Bluewater Enigma: The 13th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  "So I can't reach you?"

  "That's right. You're on your own. Have a blast. Maybe you can find some kinky bastard that likes to do pregnant women. Just be discreet; no compromising pictures in the tabloids, okay?" He laughed. "Now cook my breakfast, will you? I'm running late."

  She glared at him for a moment and stood up, stretching her lower back, rubbing it with both hands. She went to the refrigerator and opened the door. "Two eggs, or three?"

  "Three."

  "Scrambled?"

  "No. Fried. And don't overcook them this time."

  "Yes, master." She took the three eggs from the refrigerator and moved to the stove, breaking them into the frying pan.

  "That's more like it. I hate it when you make them rubbery. How damn many times have I told you, I like them runny, you stupid bitch."

  She glanced over her shoulder, checking to see what he was doing. He still sat facing her empty chair, his back to her. She whirled, the frying pan in her hand, and poured the still-raw eggs over his head.

  "You bitch!" he roared, standing up, knocking his chair over as he spun to face her, already drawing his right arm across to backhand her.

  She anticipated his blow, stepping back and letting it pass inches in front of her face. She swung the empty frying pan, putting her considerable weight behind it. The flat bottom of the pan landed squarely on his face.

  He screamed in surprise and pain, clapping both hands to his nose. She laughed when she saw the blood pouring from behind his hands. He dropped his right hand and took a step toward her, stopping when she raised the 10-inch chef's knife in her other hand. She made a threatening gesture toward his crotch.

  "Don't call me a bitch, you spic bastard. Touch me and I promise you won't have anything left to entertain your sluts with. You've got little enough as it is. From now on, you can cook your own damn eggs, and do it somewhere else. Get out of my house, and don't come back until you can behave yourself. I'll cut you in a New York minute, and if you hurt me, don't forget my brothers. They don't like you much anyway. I wouldn't give 'em an excuse to get rough, you greasy piece of Cuban shit."

  She held her threatening pose until he went out the door into the attached garage. She waited until she heard his car leave, and then put the knife and the pan on the counter and sat down at the table, a smile on her face.

  "I only wish I hadn't sounded so much like my mother," she said, her voice echoing in the empty kitchen.

  Beverly Lennox was having another candle-lit dinner with the man she knew as Berto. He had called her and invited her to join him, alluding to their "project," as he had called it on the phone. She was surprised to find herself excited at the prospect of seeing him again. He was an attractive man, and so far, he had treated her with respect. That was a novel experience for her.

  She followed the maître d' to a table in the shadows, in a private corner of the elegant restaurant. Her smile when Berto stood to greet her was genuine.

  She reached to take the hand he extended toward her, surprised when he grasped hers gently, like he might hold a live bird. He lifted it toward himself and bent from the waist to brush his lips against her fingers. Releasing her hand, he straightened up, smiling and nodding.

  She felt herself blush, feeling foolish at her reaction. Then she realized that might be the only thing that no man had ever done to her before. She returned his smile, but she wondered about his hand. The insides of his fingers felt odd; they were dry and slick, like plastic, almost.

  "You look exquisite," he said, waiting to take his own seat until the maître d' had seated her.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "The dress is beautiful on you."

  "Thanks. I used one of the cards; I hope that's all right?"

  "It is why you have the cards. Of course it is all right. You deserve the best, and in all honesty, it is a good investment. Things like that affect how you are perceived by other people. That is important, you understand?"

  "Yes, thank you. I'm not sure Horry notices what I'm wearing, though."

  "Perhaps not consciously, but be assured that he sees how other men react to you. This increases his estimation of your worth, whether he knows it or not. Appearance is everything, in some situations. It determines how you are treated by people who don't know you, and it shapes what they think of you. But you know this. Forgive me. I do not mean to patronize. I only want to assure you that I trust your judgment — and your excellent taste. Don't worry about the money. There is plenty."

