"No, she doesn't. But I don't know what happened. She didn't get into that. You heard what she said, right? About the stripping?"
"Yes. I got that, but she was sobbing so much that I couldn't really follow what she said after that, and I didn't want to listen, anyhow. It seemed like she needed time for some girl talk."
"You're pretty sensitive, for a cop, you know that?"
"That's a popular misconception."
"What? That you're sensitive?"
"No. That cops aren't. A good detective's got to be able to pick up on the nuances of what somebody's saying, fill in the blanks, kind of."
"That makes sense, I guess. But you're right; it doesn't fit the image."
Paul nodded, and Connie cleared her throat.
"Anyway," she said, "the woman who's now her agent spotted her and took her away from all that."
"This Leana? How'd that happen? She say?"
"It was a lucky accident, I guess. The strip club where she worked let the girls choose their own music, and she liked jazz. She started singing along while she danced, and this agent heard her. She's had a regular rags-to-riches transition, from what she said, but she's got some scars."
"Scars? You mean mentally? Or ... "
"This is all supposition on my part, you understand. And yes, I mean mental scars. She doesn't think she deserves her success. She didn't want Tom to know who she was because she feels guilty about it, like he deserves it as much as she does."
"Hmm. What's she doing here, anyway? Did she say?"
"She said her life was a whirlwind; she needed some time to sort herself out. That's why this agent packed her off down here."
"Hmm. And that's all we know, huh?"
"I recognize that look, Lt. Russo. You've gone full cop on me, haven't you? What's bugging you?"
"I don't think the guitar player's the only one she's holding out on. There's something off about her story."
"I thought you said she didn't have the marks — "
"Not about her. About her story."
"Did you see how embarrassed she was about working in strip clubs?"
"Yes. I understand that. What's your point?"
"I'm sure that dancing naked for drunks wasn't the most humiliating thing that happened to her, Paul. Of course she's holding out on us. What do you expect?"
"Me? I don't expect anything, in particular. She seems like a good person who's been through a bad time. I'm glad it's turning around for her, but I'm worried about the other shoe dropping when we don't expect it."
"Cop's intuition?"
"I suppose. I think she's on the run. I don't know what she's running from, but I don't think she's a crook. That may mean she's crossed the wrong people, somehow."
"What do you think we should do?"
"I don't know, but I don't want to get blindsided. If somebody's chasing her, I wish she'd tell us about it. Keep her talking; maybe it'll come out."
"You could ask Luke; see if he knows anything about her, or this agent of hers," Connie said.
"Leana, right?"
Connie nodded.
"Do you know her last name?"
"No, but I'll bet Elaine has it."
"Mm," Paul said.
"So?"
"So, what, skipper?"
"So, are you going to ask Luke?"
"You know, I'm tired of always thinking like a cop. That's why I retired and became the chef on a luxury charter yacht."
"That's it, huh? And here I thought I'd seduced you."
"Uh-oh. Now I've stepped in it, haven't I?"
"I'm just teasing, cookie. Trying to cheer you up."
"Thanks. This may sound dumb, coming from an ex-cop, but I don't want to start investigating our charter guests. It makes me think I'm paranoid, and it's an invasion of that poor girl's privacy, don't you think?"
"Well, when you put it that way, yes. On the other hand, I trust your intuition, and your peace of mind is more important to me than her privacy."
"Thanks. I needed that."
"Are you going to ask Luke?"
"No. We both like her and think she's a good kid. Let's leave her be; she'll ask for our help if she needs it, I think."
****
Connie and Paul had taken a table near the small stage in the corner of the restaurant and ordered dinner while they waited for the performance. Sadie and Tom had been huddling somewhere in the back organizing their playlist, figuring out what they both knew well enough to deliver without rehearsing. Connie put her fork down, finishing her meal as the show ended.
"That was wonderful, Sadie," Connie said, as Sadie approached their table after the show. "Isn't Tom going to join us?"
"He'll be along in a minute; he's putting his stuff away."
Sadie sat down at the table, and the waitress came to take her drink order. Before the waitress left, a woman from an adjacent table got up and came over.
