"He's good looking, all right, but that's not what I meant. Those eyes look like they could bore a hole right through your skull if you rubbed him wrong."
"Yeah. I got that, too. Cop eyes. I wondered if I was just bein' nervous, but you saw that too, huh?"
"Yeah. You think he's a cop, Frank?"
"I dunno. Maybe he used to be. Don't matter; we ain't gonna do anything illegal while we're here anyhow. But he bears watchin'. Her too, if she knows about all that financial bullshit."
"Yeah. You tired?"
"A little. Why?"
"You could turn off that light and we could pretend I'm her," Kathy said, pulling off her shorty nightgown and tossing it at him.
Chapter 5
"I've still got a little weather helm," Connie said, studying the sails she and Paul had just raised. They were a couple of miles west of St. Georges, Grenada, and had just taken up their course for St. Martin. "Come down hard on the vang for me, please."
Paul took the tail of the boom vang in both hands, planted his feet against the back end of the coachroof, and leaned back, pulling with all his strength. Diamantista II sped up perceptibly. "How's that?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
"Perfect," Connie said, taking her hands off the helm and watching as the boat continued to track without rounding up into the wind. "Thanks."
"That's like a foreign language," Kathy said. "How long have you two been doing this?"
"I'm a newcomer," Connie said. "Paul's been sailing all his life."
"She's a natural," Paul said. "Don't let her kid you; she's the best sailor I know."
"He's just saying that so I'll run the boat," Connie said. "He's afraid of the alternative."
"What's that?" Kathy asked.
"If he took charge of the boat, then I'd be the cook. And I can sail way better than I can cook."
"She makes a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though," Paul said. "Speaking of cooking, I'd better get to work. We'll want lunch while we're still in the lee of Grenada."
After Paul went below, Kathy asked, "What's that mean, 'in the lee of Grenada?'"
"It means the island's protecting us from the wind-driven waves," Connie said. "The trades blow from the east, so when we're on the west side of an island, the seas are a little calmer. What we have right now is a gentle, long-period swell. Once we get an hour or two north of here, we'll begin to get wind waves on top of the swell."
"So it's going to get rough?" Kathy asked, frowning. "Is that what you're saying?"
"It won't be rough, exactly, but the motion of the boat will be a little more erratic, and we'll get some wind-driven spray."
"I've never done this before," Kathy said. "It's magic."
Connie smiled. "I think so, too. I got hooked my first time out; it took me all of about ten minutes to decide I wanted to do this for a living."
"What did you do before?"
"Oh, I was involved in a number of small businesses over the years. Entrepreneurial stuff."
"Do you have a financial background, at all?"
"Not like you guys, probably. I learned enough to get by over the years."
"How'd you end up doing this?"
"I was between businesses, so I took some time off in the Bahamas. After I chilled out for a year or two, I was starting to think about what I wanted to do next. Before I went back to the rat race, I wanted to try sailing; I'd seen all the boats around the islands, and I wondered what it was like. I chartered a boat for a while and realized I'd found my next venture."
"Cool. So you bought Diamantista II. Did you know Paul from before?"
"No. He was a friend of one of the women who ran the boat I chartered. Actually a friend of her godfather's. When I met him, I'd already decided to buy a boat and go into this business, but I needed a cook. I wasn't kidding about my lack of skill in the galley. Anyway, he'd just retired, and his two great passions are sailing and cooking."
"Sounds like a perfect match. Love at first sight?"
"Not quite. After I took delivery of my first boat, I talked him into helping me get started until I could find crew. It just kind of went from there."
"Your first boat?"
"It's a long story. After Paul and I decided to get married, we found this boat and fell in love with her, so I sold the other one and we bought this one."
"What did he retire from? I'll bet he ran a restaurant."
Connie chuckled. "Not quite. He ran homicide for the Miami Police Department."
"Wow! Quite a career change for him. How long have you been together?"
"Going on three years now, I think. I'm not even sure. It's funny how differently time passes on the water."
