Baja Florida

by Bob Morris

  “Be a clever thing to do.”

  “But…”

  “Turn the boat around, Zack. Don’t get off it. Stay put. Wait for me at the marina. I can be there in under an hour.”

  “I didn’t kill Delgado.”

  “There’s more, Zack,” Pederson said. “You want to hear it?”

  “It get any better?”

  “Not really, but you need to know it,” Pederson said. “There’s this boatyard out the other side of Crossing Place.”

  “Dailey brothers.”

  “That’s them. Seems someone set fire to this dry dock facility of theirs last night. Burned it clear to the ground, including the twenty-seven boats they had inside. It’s still burning, matter of fact. That whole end of the island, people got smoke stinging their eyes and stinking things up, like roasting fiberglass weenies at a cookout or something.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “The Dailey brothers they wrote out statements. Each one of them separately. And they all three of them told it the same. Said you and two other guys—I’m guessing that would be Boggy and Charlie Callahan—said they caught you sneaking around in the boatyard a little before midnight. Said the three of you attacked them, stuck one of the brothers with a knife, carried off another brother and tossed him out of a car on the main highway.”

  “Didn’t toss him out. Charlie stopped the car. I opened the door and let him out.”

  “So you aren’t denying you were out there?”

  “We were out there. But we didn’t set fire to anything. The Dailey brothers say we did?”

  “What the Dailey brothers said was all of them were at the hospital getting the one of them stitched up when one of their wives woke up and saw the hangar in flames.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “There’s more,” Pederson said. “You know a young woman by the name of Karen Breakell? In her twenties, works on a charter boat out of Blue Sky Marina?”

  I told him I knew her.

  “She was leaving the marina late last night. Alone. Told a friend on the boat she was going into town and see if she could catch last call somewhere. She was walking across the marina parking lot when someone knocked her in the head. Knocked hell out of her. Might have done worse to her, but the security guard—he’s this old fellow, can’t hardly move—he hears her screaming and he hollers to see what’s the matter. Time he gets to where she’s at, she’s lying in blood. They got her in the hospital.”

  “She going to be OK?”

  “Hasn’t come around yet. Doctors say it could go either way. Soon as she’s stable, if she’s stable, they’ll try to medevac her to Miami,” Pederson said. “Dockmaster at Blue Sky Marina told police that a guy matching your description came around there yesterday asking about Karen Breakell. Told him he was an old friend of the family. Had an Indian-looking fellow with him. Then one of the crew on her boat, young guy, the first mate, he verified that someone like you and this same Indian-looking fellow were there on the Green Turtle dock when Karen Breakell came ashore to get groceries. He said she acted real upset after she’d spoken with you.”

  “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do any of it.”

  “You keep saying it…”

  “I keep saying it because it’s true. Dammit, Lynfield, you know me. It sound like something I would do?”

  He took longer to answer than I would have liked.

  “The fire maybe,” he said. “I’ve known you to light a fire.”

  “Aw, come on, man. Setting a fire like that to get at someone, that’s chickenshit. Smothering a man in his sleep. Attacking a woman in the dark. That isn’t me either. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know it,” Pederson said. “But the superintendent up in Marsh Harbour, he doesn’t know it. All he sees is these three separate things, a triangle like, and you’re at all the points in the triangle and it’s easy for him to connect the lines in between and you’re walking them, too. Someone sure was busy last night, Zack. And everything’s pointing in your direction.”

  Pederson asked me why I had gone looking for Karen Breakell. I explained that she had jumped ship at Miner Cay and I was hoping maybe she could give me some insight on where to find Jen Ryser.

  He asked me what I’d been doing out at the Dailey brothers’ boatyard. I told him I’d received a tip that I’d find Chasin’ Molly there. And I told him I’d gone to the police station and tried to report it, only the desk officer insisted I speak directly to the superintendent and the superintendent never showed.

  “Of course,” I said, “they probably think it’s a clever bit of subterfuge on my part to show up at the police station to report a missing boat when I’d already burned down the place where that boat was supposed to be.”