"Excuse me for interrupting," she said, "but aren't you Sadie Storm?"
Sadie's cheeks flushed. "Y-yes, I am, but ... "
"Oh! I knew it! I've never seen you, or even a picture, but I'd recognize that voice anywhere. I heard you sing St. James Infirmary Blues on the car radio a few weeks ago and went straight home and downloaded your whole album. You were amazing tonight. My husband and I have a timeshare down here, and we come over for the performance every week when we're here. What a treat! Are you staying here?"
"I'm on a boat," Sadie said, her voice soft. "Just passing through, looking for a little peace and quiet. I'm glad you enjoyed the performance."
"Who's the guy?" the woman asked. "The guitar player. Is he someone special? He is, isn't he?"
"Of course he is," Connie said. "You don't recognize him?"
"Well, maybe ... "
"You don't think Sadie would sing with just anybody, do you?" Paul said, picking up on the impish look in Connie's eye.
"Oh, no," the woman stammered. "He's very good. You two were perfect together. I thought he was somebody — "
"Why, thank you, ma'am," Tom said, coming up behind the woman.
She turned, a flustered look on her face, and said, "You played here last week, didn't you? You're Tom, uh, Tom."
"Yes ma'am. That's me, Tom-Tom. Used to be a drummer, see. But since I took up the guitar, most folks just call me Tom for short. I play here any time I'm passing through; the owner's a friend of mine."
"Well, I had no idea. I'm mean I thought you were ... uh ... they're very lucky to have you here. And bringing Sadie Storm in like this ... I, I didn't realize you were ... I'm just so ... "
"Thank you, ma'am," Tom said, pulling out a chair. "Sadie and I need a cold drink."
"Oh, I'm sorry. What a ninny I am. I just had to come say hello. I'm sorry to intrude. I — "
"No problem. I'm glad you did," Sadie said. "Tom and I appreciate your compliments."
"Okay, I'm leaving, but could I ... would you ... um ... "
"What is it, ma'am?" Tom asked, an easy smile on his face as he looked up at the woman.
"Would you mind if someone took our picture?" She fumbled an iPhone out of her purse. "You and Sadie and me? I've never done anything ... "
Paul looked at Sadie. She frowned for a second and then smiled and nodded. He stood and took the phone from the woman.
"Why don't you just kind of kneel down between Tom and Sadie?" he asked.
When the woman was in place, he snapped a couple of pictures and handed her the phone, taking her elbow and escorting her back to the table where her husband sat, looking embarrassed. The man stood and nodded at Paul.
"Sorry," he muttered, and took his wife's other arm, leading her out of the restaurant.
Paul went back to the table and joined the others just as Sadie said, "I almost lost it when you said, 'Of course he is,' Connie. And her face when you said 'Don't you recognize him?' It was — "
"I missed that, I guess," Tom said, a quizzical smile on his face.
"It was just before you walked up, Tom-Tom,"
Paul said.
"I couldn't help myself. It was a perfect opening."
"I was about to introduce you before you said that," Connie said, "But it's just as well. All I knew was Tom."
"Yeah," Sadie said, "that reminds me. What's your last name?"
"Most folks on boats don't bother," he said. "Just first names and boat names — that's all we use."
"So I should call you Tom Tropic Tramp, then?"
"Yeah, that'll do. Or Tom Connolly, but then nobody'll know who you're talking about."
Chapter 7
"I talked to Louie, like you said," Freddy said.
"Yeah? What did he say? He know this Russo guy?"
"You ain't fuckin' gonna believe this, boss."
"Tell me Russo was on the pad."
"Uh-uh. No way. He ran the damned homicide squad."
"No shit! That's why that sumbitch looked so familiar. Shit, now I remember him. Straight arrow, wasn't he?"
"Yeah. Even worse, Louie says he's pals with that fuckin' Cuban."
"Which Cuban?"
"Mario Espinosa. The big guy."
"Holy hell! How come everybody that little bitch comes in contact with is protected? I bet that damn Leana Muñoz knew that when she booked the charter."
