As we approached the Grady I’d noticed earlier, I asked Lindsay what year it was. “It’s a ninety-five,” she answered. “But it’s been well taken care of, only one owner, and the engine is only two years old.” Looking around at the nearly empty parking lot, she asked, “Where’s your car?”
“We came by boat,” I said. “I’m docked across the road at the marina.”
“You came all the way from the Keys by boat?”
“Actually, I was in the Bahamas when Celia called me,” I replied, checking out the Grady a little closer. A simple, utilitarian center-console, with no frills. Just a compass and Garmin depth finder on the console. It had rod holders in four places on the gunwales, four more on either side of the console, and rod storage below the gunwales.
“The Bahamas? What kind of boat are you in?”
“It’s a forty-five-foot Rampage convertible. I do fishing and dive charters. How much are you asking for this Grady?”
What I’d planned on taking only an hour at most soon began to look like it was going to take the rest of the morning. Lindsay explained that the Grady was on consignment and the owner wanted an even ten thousand dollars. I made an offer and she called the owner with it.
“You did what?” Rusty asked over the speakerphone as Sheena and I made our way back to the house on Battery Creek. The dog had had a few minutes of confusion when Lindsay hadn’t come aboard with us, and Lindsay seemed to handle letting him go pretty well for the most part. Once away from the dock, the dog had gone up to the foredeck and sat right in the middle of it, the way Pescador used to do.
“I just need some way to get it down there,” I replied. “Figured you’d know someone who isn’t busy and has a truck.”
Rusty Thurman and I go back to our days in boot camp. We’d met on a Greyhound bus heading to Parris Island almost thirty years ago and quickly became friends. We’d been stationed together a few times during our first tour. He got out when his wife died in childbirth, and I’d shipped over. Since those days, we’d become more like the brothers that neither of us had, and his daughter was like my own.
“Are you outta your gourd?” Rusty said over the speaker. “You already own a friggin’ fleet.”
“Couldn’t pass it up, Rusty. The engine alone is worth what I paid for the boat. Besides, I could use an economical knock-around day boat. And, even with all the boats, I don’t have a single trailer. The one this boat’s on can pull most of my boats outta the water.”
“Thought you liked tooling around in that wood boat?”
“Tooling around’s not the same as knocking around. I need a boat I can run up on a beach and not worry about bumping a dock. Gradys are tough boats.”
“Well, Jimmy ain’t too busy,” Rusty said.
“He’s not in trouble at the school, is he?” I asked. Jimmy Saunders is a friend and sometimes first mate on the Revenge. About a year ago, he took a full-time job as an instructor and fishing guide at a school that teaches boating and fishing skills to at-risk kids. The school was a dream my late wife had, and her business partner in Oregon came down and helped set it up. They’d run a similar school in the Northwest for several years.
“Nah, bro, nothin’ like that. They’re between classes is all. He’s been helping me around here a bit, until the next class starts after the Fourth.”
“Good,” I said. “Tell him I’ll pay him five hundred bucks. Give him the keys to the Beast. There’s a gas card in the console, and have him call me when he gets to the South Carolina border.”
We caught up on the goings-on around the islands while I’d been gone for a few minutes. Then I ended the call as I turned the Revenge around the point at Sands Beach and started up Battery Creek.
“The Beast?” Sheena asked. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“It’s my truck,” I replied. “A seventy-three International Travelall.”
“And your friend is willing to drive over a thousand miles, round-trip, in a thirty-five-year-old truck?”
“It only looks old from the outside,” I replied, dropping the Revenge down off plane as we approached the docks and mooring field at the southern end of Port Royal. “Inside and under the hood, it’s all brand-new.”
Sheena did learn fast. Arriving at the dock a few minutes later, she was standing ready in the cockpit, boat hook and lines ready. I turned the Revenge around and maneuvered close to the dock. Sheena hooked one of the cleats and drew the stern in, tying off quickly. Before I could even get down to the cockpit, she stepped over the gunwale and onto the dock with the bowline and had the Revenge all secured.