  She smiled and nodded, avoiding looking him in the eye. She watched his hand as he picked up a piece of bread. Her guess was correct; his fingers didn't straighten completely. They were claw-like, and the inside of his hand was a mass of scar tissue. She shuddered to think how painful the injury that caused the scarring must have been.

  "Something is on your mind," he said. "Tell me what is troubling you."

  "It's silly," she said, tearing her eyes from his hand, hoping he had not noticed her staring at it. "I'm not troubled, really." She struggled to find an explanation for her distraction. "I'm stunned. This is like some Cinderella fantasy."

  "Good," he said. "That is a healthy reaction. I'm pleased. I apologize that your Prince Charming may not be what he should be, but then you were with him before you both came to my attention."

  "I thought you came to me because I was with him, that your interest in me was for the — shall I say leverage — that I could give you over him."

  "That is well said," he said. He studied her for a few seconds, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. "You are correct, of course. I didn't know anything about you at first, except that you were with him. That was sufficient for my initial purpose. After our first encounter, I wanted to know more about you. You were not at all what I expected. At the risk of offending you, I think you are out of his league; you could do much better. That was my immediate impression when we first met, and I have made some inquiries since then."

  "About me?" she asked, shifting in her chair and stroking the knife beside her dinner plate with her right index finger. She caught herself avoiding eye contact. She froze her finger and lifted her gaze to his. "What did you learn?"

  "Please don't be nervous or offended by that. I always find out as much as I can about my business partners. Nothing I learned about you worried me; to the contrary, I'm quite impressed."

  "Thank you, but I didn't know you saw me as a business partner."

  "Well, again, you are correct. I didn't, not at our first meeting."

  "And now?" she asked.

  "And now, I view you as a potential partner."

  "Potential?"

  "Yes."

  "And what would you require of me to actually become your business partner? To realize the potential?"

  "Two things. We must complete our little project with Velasquez, but I think that will happen with no difficulty."

  "And the second?"

  "I would need your commitment to work with me on future projects."

  "What future projects?"

  He held her gaze for several seconds before he answered. "You can guess why I want the recordings of Velasquez, I think."

  "You want to be able to influence him in his official capacity, I suspect."

  "Yes. And you are comfortable with that?"

  "Yes."

  "You know that we will have to let him know what we have done, do you not?" he asked.

  "Yes, or there would be no leverage. He'll at least have to know that I have compromised him. He may not need to know about you, personally. Only that someone has power over him."

  He smiled. "It's a pleasure to work with you. So you can see that he won't be favorably disposed toward you after this is done, yes?"

  "I expect he'll be angry with me."

  "And does that worry you?"

  "Only because I'll have to find another way to make my living. I'm not fond of him."

  "I hope you will continue to use the credit cards to build a bit of s
ecurity against the day he learns what we've done. Take what you need to be comfortable."

  "I live well," she said, "and I like to earn my living. A financial cushion to keep me afloat for a while is one thing. Running up bills indefinitely on those credit cards is something else."

  "I understand. How do you feel about what we're doing to Velasquez?"

  "He's getting what he deserves. He's a despicable pig; he has no respect for anyone but himself."

  "Good. You and I think alike. You know the world is filled with men like Velasquez, don't you?"

  "In my line of work, I've met more than a few," she said.

  "I expect so. If you partner with me, we will pick the ones who deserve what we are doing to Velasquez. You and I will help them to become better members of society."

  She thought about that for half a minute, then she broke the silence. "Will I have some input as to the demands that we make on Velasquez?"

  His eyes flashed in surprise. "What do you have in mind?"

  "One of the conditions we impose on him should be to honor his marriage going forward. You know he has a one-year-old son, and his wife is expecting? I'd like to neuter the son of a bitch, but I think it would hurt him more to be forced to make things right with his wife, and to live with her for the rest of his life. But she may feel differently, I guess. Still, we should make him take care of her if she wants a divorce."

  He nodded, but didn't say anything. She watched him, worried that the expression on his face didn't change for several seconds. Had she gone too far?

