Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Long story,” I replied. “But he’s more than capable.”

  “I could tell that, just looking in his eyes. Even smiling, he looks terribly dangerous, which fits the part.”

  “He was an Army Ranger, tough as they come,” I said. “Few men I’d trust more, if things got difficult.”

  “If you’re not against the idea and I can get the okay from the sheriff, I’d say bring him.”

  “You won’t need to contact Sheriff Roth,” I said. “Unless you want to confirm it. Stockwell’s the ultimate planner. He wouldn’t even be here offering to help, if he hadn’t already talked to the sheriff. Probably with either the president or Secretary Chertoff on the line, as well.”

  “He’s got that kind of clout?”

  “That picture you were looking at?” I said, nodding toward my bookshelf. “Stockwell arranged the charter and took the picture.”

  “Unless you’re opposed, let’s take him.”

  “Our personal differences aside, I think it makes good sense.”

  We went out to the deck and descended the steps to the pier. “Put your bag in the Cigarette,” I told Stockwell.

  “We’re not taking the big boat?” Devon asked.

  “Not flashy enough,” I replied, as Travis lifted a go-bag out of Rusty’s skiff. “A Hollywood star wouldn’t be riding around in a fishing boat.”

  “Speaking of which,” Chyrel said, as she joined us on the pier. She handed a file folder to Devon. “Your alias. You can study it on the way down. Instead of building a fake one, you’re just going to impersonate someone.”

  “Who?” I asked, as Devon opened the folder. She took a picture and handed it to me.

  “I’m Dona Vegas.”

  I looked at the picture. The woman in it bore a striking similarity to Devon. Same hair color and style, same height, and close to the same build. Her facial features were close enough that it would work, but the woman’s eyes in the picture were slightly darker brown.

  “Who is she?” I asked Chyrel, handing the photo back to Devon.

  “She’s a Brazilian national,” Chyrel replied. “German father and Brazilian mother, born in seventy-five. She’s split her time living in California and Germany for most of the last decade, though. She speaks fluent Portuguese and German, and her English has very little accent. But she can turn that up a notch on film. Some people like that.”

  “I don’t even want to know how you know this, Chyrel,” I said. “So she’s a real-life porn-star?”

  “Yeah, pretty big name in the late nineties, with over a dozen films to her credit.”

  “What if these guys know she’s Brazilian?” Devon asked.

  “Leave that to us,” Travis said, coming out of the dock area. “We’ll come up with a diversion or change the subject. Jesse’s good at improvising. All you have to do is look beautiful and be aloof.”

  “Yikes!” Devon said. “I didn’t even think about clothes. What’s a stripper wear when they actually wear stuff?”

  “Got you covered,” Julie said, lifting a small overnight bag from the boat. “Try some of these out while you’re on the way down there. Everything should fit, just whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “You guys think of everything,” Devon said, taking the case.

  “I spoke with Lieutenant Morgan half an hour ago, when we were headed up here,” Deuce said. “He’ll have two other undercover detectives inside the bar and said you’d know who they were. He also said he tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail. Oh, and Tony and Andrew will go with you and stay in the boat, as backup.”

  “How far away will they be?” Devon asked.

  “Less than a hundred feet,” I replied. “The rear parking lot of Rafferty’s Pub is on a canal, and we’ll be docking there.”

  “You’d better get a move on,” Chyrel said. “I called the club last night to arrange an interview, pretending to be your personal assistant. The owner wasn’t there but the bartender, a guy named Kenny Whitt, said he’s almost always there by noon. He went ahead and made the appointment and promised to call the boss and make sure he’s there. Apparently, he’s at least heard the name Dona Vegas.”

  Just then, Devon’s phone rang. She fished it out of her purse, looked at the caller ID, which I could see only showed a local phone number. She pushed the accept button and put the phone to her ear. “Detective Evans.”

  She listened for a moment, then said, “Mister Montrose, slow down. Who are you again?” She paused, listening. “Oh, yeah. What’s this about?” She listened for a few seconds, thanked whoever it was, and ended the call.