"I can imagine. It's so peaceful."
"Most of the time. Is Frank sleeping in? I haven't seen him since breakfast. Is he okay?"
"Yeah, he's fine. He had some work to catch up on. Paul got him hooked up to the internet while you went to do that clearance stuff. He's shuffling money around online, I think, or maybe handling some kind of legal filings. I don't know. I should probably go see what he's up to."
"Well, if he needs anything -- coffee, whatever -- one of you let Paul know."
"I will, thanks. But I'll be back up soon. No way I'm going to miss this; it's gorgeous out here. What's that smell, by the way?"
"The smoky sweet smell?" Connie asked.
"Yeah, that."
"It's Grenada. Every island smells a little different. The smoky part's from burning the nutmeg shells. The rest is just from the fruit and spice crops, I guess."
"Nutmeg? You mean like you sprinkle on eggnog?"
"Yes. Grenada's one of the world's biggest producers. It's part of why they call it the 'Isle of Spice.' But they grow all kinds of spices here."
"I didn't realize that. Excuse me; guess I'd better go see how Frank's doing."
****
Art Jansen sipped coffee as he read the encrypted message from Pinkie Schultz. Cary Horton had written it; it was far too literate to have come from Pinkie himself. Schultz's troops had questioned Joe Torres's new supplier last night. Mack Collins, his name was. Beyond that, they didn't get much out of him. In line with Jansen's suspicions, Collins didn't know who he was working for. He'd been recruited by a former cellmate, now deceased. He had started small, buying a few thousand dollars' worth of product at a time and reinvesting his profits.
Unlike a lot of would-be dealers, Collins was straight; he wasn't sampling the goods, and he managed to build up a sizable trade. He'd bought product through a blind drop, never meeting his supplier. Their only contact was by burner cellphones, used once and destroyed. Collins had approached Joe Torres on the suggestion of his supplier, who had fronted the product, allowing Collins to pay after he collected from Torres.
Jansen was surprised at that; it wasn't typical. He reasoned that it indicated some strategic depth on the part of whoever was backing Collins. They knew who Torres was, and their inroads into Schultz's operation hadn't been an accident. Schultz had already sent his team to Tampa; they were going to talk to Whit Nicholson, Torres's counterpart there. Pinkie had sent them to put the fear of God into Nicholson. They'd persuade him to set up his new supplier's representative so they could question him. Jansen shook his head. Schultz was wasting his effort. Not that Jansen would discourage him; it would at least send a signal to the interloper that they were onto his game. But Jansen knew that they'd hit another dead end; these people were smarter than Schultz.
Jansen laid his iPad aside and picked up his coffee, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet on his desk. The drug business in south Florida had been in turmoil since the Feds had busted Ralph Giannetti. Giannetti had been a slick operator, well-hidden behind a man named Joe Greco. Greco had been set to take a fall, and the Feds had been duped into believing that he was the man in charge. Then Giannetti's right-hand man, a smart young guy named Mark Murano, had gotten jammed up somehow and rolled over on Giannetti.
Jansen knew that story; hell,
everybody knew that story. It had been all over the news. The Feds put Giannetti away, and Murano committed suicide in prison by getting stabbed in the back a couple of dozen times. Schultz had been trying to pick up the pieces when O'Toole had sent Jansen in to help bring some order to the situation.
With plenty of money from Jansen, Schultz had managed to sort out the distribution channels, and Jansen had smoothed things over with their supplier down south. They'd been rocking along without incident for several months. Now, though, someone else wanted in on the game. Based on what he's heard from Schultz, it was somebody with plenty of resources, too.
Giannetti and Greco were sidelined, but they might still have some ideas. Jansen began to contemplate what leverage he might find to encourage them to share their thoughts. He'd need a little help from O'Toole, but he wouldn't ask until he'd fleshed out a strategy that would keep them both clean. Meanwhile, he'd let Schultz and his troops have their fun.
****
"You get anything useful out of her?" Frank asked, looking up from his laptop when Kathy opened the door to their stateroom.