  Then he laughed, a deep, rumbling belly laugh. She was relieved, but puzzled that the lower part of his face seemed stiff, almost frozen.

  When he recovered his composure, he said, "I like you, Ms. Lennox. And I agree that we should make him stand by his obligations to her and the children, however she wants to handle their marriage. This is going to be an enjoyable partnership, I think. Shall we celebrate with a little Champagne while we consider what to have for dinner?"

  7

  "I'm disappointed that the selection of fresh fruits and vegetables wasn't better," Liz said. She and Dani had made the rounds of the grocery stores in Le Marin after breakfast, and Liz was putting things away.

  Dani, up to her elbows in the engine compartment, looked over her shoulder. "Do you want to borrow Phillip's Jeep and go into Fort-de-France?"

  "Not really. Do you?"

  "I'm all right with it, if you need to go."

  "I'm still beat, and if we stay here, we'll probably have another late night; Sandrine's in party mode."

  "They haven't had much company lately, Phillip said. I guess she's making up for lost time. What do you want to do?"

  "I was thinking we could clear out and head for Rodney Bay. We can anchor out tonight and get a good night's sleep. In the morning, we'll move into the marina and go grocery shopping. If I can't find what I need at the stores around there, Timothy will be thrilled to round it all up for us and bring it by the boat."

  "That gives us all day tomorrow plus a few hours the next morning," Dani said. "That sounds good to me. We should call Phillip and let him know."

  "I'll do that while you finish up with the engine. Maybe we can buy him and Sandrine a farewell lunch at the marina restaurant, if she can get away from the customs office."

  "Good," Dani said. "I'm done; while you call, I'm going to take a quick shower and rinse the grease off."

  Forty-five minutes later, they wedged their dinghy into the pack tied up at the main dinghy dock in the marina. They walked up the gangway and found Phillip and Sandrine waiting in the shade.

  "I'm glad you could make it on such short notice, Sandrine," Liz said.

  "We are not so busy just now," Sandrine said. "I have your clearance." She handed Liz a few folded pages.

  "Thank you," Dani said. "We didn't mean for you to do that; we were planning to go into the office after lunch."

  "It is not the big deal," Sandrine said. "Is easy for me, easy for you."

  They stepped into the nearly empty restaurant and took a table. Once they were seated and the waitress had brought menus and taken their drink orders, Phillip said, "Cedric called me a little while ago."

  "Oh," Dani said. "Did you tell him about our conversation with Luke?"

  Phillip chuckled. "He called because Luke told him you were staying with us. He was looking for you."

  "Oh," Liz said. "Do we need to call him?"

  "No, not really. You should probably give him a ring to say hello and thanks, but he and Luke worked out all the details for the fingerprint check on your guests. Cedric wants you to drop off whatever you use to collect the prints at the Port Authority office. He asked me to tell you, because he was going into a meeting and wouldn't be available the rest of today."

  "That sounds easy enough," Liz said.

  "Yes. He set it up for the morning after your guests arrive, figuring you'll be going in to get your outbound clearance then anyway. If that changes, give him a call. It's not a problem to change it, but they rotate the people, so he might have to brief somebody new if there's a delay. He suggested wrapping whatever objects you have in newsprint and putting them in a padded envelope. Ask for the senior police officer; she'll be expecting you."

  "Thanks, Phillip," Liz said.

  The waitress brought the bottle of wine that Liz had ordered. After everyone had been served, Sandrine said, "When you have done with these people, you must come back to see us. Phillip saw everybody a few weeks ago in Miami at Mario's party, but I was there only the one night. Connie and Paul have been here since then, but I have missed you two."

  "We'll do that," Dani said.

  "And you must stay for some days. We will do shopping for some nice clothes, yes?"

  "You just spent two days doing that with Connie when she and Paul were here last week," Phillip said.