Finn jumped to the dock and trotted up the ramp to the fence, sniffing around. The backyard was completely enclosed, so I let him through the gate as Chyrel came at a near run across the backyard, carrying a box.
“It sure took you guys long enough,” she replied, doing a double take at Sheena’s new attire. She’d added a Gaspar’s Revenge tee shirt over the bikini top. I keep an assortment of sizes on board for clients.
“I bought a boat while we were there,” I said. “What’s up?”
“A boat?” Chyrel asked. “What do you need with another boat? Never mind, I have work to do. Hey, nice pooch.”
“His name’s Finn,” I said. “He’ll be going back to the Keys with us. What kind of work?” I asked her retreating form.
“She’s adding a digital high-res video camera to the IR on the roof,” Andrew said as he approached us. “Compliments of the FBI. Agent Allen and I came up with a good working plan. Chyrel will be on the boat, monitoring the camera and microphones on her laptop. Tony and the DEA guys will be wired up with mics, and Tony will make the money exchange on the boardwalk.”
“Where on the boardwalk?” Sheena asked, all business once again. “The part in front of the marina is pretty crowded. We were just there.”
So she didn’t spend the whole time shopping in the ship’s store, I thought.
“About halfway down,” Allen replied, joining us in the backyard. “Just a little past the small amphitheater would be the best place.”
“Where will everyone be, Craig?” Sheena asked Allen.
“There are a bunch of big glider-type swings all along there,” Craig replied. “You and I will be sitting in one, playing the arguing couple, trying to keep it low-key, but totally engrossed. Andrew and Art will be tossing a Frisbee in the grass behind us when Tony approaches the suspect. Tony will get the suspect to say what the money is for, then either Art or Andrew can toss the Frisbee wide, just as the exchange is made. When Tony turns to walk away with the money, whoever is nearest can run toward the Frisbee and then on past it, to take the suspect to the ground, right in front of us.”
“They tell you who the suspect is?” Sheena asked.
“Congressman Cross?” Craig replied. “I don’t have a problem with it at all. I heard everything from Missus DeGroodt and went over the electronic information Chyrel supplied. None of which would be admissible in court, but it was more than enough to convince me that the guy’s dirtier than a Buckhead streetwalker.”
“What happens with Tony and the DEA agents after you guys take Cross down?” I asked.
“Andrew mentioned how your team needs to remain incognito even after the bust,” Craig replied. “Tony will point your boat out to Cross, tell him he’s being watched, and to stay put at the dock chain until Tony is well away. Andrew’s in charge, but only Sheena and I will identify ourselves as FBI agents. We’ll cuff Cross while Art and Andrew run after Tony and the DEA guys, making a show of it. They’ll get away on your boat, and your guys will fade into the background.”
“Amazing what folks can get done,” I said, “when there’s nobody worried about taking credit. What if Cross has someone with him, or a bystander tries to interfere?”
“Chyrel hacked into several security cameras along the waterfront. She’s good, by the way. Anyway, we looked at historical video data from several angles of the waterfront, some able to go back several weeks. Fo
r at least the last ten weekdays, there hasn’t been very much in the way of foot traffic at that time of day down toward the end, closer to the bridge.”
A quick glance at the sun told me it was late afternoon and Cross’s flight would be arriving in a couple of hours. There were still at least five hours of sunlight left, and I was tired and hungry.
“Is there food in the house?” I asked Andrew.
“Nothing much. Looks like your friend cleaned out anything perishable before he left. We just ordered some Chinese delivery.”
I’d grown used to eating a healthy seafood diet, and the last few days of mostly junk food hadn’t set well in my gut.
“I think I’ll see if I can catch something off the dock,” I said. “Come on, Finn.” The dog’s head came up at the mention of his name, cocking it to the side. “Wanna see if there’s any clams here?”
Finn trotted sort of clumsily toward me, his big ears flopping. After a few steps, Sheena joined me. “I’m not a fisherman, but I do like seafood.”
