"We ain't' gonna get another shot at her. That's for damn sure. You get anything from her?"
"Not yet."
"The hell do you mean, not yet? Either you found somethin' out, or you didn't."
"I will. I planted a bug in her office."
"A bug? No shit. Where'd a dirt-bag like you learn to do shit like that?"
"Come on, boss. I may be a dirt-bag, but I ain't no dumb-ass. I bought it at the place down there off Lincoln Road."
"What's it got, like a tape recorder or somethin'?"
"Nah, they use chips for all that now. It's tiny."
"So how we gonna get the recording?"
"The little gizmo I put in her office, it's like a transmitter or somethin'. The recorder's out in the alley behind her office. I just go swap out the chip and put a new battery in it every day. I already got — "
"Well, she's done called somebody. Reckon it woulda picked that up?"
"Probably got her side of it, anyhow. I got — "
"Go swap that chip right now, or whatever it is you gotta do."
"Hang on, boss. I been tryin' to tell you. I — "
"Don't be tellin' me to hang on, you piece-a shit. I'll — "
Freddy leaned forward and put a black cylinder the size of a big cigar on the coffee table and pressed a button while Jonas Pratt was yelling. The sound of a woman's voice emanating from the cylinder interrupted Pratt's tirade.
"Thanks for taking my call; I need a little air cover," she said.
There was a silence of several seconds, and then she said, "It's about one of my clients — well, really she's more of a protégé. She was involved with Jonas Pratt; started out in one of his clubs and ended up as his favorite plaything, I guess. She's way out of his league; how she got into that mess, I don't know. We all make mistakes when we're hungry, I suppose. Anyhow, she's come to her senses and left him, but he's sent one of his goons around here looking for her. He gave me some bullshit about owing her money, but I — "
There was another pause, and then she said, "Freddy Thompson."
After a brief pause, she said, "Right, thanks. She's out of the way for now, down in the islands."
After another brief pause, she said, "No, not there. I figured that would be too obvious. I called Elaine Moore, chartered a yacht for a month. I don't even know where they're going."
She sighed, sounding relieved. "Thanks. And yes, I'll get in touch with her and warn her that he's looking, but we kind of expected that, given what an asshole he is."
There was the sound of a phone being placed in its cradle, and the creaking of a swivel chair.
"Guess you heard enough to get the gist, Sylvie," the woman said.
"Yes. Want me to call Elaine?"
"Please. And see if she's got a way to get a message to that yacht. We need to let — "
There was a pop, and the recording ended.
"What happened? Why'd it stop?" Pratt asked.
"That's probably when I switched the chip, or whatever, micro-SD card, I think it is. I figured I ought to make damn sure it was workin' right away, while I could still maybe get back in there if I had to. You know, like I forgot somethin', maybe. Sylvie's her secretary."
Pratt nodded. "You done good, Freddy. Track down this Elaine Moore broad and let's find out about this here yacht that little Miss Hot Stuff's on."
"You want me to — "
"I want you to stay clear of Moore; sounds like whoever the dyke was talkin' to probably knows her. We don't need no more trouble. Maybe figure out where this Elaine is and send somebody to break in her office, steal some computers and shit to cover his tracks, but get the name of that yacht. One of them junkies you use can do that; keep you and me out of it."
Freddy nodded. "Okay, boss."
****
"That was one more great lunch, Mr. Russo," Connie said. She and Paul were swinging in hammocks in the shade of the cockpit awning. Sadie had gone below for a shower and a nap.
"Thanks, skipper. Think she enjoyed it?"
"She cleaned up the leftovers. I'm not surprised she had to take a nap," Connie said, smiling at the memory.
"She looks like she hasn't been eating enough lately," Paul said, "or ever, for that matter."
"Yes, she's pretty slim," Connie said. "It's hard to believe she's the same age as Dani and Liz. I don't mean because of her appearance, though. It's her manner, I guess."
"You're right. I guess she is about their age, isn't she? She's a little younger, maybe, but the same generation, anyway."
"I'm not sure why that hit me." Connie said. "Her personality's nothing like theirs, that's for sure."
