Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1)

by J. C. Ferguson

  George turns so pale his freckles fade. “He was a friend of Palmieri. His name was Reny. Reny Silver or Silva.”

  Jeremy walks toward the house, making a call. They already have this guy. He’s the one who shot at me in Susan’s parking lot.

  “So who are these Colombians?” I ask. “Have you ever met them?”

  “I never saw any Colombians that I know of. The guys on the fishing boat that took the Cuban refugees were local, or maybe Cuban. Didn’t get a good look. They could be the two Miami guys at Farrell’s house. I don’t think I’ve seen any Colombians since we got back.”

  “How about in Cuba or one of the other islands?”

  “There were probably some around, but I never met any.”

  “Then why do they keep coming up in conversation?”

  George shrugs. “Farrell said to blame everything on the Colombians.”

  The conversation lags. George looks deflated, like we beat a confession out of him. I might have harassed him a little, but at least no one here is going to shoot him.

  Allison stands, right in front of George, hands on hips. “Did Tony contribute to this outing of yours?”

  “I have no idea.” He looks away, not at Allison. Is he telling the truth?

  “How did you convince Alex to join you?”

  “Farrell is a sweet talker, and Alex wanted to get away. You know he wasn’t happy with you marrying Tony.”

  “I guess he was right about that.”

  “And Farrell offered him a profit. Said if he invested he could have part of the take when we started importing from the islands.”

  “Did he tell Alex what you would be importing?”

  George looks at his feet again. “He might have mentioned Cubans.”

  Wednesday

  Chapter 43

  Jeremy and I head for Naples, again, but we don’t tell the gang at “Pratt’s boardinghouse.” Mom and Allison, maybe others, would want to tag along. No boat ride this time, just your normal stop and go traffic on the Tamiami Trail. Even the benefit of the sheriff’s cruiser doesn’t help.

  Jeremy is quiet, concentrating on traffic. But I have lots of questions. “Do you think Manuel’s mother is alive?”

  “It’s hard to say. We don’t have any idea who abducted them.”

  “Abducted. Sounds very official, Deputy Thorpe.”

  He grins at me.

  “Could be those elusive Colombians abducted our visitors. Are there any Colombians in all this? Have you seen any? Has anyone named names?”

  “The hit man at the airport was a local who said he was working for the Colombians. Everyone is pointing fingers, but no names.”

  “There seem to be at least two groups of bad guys, maybe three. New England, Miami, and Colombians?”

  “Don’t know, Pratt. That’s why we need to talk to Farrell.”

  He drops me off at Carlotta’s Dress Shop and heads for the jail to interview her ex. A policewoman in plain clothes is hanging in the shop. I hope she’s not supposed to be undercover; she’s way too obvious. I look around while Carlotta waits on a young girl wearing a bikini with a lacy cover-up that doesn’t cover much. She looks like she belongs on Fort Myers Beach at spring break, not upscale, hoity-toity Naples. I find a blouse I like and turn over the price tag. I drop it, fingers tingling from sticker shock.

  “Thank you.” Carlotta’s voice right behind me makes me jump.

  “Are you talking to me?” What’s she thanking me for, putting the blouse back? Did she think I was stealing it?

  “Yes. Thanks for doing what I didn’t have the balls to do. Sic the police on Jack.”

  “You did look kind of relieved when everyone showed up.”

  “I didn’t want to relocate to Costa Rica or Kuala Lumpur.”

  “Why did you get on the boat?”

  “Jack had my children. I had to protect them. He meant well.” She gives a little shrug. “Too bad he’s in jail.”

  “Yeah, not much child support from there.”

  “There never was much.” She gives me a lopsided smile, but her eyes are sad. “He’s not a terrible person. He just never grew up.”

  She’s very tolerant. If someone ran off with my kids, I’d be ready to kill. Even if they ran off with my cats, since I have no kids.

  “He invited me to run away with him, and I would have brought my children home first chance.” She must have seen the look on my face. I didn’t say that out loud, did I?