"Louie's got an angle on Russo, boss."
"How?"
"Word is Russo's got a problem with his ex."
"So? Who ain't got a problem with his ex?"
"No, boss. This is for real. Louie says the old lady's suing his ass, saying he was hiding money when she divorced him."
"You've lost me, Freddy. Why do I give a shit?"
"Louie says we could make it look like he maybe was on the pad; show some cash payments to 'somebody' high up in homicide. Then leak it, somehow, by usin' one of them guys the DA's already burned. Louie says half the department hates Russo's guts because he was so fuckin' straight, see."
"I'm lost, Freddy. Give it to me slow, okay? How's that gonna help us any?"
Freddy frowned for a moment. "Well, it'll fuck over Russo."
"Okay. So what difference does that make to me?"
"I dunno, boss. Maybe flush him out? Help us find him?"
"Nah, I ain't buyin' that. Louie's tryin' to make me owe him a favor for somethin' he wants to do anyway, probably."
"Why would Louie want to do that, boss? I thought he was doin' you a favor."
"Yeah. I've told you about thinkin'. You ain't equipped for that job. Trust me, Louie's runnin' his own game on this Russo guy and tryin' to make us pay for it. Tell him I said no thanks, okay?"
"Sure, boss. Whatever you say. You got anything else for me tonight?"
"I'll call you if somethin' comes up. Why? You got plans?"
"Yeah. Yvonne's got the place to herself; them other broads are on some gig in Vegas."
"Get outta here. I'll see you tomorrow."
****
Freddy was half asleep, thinking about how true it was what they said about dancers in bed. Yvonne had tuckered him out in no time, and then gone to the kitchen to mix herself a drink. Fruit juice, probably, he thought.
"Wake up, old man!" The mattress shifted when she sat down on top of the covers.
"Look at this," she said, shoving her phone under his nose.
He grasped her wrist and pushed her hand away so that he could focus on the screen.
"What's that?" he asked, trying to wake up. He studied the picture on her phone. "Sadie? Where'd you get that?" he asked, feigning interest. Yvonne was like a damn teenager; she was star struck now that her former coworker was famous. Shit, he thought, realizing that she was 19 years old. No wonder she thought he was an old man.
"Instagram," she said, swiveling around to sit cross-legged on the bed. She took a drink of her juice. "Want a sip?"
He shook his head. "Instawhat?"
"Instagram. It's kinda like a cross between Twitter and Facebook. People put pictures on here."
"Sadie put her picture on your phone? Who are them two dorks with her?"
"No, silly. She didn't put it on here. This other woman, PamH_1, uploaded it."
"Uploaded it? Who the hell's PamH whatever?"
"I don't know," Yvonne said, giggling. "You're livin' in the Stone Age, Freddy."
"If you don't know her, how come she sent you a picture of her and Sadie with that dickhead?"
"No, dummy! She didn't send it to me. She posted it on her feed."
"Well, if you don't know her, how come it's on your phone, then?"
"I follow Sadie's hashtag."
Freddy sat up, his face turning red. "Fuckin' speak English, Yvonne. What the fuck's a hashtag, and how come Sadie's got one on your phone?"
"You don't get it at all, do you?" She made a clucking sound and shook her head, giggling again. "Okay, lemme try to explain so an old fart can understand, okay?"
Freddy glared at her and nodded.
"Okay. So I, like, put this app on my phone called Instagram, okay?"
Freddy frowned and nodded again. "You put the app on the phone?"
"Yeah. And then I set up an account, with, like, a username and a password."
"What for?"
"In the app. So I can follow people."
"Follow people? You use the phone for that? To follow people?"
"On Instagram," she said. "I can follow people, and I can search for hashtags. When I follow somebody, that means the pictures they post show up in my feed."
"Your feed? On your phone, you mean?"
"Yeah. See, it's not so hard to understand, is it?"
"Why do you follow this Pam, if you don't know her?"
"I follow Sadie's hashtag. That means whenever somebody posts a picture with Sadie's hashtag, it shows up in my feed."