I glanced at her as I held the gate open. Finn ran through and went along the fence, hiking his leg in three places. Sheena stepped through and started down the sloping metal pier to the dock. I had no idea what her game was. She was going far out of her way to be close to me for some reason. With the arrest of a high-profile political figure coming in less than twenty-four hours, I would have thought she’d be going over the plan that Andrew and Craig had worked out.
Chyrel was on the roof of the cockpit with what looked like a tiny white box and her ever-present tool bag. Intent on what she was doing, she didn’t even notice us coming aboard. But the splash as Finn leaped off the end of the dock startled her, and she nearly fell off the roof.
“What’s that crazy dog doing?” she called out as Finn disappeared under the water.
“I think he’s clamming,” I replied, watching carefully. The water wasn’t anything close to being as clear as that back home. I couldn’t see him below the surface at all, except for an occasional swirl of water.
Finn surfaced, swam a little closer to shore, and then submerged again. As we watched, he did this several more times, in different spots. To anyone unfamiliar, it would look like he was in trouble, but having seen Pescador do the same thing, I knew he was fine. Then he came up with something in his mouth and swam for the stern of the Revenge. Sheena and I watched as Finn deposited a clam on the swim platform.
I opened the transom door as Finn swam back toward shore and dove again. Picking up the clam from the swim platform, I looked at it. It was definitely alive and closed up tight. Not quite quahog size, but definitely top neck. Finn surfaced again as Sheena stepped up beside me at the transom, Chyrel looking down from the roof of the bridge.
“What’d he find?” Chyrel called down. “A rock?”
“Clams,” I replied as Finn dropped another one on the platform and swam off again.
After ten minutes, Finn finally struggled to get himself up on the platform, shaking the water from his fur. He’d dove down and dug up nearly a dozen clams, all in the same general size range, cherry stone to top neck. I was curious and hadn’t asked Lindsay if he could get them open, or if I’d have to shuck them for him. Getting down in a prone position on the swim platform, Finn nosed through his selection and chose one, clamping it between his paws. He moved it around until he had it in the right position, then bit down hard, forcing the shell open with strong jaw muscles. Holding part of the shell with his paw, he quickly devoured the body of the clam inside and moved on to the next one.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I muttered.
Chyrel had finished her work and gone up to the house to get some rest, leaving me and Sheena alone with Finn. He’d had his fill of clams and turned his nose up at the dog food I put in his bowl.
Using a fly rod from the bow of the Revenge, I began casting, hoping to catch something better than Moo Goo Gai Pan for my supper. It wasn’t easy, though. Call me an easily distracted fisherman, but I doubt many fly fishermen could make a perfect cast from a foredeck where a beautiful woman had stripped down to a tiny yellow bikini and stretched out to get some sun.
“You’re an unusual man,” Sheena said, rolling over onto her belly and propping herself on her elbows.
I glanced at her for just a second as the fly on the end of my line gently touched the water. “Unusual?”
Sheena pulled her sunglasses down her nose slightly and looked at me over the top of them. “I always check out the people I’m tasked to work with. You’re a semiretired Marine sniper instructor with a net worth somewhere in the eight-digit range. You own a freaking island and from what I’ve gathered a whole fleet of charter boats. Your charter business is always in high demand and you charge top dollar. But the wealth hasn’t seemed to change you into a spoiled rich guy. That’s unusual.”
“Not really,” I said, casting toward a disturbance in the water. “It’s more than I’d have need of in ten lifetimes. The bulk of it’s in a trust. I don’t need it, nor want it. Except for what I can do with it to help other people.”
The water exploded just as the fly touched the surface. I set the hook and the fight was on. The fish dove and I let it take up the line I’d stripped, then I slowly began working him toward the stern.
“What is it?” Sheena asked, joining me at the rail.
“Seatrout, I think,” I said, fighting the fish along the handrails to the side deck. It began to run toward the stern and I quickly followed, moving along the side deck. Sheena was right beside me, one hand on the rail and the other on my shoulder. Her touch was like electricity, distracting me further.
