He hoped the maid knew something; he'd already dropped $20 on the supervisor. He worried about whether Wallace would reimburse him, especially if he didn't get the reward. He frowned as he realized that if he didn't get the reward, Wallace probably wouldn't be very happy with him.
The supervisor came back with a pretty, plump girl in a maid's uniform in tow. "You go outside to the lunch table, you two. Too hot and noisy to talk here," she said.
Willie was seriously vexed with the woman. She took his $20 and left him here in the heat. She could have told him to wait at the lunch table. "Bitch," he muttered under his breath as he got up to follow the maid outside.
"You say something, boy?" the supervisor asked, glaring at Willie.
He noticed the thin scar of a razor cut that left a faint, pink trace across the chocolate brown flesh of the big woman's right cheek. "No ma'am," he said.
She blocked his way, squaring her shoulders. She probably had 50 pounds on Willie and she didn't look fat. "Thought you said, 'bitch,' boy."
Willie backed up half a step, noticing the single-edged razor blade squeezed between the middle and index fingers of her right hand. Its cutting edge protruded, ready to give him a scar just like hers if she decided to backhand him. He knew a man couldn't win a fight with a woman, especially one that outweighed him by 50 pounds and had a razor in her hand. "Itch. I got an itch. Probably the soap in here or somethin'. I got some 'lergic reaction. Makes me itch in here."
"Harrumph!" the big woman snorted and stepped aside. "Don't be messin' with my girl. She's got work to do. Ask her your questions and get your skinny ass outa my sight." She turned and walked away.
Willie followed the maid out onto a patio where a picnic table sat in the shade of several palm trees. The spot seemed blessedly cool after the heat from the laundry equipment. Although he was irritated with her because she had laughed when the supervisor confronted him, he forced a smile and showed the maid a picture of Joseph. "You ever see this man?" he asked.
She reached out a callused hand, taking the picture from him. After a moment's study, she shook her head and handed it back.
"You found that briefcase, right?"
She nodded, her expression blank, giving nothing away.
"Was it empty?"
She nodded again, holding his eyes with a steady gaze.
"Can you talk?" he asked, growing frustrated.
"Mm-hmm. If I got somethin' to say, an' a reason to say somethin'," she murmured.
He wanted to slap her. "You know somethin', don't you? Somethin' about the Velasquez woman? Or Joseph Nelson?"
She stared at him, unblinking. He reached into his pocket and brought out some folded bills. Peeling off a five, he held it tightly, waving it under her nose.
"Not enough reasons," she said, with a sardonic smile.
"I could make you talk, you know," he said softly, in his most menacing tone.
"You could try, but me an' Miss Charity, I think we could whup a little chickenshit like you pretty quick. You be better off comin' up with some more reasons."
Willie sighed and peeled a $20 bill from the folded bills in his left hand. She extended her right hand, palm up. He put the 20 in it. She didn't move. He looked up and caught her eye. She shook her head. He laid the five on top of the 20 and she closed her fingers and smiled.
"Start talkin'," he said.
"She lef' the hotel and went on a yacht."
"What yacht?"
She shrugged. "A big one. White sailing yacht with two masts. American flag."
"Where was it?"
"Yacht Haven," she said.
"How do you know this?"
"Saw it. My mama got a fruit stand on Potter's Cay. I was workin' there that day she lef', after I got off from here. The Velasquez lady an' a little white gal with short, curly blond hair, they was shoppin', and I watch them walk back out on the dock over at Yacht Haven an' get on the yacht."
"What else?"
"Nothin' else, an' you better get yo' scrawny little ass outa here before Miss Charity come back. Me, I got rooms to clean."
She tucked the money into her bosom and slipped back inside, leaving Willie standing there with his jaws clenched.