"In some ways, she seems ... I don't know ... child-like," Paul said.
"Child-like?"
"I was going to say innocent, but occasionally she gets this look in her eyes ... " Paul said.
"I thought you said earlier that she didn't have the mark of having been on the street."
"I didn't phrase that quite right," Paul said. "She doesn't have that kind of wariness, the seen-it-all look that hookers have. It's more like a thousand-yard stare."
"Thousand-yard stare?"
"Like combat veterans, kind of a post-traumatic-stress look. Abused children get it, too. That's probably why I said she was almost child-like."
"What did you make of those bruises?" Connie asked.
"Pretty ugly, aren't they? She offer any explanation?"
"Yes. I didn't ask, but I'm sure my face gave away my reaction when we were spreading out the mat on the foredeck. She said she fell down the stairs a few days ago."
"Uh-huh," Paul said, shaking his head. "I can't count the number of times I've heard that one."
"You think somebody beat her up?"
"There's no 'think' about it. The bruises are one thing; there's no way to know for sure about them, but did you see the welts on her lower back and her, um ... " his face flushed. "Not that I ... "
Connie laughed. "I'm sure your interest was purely professional, Lt. Russo. It was kind of hard to miss when she bent over in that thong, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was. But you're right; she looks like a preteen when she's not wearing ... um ... " he swallowed hard.
"Shut up, Paul. You're just digging yourself in deeper. Relax. I know she's not your type. But what made those marks?"
"Wire, most likely. Could have been a coat hanger, or an extension cord, or just a few feet of insulated 12-gauge electrical wire. Hard to tell which unless they're fresh."
"Wire? I've never heard of such a thing. You mean burns?"
"No. Wire used like a whip. It's a common thing in certain circles. Pimps will use it for punishment; it's incredibly painful and it leaves a long-lasting reminder, but it doesn't put the victim out of commission like a beating would do. No real damage, other than those welts, and if it's not overdone, they fade out after a while."
"You think she's a hooker, then?" Connie raised her eyebrows.
"No. Like I said, she doesn't have any of the characteristic traits. I think she got mixed up with somebody that runs in those circles, though. That could be why she's on the run, if she is on the run."
Chapter 4
Sadie rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she climbed the companionway ladder to join Connie and Paul in the cockpit. "Hi," she said, stretching her arms out over her head and yawning. She giggled. "Sorry. I can't seem to wake up." She smiled and sat down at the cockpit table next to Connie.
"Nice nap?" Connie asked.
"Mm-hmm. Did I sleep long?"
"About an hour and a half," Paul said.
"Guess I was more tired than I realized. That flight from Miami wore me out, but then the sail from St. Martin hit me like a drug or something."
"Sailing does relax you," Connie agreed. "Especially when the weather's perfect, like last night's. The motion of the boat's soothing, isn't it?"
"It sure is," Sadie said. "I was worried I'd get seasick, but it didn't bother me."
"That's good. Let us know,
though, if you get queasy. We've got several options, from patches to pills."
"Oh, okay. I'm fine, really."
"We were taking bets on whether you'd wake up in time for dinner," Connie said.
"No way I'm missing a meal. Not the way Paul cooks. You have any idea what a lucky lady you are?"
Connie smiled and nodded.
"You're embarrassing me," Paul said. "I'd better go get started; the pressure's on."
"Hey," Sadie said, "I wanted to ask about email. Is there a place for me to take my laptop? Like an Internet café, or a coffee shop or something?"
"We have Internet service on Diamantista II," Connie said. "Just let us know when you're ready, and we'll turn everything on. It takes a couple of minutes for it to find the satellites, or whatever."
"Okay. Any time it's convenient would be great. I need to check in with Leana and see what she's got going as far as bookings for me."
"I'll turn it on now," Paul said. "I was going to start dinner anyway. I'll let you know when it's up." He went below, and Sadie smiled at Connie.
"He really is a prize; I wasn't just trying to flatter him," Sadie whispered.
Connie grinned. "I know. I have to pinch myself several times a day to make sure this is real."
"How did you two meet?"