  “Surprised you got a signal down here,” I said. “Usually the only place we can get one is up there on the deck.”

  “That was Kevin Montrose,” Devon said. “The gentleman who found the third body. He says he knows who the killer is and just saw him in Marathon.”

  “How’s he know that?”

  “Dunno,” she replied. “Seemed like a harmless old fisherman, when I met him. I’ll call the sub-station in Marathon and have them send someone to take his statement.”

  “He is harmless,” Julie said. “I’ve known him all my life. He used to carry the mail, but he retired a long time ago. Now he just fishes and gossips.”

  “We’d better get this show on the water,” I said, leading the way to the docks under the house.

  Finn started to follow us, but I stopped him. “You can’t go on this fishing trip,” I told him. “Stay here and watch the kids.”

  Finn took off up the steps like a jet fighter.

  Duke was up early, way earlier than was customary for a bar bouncer. Harley had called him before sunrise and told him where to go. Slowing as he came off the Seven Mile Bridge, Duke started looking for the Walmart. A mile into Marathon, he found it and turned onto Sombrero Beach Road. A couple blocks later, he almost missed the turn onto Sombrero Boulevard.

  “This ain’t gonna be easy,” Duke mumbled, steering the Jeep around the bend in the road next to Sombrero Resort. Ahead, he could see a lot of boats docked along the waterfront and more anchored in the little harbor.

  He parked in a small crushed-shell parking area on the left and climbed out, squinting in the late morning sun. Across the road was a place called Dockside. It sat on stilts, mostly out over the water. Duke walked across the road toward it.

  The place was really small on the inside—mostly just the bar in the middle—and open to a large deck out back. Duke looked around, seeing only one old guy sitting at the bar drinking coffee. Out on the deck, there were four people, a tourist couple sitting together and two obvious boat bums, sitting at separate tables.

  “Get you something?” the dark-haired bartender asked. Her nametag said Robin.

  “I’m looking for a boat,” Duke replied.

  “We sell food, booze, and coffee,” Robin said. “Not boats.”

  Duke looked at her, confused. “I don’t want to buy one. I’m looking for a boat called Gaspar’s Revenge. Supposed to be a charter boat here.”

  The bartender eyed him cautiously. “You don’t look much like a fisherman.”

  “I’m not,” Duke said, thinking as fast as he could. “The guy owes my brother some money and I just want to find him.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who owns the boat,” Duke said, getting flustered.

  Robin just stared at him for a moment. “The guy owes your brother money, but you don’t know his name?”

  This wasn’t going the way Duke had thought it would. A big flashy boat like that should be easy to find, but looking at the hundreds of boats in the harbor, some flashier than others, he realized he had a serious problem, especially not even knowing the guy’s name.

  “Well, ya see, this guy—”

  “I can’t really help you mister,” Robin said. “There’s lots of boats around here, but I’ve never heard of a charter boat with that name. You want a coffee, or a beer, or something?”

  Duke looked at her
a moment. “Naw,” he replied. “Is it okay to walk down the pier?”

  “Dock,” Robin corrected him. “Piers stick out into the water. Knock yourself out.”

  Duke walked around the bar and out onto the deck beyond it. He turned left and went through a side exit next to a small stage. The dock stretched out a long way. He started walking, reading the names of the boats he passed.

  Duke paused next to a houseboat, where a long-haired guy sat on the roof smoking a joint.

  “Que pasa, hermano,” the man called down.

  Duke didn’t speak Spanish. “You know English?” he asked the man.

  “Sure do, Gigantor,” the man said, in a decidedly California surfer accent, exhaling a huge cloud of blue-gray smoke.

  “I’m looking for a guy who owns a charter boat called Gaspar’s Revenge. You know it?”

  The man leaned forward in his rooftop chair, lifted his sunglasses slightly, and peered down at Duke. “Nah, man,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair and puffing on the joint. “Never heard of it. There’s a Kate’s Revenge about six slips down, man. That it?”