****
As Vengeance sliced cleanly through the gently rolling waves, Connie found the familiar sounds of the boat reassuring. At first, every creak, pop, and rattle had been unnerving to her, but after two and a half days, she had learned the language of the vessel. Dani and Liz had helped her to isolate and interpret the myriad of little noises that came from the various parts of the boat as Vengeance moved. Connie understood now why sailors thought of ships as living things.
Although Vengeance looked massive, her slender, 60-foot-long hull flexed slightly as she rolled along, and that caused movement in the cabinetwork and joinery throughout. The ever-changing pressure of the wind in her sails caused the mast and the numerous elements of her rigging to move relative to each other and each piece had a characteristic sound. The half-inch, stranded stainless steel cables that held the mast aloft each had an individual tone. When they vibrated in the wind, the pitch of each one varied as the shifting of the wind altered the tension on the cables, or stays and shrouds, as Connie was learning to call them.
She was excited to be standing a watch by herself; she had felt that Dani was a little reluctant to trust her alone on deck during the evening. Now that she had been by herself with Vengeance and no distractions for a couple of hours, she understood how Dani and Liz could sense without apparent thought what needed to be done to keep the boat sailing smoothly. She had a new level of respect for Dani's articulate, detailed answers to her questions, too. Recognizing the depths of skill and experience that allowed the wiry little woman to manage this large, powerful vessel with such intuitive ease, Connie was determined to learn everything Dani could teach her.
Watching the ghostly silhouette of the moonlit sails against the star-studded sky, she was more at peace than she could ever remember being. She thought back over her anxiety as she had been organizing the details of her departure from the Bahamas, and considered the irony of her situation. When she had first decided to move to the Bahamas a few years ago, she had been in the process of extorting what at the time had seemed to be a fortune from her former business partner.
Before she had crossed any legal boundaries, she had come into a substantial amount of money as a settlement for an accident in which she had been the victim. At that same time, her extortion plot had unraveled. Instead of leaving the U.S. as a criminal, she had helped the police bring down the money-laundering scheme that had been at the root of her blackmail efforts. Now she was indeed on the run, but she was leaving the Bahamas as a truly wealthy woman, again through pure chance. This time, though, she had crossed the bounds of propriety, if not the law.
Ever practical, she didn't feel any pangs of conscience at taking the diamonds. Joseph Nelson had clearly been involved in something shady. He had lost the diamonds, and now they were hers. To her, it was straightforward. How he came to have the diamonds was irrelevant to her. There had been enough information in the notebook that she had found in a plastic bag in the briefcase to indicate that he had been selling the diamonds himself, to legitimate jewelers, from what she could tell.
That was what had given her the idea of keeping them for herself rather than passing them on, as she had originally expected to do. Joseph had obviously been a cheat, taking advantage of his partners in crime. She had recorded names and places from the notebook before destroying it; she didn't want to inadvertently try to sell the diamonds to one of his contacts. As she had studied his customer list, she had realized that her options for selling the stones in the Bahamas were limited, especially if she wanted to sell the entire lot, which had been her first thought.
Then she had recognized that she shouldn't sell the entire lot; a transaction that big was sure to attract attention and dealing with a sum of money that large was complex and unnecessary. She had resolved to do
nothing with the diamonds for a few years. When her funds ran low, she could sell one or two in some out-of-the-way place and move on. As she had studied the whole business of diamonds, she had come to see the advantages of keeping her newfound wealth in its current form. Diamonds were virtually untraceable, and they were easily concealed and transported. The pouch had almost escaped her notice in the clutter inside the briefcase…
She felt a sudden chill, and her pulse began to race at the thought of the briefcase. She had shoved it under the bed when the maid had knocked on her door a few days ago. By then, she had already concealed the diamonds in the lining of her purse. She had shredded the notebook and tossed the remains in the harbor earlier that morning; the briefcase had been lying on the foot of her unmade bed as she had re-stitched the lining in her purse. Disposing of it had been her next step, but she had been distracted, first by the maid coming to make up the room and then, while the maid was working, by the phone call from Liz. She had been so excited at the prospect of boarding Vengeance and leaving a day early that she had forgotten about the briefcase.
