Bluewater Killer: A Serial Murder Mystery Set In Florida and the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 1)

by Charles Dougherty

  "How well did you know him?" Phillip asked.

  "Well, like I say to you before, he here for a couple of months. He come here in the club, every day. Mos' days, he come for lunch, and again at the happy hour. But he don' drink so much. Jus' watch the people."

  "You said your friend left on his boat."

  "Agnes. She name Agnes Saint James. We grow up over in Gros Îlet, together all the time, like sister. She don' have no fam'ly, so she stay by my mama house when she little, 'til we grown. Then I get married, but Agnes, she like to drink the rum and party, an' my mama, she put Agnes out the house. Mama, she a church lady, like me. Christian. Not Agnes, she not a church lady, no. Agnes work here wit' me, 'til she lef' on the boat wit' that mon."

  "So where did she go with him?"

  "I don' know, Phillip. She say he take her to Grenada, an' they gone live on the boat, 'til hurricane time pass. Then they will come back. But she don' come back. She call me one time from Bequia. Sound scared, like, but she say she okay. She can't talk long. Say she call me 'nother time, she, but she no call. Tha's the las' time I talk to she."

  "Why did you say that man was funny-headed?" Phillip asked, taking a sip of tea.

  "He talk to self. All the time, when he here by self, he talk. Quiet, sof' like, so nobody hear, but he lips moving, an' if you get close, you hear he talkin' up a storm. If somebody wit' he, he don' do that."

  "Did that not worry Agnes?" he asked.

  "That Agnes, she don' worry. You know the song Marley sing? Bob Marley? Famous song, 'Don' worry, be happy!' That the way Agnes t'ink. She want to get away from the life she got here. Sad, when somebody go to the rum like that. She don' have much life here. Hope she in a better place, now, she," she said, looking into the distance, shaking her head. After a moment's reflection, she looked Phillip in the eye, blinking back a tear. "Sorry," she said. "I t'ink Agnes gone, now, or she call me. I hope that girl in the picture, she okay."

  "I hope so, too. Would you write out Agnes's full name for me?" he asked, sliding an index card and a pen to her. "I'm going down to Grenada soon. I'll look for Agnes while I'm there."

  "Tha's mighty good of you," she said, forcing a smile as she picked up the pen and began to write. "I write my name and my phone number here, too. You call me, please, when you in Grenada. I don' t'ink she there, but I like to hear, jus' the same."

  "Certainly, I'll call you," Phillip said, pocketing the card as he got up. "Thank you for taking the time with me."

  "You are welcome, Phillip. God bless," she said. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears for her friend.

  ****

  Phillip finished transcribing his notes and stuck them into the file folder that Sergeant Wiggers had given him a few days ago. He was shocked as he looked at the dates in the folder and realized how little time had passed since J.-P.'s first call. It seemed like forever. He put the folder back into the drawer under Kayak Spirit's chart table and looked up at the clock on the bulkhead. It was early enough that he might still catch J.-P. in the office. He placed the call on his cell phone and collected his thoughts as he waited for an answer. J.-P. was still at his desk. He had just gotten off the phone with Mario, who had called from Miami to pass on the information that Paul Russo had collected. He summarized Mario's detailed report for Phillip. "So, Phillip, what have you learned in the last day?" he asked.

  Phillip heard the sound of J.-P. lighting a cigarette. He quickly recited the little information he had gathered. Both men sat for a moment in silence, listening to the occasional crackle of static on the telephone, as each absorbed what the other had reported.

  "I think this Mike Reilly did something to Dani." J.-P. was the first to break the silence. "He sounds deranged, to me."

  "No argument on that, J.-P. I think you're right. I'm cleared out to go to Bequia tomorrow, leaving at first light. Unless you have a better idea, I'm going to keep asking questions and showing the photographs around. Somebody must have seen something. Dani couldn't have just vanished." Phillip realized as the words left his mouth that Mike Reilly's wife had done exactly that, 10 years ago.