  "Oui, but all the time we are looking for the sexy shoes for Connie, and the dress she say is 'slinking.' I do not understand this 'slinking,' but the dress has much beautiful draping to show off the curves, yes? I do not buy something like that for me, because I do not wish that Connie thinks I am stealing her idea. But I like it very much, this dress. I must find one for me. You also, Liz. You would like. But Dani, I don't think so much for you. Is not what is called your thing, yes?"

  "Slinky?" Dani asked. "You're right, Sandrine. Not my thing."

  Phillip shook his head, waving the waitress over to their table. "We need to order so Sandrine can get back to work. She needs to make some money for this dress she's going to buy."

  The lean, fit man with the buzz-cut hair sat in the shade of the open-air bar. He'd chosen a table overlooking the dinghy dock that served the marina in Rodney Bay. He was glad he had come in early: the bar was beginning to fill up with a happy-hour crowd. If he'd been any later, he wouldn't have gotten a table that afforded him such a good view of the docks.

  He had a tall glass of cold fruit juice in front of him, minus a few sips. He didn't like fruit juice much, but it was the only non-alcoholic drink they served that looked like a cocktail. To get it, he'd had to argue with the waitress. As soon as he sat down, she had brought him rum punch without being asked.

  "Welcome to St. Lucia," she had said, plopping a fruity-looking drink down in front of him. "First one's on me for happy hour." She'd given him a come-hither smile. "Let me know when you're ready for more. I'm Annie. You staying in the marina?"

  He shook his head and raised the glass to his nose, sniffing it. His eyes watered from the vapor of high-proof rum. He put the glass down.

  "Thanks, Annie, but I'm a friend of Bill's. Can you bring me some of that without any alcohol, please?"

  "Bill who?" she'd asked.

  "Never mind," he said. "I can't drink alcohol. I have a problem with it."

  "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I can do that, but I'll have to charge you for it. Fruit punch costs twice as much as rum punch. It's because the rum's so inexpensive here, you see."

  "I under
stand," he said. "Thanks."

  She nodded and picked up the glass. "You still want the fruit punch?"

  "You have soft drinks? Like for mixers, maybe?"

  "Yes, but it's the same, and they're watery. Nothing in cans or bottles. Liquor's cheap. Everything else has this tax on it. What would you like?"

  "Just bring me the fruit punch, then."

  She nodded and walked away, returning in a few minutes with the drink. "We only charged you half," she said, "because the first rum punch would have been free. I told the boss you didn't drink alcohol; he's a Seventh Day Adventist. I thought he'd understand."

  "Thank him for me," he said. "I'm surprised he runs a bar."

  "Well, he won't touch the alcohol, not even to move the bottles around. But he says it is not for him to judge what other people do; that's the Lord's prerogative."

  "Sounds like my kind of man," he said.

  "He is a fine man," she said. "Let me know if you need anything else. I started a tab for you."

  "Thanks, Annie. I will."

  As he watched her saunter away, he decided that he would forbid his subordinates to set foot in the bar. Annie and cheap alcohol would get them in trouble, for sure.

  The men who had crewed for him when he brought Vengeance down from Miami had moved on to another assignment. The two replacements were both army rejects, dishonorably discharged from the 82nd Airborne Division for drug abuse.

  They had already challenged his authority; he'd broken the larger one's nose to rein him in. The smaller one was more submissive, but he was sneaky. Both of them were making snide remarks about his background as a Naval officer.

  They'd also made no secret of what they'd like to do to the women who ran the yacht, given a chance. His order that their mission was surveillance and didn't include contact had led to the larger man physically attacking him. He'd been tempted to do worse than breaking the oaf's nose, but he'd restrained himself. He was shorthanded already.

  He lifted the fruit punch to take a sip and paused with it halfway to his mouth when he saw the two women arriving in a rigid inflatable dinghy. The one in the bow tied it to the dock and then threaded the end of a piece of stainless steel chain through one of the cleats. She snapped a padlock in place and the two of them climbed onto the floating dock and walked up the gangway toward where he sat.