I was right behind. “I don’t think there’s anyone home to see us.”
“No choice, kid. We get seen for sure if we don’t.” Snoop dived to the right and dropped to the grass on the verge between hedge and patio. I dived to the left and did the same.
The patrol cart passed without slowing.
When we’d returned to the relative safety of the third fairway, we removed our caps and gloves.
Snoop said, “We know she sent the text from Mango Island. We know she didn’t leave Mango Island, unless she was in the trunk of a car. So where is she?”
“She could be in a condo or another house.”
“Like looking for a needle in a haystack, Chuck.”
“Let’s go back to the lodge.”
###
I logged into the Mango Island Lodge secured wireless network and checked my email. “We got one from Flamer, Snoop.”
Snoop glanced at his watch. “Doesn’t that guy ever sleep?”
“I’m not sure if Flamer is human. He says Mauricio Cuevadas has a Coast Guard license as a pilot and he works for XPVV Corporation.”
“What, he flies a plane for them?”
“No, Snoop, he’s licensed by the Coast Guard, not the FAA. His license is to pilot a boat. Like maybe a yacht based at Portside Marina—or Mango Island. Flamer will check the records there next.” I glanced at the computer screen again. “It may take a few hours to hack into their systems. That means we may not hear anything else until morning. For now, let’s get some sleep.”
Chapter 29
I started the engines, then called Flamer while they warmed up. “Whatcha got on Cuevadas, Flamer?” I was enjoying my second cup of coffee. We’d gotten three hours sleep the previous night.
“Mauricio Cuevadas pilots a yacht named the Double Scotch. It’s 164 feet long, thiry-three-foot beam, draws nine feet six inches, and cruises at eighteen knots. It docks at Portside Marina in slip E-1 and at Mango Island in slip 46. The Portside Marina issues electronic keycards to the crew and owners of yachts that dock there.”
“Are they like the keycards hotels use?”
“Yeah, but these operate the gate from the parking lot to the marina. They were used to access the gate Sunday morning at four o’clock.”
“So the guys who snatched Graciela took her to the Portside Marina and stashed her on a boat.”
“Yeah. Except this boat is really a ship. Mauricio Cuevadas has a permanent keycard at the marina. So does Vicente Vidali. So does a guy named Dante Orsinati. I looked him up. He’s the bald guy with the crooked nose whose picture you sent me. I sent you a photo from his license with the New Jersey Casino Control Commission. He’s head of security for the Double Down Casino in Atlantic City. Three other crew of the yacht have keycards. You want their names too?”
“Not right now. Email them so I’ll have them. The yacht is named Double Scotch and Vidali’s casinos are named the Double Down. That’s no coincidence. Who is the boat registered to?”
“The ship is registered to XPVV Corporation with the Atlantic County Tax Collector’s Office. It’s on the list of slip owners at Mango Island.”
“Any chance you would know where the Double Scotch is right now?”
“Whaddya think I am? The freakin’ NSA?”
“For all I know, Flamer, you can access the Department of Defense surveillance satellites. Just thought I’d ask.”
“I’m good, Chuck, but I’m not that good. Hold on a sec…Would it help if I told you where the boat isn’t?”
“Sure.”
“Well, it isn’t at Portside Marina right now.”
“You’re looking at their security video right now, aren’t you?”
“Yep. It’s a simple hack. And.. just a sec… it isn’t at Mango Island, either.”
###
I knocked on the doorjamb of the harbormaster’s office and walked in.
A grey-haired man in a worn gold captain’s hat, a turquoise denim shirt, khaki pants, and boat shoes looked up from his desk. “How can I help you?”
We shook hands. “I’m Hank Hickham. I’m a guest at the Lodge—or I was until I checked out fifteen minutes ago.”
“Are you the guy with the ribs?”
I turned on the charm. “No. I’m the rib guy’s nephew. Uncle Hank lets me use his place here.”
“I love your uncle’s ribs.”
I grinned, charming Chuck. “So do I. And, in answer to your next question, no, I don’t know the secret barbeque sauce recipe.”
We shared a laugh. I could almost feel the male bonding.
“I was supposed to meet Vic Vidali and my girlfriend here this morning. I went by slip 46 and Vic’s not there. We were going to raft up near Stiltsville for a party. Have you heard from him?”
“No, sir. The Double Scotch was here a couple of days ago, but it pulled into the slip for maybe ten minutes and then left again.”
“Was my girlfriend Gracie with Vic? Slender Latin brunette, five-seven, twenty-five years old? She’s a real looker.”
The harbormaster said, “Hang on.” He picked up a handheld radio. “Gary, Albert calling.”
The radio squawked. “Gary here, Albert.”
“Did the Double Scotch board a good-looking brunette, mid-twenties, with Mr. Vidali on Tuesday when you helped them dock?”
“Yeah, but she was on board when Double Scotch arrived. She didn’t get off. Just Mr. V boarded.”
“Thanks, Gary. Out.” Albert the harbormaster set down the radio. “You heard. That your girlfriend?”
“Yep. Was that about 4:30 when they were here?”
Albert glanced at his computer monitor. “Log shows them here from 4:17 to 4:25.”
“Thanks. I must’ve got my signals crossed. I guess I’m supposed to meet them at Stiltsville.” I headed back to my boat.
“Well?” asked Snoop, as I loosened the dock lines.
I tossed the lines to Snoop, jumped onboard, and took my place at the wheel. “Talk to you in a minute.” I waved at the dock attendant. “Fend for me?”
The crewman nodded and took position at the stern.
