Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

"That's possible; you know what we're dealing with here," Jansen said, his voice displaying his irritation.

  "We're checking that as we speak."

  "I authorized an interrogation. Where do you stand on that?"

  "We haven't had an opportunity to make a clean snatch yet. Based on our look at the gym yesterday, that's going to be the best place to pick him up without anybody noticing. We expect to grab him sometime this morning."

  "That doesn't leave much time," Jansen said. "It's almost noon."

  "It's still early morning in Bakersfield. Contreras didn't get to the gym until 10 a.m. yesterday. He hasn't left his home yet."

  "So why not snatch him from there?"

  "He has female company. If you'd prefer to use some other organization, we can refer you to -- "

  "Don't get huffy; you don't want Delaney to hear about your screw-ups, do you?"

  Jansen waited, but there was no response. "Hello! You there?"

  "I'm here. What would you like for us to do?"

  "What you were told to do."

  "You'll hear from us once we have Contreras, then." The call was disconnected.

  Jansen opened his desk drawer and took out the bottle of antacid tablets, shaking several into his hand and tossing them into his mouth.

  ****

  "I had my eye on you for a long time, kid," Pinkie said.

  Kilgore sat across the desk from Pinkie. He was fidgeting, squirming in his seat. He didn't say anything.

  Pinkie watched him for a few seconds and then chuckled. "Don't be scared, son. It's all good."

  Kilgore swallowed, hard, and nodded.

  "What?" Pinkie said, still in a jovial tone, "You think you're in some kinda trouble?" He watched as Kilgore flicked a glance at Sam the Barber, who sat on the couch a few feet away. Sam was grinning.

  "Sam told me he thinks it's the right thing, Kilgore. My nephew trusted you with his life, boy. If he hadn't a got killed the other night, I might feel different about you, but we got to deal with what's real, right?"

  Kilgore nodded again, his hand creeping toward the pistol in his waistband as he calculated his chances.

  "I'd rather you'd a had a little more time for us to watch you, but time's done run out. Torres and Nicholson are both gone, and I got a business to run. You're it, kid, the one I got to go with. You know what I'm sayin'?"

  The fingers of his right hand touching the grip of his pistol, Kilgore nodded again, glancing at Sam as he tried to assess whether Pinkie or Sam should be his first target. He knew he probably couldn't take them both. He was close enough to the desk so that he didn't think Pinkie could see his hand on the pistol. He'd take Sam first, then Pinkie. But he needed a diversion.

  "Well, boy?" Pinkie asked, grinning at him.

  Kilgore realized he'd missed something. He spoke, hoping he didn't sound too scared. "I -- I ain't followin' you, Pinkie. I didn't catch your meanin' just then."

  Pinkie laughed. "It's simple enough, son. You're up next. Maybe you ain't quite ready, yet, but I ain't got a lot of options. Think you can do it?"

  "Um," Kilgore said, "sure, I reckon. If you and Sam both think it's right."

  "Good. Sam's gonna be there to help you get started, but you're the man. Miami's gonna be yours for sure. We'll see how you do with Tampa. If it gets to be too much, you can help me pick somebody to run it for you. Or you can give it up, if you and Sam think that's best. But right now, I'm expectin' you to take over both territories. You got any questions?"

  Kilgore blinked. He moved both hands up onto the edge of Pinkie's desk and tried to relax. "When?"

  "Right now, boy! Get your ass in gear; the damn natives are gettin' restless. They ain't had nobody in charge for a couple of days. You're gonna need to kick some ass -- show 'em who's the boss."

  "You done told 'em?" Kilgore asked.

  "Told 'em?" Pinkie grinned and shook his head. "It ain't up to me. Miami and Tampa are your territories. You tell 'em. I got one question for you right now."

  "What's that?"

  "You gonna work out of the Pussycat? Or Alice's?"

  "The Pussycat. Alice's is too goddamn fairy-like, with all them plants and shit that Torres put in there."

  Pinkie laughed. "You gonna do just fine, boy. I'll give you until lunchtime tomorrow to get a grip on things. Then you get your ass back here and tell me where we stand. I need to know who you're gonna keep and how you're gonna handle the ones you wanna cut loose. How much product you got on hand, and what you need when. Sam?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Kilgore's gonna be busy with people problems for a few days. You get a grip on the cash situation for him, okay?"