  The cell phone signal was growing weaker the farther we pulled away from New Providence Island. I lost Pederson. He called me back.

  “Those Daileys are a long line of no good,” he said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they were up to something. Still, Zack, that doesn’t get you out of this. I have to ask you to turn yourself in.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then, like I said, I’ll escort you up to Marsh Harbour and you can tell the police there what you told me.”

  “And then they’ll put me in jail.”

  Pederson didn’t say anything.

  “That’s what they’ll do, Lynfield. I know it. You know it, too. What are we looking at here? Murder, trespass, assault, kidnapping, arson, another assault, maybe attempted murder. Am I leaving anything out?”

  “You’re in a fix, Zack. I’m not going to lie to you. But I’ll do everything I can. You’ll have the right to an attorney…”

  “Right to an attorney? Hell, sounds like you’re already reading me the Miranda Act. Only, oh yeah, you don’t have the Miranda Act here in the Bahamas, do you? Police suspect someone of doing something and they can throw them right in jail, innocent people, and it can be months, years maybe, before they get out. I’ve been in jail, Lynfield. I’m not going there again.”

  “You’re putting me in a tough spot, Zack.”

  “The police in Marsh Harbour, do they know I’m on a boat out of Nassau?”

  “Don’t think so,” Pederson said. “I didn’t know it myself until I got you on the phone. All they’ve verified so far is that you left Marsh Harbour this morning on Charlie Callahan’s seaplane.”

  “So buy me some time.”

  “Not like the buying-time store is open, Zack. And even it were open, it’s not like I got much spending power. They’re going to be looking for you all up and down these islands. Not much I can do to get in the way of that.”

  “I just need a day or two. Tell them you couldn’t find me. It’s not a total lie. Because you haven’t found me. Not really. We’re just talking on the phone.”

  “Aw hell, Zack, I don’t know…”

  The call broke off again. I waited for Pederson to call me back. While I was waiting, I tried to picture the triangle he had been talking about, tried to envision all the people at all the points. One face kept appearing.

  When the phone rang, I answered it.

  “Will Moody,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A friend of Jen Ryser’s. Will Moody. He was sitting at the bar with Delgado when I got there last night. He helped me carry Delgado to his room. I handed him Delgado’s card key to open the door. I don’t remember him returning it to me. He could easily have gone back in there and…”

  “You’re saying this guy killed Delgado, Zack? What’s the motive?”

  “I don’t know. But Moody was also asking me about Karen Breakell. Where could he find her? How much he’d like to see her. I told him what boat she was on and when it would be getting back to Marsh Harbour. I set her up. I can’t believe it. I set her up and he went there and beat hell out of her.”

  “Again, Zack, I gotta ask: What was his motive? If Moody and Karen Breakell were friends, college classmates and everything,
why would he…”

  “But see, here’s the thing,” I said. “Will Moody might not be Will Moody. The Will Moody I met doesn’t match the description of the Will Moody on Facebook. The Will Moody I met was big, with dark curly hair and a beard. The real Will Moody, the one whose photo Helen Miller saw, he’s…”

  “Hold on, hold on. What do you mean Will Moody might not be Will Moody? Who’s Helen Miller? What’s this Facebook shit? Zack, I’m sorry, but you aren’t making a bit of sense.”

  The phone went dead. This time it didn’t ring again.

  32

  I didn’t sleep that night. Boggy and I stood two-hour watches at the helm, but instead of bunking down, I walked the deck of Radiance.

  Part of me was keeping an eye out for the Royal Bahamian Police patrol boat that I was certain would intercept us at any moment. I didn’t think Lynfield Pederson would give me up. No, he would stall his colleagues as long as he possibly could. But the police were casting a wide net. They could easily dredge up something that would lead them my way.

  The Nassau Guardian would probably have a story about Delgado’s murder, if not in the next day’s edition, then surely the day after. It would mention that the police were searching for a suspect, namely me. The paper would run my mug shot. Someone at Dilly’s Marina would see it. And that would be that.