"Sailing," Connie said. "I had chartered a boat to learn to sail, and Paul's a friend of the captain's godfather."
"Oh." Sadie said. "I thought you were going to tell me Paul was the chef."
"No, the chef was a young woman about your age."
"The captain's girlfriend?"
"No. The captain's another young woman; they own the boat together."
"So you aren't the only female charter captain, then?"
"No. It's not that uncommon. It was my first experience sailing, and I got seriously hooked. The two of them encouraged me, and I spent several months with them. Liz, the chef, took part of that time off to get reacquainted with an old boyfriend, and I had the chance to be crew for a while."
"That sounds like fun. Where were you?"
"Oh, down here in the islands. We moved around a lot, because I wanted to get as much boat-handling experience as I could. The only problem was that without Liz, we went hungry a lot of the time — unless we were near a restaurant. Neither one of us could cook." Connie chuckled.
"So that's where Paul came in?"
"Not exactly. It turned out Liz's old boyfriend was mixed up with some crooks, and Paul was still a cop in those days. Dani — the captain — her godfather lives in Miami, and they're really close. One of the bad guys that Liz got tangled up with was wanted in Florida, I think, and Paul ended up coming down to arrest him. We were in Martinique, then."
Sadie squinted and asked, "So this godfather, is he like, um, a sugar daddy or something to Dani?"
Connie laughed. "Hardly. He's really her godfather; he's been a business partner and friend of her father's since before she was born."
"She's from Miami, then?"
"It's pretty confusing. She has dual citizenship; she's French or American, depending on her mood. Her mother lives in New York and her father lives in Paris."
"That sounds neat. But Paul's from Miami?"
"Yes. He was about to retire, and he stayed in Martinique a few days after his business was done to visit with Dani and some other friends. I discovered his two passions were sailing and cooking. I'd already decided I wanted to buy a boat and go in the charter business, but like I said, I can't cook. Anyway, I talked him into helping me until I could find a permanent chef, and one thing led to another."
"That's so cool! You guys have, like, this fairy-tale life. I'm so envious."
"You said it. I'm a lucky lady. But tell me, you said the other night that there was a man in your life. What's he like, your man?"
"Um, well ... we're kinda ... not getting along right now. He's not happy about my singing taking me — "
"The network's up." Paul yelled from below.
"Oh! Great. Thanks, Paul. Excuse me, Connie."
****
"That's the file on her charter?" Jonas Pratt asked, reaching for the manila folder in Freddy's hand.
"Yeah. That's all he found with her name on it. There's some other shit from the same desk drawer; I done went through it. He looked at her computer, too, but it was password-protected, so he just stole it. You want me to get somebody to try to crack it?"
"Wait. Let's see what's in here. Why the hell would she keep stuff on the computer if she's got it on paper?"
Freddy shrugged. "I dunno, boss. All that shit's beyond me."
"Yeah, me too," Pratt said. He pulled a page from the folder. "Damn! Look at this, willya. Bitch paid $50,000 cash for a full fuckin' month. Pick-up yesterday in St. Martin, at the marina in the lagoon."
"We been there, right?" Freddy asked. "On Morning Mist?"
"Yeah," Jonas said, continuing to flip through the thin folder. "The hell did she get that kinda money ... oh, wait. I see. The payment was a wire transfer from the dyke agent, that's where."
"Why would that broad front Sadie that kinda money?" Freddy asked.
Jonas shrugged. "No tellin'. Sadie's probably knockin' down some pretty good bread from them singin' gigs. Headlinin' at places like the Copa? I got no idea what that pays, but I heard she's done cut a record, too. Maybe the dyke's just managin' her money for her." He opened the folder, spreading the contents out on his desk. "This boat — Diamantista II — he find anything on that?"
Freddy thumbed through the canvas satchel that he held. He extracted another, thicker folder. "Just this, but it don' say nothin' 'bout where the boat — "
"Gimme that, dumb-ass." Pratt snatched the file folder and opened it on his desk.
"Damn pretty boat if you're into rag baggers," he said, passing a glossy eight-by-ten photograph to Freddy. "Might help you find it."
