Contents
Fallen Angel
Foreword
Dedication
More from Wayne Stinnett
Map: Port Royal Sound
Map: Western Atlantic and Caribbean
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
More by Wayne Stinnett
Copyright © 2016
Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2016
Lady’s Island, SC
Copyright © 2016 by Wayne Stinnett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data
Stinnett, Wayne
Fallen Angel/Wayne Stinnett
p. cm. - (A Jesse McDermitt novel)
Cover Photo by Wayne Stinnett
Graphics by Tim Ebaugh Photography and Design
Edited by Eliza Dee, Clio Editing Services
Proofreading by Donna Rich
Interior Design by Colleen Sheehan, WDR Book Designs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Many people and places in this work are real, but used fictitiously with permission. Many of the locations herein are also fictional, or are used fictitiously. However, I took great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, marshes, bars, and restaurants throughout the Bahamas and Port Royal Sound areas, to the best of my ability.
Dedicated to the memory of Pat Conroy. One of the biggest plusses when we decided to move to Beaufort was that I might have the opportunity to meet one of the greatest authors the South ever produced. Pat wrote some of my favorite stories: The Prince of Tides, The Water is Wide, and The Great Santini. Unfortunately, Pat lost his battle with cancer only months after our arrival here.
“We continued to catch and release for another hour. Eventually we fished out the banks of the river mouth. We went back to the boat, leaving sore lips and hurt feelings all along the mangroves.”
Meade Breeze – Bahama Breeze, 2016, by Ed Robinson
If you’d like to receive my twice a month newsletter for specials, book recommendations, and updates on coming books, please sign up on my website: www.waynestinnett.com
The Charity Styles Caribbean Thriller Series
Merciless Charity
Ruthless Charity (Summer, 2016)
Heartless Charity (Winter, 2017)
The Jesse McDermitt Caribbean Adventure Series
Fallen Out
Fallen Palm
Fallen Hunter
Fallen Pride
Fallen Mangrove
Fallen King
Fallen Honor
Fallen Tide
Fallen Angel
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t reach him?” Nick Cross sneered at his young aide. He’d been in a foul mood for more than a day and the aide was becoming concerned.
“I’m sorry, Congressman,” Dennis replied. “Communication in the islands is still somewhat hit or miss at times. Even without the hurricane. Repeated phone calls get only a busy signal and emails have so far been returned as undeliverable.”
“Fucking great,” the representative from South Carolina’s First Congressional District grumbled. “I thought that hurricane wasn’t going to be anything more than a fish storm.”
“Yes, sir,” Dennis replied. “It pretty much is. It’s not predicted to come anywhere close to the islands, but it slowed way down yesterday, then this morning it was upgraded to a category three. It’s likely kicking up some pretty big waves, way out there. Maybe enough to cause some problems in the Out Islands. Some minor flooding and erosion could cause some telephone poles to come down. You know how things are there.”
“Keep trying,” Congressman Cross said. “And patch him through as soon as you reach him.”
“Are you planning a vacation to Cat Island, sir? I’m sure I can find someone to arrange it.”
So far, nobody knows what happened, Cross thought. But it was just a matter of time. He needed to perfect his shocked and grieving father image before it came out. And he needed to appear as a concerned and caring father now.
“Not exactly a vacation,” he lied. “This guy owes me a fishing trip and with the recess coming up, I thought I might take Chrissy somewhere for a weekend away. Kind of a father-daughter weekend to kick off the summer.”
“I’ll keep trying, Congressman,” Dennis said as he quietly turned and left the inner office. Dennis Tigner had joined Nick Cross’s staff as an intern over a year ago, having come aboard just after the election. In his late twenties, he hoped to have a career in politics himself one day. Those early days as an intern to a grieving newly-elected congressman were tough. But Cross had seemed to push through the pain and anguish of losing his wife, throwing himself into his new job.
Cross turned back to his computer and started a Google search for damage in the Bahamas from Hurricane Bertha. Knowing that his computer might be subject to a coming investigation, he refrained from searching for news of what he really wanted to know about, and it was making him more and more anxious.
Reports from the National Hurricane Center showed that the hurricane was over a thousand miles from Cat Island and the other Out Islands. Just like Dennis had said, its forward progress had slowed to a crawl and the storm had intensified to category three status, as if it were waiting to build strength before attacking the islands.
Shit, Cross thought, I’ve lived through worse storms.
He couldn’t find anything on damage reports, though most of the Out Islands were either uninhabited or sparsely populated. He knew the infrastructure in the islands was mediocre at best. All it would take was a few big waves washing over the coastline to undermine the poorly installed power and telephone lines on the low-lying islands. He still thought it strange that there weren’t any reports of damage or outages, which would interrupt phone service.