  "Sure, Pinkie. You want me to give you a report tomorrow, too?"

  "No. Give it to Kilgore. It's his territory. He can tell me. You got a problem workin' for him?"

  "Nope. Just wanted to understand."

  "Good. Any other questions?"

  "No," Kilgore said, standing up and hitching up his blue jeans, tugging the tail of his shirt down over the pistol. "Come on, Sam. We got a shit-load of work to do. See ya tomorrow, Pinkie. And thanks."

  "Just make it work, Kilgore. That's all the thanks I want, boy."

  Chapter 22

  "Who's this tour guide?" Frank asked. "Kathy said he's somebody you know pretty well."

  "Did you call him 'Sharktooth?'" Kathy asked. They were sitting in the cockpit, finishing their coffee. The remains of breakfast were on the table. Diamantista II swung to her anchor in the morning calm. They'd gotten into Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica, in the early evening the day before.

  Paul grinned. "Nobody ever forgets that name."

  "Yes," Connie said. "Sharktooth's an old friend. He's an interesting character. In fact, he's the one who married us."

  "No kidding?" Kathy asked. "You got married here? What, is he like, a justice of the peace, or something?"

  "Or something," Paul said. "But we didn't get married here. It was in Martinique."

  "So how did somebody from Dominica officiate at a wedding in Martinique? You told me that was part of France."

  "It is," Connie said. "We were at anchor in Martinique, and one of Sharktooth's boats was tied up alongside. We actually got married on his boat, which means the ceremony legally took place in Dominica, because that's the registry of the boat."

  "Is that the boat he's picking us up with?" Kathy asked. "The one where you got married?"

  "I doubt it," Paul said. "That one's a big, ocean-racing speedboat that he uses for island hopping. He'll probably pick you up in his water taxi."

  "Two boats? He sounds well off," Kathy said. "I thought Dominica was one of the poorest islands."

  "Poverty's different down here," Connie said. "And anyway, I think Sharktooth's a prosperous merchant, at least by local standards."

  "What kind of name is 'Sharktooth?'" Frank asked. "What's his real name?"

  "He won't share that," Connie said. "Sharktooth's all he answers to. His water taxi has a huge set of dried shark's jaws mounted on the bow, like a hood ornament. The boat's name is Sharktooth, and that's what everybody calls him, too. I think I just saw him leaving the mouth of the Indian River. He'll be here shortly. You'll enjoy him; he's lots of fun, and nobody knows Dominica better."

  "I'm sorry your schedule with the resort down south is a problem, but I'm glad you ended up with the extra day to spend here," Paul said. "It would be a shame to miss seeing Dominica; it's one of the prettiest places in the world. That's not an exaggeration, either." He stood and stepped over the cockpit coaming onto the side deck.

  Connie excused herself and followed him. They went forward to take a line from Sharktooth as he brought his boat alongside.

  "Come up and have a cup of coffee," Paul said. "You can meet the Lewises."

  Sharktooth, all 275 pounds of him, vaulted over the lifelines, landing like a big jungle cat on the deck beside Paul. His almost seven-foot height dwarfed Paul as he gave him a fist bump. He grinned, his waist length dreadlocks blowing
in the gentle morning breeze. "Blessing, bruddah."

  He turned to Connie and gave her a hug. "Welcome. Good to see you," he boomed, in his rich, deep voice.

  Paul and Connie exchanged glances and smiled as they saw the stunned expressions of their guests.

  Sharktooth took a step back, letting Connie lead him to the cockpit.

  "Doctor Lewis, Mr. Lewis, this is our good friend, Sharktooth," Connie said.

  The couple nodded, awestruck. After a moment, Kathy found her voice. "Hello, Sharktooth," she said, tentatively.

  "Yes," Frank said. "Hello."

  "Mornin', mornin'," Sharktooth said, grinning "Welcome to Dominica."

  "Thanks," Frank said.

  "Have you always lived here?" Kathy asked.

  "Mostly, 'cept for university."

  "Where'd you go to school?" Kathy asked.

  "In the States," Sharktooth said, his voice just above a whisper.

