."

  "People just don't get it," Paul said. "Why can't they understand that falling overboard from a moving boat offshore is a death sentence? Especially if you're on deck alone?"

  "We get several every year," Jones said. "There's not much to be done about it."

  The door to the conference room opened and Boushel and Murphy came out.

  "I think we're done for now," Murphy said, "but here's the plan. I'll have my associate in Barbados get in touch with the Canadian Embassy there and get an emergency travel document for Mr. Boushel. That should let him enter St. Lucia and check into a hotel while we get a replacement passport for him. That might take a couple of days. I can have the temporary document faxed here this afternoon. Will your colleagues accept a facsimile, Commissioner?"

  "I think we can arrange that, under the circumstances. There will be the issue of guaranteeing funds for departure, though, and financial responsibility while he's here."

  "That's no problem," Murphy said. "I have ample funds belonging to Mr. Boushel in my escrow account from the deal we were contemplating."

  "How ample?" Jones asked.

  Murphy looked at Boushel and raised his eyebrows.

  "It's okay, Vic," Boushel said. "You can tell them."

  "Two hundred fifty thousand dollars, U.S.," Murphy said. "I'll call you as soon as I have the temporary document, Mr. Jones."

  Oscar Jefferson answered the phone, ready for another disappointing report on the search for Canaday.

  "Oscar?"

  "Yeah," he said, his voic
e rising. "Look, I understand the difficulty of tracking down a private boat in the islands, but I got enough headaches. What do you have for me?"

  "We heard the boat's in Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, in the marina. Been there since early yesterday. I got a team on the way there. We gotta find somebody with a connection in the customs office there. Customs there's a little stricter than in Dominica. The good part of that is Canaday's gonna have to check out if they leave, so their trail won't be as hard to follow."

  "Good," Jefferson said. "When will our people get there?"

  "They land at noon; figure an hour to get to the marina. You still want us to question Canaday, right?"

  "Hell yes, I do."

  "You think he's gonna cooperate? Or should we take him somewhere private to work on him?"

  "If he seems cooperative, he'll be lying. Take him somewhere and give him the full treatment; I don't care what it costs. I got a hell of a lot at stake, here."

  "Understood. We'll handle it. You got any interest in what happens to his wife and this Holsclaw guy? They may be in the way."

  "No. I don't care. Use the wife to make Canaday talk, if you want. Shit, for all I know, she may be part of his scam, anyway. You got anything on this Holsclaw?"

  "Yeah, some. He was Canaday's college roommate. And you're gonna like this. He and Canaday's wife were engaged to be married way back then. But something happened, and she ended up marrying Canaday instead."

  "And Canaday and Holsclaw are still friends?" Jefferson asked.

  "It looks that way, but it's not that straightforward. Seems like Holsclaw and the wife have been getting it on this whole time."

  "Jesus! Right under Canaday's nose?"

  "Yeah."

  "And here I thought that son of a bitch was smart," Jefferson said.

  "He may be, Oscar. He's known about their affair for several years, maybe longer."