Maybe the Jamaican’s boat went down, he thought. That would solve the problem and save me a boatload of cash. He grinned at his own joke.
Cross knew the abduction had gone off without a hitch. The Jamaican had called yesterday to report that they had the pair aboard their boat and were headed back to Cat Island. Somewhere along the way, they were to throw them overboard. Miles from any shoreline. In the middle of the mostly deserted Out Islands. Cross expected the call fr
om the cruise line anytime now. They’d want to ask if his meddling mother-in-law had changed their itinerary and stayed over in Nassau.
Cross had known exactly what to do when the call finally came. He’d been planning it for months. His mother-in-law’s sudden decision to take the brat on a cruise just made it easier, so he’d moved up the timetable.
When the time came, he’d be seen as trying to reach both his mother-in-law and his daughter and would mobilize whatever assets he could to find them. He was certain their bodies would never be found, though. And if they were, he’d have no problem in subtly placing the blame on the late Pat DeGroodt, his impulsive and eccentric mother-in-law, for the death of his daughter at the hands of Jamaican drug smugglers. It happened often enough at random, he was certain it would work. Then he could be seen as throwing himself into his work once more, concentrating on legislation to halt the illegal drug trade.
Hell, he thought, if I play this right, I can guarantee reelections for the next decade. And be filthy rich, to boot. Knowing his Colombian mistress’s penchant for shiny things, she’d be very excited about that. This brought a slow smile to the congressman’s face.
He’d met Chela Madeira on a trip to South America seven years ago. It was before he had begun exploring a life in politics and long before his wife had died. With some time off before a meeting with real estate developers in Bogota, Cross had found himself in the hotel’s very elegant lounge. Chela had been performing there as a singer. Cross had found himself mesmerized by her voice, enthralled by her petite body, long black hair, and smoky brown eyes. Though she was sixteen years younger than his thirty-six at the time, he’d actively pursued her affections. Sensing he was a very successful hombre de negocios Americano, she’d returned those affections.
Within two years, and many extended trips to Colombia later, each one full of more inventive and adventurous sex, Cross’s project had been completed. Chela had become his mistress and he’d put her up in the penthouse suite of the hotel he and the other developers had built, with him as controlling partner.
Since then, he’d made numerous trips to the Colombian capital, on the pretense of business, and they’d met several other times in exotic places all around the Caribbean. He’d even flown her to the Lowcountry of South Carolina a number of times for a booty call.
For the last few months, Chela had talked more and more openly about him bringing her to Washington, even hinting at marriage. With his wife dead for a year now, it wouldn’t be quite so scandalous for him to start seeing someone. However, Chela would probably never be that someone. Sixteen years younger than him would be bad enough, though she was a hard-bodied twenty-seven-year-old legal adult. But the tiny little woman projected an intense sexuality that just couldn’t be hidden or contained.
For a sitting congressman, that just wouldn’t work. And he just wasn’t sure if he was willing to give up the power his position gave him to have this sexually adventurous and voracious little minx with him full-time. Even when the inheritance and life insurance came in. Besides, it would complicate things with his other mistress in Charleston.
For a moment, Cross contemplated that. Why not give up both the job and the other mistress? There were a lot of bedroom adventures with Chela that he hadn’t explored, and she rarely let him get any rest. Sometimes for days. No, he decided, I could never be just a one-woman man.
From the research he’d done on his mother-in-law, he knew that his daughter stood to inherit at least eight figures, with him in full control of the trust until she turned twenty-one. With both of them dying in a tragic mishap in another country, the wealth would come to him. Plus over one million dollars in insurance, a policy his late wife had taken out on their daughter. Cross smiled again, knowing that none of this pointed toward him. Nobody would ever suspect that he’d hired someone to murder his own daughter. His mind drifted to how he could live life with that kind of money on top of what he’d already squirreled away. Hell, I can build a complete dungeon for Mistress Chela, he thought. Maybe even introduce her to Connie in Charleston. The thought of having them both at once was very intriguing.
The intercom on Nick Cross’s desk buzzed, interrupting his lecherous thoughts. He pushed a button on it. “Did you reach Claude?”
“Still trying, sir,” Dennis replied. “There’s a call for you on line three. It’s a Miss Pritchard with Regency Cruises.”
“Thanks, Dennis,” Cross said, with faked concern in his voice. He’d expected the call earlier in the day. He’d also expected Claude to call, telling him the deed was done and demanding the balance of the payment.
Picking up the receiver, Nick punched the flashing button. “Congressman Nick Cross.”
“Congressman Cross,” a woman’s voice said over the phone. “My name is Natalie Pritchard. I’m the ship’s steward aboard Regency Star. Your mother-in-law and your daughter are booked on a seven-day cruise aboard.”