  "Don't be shy, Sharktooth," Connie said. "Dr. Lewis got her PhD from the London School of Economics." She elbowed him. "Tell her," Connie pleaded. "You can talk shop."

  "Tell me what?" Kathy asked, her eyes shifting between Connie and Sharktooth.

  Sharktooth, a resigned look on his face, nodded to Connie. "You tell her."

  Connie said, "I've never figure out why he tries to hide it. Sharktooth's doctorate is from Wharton."

  "Oh," Kathy said. "Wharton, huh? What field?"

  "Economics," Sharktooth said, his voice still whisper-soft.

  "So you two should have plenty to talk about," Connie said. "Would you like coffee, Sharktooth?"

  "No, thanks. I jus' finish breakfas'. But no hurry. I wait while everybody finish."

  "I'm good," Kathy said. "How about you, Frank?"

  "All done. Let's go see Dominica."

  Sharktooth scrambled back down into his boat and held out a baseball-glove-sized hand to help the Lewises aboard. Connie and Paul cast off the lines and watched as the water taxi idled away through the anchorage.

  "You set that up with him?" Paul asked.

  "Yes. I told you I was going to. Why?"

  "He acted so awkward," Paul said.

  "He always does. I know he doesn't like to admit to his education, but I told him that I wanted him to feel them out on their software. I think it's BS."

  "Too bad about the timing," Paul said.

  "What?"

  "Oh, I just meant it would be nice if we could have his feedback before we call Johnson."

  "We've got all day before they're back," Connie said. "Let's clean up the galley and give Sharktooth a little time. His first stop is at Maureen's art gallery. He's going to call while she shows them around and feeds them coffee and some of her home-baked goodies. Then we can call Johnson, okay?"

  Paul grinned. "Yes, oh captain, my captain."

  ****

  "You're back," Leon Contreras said, as Overton and Willis barged into his office, their badge-holders in hand. "Should I call my lawyer?"

  "Negative. You're coming with us," Overton said, pocketing his credentials and producing a pair of handcuffs. "You're under arrest; you'll get your phone call later. Stand up and turn around with your hands behind you at your waist."

  As Contreras got to his feet, he saw that Willis had a pistol in his hand. He faced the wall behind his desk and did as instructed. Overton snapped the handcuffs around his wrists and turned him roughly toward the door, clamping a strong hand around Contreras's left arm just above the elbow.

  "You going to read me my rights?" Contreras asked.

  "Later. We haven't asked you any questions. You know the drill. Just keep your mouth shut. Let's go." He pushed Contreras toward the door. "Willis is behind you with his itchy trigger finger; don't give him a reason to blow you away."

  "No, sir," Contreras said. "Not me."

  They marched him out into the short hallway and then through the door that led into the alley, where a nondescript four-door rental sedan was parked. Willis opened the back door on the driver's side and put a hand on Contreras's head, guiding him into the back seat. From the corner of his eye, Contreras saw Overton reach for the driver's door.

  There was a blur of motion behind Overton, and he slumped forward, collapsing against the car with a groan. Willis released his grip on Contreras, giving him a final shove into the back seat, and turned, still holding his pistol. He faced two short, stocky young men with heavily tattooed faces. Willis saw the baseball bat, but he was too slow. The bat came down on his forearm and his pistol clattered to the ground. Willis gripped his arm as the man with the bat drove the fat end into his solar plexus, doubling him over.

  "Uncuff me and get 'em in the car," Contreras ordered. "But zip-tie their wrists and ankles first."

  "You assholes don't know what kind of trouble you just bought yourselves," Overton said, as he was shoved into the front seat on the passenger side of the car.

  "I expect you're going to tell me all about it," Contreras said, chuckling.

  "I'm not going to tell you shit." the man said.

  Contreras nodded, and one of the two with the tattooed faces reached an arm into the car and smashed Overton's nose with a blackjack.

  "We'll see. Meanwhile, just keep swallowing the blood from your nose. If you gag and throw up, it'll really piss me off. You got the other one in the van, Jorge?"

  "Yeah," the one with the blackjack said.

  "Good. You and Miguel follow me. You know where we're going, if we get separated."

  "Yeah." Jorge closed the door and walked to the van parked behind the rental car.