  “Thanks,” Duke said and continued along the dock, reading the boat names. When he glanced back a moment later, the long-haired guy was gone. Kate’s Revenge was a sailboat like Duke’s, only a lot bigger. He ran into a few other people, some walking the docks, others working on or relaxing in the many boats he passed.

  None were named Gaspar’s Revenge, and nobody he spoke to had ever heard of it. It was already close to noon and Duke was getting hungry. He took his phone out and called Harley, who didn’t answer.

  Duke walked the length of the dock again. Seeing that there was another long line of boat slips on the other side of Dockside, he quickened his pace. If Harley called back, he wanted to be able to tell him that he’d looked at all of them.

  Another forty or fifty boats later, having spoken to a lot more people on and around the docks, Duke had struck out. None of the people he talked to knew about the boat, and none he saw looked like it or had the name. A few people had even offered their boat for a charter.

  Duke’s phone rang; recognizing his brother’s number, he answered it.

  “Find the boat?” Harley asked.

  “There’s an awful lot of boats here, Harley.”

  “I take that as a no.”

  “Nobody here has even heard of it,” Duke said. “You sure you got the name right?”

  “You gave me the name,” Harley said, and Duke could picture him rolling his eyes.

  “Oh yeah,” Duke said. “Maybe the taxi guy gave you the wrong place, then. Cause there ain’t no boat anywhere around here called Gaspar’s Revenge, and nobody here has ever heard of it.”

  “All right,” Harley said. “Get on back down here. Kenny set up an interview for some new talent and I’m meeting her at noon.”

  Duke looked at his watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. “I’m leaving now. But I won’t get there by then.”

  “Just come straight to the club,” Harley said. “I got something for you to do.”

  “Not the warehouse?” Duke asked.

  “She’s not going anywhere.”

  The powerful racing engines rumbled at an idle as I steered the sleek racing boat into Harbor Channel and turned northeast. Travis was in the port seat of the dual console boat, looking over the second set of gauges displayed on the dash in front of him. I had the same gauges at the helm, but in a go-fast boat, traveling at nearly half a football field every second, the helmsman’s eyes were better off being on the water ahead.

  Devon stood between us, looking over the windshield at the long, narrow foredeck. “How fast will this thing go?”

  “Faster than you can drive a car across the Seven Mile Bridge,” Tony replied, standing behind me.

  “Y’all might want to strap in,” I said. “Devon, one of the middle seats back there will be the most comfortable.”

  Once they were seated and had their restraints buckled, I slowly brought the boat up on plane and increased speed to forty knots. Exiting Harbor Channel into the wide-open Gulf, I bumped the speed up to fifty and swung the bow toward the west.

  “Both engines operating normally,” Travis called out. “Water temp is still a little lower than what you said was normal.”

  “These engines are a little cold-natured,” I said. “They never reach normal operating temperature without a lot of speed.”

  Turning my head, I looked back at Devon. She’d pulled her hair back and put a couple of bands in it to keep it from tangling. “You okay back there,” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she shouted back. “Took a pill half an hour ago and feel fine. I thought you said this boat was fast.”

  “Hang on!” I shouted, advancing the throttles slowly. Most boats, you could just jam the throttles to the stops, but the engines in this Cigarette were so powerful, doing that would cause the props to cavitate and the engines would overrev.

  At seventy-five, I looked back again. Devon at least looked more relaxed than that first time out in the Revenge. She was even smiling. Tony and Andrew had their arms resting on the gunwales. Andrew was just looking out over the water and Tony was listening to an iPod with his earbuds, his head nodding up and down.

  I pushed the throttles further forward until we were traveling at ninety knots, close to the boat’s top speed. The seas were finally almost flat again. Hurricane Ike was now nearly a thousand miles across the Gulf and nearing the coast of Texas. The go-fast boat was barely in the water, just skimming the surface with the aft fifteen feet or so in contact with the surface.

  “Everything’s normal,” Travis shouted over the engines, then glanced back at Devon. “She seems pretty content.”