  "I think that's what you should do, but I think we need another look at Reilly. I do not doubt your opinion on his truthfulness, but I think that we should let Sharktooth search his boat. We have nothing to lose, doing that, and maybe we'll find something. Even if Reilly can't remember her, Dani might have left something behind, you know? I have to take some action, Phillip. You know me; I cannot just sit any longer."

  "I think that makes a lot of sense, especially given what we've learned about the guy. I'll call Sharktooth tonight. He's itching to do something, anyway. I don't think he liked Reilly much."

  "Okay, Phillip. We'll talk again tomorrow. Rest well, my friend."

  "Not until we find her," Phillip said, disconnecting. He called Sharktooth, who was thrilled to have a part to play.

  "They still here, Phillip," his voice boomed in its bass register. "They stay on the boat today. The lady, she tell Robert the mon he hurt he head, so no swim today. Robert take them to the reef to snorkel tomorrow. When they go, I search the boat. Don' worry, mon. They never know about it."

  Chapter 21

  Mike and Michelle left Sea Serpent at about 9:30 a.m. with Robert to snorkel the reefs in Toucari Bay. The bay was just a few miles up the west coast from Portsmouth. The clear, protected water over the reef, with its profusion of colorful marine life, made it a popular spot to snorkel. While they were enjoying the myriad of tropical fish, Sharktooth was enjoying free access to Sea Serpent. One of his fellow water taxi drivers had given him a ride, so that he didn't have to leave his own distinctive boat alongside to advertise his presence. He figured he was safe enough from casual notice, because all of the nearby yachts were unoccupied. It was the peak time of the day for tourist activities. He knew that he had as much time as he needed to do a thorough search, because Mike and Michelle would be out with Robert until after mid-day, most likely. If they decided to come back early, Robert would call Sharktooth on his cell phone to make sure that he had time to put everything back together and depart without being noticed.

  Cell phones had altered life in the islands in a lot of ways, Sharktooth thought, as he picked the lock on Sea Serpent's companionway and let himself in. Before cell phones became so common, marine VHF radio had been the most frequently used means of personal communication, at least around the seaports. VHF had its advantages, and it was still used, but it didn't allow for privacy. Landlines had been hard to come by in the islands, and most people had no telephones at all, until cell phones became ubiquitous just a few years ago. Now, everybody had one. Some people had more than one. Sharktooth's current endeavor would have been much more risky without the assistance of modern technology.

  Sharktooth was an old hand at searching boats, thanks to his time helping Phillip move contraband around the islands. He had been on both ends of searches, more times than he could remember. There weren't too many places to hide things on a yacht the size of Sea Serpent, if you searched methodically. At first glance, all the little nooks and crannies were overwhelming, but if you just started at one end of the vessel and worked your way to the outer skin of the hull, going from one enclosed space to the adjacent one, you could hardly miss seeing what was there. Sharktooth was well acquainted with most of the things he found, passing quickly over provisions, spares, and such. He paused to examine papers, which he photographed with his cell phone, naturally, and items of a personal nature. He didn't find much of a personal nature belonging to Mike Reilly, but he went through everything carefully anyway. A methodical search could tell you as much from what was not found as from what was found.

  He was about halfway through with his search when he got to the locker over the forward end of the starboard settee, where he discovered Michelle's belongings. There were two tightly packed, medium sized duffel bags. Sharktooth went through them quickly, not really expecting to find anything of interest, but he was surprised at the quality of her bags
and their contents. Remembering from Phillip's comments that she was moving to Saint Martin, he was surprised by how few things she was carrying. What she did have was expensive, though, mostly designer-labeled, not from department stores, and none of it was counterfeit. Sharktooth had a practiced eye for counterfeit merchandise. For a rootless girl just out of her teens, Michelle had nice things. He wondered whether that had any relevance, but he didn't slow down to think about it. He just kept mechanically checking through everything in his path as he moved from the aft end of the main cabin to the forward bulkhead separating it from the head compartment and the forward sleeping area. It was in the head compartment that his methodical approach yielded its payoff.