She shrugged. "She's got some background in business; I don't know what, yet. But she apparently made some money; she got interested in sailing after she kicked around the Bahamas -- 'chilled out for a year or two,' she said."
"Must have done all right, or maybe she was rich to start with," Frank said.
"I don't think so, Frank. She's got the markings of somebody that made her own money."
"How's that?"
"Sure of herself, a little guarded about what kind of business she was in ... I dunno. Just my gut, I guess."
"You think she saw through your spiel on Mactren?"
"I didn't get that vibe. But I still think she'd heard the buzzwords somewhere before."
"School? She got a business school background?" Frank asked.
"I don't know. I didn't want to press. I think we're okay with her. I'm more worried about him."
"Why?"
"We weren't wrong about him. He's a retired cop."
"Shit! Just our luck," Frank said. "What kinda cop?"
"She said he ran the homicide department at the Miami P.D."
"Hmm," Frank said. "Could be worse, I guess. Coulda been the fraud squad."
"Yeah, but still," Kathy said.
"We'll be okay. Just be cool."
"You don't think he'll make you as an ex-con?"
"I woulda picked up on it if he had. I'm clean, Kathy. No jailhouse ink from Reidsville. I don't talk that shit like the guys I was in with. I worked in the law library, for Christ's sake. Even the damn guards came to me for legal advice. I'm cool with him. Just hope he didn't catch your act when you were dancin' at the Pussycat, babe."
"Even the girls I danced with don't recognize me since I ditched the implants and quit with the blond rinse. Besides, I never forget a face; he wasn't around the Pussycat -- at least not on my watch. What are you workin' on, anyway?"
"Movin' money. We had a coupla cash-outs."
"Yeah? We okay, still?"
Frank chuckled. "We're fine. Both of 'em only pulled one unit each. One was in for three, and the other one for four. No big deal. Fifty grand out's not even a drop in the bucket. Besides, we couldn't buy advertising like this for that kinda money. I've sent 'em the investor satisfaction survey, and one of 'em has already filled it out. Gave us five stars, braggin' about how smart he was to find us, and how much money he made with us. The other one's planning to jump back in as soon as she gets a home equity loan. She just needed the cash for some kind of addition, and the bank's not movin' fast enough for her."
"You think we're gonna be okay until we get the next tier in place?"
"Hell, yeah, Kathy. We're golden. This time next year, we'll be outta this with enough to disappear for good."
"That's what I want to hear. Why don't you put on a bathing suit and come on up on deck? It's beautiful, and we might as well get a tan." Kathy was changing into a bikini as she spoke.
"Go ahead. I got one more wire transfer to make, and then I'll be up."
Chapter 6
Joe Torres had passed a restless night, stealing snatches of sleep between vivid recollections of what Sam the Barber had done to Mack Collins. He looked at the clock on his nightstand and realized that he must have slept more than he thought. He groaned and sat up on the side of his bed, wondering what unpleasantness today would bring. He knew last night marked a turning point in his relationship with Pinkie Schultz
That had been clear when Sam had walked him out to his car after finishing off Collins. Sam had patted him on the shoulder and told him he'd see him in a couple of days to pick up the first payment on his loan. "Unless you want to pay it all up front, Joe. That would be good. Mill and a half tomorrow, and we forget about this. I'll even skip the penalty if you pay up, even though you're technically late with the first week's vig."
Joe had shaken his head. "I wish I could, Sam. But you know how it is."
"Sure I do, Joe," the old man had said. "Sure I do. Just have the payment ready day after tomorrow, then; the boss don't like late payments."
The look in Sam's eyes had been sad. A father-disappointed-with-his-son kind of look, Joe thought. Sam's expression had sent a chill down Joe's spine. "I ain't gonna be late again, Sam," Joe had said, ashamed of the tremor in his voice.
Sam had patted him on his shoulder, his touch gentle, tender almost. "No, I'm sure you won't, son. Not if you can help it." The old man had smiled and turned to go back into the warehouse, leaving Joe standing there, shaking as he fumbled to open his car door.
