Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “What about him?”

  “Like I said, I’m trying to do you a favor. Don’t take this the wrong way, Dr. Ford. You should stick to fish and give up playing amateur detective. Personally, I don’t care about the old fool. Take him home to his nightmare of a wife. And your pal’s logbook, while you’re at it. Lydia Johnson is the one I want to find. Lydia worked for Benthic as a low-rung gofer, or so the feds and everyone else believed at the time. I don’t suppose you know where they’re hiding?”

  “Nightmare is a cruel way to describe the woman who’s paying you,” Ford countered. “Or is it just expenses and enough information to get you this far?”

  Again, the sharp look of surprise. It faded. “You’d have to meet the woman to understand, but you’re right. She wouldn’t have told me a damn thing if I’d used any other approach. Like I’m actually going to write about her husband if he doesn’t come home? Lydia is all I care about. I need to find her before someone else does. No shit. Jimmy ran off with four hundred million in gold, and she might be the only one who knows where he stashed it. Maybe you read about him being beaten to death in prison a few weeks ago.”

  “How much?”

  “Almost half a billion reasons for you not to get involved. As a biologist, you might be unaware there are people who’d kill for a lot less.”

  Ford settled into his chair. Not meek but willing to listen. “I’m not naïve. That’s why I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “What if I’m not? Is it worth betting your life? Hers, too”—another nod toward the porch—“and anyone else who has information on that pair.” Middlebrook saw the reaction he’d hoped for. “Good. You’re a reasonable man—most are when it comes to that much money.”

  “When you say ‘ran off,’ how much would four hundred million in gold weigh? You have to admit, what you’re saying is hard to believe.”

  “Not really. Figure around sixteen thousand dollars a pound, but worth a lot more at auction. It would fill a space about the size of two refrigerators. Easy enough to move even with a fairly small boat.”

  “Up to a ton, maybe,” Ford nodded. “It’s a lot more manageable, you breaking it down like that. Even a recreational trawler could handle the load, sure.”

  Middlebrook liked that response, too. “Let me give you the backstory. The SS Panama went down during a boom period after the Civil War. It carried fifteen tons in gold ingots, for starters, a shipment ordered secretly by the U.S. Treasury. Add another two tons in gold bars, paid for in advance by the Spanish mint. You didn’t read about this? I wouldn’t waste my time looking for a logbook that belongs to some third-rate treasure hunter. No offense, I’m sure Mr. Fitzpatrick’s a good guy and all, but get yourself killed in the process? You strike me as too smart for that.”

  “Obviously not.” Ford smiled. “If I look up Benthic Exploration and the rest, the numbers won’t change?”

  “Worth more, according to some. As much as six hundred million. Spain wants its cut and so does the U.S. government. I’ve heard certain factions in El Salvador claim the gold is theirs, too, because that’s where it was mined. Believe me, when news got out about Jimmy’s death, the mercenary types started polishing their résumés. You really want to get caught in the middle of that?”

  “Geezus, a perfect political storm.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “You came on like such a jerk I guess it’s possible I overreacted.”

  “Don’t worry about it. How’d you know I contacted Nickelby’s wife?”

  “Fitz is the old friend of a friend,” Ford said.

  “That’s what I figured. Did he say anything about Lydia Johnson?”

  “Not even her last name. And I certainly didn’t know she was involved with—”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks so. There’s no hard evidence, but after eliminating almost everyone else it’s what you might call a well-researched hunch. I know this much for certain—Nickelby’s wife has a big mouth. If you and your pals know those two are in the Bahamas, how many others do you think are aware? I didn’t have any trouble tracking you down, Dr. Ford. Think about it.”

  Ford appeared concerned. “The way it started was, I was here on a project anyway, so I thought why not poke around, ask a few questions, and help Fitz. Sorta fun, you know? But now . . . Geezus, I had no idea what I was walking into.”