  The head compartment combined a shower, a sink, and a marine toilet in a space about the size of a phone booth. That was typical on a boat the size and age of Sea Serpent. What was unusual was the quality and quantity of the cabinetry. It was all hand-rubbed, solid teak, an example of what a good ship's carpenter could do, given free rein and an unlimited budget. Sharktooth felt as if he stood inside a piece of hand-carved, antique furniture. He ran his hands over the softly glowing surfaces of the teak for the pure pleasure of touching it, admiring it for a moment before he started opening all of the little compartments that kept stored items handy but out of the spray from the shower. In most, he found the things that he would expect: shampoo, soap, extra towels, and extra toilet paper. Tucked far back in a corner of one of the least accessible lockers, he felt a buttery-soft, leather bag of some sort. He extracted it carefully, slithering it past all of the mundane things in front part of the locker. He put the bag on the countertop and unzipped it, noticing how smoothly the zipper worked. It was one more example of the quality that plenty of money could buy. The bag was in perfect condition, so he knew that it had not been aboard for long. Leather would mildew, tucked away in a corner like that. The bag was filled with women's toiletries: lotions, make-up, oddly shaped little brushes, and other things that a man couldn't hope to understand. In a little, velvet-lined compartment along one side, he found a few items of jewelry: several pairs of diamond earrings, a modest pearl necklace, and a gold Rolex watch. All of it was the real thing -- no cheap trinkets. He was surprised again at Michelle's apparent wealth, until he saw the engraving on the back of the watch. He put aside his promise of stealth, deciding that it was more important to preserve this evidence of Dani's presence on Sea Serpent. Given how deeply the bag had been buried, he thought that its removal was likely to go unnoticed. This bag was probably untouched since Dani was here, Sharktooth reasoned, revising his assumption as to who owned the bag. There was a good chance that Reilly didn't even know it was here.

  Sharktooth concluded his search about thirty minutes later, finding nothing more of interest. He called his friend to come pick him up, and while he waited, he did a thorough check to make sure that he had left no trace of his activity. Unless Reilly missed Dani's makeup kit, he would never know about Sharktooth's visit.

  ****

  Timothy Walker was 12 years old, the eldest of the six Walker siblings. His family had lived in Bequia for many generations, always along the south coast of the island, in the Paget Farm area. His mother stayed at home with the children and made beautiful crocheted handbags and the occasional crocheted bikini. Her products were sold in one of the craft shops in Port Elizabeth, where the tourists shopped. His father was a fisherman, and sometimes a whaler, when the whales were running. The International Whaling Commission allowed Bequia to take up to four whales each year because they did it the old-fashioned way, by throwing a harpoon from a small boat, using only their muscle and their courage. The I. W. C. didn't perceive Bequia's whale fishery as a significant threat to the endangered marine mammals. It had been a long while since his father had helped catch a whale, but Timothy was proud of him, just the same. The whole island shared the bounty, and his father was a hero. His uncle was one of the men who made the gorgeously detailed model boats for which Bequia was famous. Timothy wanted to grow up to do both of those things, but right now, he was looking for amusement. Timothy was out of school today; it was some sort of holiday, but he wasn't sure what he was celebrating.

  He was scavenging along the rocky part of the shoreline, between Paget Farm's little fishing boat dock and the airport. He could usually find something interesting washed up along this stretch of shoreline, something to pique his curiosity or stimulate his imagination. He had just spied a piece of bright yellow fabric wedged in the rocks, and he was working his way carefully across the sharp-edged outcropping to see what it was. From his first notice, it looked like one of those inflatable life vests that the tourists wore when they went snorkeling from the big, day-tripping catamarans that his father called 'cattle-marans'. He was closer now, and he could see that it was similar to but more complicated than those vests. He had found several of those down here. Sometimes if they were in good shape, he could sell them back to the men on the catamarans over at Princess Margaret Beach. He was disappointed that this was some other kind of life vest. He fished it out of the water with a stick that he had picked up, and scrutinized it carefully. It had a rip on one side, about the length of his hand, and when he blew into the orange tube that was used to inflate it, he could hear the air hissing right back out. Disappointed, he turned the vest in his hands, examining the heavy webbing straps with the shiny buckles and hardware. This was a life vest, he was sure, but not like any he had seen. He noticed that one side of the vest felt heavier than the other side.