  The other part of me was trying to get a handle on The Person Who Was Not Really Will Moody and why he would kill Abel Delgado.

  Money? No, because Delgado didn’t have any.

  The fake Moody, whoever he was, had told me he had seen the posters Delgado put up around Marsh Harbour. That’s what led him to the Mariner’s Inn. He wanted to give Delgado information about Jen Ryser’s whereabouts and tell the detective the same thing he told me: Call off the search. There was nothing to worry about. Jen Ryser was safe and sound and on her way to visit her father. Which turned out to be true. So why tell Delgado that and then turn around and kill him?

  And if someone who lied about his identity told me there was nothing to worry about, should I be worried? Absolutely.

  And why would this same guy go after Karen Breakell, assuming it was him who attacked her?

  That didn’t add up either.

  The equation fell apart completely when I tried factoring in the fire at the Dailey brothers’ boatyard.

  I tried attacking it from another direction. Maybe none of the three events were related. Maybe one person killed Abel Delgado, another attacked Karen Breakell, and yet another burned down the Daileys’ hangar.

  That fell apart, too. Marsh Harbour is not without its share of violence, but all three of those things happening on one night represented a random crime spree of unprecedented proportion in those parts.

  That left only one other direction to go: Whoever was behind this had done it with every intention of laying the blame on me. They had done a smart job of it. And I had pitched right in and given them all the help they needed, leaving behind a messy trail and providing witnesses every step of the way.

  But why?

  Who the hell were Justin Hatchitt and Torrey Kealing?

  And how did they fit in with everything?

  33

  First light found us at the top of the Exuma chain and moving past Norman’s Cay, yet another Bahamian island with a colorful (translation: notorious) past.

  Back in the late 1970s, Carlos Lehder decided to set up shop on Norman’s, using it as a distribution center for his cocaine cartel. Lehder didn’t buy the entire island, but he claimed it as his own, bringing in a small army of gun-toting Colombians and attack dogs, and making it clear he didn’t like visitors or neighbors. Before long most of the locals packed up and moved away.

  What’s truly interesting to note is that Lehder ran his operation out of Norman’s—in plain sight, with a new airstrip, lots of construction, and plenty of comings and goings—for almost five years. Which speaks volumes about the Royal Bahamian Police.

  If I wanted to empty my Bermudan bank account, I could probably buy my way out of the Bahamas with a guarantee that the cops wouldn’t pursue charges against me.

  But just the thought of that pissed me off.

  And so the morning unfolded, cay after cay after cay—Warderick Wells, Over Yonder, Big Farmer’s, and Musha—until we zeroed in on Lady Cut Cay.

  Compared to its closest neighbors, the nearest one maybe two miles away, Lady Cut Cay had decent elevation. A rocky bluff rose on the windward side, tabled out at the middle of the island, and sloped down to a cove and a sandy beach on its lee. Apart from a landing strip at the south tip, thick vegetation covered most of the terrain. At the island’s summit, brush had been cleared in a wide swath around a three-story, slant-roofed house. It added to the house’s prominence and gave it a stark, commanding presence.

  We hadn’t called ahead, mainly because I wasn’t getting a cell-phone signal. I didn’t want to use the radio on Radiance because the call would go out on public frequency and there was no telling who might be listening.

  But I’d left the radio on so I could monitor it. I heard a squawk of static and then a voice, Mickey’s voice.

  “Lady Cut Cay calling the good ship Radiance. Radiance, are you there?”

  Boggy was at the wheel.

  “Answer him?”

  I shook my head.

  “We’ll be there soon enough.”

  The radio squawked again.

  “Lady Cut Cay calling Radiance. Come in, Radiance.”

  A few moments of silence, then: “Yo, Chasteen, how about you answer me? You got your ears on or not?”

  So much for anonymity on the airwaves.

  “Spotted you heading for us, Zack-o,” Mickey said. “We’ll come down and meet you on the dock.”