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Pratt?”

  “I kind of need a favor. I need you to think of all your conversations with your ex and see if you can remember any names. In this case, someone took the parents not the child.”

  She looks puzzled, so I give her a refresher about finding Manuel and how his mother disappeared.

  “Yes, I remember now. You told me this yesterday, but my mind was on other things.” The understatement of the year, with that lopsided sad smile, again.

  “Are your children safe?”

  “Yes, they’re with my parents. If I had someone to run the shop, I’d be there, too.”

  “Can you think of anything that might help? If you know any names, it could help you and your kids. If the police round them all up, you’ll be safe again.” Is that true? Will someone else come after them?

  “If I knew, I would have told the police. But I know nothing. Jack told me wild twisted tales. No names. It’s hard to say if anything he told me is true.”

  “Can you tell me the wild twisted tales?”

  “Let’s get some coffee.” Carlotta tells the same girl who was watching the shop yesterday that she’s leaving. She leads me to a yuppity-uppity coffee shop a couple of doors away, where coffee is the price of liquid gold and the tiny snacks each cost as much as a meal. The policewoman follows us and sits at the counter.

  “Tell me about Jack Farrell.” I pick at an inch square piece of pastry in front of me.

  “Jack loves adventure, his boat, and his children. I don’t know which comes first.” Carlotta sips her coffee. She seems reluctant to talk.

  “What about recent adventures?”

  “Let me give you a little background. When we were first married and living in Miami, he had a good business going, taking people to and from Cuba. He usually brought more people with him to Miami than he took to Cuba. When things got more difficult traveling to Cuba out of Miami, we moved west. His family has been shrimping here on the Gulf for many years, and there was less hassle by the Coast Guard. The Cubans knew Jack and were willing to come west for a ride home to see their families. Plus, he was doing regular charters, making a decent living. But Jack’s always looking for a new adventure, something to get rich quick. And he spends money faster than it comes in.”

  “Is your family Cuban?”

  “Yes, my parents came over in the early sixties.”

  “Tell me about Jack’s latest adventure.”

  “I know he took some young men who wanted to bounce around, see the islands, do some diving. He also made connections with people in New England who wanted him to bring in some shipments of marijuana. Jack never thought it should be illegal. He didn’t seem to understand that he could end up in jail.”

  “Do you know any of these people?”

  “No, I never met them and he didn’t mention names. But I know some of his Cuban connections in Miami.”

  “What about the cocaine?”

  “He claims he was set up, and I believe him. Not bringing in that shipment of cocaine was what got him in trouble with everyone in the first place. Why would he lie about it?”

  “Maybe he sold it elsewhere?”

  “No. He didn’t want to get involved. I’m sure someone planted some on his boat and turned him in.”

  I make a mental note to check on that possibility. “Where’s the boat been the last few days?”

  “Probably at the Portside Marina. That’s where he gets his maintenance done. He had it painted and refitted. A new look, and a new name.” Carlo
tta closes her eyes and shakes her head. “He wanted to start a whole new life.”

  “Hey, Pratt.”

  I turn to see Jeremy standing behind my shoulder. “Hey, Thorpe. Have you met Carlotta Farrell?”

  Jeremy reaches for her hand. “Sheriff’s Deputy Thorpe, ma’am.”

  “Did someone report Jack Farrell for smuggling cocaine?” I ask. “Or was it a coincidence that they found drugs on his boat?”

  “The Coast Guard had a tip. Even knew the new name Carlotta. They didn’t find much coke. It’s not the shipment everyone is looking for. Maybe he was set up.”

  “Are they going to charge him? Keep his boat?” Carlotta asks.

  “He’s out on bail already, ma’am. They realize he’s probably not guilty. He has bigger problems than the cops. He might be safer in jail.”

  “I need to get to work.” Carlotta stands.

  “Could you give me those Miami names first?” I need them to compare to what we know and there could be someone new.

  “Yes, if it helps find the boy’s mother.” She writes a few names in Jeremy’s notebook before heading to her shop with the silent policewoman on her heels.