  He felt his way around the fabric, and he found a pouch sewn into the thick, blue canvas backing on one side. He pulled the pouch's flap free of its Velcro closure, enjoying the crisp, tearing sound that it made. He stuck it back and pulled it again, just to listen to it. His little brothers would like that. He upended the vest, to empty the pouch and see what it contained. He looked at the thing that fell into his palm, puzzled. He had never seen anything quite like it. It was about the size of the mouse that he used with the computer at school. No, he reconsidered; it was a little bigger, and surely heavier. Made of bright yellow plastic, it had blue rubber trim all around the edges, so it fit nicely in his hand. There was an antenna-like thing sticking out of it, too. It was almost like the little, handheld VHF radio that his father had, but it didn't have the controls or the channel display. He looked at the writing on the front. "ACR," he read, and saw a round drawing, like a picture of a globe, and more letters, "GPS PLB." He wondered what that meant. There were two little raised dots: one red, and one green. On the top, next to the antenna, there was a black tab. The tab had an edge that he could catch with his fingertip. He turned his prize over in his hand, enjoying the heft, wondering what it was. There were little, cartoon-like drawings on the back. The first one showed somebody's fingers, flipping the black tab up. The next one showed red and green lights, flashing, he thought. The third one had an ear with some half-circles radiating toward it. The last one showed what looked like lightning, coming from an antenna.

  He pulled the black tab, flipping it all the way over, the way the picture showed. There was a snapping sound, and then the little red and green dots started to flash. The device emitted a loud, high-pitched tone for about a second. He dropped the thing to the ground, fearing the lightning bolt would come from the antenna, but after a while, nothing happened. The lights kept blinking. He put it back in the pouch and struck out for home, thinking he could keep his little brothers busy all afternoon with this thing, whatever it was.

  ****

  It was mid-afternoon as Phillip passed Bottle and Glass rocks on the west coast of Saint Vincent. He had left Rodney Bay at first light, motor sailing down the coast of Saint Lucia. That was to be expected, he knew. The volcanic islands, with their steep, craggy profiles, cast a wind shadow that reached miles out to the west into the Caribbean, even as the eastern sides of the islands were subject to trade winds of 15 to 25 knots. Once he was south of the Pitons on Saint Lucia's southwestern tip, the wind had filled in, and
he had enjoyed a fast, if rambunctious, four-hour sail across the Saint Vincent channel. Once in the shadow of Saint Vincent, he had fired up the diesel again, until now, as he passed to the west of Bottle and Glass, where he found more breeze.

  He secured the diesel and hoisted his sails, relaxing into the peaceful rhythm as Kayak Spirit came alive. She was doing what she had been built to do. It took a little while for his ears to recover from the thrumming sound of the diesel, but he was soon back in tune with the hiss of the bow wave as Kayak Spirit cut the calm water, riding up and down the gentle, long-period ocean swell, still in the protection of Saint Vincent. It was only a few minutes before the wind chop appeared on top of the swell. As the shoreline fell away to the east, both the chop and the breeze built, until he was whipping along at six to seven knots, spray flying. He grinned, thinking that this was a delightful reward for listening to the diesel for all those hours. He had a couple of hours to go before he made Bequia, and by then, the sails would have worked their magic. He was sure that the world had lost something intangible, but valuable beyond price, when the age of sail had given way to the age of fossil fuels. At least occasionally, he and a few other lucky people got a special, private glimpse of the peacefulness of that bygone era.

  He left the flashing marker on the Devil's Table reef to his port just as the sun touched the western horizon. He was taking down his sails and lashing them out of the way when he saw the green flash as the sun disappeared over the clear horizon. What a grand day, he thought, as he started the engine and went looking for a spot to anchor in Admiralty Bay, Bequia. Most visiting yachts anchored off Princess Margaret Beach, over on the south side of town, leaving plenty of room for late arrivals just inside the Devil's Table, on the north side of the ferry channel. Phillip dropped his anchor there. It was too late to go ashore and visit customs, so he replaced the Saint Lucia courtesy flag flying from his starboard spreader with the yellow Q flag, planning to launch his dinghy and clear in early tomorrow.