  “The résumé thing—what I meant is, forget about common thieves and murderers. The behind-the-scenes power brokers will send in pros. Experts who’d torture to get information, then—” The man swiped a finger across his throat. “That’s why I have to watch my ass every step of the way. Difference is, I knew the score, you didn’t. So I thought a friendly warning was in order. I hope I can trust you not to blab this around.”

  “Not if it all checks out.”

  “I guess that’ll have to do for now. There’s someone else who wouldn’t talk to me—Hubert Purcell. But he was very protective of you. He said don’t mess with the biologist, like you were buddies. That you’d done him a big favor and he owed you. What did he mean by that?”

  Ford shared a partial truth about fixing Purcell’s GPS before getting back to Lydia Johnson. “I was an idiot not to do an Internet search before I left Andros Town. Instead, I researched Nickelby. Four hundred million, Jesus Christ, and I’m worried about Fitzpatrick’s logbook.”

  “You wouldn’t have found much on her. Lydia’s not new to this game. She spent the last six years living under the radar. Fake IDs and a bunch of aliases. She and Nickelby will do the same thing until Lydia cuts him loose—and she will when she doesn’t need a boyfriend and the logbook story as cover. But there’s one thing those two can’t fake. Any idea what that is?”

  Yes—diver certification cards. Unless they were willing to lug scuba tanks and buy an air compressor, there was no getting around it. The Bahamian government monitored dive shops weekly. One screwup and the owner was out of business. But Ford replied, “The color of their skin, I suppose—no, that’s wrong. There’re thousands of native white Bahamians. I got it—their fingerprints.”

  Middlebrook got to his feet, smiling. “Obviously. Look, consider this an introduction. How about we get together this afternoon for drinks, then stroll over and have a chat with Purcell? I’m half a mile down the beach, the red house. You know the one? It sits off by itself.”

  That explained a lot. Half an hour ago, Ford had swam past the place. “I have a meeting this afternoon off island, so how about tonight? Around nine should be good.”

  “The sooner, the better. And bring her, now that you understand.” He didn’t bother to reference the cottage. “Just talking with those two has put her in danger, and, from what I heard, she’s had enough tragedy for one life. I’ll go easy with the questions.”

  Inside the cottage window, the blinds moved, while Ford asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Like you don’t know. Her husband and kid drowned a couple years back. He was drunk.” Middlebrook interpreted surprise as doubt. “Don’t play dumb. I know she’s in there. I would’ve found her last night if she hadn’t gone back to using her maiden name. So tell her she can trust me, okay?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Jesus, you’re a stubborn bastard. The dive shop owner. Tamarinda Constance is the name on the sign, but she took out the mortgage as Tamarinda Gatrell. That’s what threw me.”

  9

  A text from Tomlinson: When irony and lust collide, the detritus paints life as a hilarious absurdity. Don’t fall for that nihilist bullshit.

  A second text was meant to be funny: At least she’s your second cousin, which is legal in border states and a few backward countries. Thank god, you-know-who is in Spain, far from the TCT. Go and sin some more.

  You-know-who—Tucker Gatrell—was also Ford’s cousin. TCT stood for “The Coconut Telegraph.” Which was sort of funny, but only bec
ause Tomlinson had assumed the worst—or bawdiest scenario—after learning that Tamara had spent the night at the cottage.

  Ford, smiling, pocketed the phone. He had tailed Middlebrook to a red beach rental just to prove he could, then flown his Maule amphib to a resort sixty miles east off Staniel Cay. Hubert Purcell’s boat was anchored near the fuel dock, as prearranged.

  That was two hours ago.

  The name of the resort was Silver Reef. It was an island fantasy with beach estates, a casino, and yachts, on a wafer of sand dwarfed by the enormity of the sea. A call to Tomlinson from a hotel landline was easily arranged. The staff was less cooperative when it came to questions about Nickelby and Lydia Johnson, who’d checked in four days earlier.

  After Ford was done snooping, he joined Purcell aboard the Sandman to await something else that had been prearranged—a meeting with his Haitian drinking pals. That’s where Ford was, near the helm with a view of the water, as Tomlinson’s second text pinged in.