"Anybody can use this hashtag thing?"
"Yeah," Yvonne said, grinning at him.
"So this Pam, she posted that picture with Sadie's hashtag and that's how come you're seein' it?"
"Bingo! You got it."
"So she knows Sadie, then, this Pam?"
"I guess, or at least she posed for a picture with her and this guy, Tom."
"You know him?"
"No, his name's here in the caption."
"Oh. So when was that picture made? Can you tell?"
"Yeah. A couple hours ago."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Where? Where was it made? Can you tell?"
"The caption says, 'With Sadie and Tom at Jolly Harbour, Antigua.'"
****
"What was on her mind?" Paul asked. While he had been hoisting the dinghy alongside for the night, Connie had returned a phone call from their charter agent that had come in while they were having celebratory drinks with Sadie and Tom.
"Somebody broke into her office last night," Connie said.
"Oh. So did she lose anything? Or have much damage?"
"They stole her laptop from her desk drawer. It's the one she keeps all her sensitive stuff on — account numbers, banking and credit card info. That kind of thing."
"That could be trouble, if whoever took it is smart enough to sell it on to some hacker. Most likely, though, they'll just fence it and somebody will wipe the hard drive and sell it as used. That's what usually happens," Paul said.
"She said the hard drive was encrypted; she didn't think that was a problem."
"Hmm." Paul's brow wrinkled. "So why'd she call us? A new booking?"
"No. She said she didn't think to call us sooner, but after she had a chance to figure out what was missing, she thought she should. The computer and the files on her most recent charters were all in the drawer together, and they took the files. That includes the one for Sadie, and the file she keeps on Diamantista II. It just happened to be in the drawer. She didn't know if it meant anything or not, but she thought we should know."
"She say what was in our file? Anything private? I don't remember that we ever gave her anything that we should worry about."
"No, she said it just had the copy of ou
r ship's document and the latest PR stuff, the master copy of the brochure, that kind of thing. Our pictures were in it, she said. I can't think that there'd be much exposure from that. It's all stuff somebody could get online, if they wanted it."
"So they just emptied the one drawer?" Paul asked. "Did they take anything else?"
"A few hundred dollars in petty cash. A flat screen TV and a DVD player. She had those to use in her booth at boat shows, but she said she didn't have much of value in the office, fortunately."
"It doesn't sound like the thief picked a very good target. Were there other boat files taken, or just ours?"
"She didn't say specifically, but she said ours was out because she'd run a copy of the brochure to send to this Leana Muñoz, Sadie's agent. She normally keeps the boat files in a file cabinet in the back room, but she hadn't put it back yet. She didn't think they did more than just poke through the file cabinet. Why?"
"Just my curiosity," Paul said. "A cop's paranoia, that's all."
"You were thinking somebody singled out our file for some reason?"
"Yes, but if it just happened to be in with the other stuff, they probably got it by accident. Think we should wait up for Sadie?"
"No, Paul." Connie laughed and bent toward him, nuzzling the side of his neck. "The cat's away; are you feeling like a mouse?"
"She could be back any minute, Connie," he said, squirming.
"Better hurry, then. We'll go below and be very, very quiet, just in case."
"You're incorrigible, woman."
"I am, and you're glad of it, aren't you?" She stood, pulling her T-shirt off and tossing it over his face. Darting down the companionway, she laughed as he scrambled after her.
****
"Antigua! No shit?"
"No shit, boss," Freddy said, pleased with the reaction. He'd been nervous about calling so late, afraid he'd disturb Pratt.
"How'd you find her so damn fast?"
"Instagram," Freddy said, his tone offhand.
"What?"
"Instagram."
"What the fuck is an Instagram?"
"You use it on a cellphone to follow people."
"I ain't never heard of one. Is it like one of them Stingray things the cops use?"
Freddy took the risk of chuckling. "You live in the fuckin' Stone Age, boss. It's way better than that."
Running Under Sail - a Connie Barrera Thriller (Connie Barrera Thrillers Book 5) Page 5