While he'd been reliving last night's terror, Joe had made his way into the kitchen. He turned on his espresso machine, packed the filter basket, and pulled himself a double shot, slugging it down as he wondered how he could scrape together $500,000. He didn't have a prayer of coming up with a million and a half dollars. He shuddered at the thought of the late penalty Sam would exact; Schultz was called "Pinkie" for a reason.
He was about to pull himself a second double shot when he heard the crash from the front of his house. He scurried back to his bedroom and grabbed the Glock from under his pillow. As he whirled to face his bedroom door, he saw a muzzle flash and felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. His ears ringing from the gunshot, he registered that he'd dropped his pistol.
"Don't do it," one of the two intruders said, as Joe reached for his gun with his left hand. Joe froze.
"That's good," the man said. "There's plenty of time to die. No point in rushing things, is there?"
Joe shook his head. "Look," he said, through teeth clenched against the rising pain from his shoulder, "Sam said I had until tomorrow."
"Sam? Who the hell's Sam?"
"Sam the Barber," Joe said, trying not to whine. "There's some kinda mistake, here. You guys need to call Pinkie Schultz and -- "
"We don't know nobody named Pinkie Schultz, asshole. We're here about Mack."
"M-Mack?"
The man who had spoken stepped closer to Joe and swiped a pistol across his face, knocking him down.
"No need in playing dumb, Torres. We know he followed you out to that warehouse in the Glades. He was on the phone when your guys shot up the car and dragged him out. We done been out there, but there ain't nobody around. We got a pretty good idea what happened."
"I didn't touch him."
"Don't matter if you did or not. Nobody gives a shit about him. You either, except you gonna take a message to this Schultz turd."
"I -- "
"First, you gonna come with us. We got our own warehouse. Gonna see what you can tell us. Get up and walk."
"I'm losing blood. Too weak to -- "
"Bullshit! Last chance, asshole. If we gotta carry you, we might as well kneecap you now. Stand up."
Joe struggled to his feet.
"That's better. We're parked out front. You go, we'll be right behind you. Try anything funny and you'll pay for it."
****
Connie
was behind the helm, arms stretched along the cockpit coaming to either side, steering by resting her bare feet on the helm. She was enjoying a few minutes of solitude, gazing at the sails and feeling the surge of power that vibrated through Diamantista II when the vessel dug her forefoot into the crest of a wave and sent spray flying. Even after thousands of miles of blue water sailing, Connie still found the rainbows in the sheets of spray mesmerizing.
Frank and Kathy had retired to their cabin after lunch, and Paul was below as well. After he'd cleaned the galley, he'd brought her a cup of coffee and announced that he was going to try to take a nap, futile though it might be. The first day of a passage was always a period of adjustment. No matter how many times you'd done it, the transition from a normal, eight-hour-a-night sleeping schedule to alternating four-hour watches was tough.
Still, they both knew it was best to try to get into the rhythm, even though the excitement of the departure kept you awake when you should be sleeping. The second day took care of that; exhaustion was a great aid to sleeping.
There was a brief burst of sound, a loud, low-pitched buzz, from just behind her left ear. Before she even registered its source, it stopped. She realized she had tensed her muscles at the noise. As she made a conscious effort to relax, the buzzing began again, escalating to a loud, shrill whine before she could sit up straight.
Glancing over her shoulder as she came erect, she saw that the stubby trolling rod in its holder on the stern rail was bent into an arc as the line was being stripped from the screaming reel. She reached back and flipped the button that silenced the click and then took a quick look around the horizon to be sure there were no other vessels nearby.
Satisfied that she had room, she cranked the helm around in a clockwise direction as she yelled for Paul to come on deck. Diamantista II's bow swung through the eye of the wind as the sails began to flog, spilling the air that had propelled them at nine knots for the last few hours. As Paul appeared in the companionway, a worried frown on his face, she yelled, "Duck! Heaving to."
Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 4