  “Why you smiling, boss?”

  Purcell’s deference was irritating after almost coming to blows last night. The fight might have happened if Ford hadn’t proved he could “fix” the boat’s GPS. Interrogation skills and a bottle of Bacardi had played a role.

  “Something a friend sent,” Ford said amiably. “Call me Doc, okay? You’re the captain, I’m just a client.” Ford nodded toward the channel. “Is that who we’re waiting on?” A dilapidated lobster boat had entered the basin and turned their way, a lone man at the wheel.

  “One of ’em anyway.” Purcell swiveled around in the captain’s chair, got up, then decided he didn’t need binoculars. “Yep, Quarrels is what he goes by. Too bad, I was expecting three other fellas, too. Let me talk to him private like, okay?”

  So they could get their stories straight, Ford assumed, yet maintained an easygoing approach. “Whatever you say. When you’re ready, give me a wave. I’d like to meet him.”

  “Not right off, man. I think he come here alone for a reason. The others are probably worried you’re the po-lice after what your friend said happened.”

  Last night, Tomlinson’s call to Nickelby had ended with a woman—probably Lydia—screaming before the phone went dead.

  Purcell frowned at the lobster boat. “Lord, what’s wrong with his face? Looks like Quarrels been beaten.” Even from a distance, the facial swelling was noticeable. “Yeah, man, he all buggered up. I’m afraid whatever them Haitians did was bad—don’t matter what the dock master told you. The group that fella runs with are the ones I warned you about. Same that laughed ’cause I was too cool, restrained myself, after the professor showed his foolishness.”

  Ford responded, “It takes a big man to walk away from a fight.”

  “There you go. But they like meanness. The staff here knows Quarrels, all them boys from Haiti, so they afraid to speak the truth. But don’t you worry. Sandman gonna find out what you need to know.” The man, surprisingly nimble, went down the ladder and waited with a stern line ready.

  There wasn’t much Ford didn’t know after his stroll around the resort.

  He sat and waited, and kept an eye on Purcell and Quarrels below.

  * * *

  —

  Nickelby and the girl weren’t registered at the resort, according to a clerk he’d spoken with.

  They’d checked out, in the words of the dock master, who’d accepted twenty dollars in exchange for information. The name Nickelby was unfamiliar, but he recognized Ford’s description of a small bald American traveling with a much younger girl.

  A talkative man, the dock master, when properly motivated.

  “Oh, those two, yes, sir. León, is what he told me. She, I think he called her Lady Anne. Or Liddy Anne. Our scrape-n-rake band plays so loud, it was hard to hear.”

  “Leon or León?” Ford had asked.

  “Like he was Spanish. Your friends had themselves quite a party last night up there at the Red Parrot. They was dancing to reggae and a bit drunk, you don’t mind me saying. Rum punch, I believe, was their drink of choice, which is the dancingest drink on this island. Only reason I met them was the bartender summoned me from my room at staff house. Mr. León was interested in a boat we got listed. See that little Grand Banks sitting over yonder?”

  Nickelby didn’t buy the boat, so Ford pushed the conversation along. Last night, the pair had booked a room in the hotel, possibly because the lady had fallen and hit her head. This made sense to the dock master. Why else move their luggage from the most beautiful house on the property? And the most private. The rum punches had fixed her up fine—no swelling around the temple unless the light was just right.

  “Maybe they went back to the house when they checked out of the hotel.”

  “No, sir, they for sure gone. Can’t sneeze on this island without folks noticing. Musta chartered a plane after Mr. León decided that Grand Banks needed too much work. That had to be before first light. My job starts early. I’d have seen a hired boat.”

  “They didn’t leave without paying their bill, I hope.”

  “Doubt that, sir. The gentleman had plenty of money or the bartender wouldn’t have summoned me last night. It was close to eleven by the time I was dressed proper to greet clients. By then, those two had the guests, and most the staff, too, on their feet, doing what we call the snake crawl but others call a conga line.”

  “Professor Leonard Nickelby,” Ford mused, pleased with the incongruity.