Stepping down into the cockpit, I nodded to the cabinet on the port side. “That far cabinet, there’s a net in there.”
The fish began to tire, and I started reeling it closer as Sheena came up behind me with the net. “Where do you want me?”
Grinning, I replied, “In my stateroom.”
She grinned back and punched my shoulder. “I meant with the net.”
“Open the transom door and step down onto the platform. I’ll bring him that way.”
The fish rolled on the surface, a big spotted seatrout. When the latch clicked on the transom door, the fish flipped its tail and dove deep, heading back under the boat. He seemed to know that if he went that way, he might get loose. I tried to turn him toward the bow and finally succeeded before the line got to the propellers. In a last-ditch effort, he charged toward deeper water, stripping off line. When he rolled near the surface again, I knew he was done. He gave a few halfhearted tugs as I reeled him closer.
Sheena stepped down onto the swim platform, net at the ready, as I brought the trout to the surface again. She quickly dipped the net under the fish and lifted it, using both hands. I took the net from her and reached in, pulling the trout out and holding it up.
“Now we can eat,” I proclaimed. There was no need to measure the fish. It was at least two feet long and a healthy ten pounds, well over the limit.
While I cleaned the fish, Sheena went into the galley to find something to go with it. Setting the fillets aside, I looked at Finn, now sitting in the corner of the cockpit.
“Don’t you eat my fish,” I warned him. He cocked his head and watched me with those intelligent-looking amber eyes. “Don’t worry, I doubt she’ll eat much and there’ll be some left for you. Stay.”
I opened the hatch to the engine room, went down, and retrieved my small gas grill. As I set it up, Finn watched me closely. Mounting the grill in one of the rod holders in the gunwale, I screwed a small propane bottle into the connection on the side, allowing it to rest on the gunwale.
“I found a few potatoes,” Sheena said, stepping down from the salon. “And some carrots. But that’s about it. Steamed carrots and French fries okay with you?”
“Sounds great,” I replied, lighting the grill. “The fish will be done in about ten minutes.”
Stepping down into the engine room again, I handed two folding chairs and a smal
l folding table up to Sheena, then she disappeared back into the salon. I noticed with some disappointment that she’d put the shorts back on over her bikini.
From a small drawer above the mini-fridge, I took out a little container labeled “Swimmers” and opened it. A friend in Marathon, who works for Rusty, keeps my boat stocked with simple island spice mixtures. Rufus was once a gourmet chef at a five-star resort in Jamaica. After his wife died several years ago, he came to Marathon and Rusty hired him as a part-time cook. He lives in a former rum shack on the back of Rusty’s property, and people come from all over the Keys to watch him at work in his open-air kitchen.
Sprinkling a pinch of Rufus’s spices on each fillet, I placed them on the grill at low heat and closed it. The spices would seep into the flesh of the fish as it slowly cooked.
Fifteen minutes later, while we were enjoying our meal, Sheena asked, “So why is it you don’t carry a badge like the others?”
Swallowing a bite of fish, I looked across the small table at her. She knew about my finances and my background in the Corps already. She probably knew a lot of other things, too. “What I do started out as a once-in-a-while kind of thing. Carrying a badge means carrying responsibility and obligation. I don’t have a problem with the responsibility side of it. But I prefer having the option to just say no if I don’t want a certain assignment.”
“Have you turned many down?”
“No,” I replied. “I tried a couple of times, but circumstances beyond my control always seemed to drag me in anyway.”
“Why would you turn one down?” she asked. “I don’t mean to insinuate that you’re some kind of bloodthirsty killer or anything. Just curious where your line is.”
“I have two daughters and a grandson,” I replied. “The girls and I have been estranged most of their lives and we’ve only recently been reunited. So, I have them and a grandson to think about now. Besides, I’m just getting too damned old.”
Sheena laughed, nearly choking on the food in her mouth. “You can’t be more than a year or two older than me. Forty? Forty-one?”
Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) Page 11