  34

  The depth finder showed only seven feet of water leading up to the dock. Radiance drew six feet. She could probably make it, but rather than embarrassing ourselves by running aground, Boggy and I anchored her fifty yards out and took the dinghy in.

  A made-in-the-Bahamas sportfisherman, an Albury Brothers 27, with twin Suzuki outboards, was tied off at the dock. Behind it, Mickey Ryser stood ready to greet us.

  Mickey leaned on a cane, but otherwise appeared remarkably improved from when I had seen him just four days earlier. Barefoot, his skinny legs sticking out of baggy khaki shorts. Another splendidly tacky shirt—pink hula girls and purple palm trees. A broad-brimmed straw hat shaded his face but not so much that it hid a wide grin.

  “Zack-o, Boggy…I want you to meet my daughter.”

  The young woman beside Mickey was almost as tall as him. Blond hair pulled back from a face that held high cheekbones and full lips. But it was the eyes that got you. They were big and brown with a hint of green, hazel I guess you’d call it. They were like shattered glass, refracting light so you couldn’t quite find their center. She wore a short white T-shirt over low-slung red Capri pants and the gap between them showed off a flat, brown tummy with a small gold hoop in her navel.

  Mickey patted her back and eased her our way.

  “Jen,” he said, “these are two of the fellows who have been running around, looking for you.”

  She offered me her hand, then Boggy, and flashed a shy smile that didn’t go with her face.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “I had no idea my father would go to all that trouble.”

  “Just anxious for my little girl to get here,” Mickey said.

  He pulled her to him and put an arm around her shoulder. She snuggled against him and patted his chest.

  “So how you like that little boat of mine, Zack-o?”

  “Some boat,” I said.

  “You need to get yourself one.”

  “Outta my league,” I said. “Beside, I’ve got three other boats already.”

  “Not like this one.”

  “No, it’s a classic, Mickey. They don’t make them like this anymore. But the upkeep,” I said, “I bet it’s a bitch.”

 
“Ah, it’s not bad. A little paint here, some teak oil there. Nothing to it.”

  “You’re lying,” I said.

  Mickey laughed.

  I said, “Any word from Charlie Callahan? I was halfway expecting he might beat us here. And halfway not.”

  “He radioed a couple of hours ago. Said he’d be here early afternoon.”

  “Must have gotten tangled up,” Boggy said.

  A big golf cart, a three-seater, rolled onto the dock. An older man, Bahamian, in his sixties, got out and grabbed our bags. Mickey introduced us to him—Curtis, his name was—and told him to put our bags in the second-floor guest rooms.

  “What’s Miss Rose got going for lunch, Curtis?”

  “Got some stew snapper on the stove,” Curtis said.

  “Some guava duff for dessert maybe?”

  “Thought I saw some of that, too.”

  “I hope so,” Mickey said. “Zack, you have not had dessert until you’ve eaten Miss Rose’s guava duff.”

  We watched as Curtis left in the golf cart.

  “Curtis and Miss Rose, that’s his wife, they kinda came with the island. Worked for the people who owned it before me,” Mickey said. “Curtis takes care of the boats and fixes anything needs fixing. Miss Rose, she handles the cooking and the cleaning. Their grandson, Edwin, lives here, too, and helps them out. Curtis has him raking the beach today. He’s as good with a boat as his grandfather. It was both of them who ran the Albury and picked up Jen when she flew into George Town yesterday. You’ll bump into Edwin sooner or later.”

  We loaded into Mickey’s golf cart. Boggy and I settled into the back-seat. Mickey took the passenger’s side.

  “You drive, honey,” he told Jen. “I’ll play tour guide and tell you which way to go.”

  We followed a rutted road that circled Lady Cut Cay as Mickey showed off this and that—a desalinization plant, big generators, an incinerator system for getting rid of trash. Even had a good-sized green house, more a shade house really, for growing plants to help landscape the place. Living on your own private tropical island is not a proposition for those without sizable resources.