"Me? Find it? You — "
"Shut up, Freddy. I gotta think. Fifty-seven feet. Big boat. Captain's one good lookin' broad, if you like Latinas. Looks like she and a guy own ... shit ... "
"What's the matter, boss?"
Pratt flipped a picture across the desk. Freddy Thompson studied the rugged, handsome man with a close cropped head of thick, gray hair and steel-blue eyes. "You know him?"
"No, boss. Why? Do you?"
"Maybe, but I can't think where from. He's damn familiar lookin', though. Name's Paul Russo, it says here."
"Want me to get Sol to run a check on them?"
"Yeah. Meanwhile, get your ass down to St. Martin."
"St. Martin?"
"Yeah. See what you can find out at the marina."
"You think they're still — "
"I don't know, Freddy. I want you to go see, okay?"
"What if they're not there?"
"One step at a time, Freddy. Find out if they been there; see if you can find out where they went. Boat like that, it could go anywhere, but not real fast. Maybe a hundred-fifty, two hundred miles in twenty-four hours, okay?"
"Morning Mist is a lot faster than that, huh?"
"No shit, Freddy. And the chopper's even faster. Figure out the likely places to look, and then we'll track 'em down with Morning Mist and the chopper."
"She's that good, huh, boss? Skinny little broad like her, you gonna chase all over the islands after her? She must be somethin' really — "
"She knows too damn much, Freddy. I can't have her runnin' loose. She was on Morning Mist in St. Barth for the big meet, remember?"
"Yeah, boss, but so was all the other girls."
"All the other girls stay so fucked up on coke and weed they don't know where the hell they are from one minute to the next. Or who's been messin' with 'em. Sadie don't touch that shit, and she's a smart little bitch."
"You think she's gonna tell — "
"She ain't gonna get the chance, dumb-ass. Go find her, and hold her until I get there."
****
Sadie leaned back against the cockpit coaming; she wasn't
sure if she was even awake, if this was real. The stars twinkled in the clear, moonless sky. Just a few breaths ago, she'd witnessed the most glorious sunset she'd ever seen. The brevity of twilight in the tropics was new to her; they'd slipped from dusk through sunset to full darkness in the length of time it had taken them to eat dinner in the cockpit.
And what a dinner! Paul had grilled fresh mahi-mahi steaks, drizzled with Irish butter and freshly grated nutmeg. He'd served them with steamed whole pods of okra and herbed rice. They had washed it all down with a crisp, white vin de table.
Once Connie reminded her, she recalled Paul's catching the fish about sundown last night, when they were between St. Martin and St. Barth. The creature had been magical, neon blue-green and gold, fading before her eyes when Paul took a mouthful of rum and blew it into the fish's mouth, ending its struggles instantly. He'd told her that the Spanish-speaking people called the fish dorado, meaning the golden one.
It was only fitting that something so beautiful would taste so good, she thought, giggling. She thought she might be a little drunk; she'd only had a glass or two of the wine, but the fresh air and the motion of the boat emphasized the effect of the alcohol.
****
Sadie and Connie were finishing the last of the wine, relishing their contentment in comfortable silence. There was an occasional clink of silverware or china from below; Paul was at the galley sink, cleaning up after their feast.
Sadie had almost forgotten the disturbing email from Leana that she'd read while Paul was cooking, the one about Freddy Thompson looking for her. She couldn't imagine that they'd find her here; this seemed like a different universe. She was anonymous and safe here. Even her hosts didn't know who she was. Her name meant nothing to them; she was just another charter guest to them and the people down here.
Life doesn't get much better, she reflected, and then she heard the guitar. At first, she thought she'd imagined it, a mellow sound, an E major chord, strummed with the ball of the thumb. Then she heard someone plucking the individual strings, tuning them. The sounds were soft; it couldn't be too far away, could it? But then she remembered that there were no boats anchored close by; the nearest was perhaps 50 yards away, a small white one. She'd always heard that sound carried over water.
Running Under Sail - a Connie Barrera Thriller (Connie Barrera Thrillers Book 5) Page 3