After a few deep breaths, she regained her composure, thankful for the instincts that had led her to change hotels and identities after she had discovered what was in the briefcase. Even if someone found it, the trail would stop with Maria Velasquez. That was the only time Connie had ever used that identity; the passport and two forged credit cards that she had acquired in Miami several years ago were in her stateroom below. Since she had paid cash for the room at the resort, the desk clerk had merely glanced at the passport. Connie remembered being surprised that the clerk failed to record the number or copy the first page. If they found the briefcase, the most they would get was a name, and a false one at that. She resolved to dispose of the passport and credit cards while they were at sea.
Chapter 9
"The immigration database doesn't show any American named Maria Velasquez coming into the Bahamas in the last three years," Wallace said.
"Why three years?" Sam asked.
"That's as far back as my contact could search without some kind of higher level authorization," Wallace responded. "If she came in on a yacht or a private plane, she might not have gotten into the system at all."
"Or maybe she was using an alias," Sam offered. "Willie get a name for that yacht yet?"
"He'll call me. He had to wait for the office to open at Yacht Haven. The night people could only get info on the boats that are there right now. Somebody in accounting has to look it up for boats that have left already."
Sam had a sour look on his face. "Toby struck out in Miami; that was a bogus address, and there're pages of Velasquez listings in the phone book."
****
Willie sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee as he waited for the marina office to open, glancing nervously at his watch every few minutes and rattling the door. Whoever was supposed to open it must have overslept. He noticed activity on the fuel dock as a yacht came alongside. Two men emerged from the small hut on the dock and caught the boat's docklines. Willie tried the door one last time and walked out onto the dock.
One of the two men spoke to the people on the yacht for a moment and turned to pick up the nozzle of the hose that led to the diesel pump. The other man, who was dressed much more neatly, went into the hut as Willie approached the door.
He paused as he caught sight of Willie, gazing at him expectantly.
"Good morning," Willie offered.
"Morning," the man said. "Help you with something?"
"I'm looking for the dockmaster," Willie explained.
"What can I do for you?" the man asked, stepping behind the counter in the small hut and switching on the pump. He waved to the man holding the fuel nozzle and Willie heard the meter begin to click off the gallons and tenths.
"There was a big, white, American-flagged sailboat here last week with two women on it," Willie said.
The man frowned for a moment and shrugged. "So?"
"A real pretty Latina, and a little blonde with short, curly hair," Willie paused watching for a sign of recognition.
The man's expression never changed as he gazed steadily at Willie.
"It's worth something to me to know the name of that boat, and the owner," Willie said.
The man continued to look at Willie. Willie took the sheaf of folded bills from his pocket, but the man's eyes never left Willie's. Willie put a $20 bill on the counter, but the man just stared at him. When Willie put the second $20 bill on the counter, the man nodded. "Why would you care?" he asked Willie.
"The Latina left something in her hotel room. We're trying to return it to her," Willie improvised.
The man behind the counter shook his head. "You don't work for a hotel," he said, still staring at Willie. "I know you work for Wallace Rolle. You may be cheap, but Mr. Rolle's not. Maybe I'll call him and see what he thinks it's worth."
Willie suddenly felt the pressure build in his bladder. He silently cursed his caffeine habit, pretending to himself that the coffee was the reason for his discomfort. "How much?" he asked.
The man held up a closed fist, the back toward Willie. Slowly, one digit at a time, he extended his fingers and thumb. Willie put three more $20 bills on the counter. The man nodded and put his hand over the stack of bills. "Vengeance. Wilmington, Delaware," he said softly.
"Who's the owner?"
"No idea. And before you ask, I don't know where they went, either."
Willie felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he ground his teeth. He turned toward the door.
"Three," the man said, stopping Willie in mid-turn.
"Three what?"