  #

  The traffic is worse going north on Tamiami than when we came south.

  “Did you talk to Farrell?” I ask Jeremy.

  “Yup. He gave me the names of the people he was working with from New England. But George Stark already gave us those names.”

  “Did he mention Allison’s husband, Tony?”

  Jeremy nods. Maybe that’s why Alex left the boat. He didn’t like Tony Martinelli.

  “How about the Miami Cubans? Did he give you the same names as Carlotta?”

  “Yes, most of them.”

  “Do you think they’re the ones who took Manuel’s mom?”

  “Farrell says it’s the Colombians.”

  “He would say that.”

  Jeremy takes a right onto Golden Gate Parkway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Gonna take the highway. This traffic is too much.”

  The traffic isn’t much better going east. My mind goes back to the Colombians. “I thought there were no Colombians in this story. They were created in Farrell’s imagination.”

  “It’s possible Colombians are involved. Maybe there’s a territory dispute going on between the Cubans and Colombians, or Rhode Islanders and the Columbians. One group might have ripped off a shipment from the other and Farrell got caught in the middle.”

  “Okay, Detective. How did you arrive at this theory?”

  “I had a little help. Farrell told me and I sort of believe him.” Jeremy grins at me.

  “I have a theory. If the Colombians originated the drug shipment, they were paid in Cuba or wherever, and they don’t give a damn. The people looking are the ones who were supposed to receive it here in Florida. What exactly did Farrell say?”

  “He said he made the connection with the Cubans for the New England folks to ship a little dope north. Then one of the New England men approached him about a cocaine shipment from the Colombians. That’s when he said no. But when he told his Cuban buddies, they said they could maybe find another route for the coke. Who knows what they did with it. Maybe they brought it directly into Miami and sold it on the street.”

  I jump in with, “I don’t think it’s all that complicated. The Miami Cubans probably put the coke on Farrell’s boat. Miami and Rhode Island guys ransacked the houses. Rhode Island guy shot Bruce Mondrone. A local shot the Miami guy in the airport. Who took Manuel’s mother? I’d say someone from Miami or Rhode Island.”

  “Slow down, Pratt.” He takes both hands off the wheel and raises them in surrender. Doesn’t matter since we’re at a dead stop. “You’re right. Reny Silva from New England shot Bruce Mondrone. Farrell says Mondrone tried to take a gun away and got shot. Stupid move.”

  “George said he got shot because he wouldn’t shut up. Either way, stupid.” I don’t believe Colombians are involved in this mess. “The last body in the airport was Che, the drug dealer we met in Miami, right? What about the first dead body at the airport? Was he connected to all this?”

  “He was another dealer, local. Farrell identified him as the fishing boat captain who took the Cubans to your island.”

  “So Farrell’s on the loose. He has no boat to sail away in. Even if no Colombians are threatening him, the Miami guys are after him, the New England guys are after him. I hope someone is watching him.”

  “He’s being trailed by the Naples drug force, the FBI, the Coast Guard, and who knows.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not following him.”

  “Why bother?”

  “How are we going to find Manuel’s mother?”

  Jeremy gives me a somber look. “I’m sorry, Pratt. She’s probably dead.”

  I don’t have an answer for that. Maybe I should go hunt Alex Rodgers in the Bahamas and forget trying to find Manuel’s mom.

  We’ve reached the interstate and it’s at a standstill, too. Jeremy continues east on Golden Gate toward Collier Boulevard. There’s a plume of smoke off to the southeast.

  “Is that a brush fire? Kind of early in the year, isn’t it?” South Florida gets lots of brush fires in late spring after months of little or no rain. But it’s only January.

  “It’s been pretty dry. Maybe it’s a controlled burn.” Jeremy flicks on his radio and asks about the fire.

  From what little I can hear, a shack caught fire way out in the woods and started a brush fire.

  “People are on foot, running from the fire.”

  “What would people be doing out there in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Probably living in the shack. Set the fire by accident,” Jeremy says. “I’ll drop you off somewhere and come back. I need to help.”