  Contreras started the car and shifted into drive, pulling out of the alley onto the street that ran in front of the gym. He watched to make sure the van was following, and then glanced at Overton, who was staring fixedly out the windshield.

  "You a vet?" Contreras asked.

  The man turned his head and looked at Contreras. "Yeah."

  "Iraq?"

  "Yeah. You?"

  "No. San Quentin. I volunteered for Iraq, but they were scared I might hurt somebody."

  "Fuck you."

  "I think you already missed out on that one, Overton. You like the desert?"

  "It's okay. Why?"

  "Because you're gonna get to spend the rest of your life in the desert. Hope the military taught you a lot about survival. Of course, by the time my friends get through with you, you may not care."

  "I'm a federal agent. You guys are -- "

  "Don't start out by lying to me about stuff that doesn't matter, Overton. We both know you're not an FBI agent. Didn't they teach you to stick to the truth on things that can't hurt you? Save the lies for the stuff that matters."

  "Like what?"

  "Like who you're working for, what your real name is, that kind of thing. But it doesn't matter. Before Jorge and Miguel are through, you two shit-birds will be begging to tell us more than we want to know. Believe it, man. Now shut up and think about how long you're gonna survive out there in the sand after they get through fucking you up."

  ****

  "Good morning, Noah," Paul said, as he and Connie sat at the saloon table, his iPhone between them.

  "Hey, Paul. Is Connie there, too?"

  "Right here," she said. "We held off calling earlier because we were waiting for some feedback on Kathy Lewis from a friend of ours."

  "That's okay," Johnson said. "What kind of feedback?"

  "He has a PhD in economics from Wharton," Connie said. "We wanted him to check out this analytical tool that she supposedly developed that accounts for the phenomenal performance of their investments."

  "Uh-oh," Johnson said. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't do anything that might arouse the Lewises' suspicions."

  "Relax, Noah," Paul said. "You'd have to see this guy to appreciate how unlikely he is to make her suspicious. He runs a water taxi in Dominica; he's got dreads down to his waist, and he's almost seven feet tall. She'd be more likely to suspect that he's a witch doctor."

  "Beside
s," Connie said, "we told her when we introduced them that he was a fellow economist."

  "That by itself must have been a tipoff for her," Johnson said. "What was the pretext for introducing him?"

  "He's giving them a tour of Dominica. He's probably holding forth in a thick patois about the curative powers of all the different herbs they're walking past in the rain forest about now."

  "Well, I suppose it's done, for better or worse. When will you have his feedback?"

  "We have it. He's says her theory is bogus; it makes no sense at all, and she hasn't a clue what she's talking about once she gets past the buzzwords," Connie said. "He called while they were busy checking out the art gallery that his wife runs."

  "Hmm," Johnson said. "I'm not surprised. We got a hit on some of the latents you emailed, Paul. Frank is an ex-con. The name's an alias, of course. He is a lawyer, or was. He got disbarred and served three years of a five-year sentence for misappropriating client funds that were in his escrow account."

  "So is he a Harvard grad?"

  "Absolutely. The name on his diploma is Francis Lewis Smith, Junior. He's from some small town in Georgia, part of a big family with deep southern roots. He was practicing law in Savannah when he got busted. He was known as Frank Smith, then. His maternal grandmother was one of the first female judges in the state -- or maybe anywhere, Judge Martha Lewis -- that's where his middle name comes from; it was his mother's maiden name. She filed an amicus brief in his trial, recommending that he get the maximum sentence."

  "Wow. He must have really upset her, then."

  "The story was that there was a lot of bad feeling in the family. Her Honor wasn't happy with her daughter's decision to marry Frank Smith, Senior. He was a well-known gambler with suspected ties to the Dixie Mafia."

  "How'd you find all that?" Connie asked.

  "Gossip columns in the Savannah papers. There were clippings in the files. Old Frank and his two cousins were con men on a major scale. They even have their own files in the Bureau's records, from way back before our Frank was born. They were good at it, too -- nothing ever stuck to them. The gossip was that Old Frank thought his kid was so dumb his wife must have been fooling around on him. Couldn't believe Junior was clumsy enough to get caught."

  "Families are always interesting, aren't they?" Paul asked. "What did you get on Kathy?"