"Women. Two blond women look like sisters. They run the boat. The Latina chartered the boat, took so much stuff aboard, it looked like she was movin' house. They left three days ago. Now get out of here before somebody sees you. Take a beer out of that cooler, so they think you came to get a drink."
"But who's going to…" Willie was puzzled.
"Now! Leave!" the man interrupted him.
Willie grabbed a beer from the refrigerated display by the door and left, wondering who might be watching that would worry the man behind the counter. He stopped at the men's room and relieved himself on the way out of the marina. Once back to the main road, he sat down on a bench at an empty bus stop and cracked the beer open.
****
Wallace stood looking over Sam's shoulder as Sam accessed the U.S. Coastguard's vessel documentation database. "It's a matter of public record," Sam explained. "Shows the particulars on all U.S.-flagged vessels. Critical dimensions, owner, homeport, where it was built and when."
Wallace grunted in acknowledgement.
"Shit," Sam said. "I was afraid of that. Vengeance is owned by a Delaware corporation. That's the end of that trail."
"Isn't there a way to look the corporation up?" Wallace asked.
"Yeah. In theory, but Delaware's one of those places that doesn't require much information. That's why it's home to so many corporations. I've got a couple there myself."
"Think that means that whoever owns Vengeance has something to hide?" Wallace asked.
"Could be, but not necessarily. People register boats that way for all kinds of reasons. I wouldn't draw any conclusions from that."
"Damn! How the hell do we figure out where they went?" Wallace asked.
"Hang on," Sam said, distracted. He clicked a few keys on his laptop. "Here we go. They've got a web page; most of the people in the charter business do." He mumbled as he read quickly through the advertising copy.
"Beautiful," Wallace said, admiring the photographs of Vengeance.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Vengeance is a replica of L. Francis Herreshoff's Bounty design. From the shots of the interior and the deck, this one's a gold-plater. Doesn't say what their rates are, but I'd bet on upwards of $10,000 per week."
"Based in the eastern Caribbean," Wallace read. "But available for charter anywhere on sufficient notice." They continued to study the screen.
/> "That phone number has a Puerto Rican area code," Wallace observed a moment later.
"Yeah. Probably a sat phone; I wouldn't read too much into that. Let's see what we can learn from the horse's mouth." Sam picked up his phone and dialed the code to block his caller i.d. He dialed the number listed on Vengeance's web page, listening to the ringing tone. The call went to voice mail and he put the recording up on his speakerphone.
"Thanks for calling Vengeance. We're at sea right now, and we can't take your call. If you'd like to enquire about a charter, please call our agent in Miami at 305-594-1107. Thanks again for calling."
"Can we get a location for that sat phone?" Wallace asked.
"Not when it's turned off; the call just goes to a computer somewhere. If they had answered, then maybe. That's what I was hoping, but no luck. I'll put Toby to work; he can talk to the agent. Maybe even visit them. Convenient that they're in Miami, too."
Chapter 10
Joseph looked at the hazy outline of Grand Bahama Island with longing and frustration. He was grateful to the two fishermen whose boat he had shared for the last few days. He owed them his life, but he was annoyed that they had insisted on continuing with their normal, lackadaisical work rather than taking him ashore immediately after they had rescued him.
He was momentarily distracted when one of the men surfaced beside the boat, peering at Joseph through a dive-mask as he tossed another big lobster over the gunwale. The man hung onto the side of the boat, panting for a moment, and then dropped back into crystalline, turquoise-tinted water. He paddled away, his scrutiny of the bottom intense as he resumed his hunt for conch and lobster. Resignedly, Joseph grabbed the big crustacean with his right hand and opened the ice chest with his left, plunging the creature into the frigid slush.
They were running low on ice, and their luck had been good. Maybe this afternoon they would decide it was time to head for shore and sell their catch. Then Joseph could try to get in touch with Wallace. He wasn't looking forward to that. He knew Wallace wouldn't be happy at the loss of the package.
Bluewater Ice: The Fourth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 4) Page 5