  “Mr. León and Lady Anne, is how the staff speaks of them,” the dock master responded. “They a fun pair, those two. Oh, and there is something else I heard—well, I probably shouldn’t say. Even with you being friends of theirs and all.”

  Another twenty changed hands.

  Prior to taking the dance floor, Nickelby and the girl had been aboard a yacht. They’d returned to the bar with a satchel of cash. Blocks of hundreds—U.S., it looked like. The bartender had gotten a peek.

  “Which boat?” The docks were a latticework of sports fishermen, sailboats, and blue-water cruisers, all large enough to be considered yachts.

  “Man that rents it pulled out this morning,” the dock master said. “They weren’t aboard, if that’s what you’re wondering. I would’ve noticed when I loaded the gentleman’s luggage.”

  “What kind of boat? Maybe I know him.”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. What I was told was he come here a few years back and made a movie picture. Don’t know the name of that either. Just that them Hollywood people do love their partying.”

  “The owner must be famous. Anyone else you could ask?”

  “No, sir. A private plane, that was Mr. León’s most likely choice. I suggest you wait. I’m sure he don’t want a good friend like you to spend vacation alone . . . Is that all, sir?”

  It was, as far as the dock master was concerned. He wouldn’t discuss the movie person or describe the yacht. A fifty-dollar bill was refused.

  “One more thing,” Ford had pressed. “Are you sure there’s not another way they could’ve left? The landing strip here doesn’t have lights.”

  The dock master hadn’t considered that. “Dogged, if you ain’t right. Couldn’t have been a plane. Nope, unless . . . Wait—the mailboat. Today’s Thursday, and Thursdays she pulls out early from the commercial quay north of here. Maybe they bought tickets.”

  “Bound for where?”

  “Lots’a stops. Exumas, Sapphire Creek, Arthur’s Town, maybe far as the Ragged Islands. I can grab you a schedule from the office. Mailboat’s how all us islanders travel, sir. Always been that way, but I don’t recommend it for guests. Too slow for folks in a hurry to have fun.”

  Ford had returned to the Sandman, schedule in hand. The same schedule he opened when Purcell climbed down from the bridge to greet the dilapidated lobster boat.

  * * *

  —

  It was almost si
x, nearly time to head back to Andros. He put the schedule away and walked to an aft window, where there was a view of mangroves and a swath of sand where his seaplane was anchored. The fuselage appeared darker than the Popsicle-blue water.

  A window starboard side was a better place to observe Purcell. So far, the giant had not invited their visitor aboard. Quarrels, a muscular two hundred pounds, appeared slight by comparison. He wore baggy pants, a rope for a belt, no shirt. His face was grotesquely swollen like a plum grew from his ear. The fist of a powerful man might have caused the damage. Or a hammer . . .

  Lydia Johnson had a head injury, too, according to the dock master. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe not. Last night, the GPS and a bottle of Bacardi had put Hubert Purcell in the mood to admit he was worried about something. It concerned his Haitian friends, Quarrels among them. That’s all he would say—at first.

  Ford had been through enough schools to know that empathy and liquor were the most effective tools of interrogation. Half a bottle had loosened the big man’s tongue. It was possible, Purcell admitted, that he had bragged at too many bars that access to Nickelby’s equipment case and a logbook were worth a punch in the face from a little fella like him. And he might have hinted the logbook was better at finding ambergris than treasure. A puffy little professor and a girl would be easy targets if handled correctly—something his friends could’ve figured out on their own.

  Purcell had offered Ford the same deal he’d probably offered his drinking buddies.

  “You and me should partner up before them Haitians take what’s not theirs—and the book’s not the only reason. You say it don’t belong to the professor? Let me tell you about something else that don’t belong to him—the fifty-fifty split of whatever we sell. That will be thanks enough. Plus, my normal charter fee, of course.”

  Purcell knew what was in the equipment case. He had palmed the keys while Nickelby was in the water—or so he believed at the time. Inside was a lot of expensive gear. There was also a small waterproof box.