  “You’re not dropping me off.” The thought of driving into a fire scares me shitless, but if someone needs help... “Let’s go see.”

  Jeremy drives the cruiser like a racecar through Golden Gate Estates and beyond, from nicely paved roads to bad pavement to a dirt track. Nothing here but tall scraggly pines, palmetto, and scrub brush. I see no water. Someone on the radio is giving him directions.

  We roll up the windows to keep out the smoke. It’s no longer a black smudge on the horizon, but all around us. It gets darker and gloomier as the sun disappears behind billows of smoke. I can see red flames here and there through the trees. Jeremy slows, turns on his headlights, and runs his windshield wiper to clear away the soot. Fire suddenly shoots across the road in front of us and then it is gone, but on both sides of the road, the treetops are burning. He stops the car and shines a spotlight into the gloom.

  “Maybe we’d better turn back,” he says.

  “You’ll get no argument out of me.” I’m sweating and it’s not from the heat of the fire. The A/C is blasting in the cruiser.

  Something moves through the smoke ahead. It looks like three people close together, heading our way. Jeremy and I jump out of the car. Heat, terrible heat, and noises like I’ve never heard before. A roar surrounds us, louder than the sound of pounding surf, mixed with crackling, and every once in a while a bang or explosion. We move closer to the figures, picking our way carefully, trying to avoid any fire. A woman and a man, supporting another man between them. The woman waves at us.

  When we’ve almost reached them, I hear another crack and the man on the right falls to the ground, bringing the other two down with him like dominoes. Jeremy and I reach to help them to their feet. The man who fell has blood on his shoulder. Was he hit with something? Do trees shoot pieces when they explode? Something hits the road in front of me, spattering sand into my shins. Painful.

  “Gunshot?” I scream in Jeremy’s ear to be heard.

  He looks around and shakes his head. Does that mean no or I don’t know?

  A man with his pants burning comes crashing out of the brush carrying a rifle pointed at us. Before I can scream, Jeremy shoots him, then runs and grabs the rifl
e, rolls the man in the dirt until the fire is extinguished, and drags him toward us. He stops to feel the man’s pulse, shaking his head, no.

  The man is Dante McPhereson. I recognize him from his mug shot. Jeremy checks the man’s pockets, pulling out a smoldering wallet and some cartridges that he quickly drops. He stomps on the wallet in the dirt a few times, then picks it up and tucks it into his back pocket.

  With the help of the woman, we pull the two injured men to their feet and head for the car, leaving the dead gunman behind. Burning branches fall in the road between us and the cruiser, which is no longer green and white, but black and brown.

  We make it to the car and help the three into the back seat. They are dirty and covered with soot, hacking and coughing from the smoke. For that matter, Jeremy and I aren’t doing much better. Jeremy magically causes two bottles of water to appear, handing one to me and one to the passengers. My hand shakes as I put the bottle to my mouth.

  He wipes off the windshield with the sleeve of his uniform, climbs in, and does a three point turn to go the other way.

  “Are you going to leave that man there in the fire?” I ask. I know he’s dead, but it bothers me to leave him.

  “I have no choice, Pratt.”

  Jeremy drives cautiously, trying to miss burning branches in the road. Then he steps on it and barrels down the road ’til we’re away from the worst of it. He talks on the radio as he drives. I can’t hear all he’s saying, but he’s reporting the shooting and that we have three survivors.

  Suddenly, he stops the car and leaps out, dances a little jig in the road, and pulls a smoking wallet from his pocket. Then he sits unceremoniously in the dirt. I scoot out his door, push him over, and pour water over a scorched rectangle on his backside. We climb into the cruiser and start laughing.

  “Big hero burns booty in blaze. I can see the headline.” I stop laughing long enough to ask if he’s hurt.

  “I’m fine.” He flips the switch on the radio. “Where was I? Oh, the names of the fire victims.”

  He turns to the passengers. “Could you tell me your names?”