“Yes, Miss Pritchard. Is there a problem?”
“They failed to return to the ship last night, sir. Has Missus DeGroodt changed their travel plans?”
“Not that I’m aware of. My mother-in-law is impulsive, though. Is there a number I can reach you at? I’ll give her a call to see what is going on and if they plan to fly ahead and rejoin the ship.”
“Yes,” the woman replied and gave him a number to their home office switchboard. “They can connect you to the ship via satellite,” she explained. “But I’ve tried the number Missus DeGroodt gave us several times this morning, and it goes straight to voicemail.”
“Thanks, Miss Pritchard. I’ll try my daughter’s cell phone, then. Maybe Pat’s phone is dead.” Cross grinned again at his own joke.
Hanging up the phone, he found it hard to suppress the grin. Knowing that his phone records might be checked during the coming investigation, he quickly scrolled through his cell phone’s contact list and found his daughter’s number, knowing even before he hit send that this call too would go straight to voicemail.
When it did, he went through the same thing with his mother-in-law. That call went to voicemail as well, and he left a message for her to call him as soon as she got it. Cross then pushed the intercom button again. “Dennis, come in here right away.”
The following morning, the investigation was already in full swing. In Dennis’s eyes, Congressman Cross had seemed to be beside himself. Together, they’d tried calling both the congressman’s mother-in-law and his daughter. Both phones had seemed to be turned off. The congressman instructed Dennis to start contacting the authorities in Nassau.
Near midnight, the Royal Bahamian Police had reported that someone had seen a woman and a girl matching the description of Pat DeGroodt and Chrissy Cross. The witness said it appeared as if they’d been taken aboard a speedboat near one of the docks in Nassau and the boat had then roared out of the harbor. The men with them were described as three Rastafarian types, with long dreads.
Dennis Tigner had remained in the office all night, catching a few hours of sleep on a folding cot. He didn’t think the congressman had gotten any sleep at all.
Rising from the cot, Dennis set the coffeepot up once again. They were still waiting to find out more about the boat that was seen leaving with the congressman’s family.
How much bad can one man handle? Dennis thought. It’d been just a little more than a year since his wife had been killed in a tragic and horrific car crash. It had happened near the congressman’s home. His wife was going shopping when a front tire blew out, just as she was approaching a bridge. The car careened off the road out of control, rolling twice before coming to rest in a salt marsh wetland area, upside down in five feet of water. The coroner had reported that she’d likely have died within minutes from the head injuries she’d sustained, but the actual cause of death had been drowning.
Now the congressman’s daughter and his late wife’s mother seemed to be victims of a random kidnapping. It had happened over twenty-four hours ago and there had been no ransom demand and
no news since.
Dennis went quietly to his desk and wiggled the mouse to wake up his computer. He scanned his emails, and seeing nothing other than the usual correspondence from lobbyists and other legislators, he turned to Google and started checking news reports in Nassau. Stories of the abduction filled the first two pages of results, but nothing from the authorities.
Picking up the phone, he asked the switchboard operator to connect him once more with the Bahamian police officer in charge of the investigation in Nassau. By now, she probably knew the number by heart.
“Lieutenant Frank Cleary,” a slightly accented voice on the phone said in greeting.
Dennis had already spoken with the lieutenant a number of times. Seeing the light was still on under the door to the congressman’s office, Dennis wondered if the man had fallen asleep with the lights still on. He couldn’t possibly go on like this for long. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Lieutenant Cleary, this is Dennis Tigner, Congressman Cross’s aide. Do you have anything at all to report?”
“I was going to call yuh, Mister Tigner,” Cleary answered. “A security camera caught the speedboat in question, just as it passed a tiki bar. We were able to get the registration number of the boat, but it had been reported stolen three weeks ago. I’m afraid there’s just nothing else to report.”
“Well, that’s something anyway. Could you tell from the picture if the congressman’s daughter and mother-in-law were indeed aboard?”
“It is actually a video,” Cleary replied. “But I’m afraid the detail isn’t very good. It clearly shows an older white woman and a teenage white girl, hair color and length matching what you gave us. The three men on the boat with them had their backs to the camera, though.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Please call me directly if you hear anything further. Anything at all.”
Dennis hung up the phone and walked back across the office to the coffee machine. Pouring a cup, he suddenly had an idea. His uncle worked at the Pentagon, his work involving the Caribbean, and he had lots of contacts there. Maybe he could do something, or find out something. He went back to his desk and picked up his cell phone. Finding the name in his contact list, he tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear. Though it was still an hour before sunrise, his uncle answered after the first ring.
Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) Page 1