  I chanced a quick glance over my shoulder. Devon had her head back against the seat rest, eyes closed and legs outstretched. She seemed to be enjoying the ride.

  Less than half an hour later, we were idling toward a long canal, dredged nearly a century ago into the ancient coral rock of Stock Island. Devon had gone down into the bare cabin to change as soon as I’d slowed and turned south. The cabin had been quite luxurious when we’d gotten the boat, but I’d gutted it anyway, leaving only the bare bulkheads and the two bare benches that had once been the settee. The head was still there, but no longer enclosed. Entertaining guests wasn’t what we used this boat for.

  I switched on the earwig in my right ear, hidden under my hair, and said, “Comm check.”

  Though they’re hardly noticeable, Travis went the opposite route because his crew cut didn’t afford any coverage. He wore what looked like a regular Bluetooth device, like people use when they don’t want to hold a phone to their ear. Goofy-looking on some people, but on Travis it merely looked more professional.

  “Crystal clear,” Travis said, his voice coming over the tiny speaker in my ear. Tony and Andrew both confirmed, also.

  “Got all of you loud and clear,” Chyrel said, from her little office on my island. “Detectives Morgan and Evans, are y’all on?”

  “Roger,” I heard Morgan say. “I’m parked across US-1 and another unit is parked in a driveway north of the club.”

  Devon didn’t respond, so I tapped on the cabin’s hatch. “Turn on the earwig I gave you.”

  A moment later, Devon’s voice came over the comm. “Okay, got it. I’m on now.”

  When she came out of the cabin, Devon looked completely different. She’d somehow managed to put makeup and lip gloss on while the boat moved through the light chop. For someone prone to seasickness, just being inside the enclosed cabin should have made her a little green around the gills, even after taking a Dramamine.

  Her feet and legs were bare, all the way up to a very brief pair of high-waisted dark blue shorts. Above that, she wore a long-sleeved blue flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the bottom tied in a knot above her waist. It showed off plenty of tanned, flat belly below it, and ample cleavage above. The middle of her black bra could be seen just above the knot, a row of rou
nd black buttons accentuating the lower part of the bra. The button at the center was the camera.

  She’d used makeup to make her eyelids look smoky and sultry, drawing the corners further to the sides of her face, and teased her hair slightly, to make it bigger and bouncier.

  “Whoa,” I said, leaning against the gunwale for a better look.

  “The real Dona Vegas has darker eyes,” Devon said.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to be looking at your eyes,” I quipped, looking her up and down.

  “We’d better get outta sight,” Andrew said, moving past Devon toward the cabin hatch. Tony followed him and closed the hatch once they were inside. They’d remain there unless we needed them.

  “Somebody’s standing on the dock ahead,” Travis said. “Showtime, Detective.”

  Devon sat down on one of the middle seats, tossing her hair back over the engine cover and stretching those long, tan legs out before her.

  A man was waiting on the only dock on the port side of the canal. Chyrel had told me just before we left the island that she’d let the guy at the bar know that we’d be arriving by boat.

  “Miss Vegas?” the man asked, as I eased the boat up to the dock. His eyes were locked on Devon, oblivious to me and Travis.

  “Please step back,” Travis said, standing in the cockpit behind his seat, dock lines in hand.

  “I’m the guy your assistant spoke—” the man started to say.

  “I don’t care who you are,” Travis hissed, reaching a hand under the back of his shirt. “Step back away from Miss Vegas’s boat, now!”

  The man looked at Travis and must have seen something in his eyes, because he immediately backed up as far from the edge of the dock as he could. “Sorry, sir. Can I help you tie off?”

  Travis could be very intimidating, but he was the consummate professional. He handed the man one of the dock lines. “Tie off the bow, please.”

  Once the boat was secured, I shut down the burbling engines. Stepping back into the cockpit, I lowered a small step mounted to the inside of the gunwale and held a hand out for Devon. She took it and lightly stepped up onto the dock. She quickly slipped a pair of high heeled sandals on her feet and turned to the man waiting there.