I eased the port engine into reverse and the starboard engine into forward. I always find it fascinating the way a twin-engine boat can turn in her own length. The dock attendant put one rubber-soled shoe against the rear deck and held it away from the dock while the Gator Raider Too turned 120 degrees.
I slipped the port engine into forward and waved at the dock attendant as the boat eased away. Ten minutes later, we cleared the breakwater. I could finally talk. “Gracie was never in Vidali’s house two days ago. She was on his yacht, the Double Scotch, when she sent the text. I’ll bet she’s been there since she was kidnapped. Maybe she stole the pilot’s cellphone to send the text. And Vidali wouldn’t let her off when the boat stopped here. Instead, he got on and the boat left.”
“That’s why there was no one at Vidali’s house last night. Vidali must have been on his boat.”
“Or at the Port City Palace in his suite. I doubt he stayed on the boat for long. Just long enough to get Gracie well away from the shore.”
“Beyond swimming distance?” Snoop asked.
“That’s what I would do if I were him.”
I called Flamer. “See if you can get me photos of Vidali’s boat. I want aerial shots and front, back, and side. Can do?”
“That’s a tough one, Chuck. That stuff is not a matter of public record anywhere.”
“Mega-yachts are sometimes featured on the builder’s Website. See if you can determine the builder from the registration. Or, if Vidali bought the boat from someone else, a yacht broker might have photos from when it was listed.”
Flamer hung up without a word. No goodbye. That’s Flamer, a master of the social graces.
I pushed the throttles ahead. “Gracie’s somewhere out there, Snoop.”
“How do we find her?”
“We follow the plan, Snoop.”
“What plan is that?”
Chapter 30
The intercom came to life. “Mr. McCra—McCrary, there are two… uh, two gentlemen here to see you.” Betty sounded nervous. “Wait! You can’t go back there.” The intercom went dead.
I’d been expecting something like this. I switched on the secondary security cameras. I reached in the top, right drawer for my Glock 17. I held the pistol in my lap and waited behind my desk.
A few seconds, later Dante Orsinati and another thug kicked open the door with a bang and stalked in. The other thug moved three steps to the side. Both men carried guns with sound suppressors. Orsinati’s looked like a Browning .380, a nice, small gun for a concealed carry. The other guy carried a Glock like mine. As long as they kept them pointed at the floor, I figured I was okay.
I waved at them with my left hand. “Is that how you exercise, Dante, kicking in unlocked doors? If you intend to shoot with those suppressors, you better close the door. Otherwise, everyone in the building will hear the shots. You know they don’t really silence the gun, right?”
Beneath the desk, I pointed the Glock at Orsinati’s groin. If either of them pointed a gun at me, I would aim low and shoot straight through the thin desk panel. I couldn’t aim any higher. If I shot through the plywood desktop, it would deflect the slug. I might not kill Orsinati, but I’d make him sing soprano.
“Have a seat, Dante. Take a load off. Make yourself comfortable. My door is always open. Mi casa es su casa. Oh, wait, you guys may not speak Spanish. My house is your house. Anything else I can do to make you and Teflon Vic’s other pet thug feel welcome?”
Orsinati pointed his gun at one of the primary security cameras and fired. The shot was loud, but not enough to damage my hearing. I’d gotten through Iraq and Afghanistan with my hearing intact; I didn’t want to lose it now.
I glanced at the ruined camera. The Browning’s barrel is less than four inches long. That was a hell of a shot. I use a Glock with a barrel about four-and-a-half inches long and I wasn’t sure I could make that shot. “That wasn’t very nice. My sainted grandmother gave me that camera as a confirmation present, Dante. Now I feel so much more intimidated, I might pee my pants.”
Orsinati scowled at me. “You and your buddy been asking around about Graciela Perez. She’s told me to tell you she’s on vacation for a few days. She don’t want to be bothered right now—by either you or the quarterback. She wants youse to leave her alone. She asked me to tell youse to back off.”
“You know, Dante, I could believe that if she told me in person. Tell me where she is, and I’ll drop by and have a chat. If she asks me to back off, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
Orsinati turned and shot out the other camera in the opposite corner. Good thing I had the secondary system recording the whole scene.
“Wow, and my sainted grandfather gave me that camera when I graduated from cosmetology school. Now I’m absolutely petrified. Whatever shall I do?”
Orsinati’s accomplice frowned and looked at him for guidance.
“Next time I won’t aim at your cameras, wiseass. Don’t let there be a next time.”
Orsinati gestured with his chin and the two men stalked from the room. They didn’t bother to close the door.
Chapter 31
I played the security footage for Jorge Castellano. He looked spiffy in new lieutenant’s bars. He rated a private office now.
“The leader is Dante Orsinati, muscle for Vicente Vidali. I’d like to know who the other guy is. What do you suggest?”
“Your receptionist called 911 when she heard the shots, but you told the cops who responded that you wouldn’t press charges. Why not?”
I shrugged. Jorge knew without me telling him that I would handle this personally. Extrajudicially, if you will.
“You want me to help you investigate this when I don’t have a case number.”
I shrugged again—eloquently, I thought. “I brought donuts.”
“You think you can buy me with a donut?”
“No. That’s why I brought a dozen.” I set the box on his desk
“At least that’s something.” Jorge grabbed a donut, bit off at least a third. “You get any fingerprints?”
“Nah. They kicked the door open like you saw. Didn’t touch anything with their hands.”
“Maybe that’s why Orsinati kicked the door open in the first place instead of using the doorknob—he didn’t want to leave any prints. I hate to admit it, but that’s pretty smart.”
“I never thought of that, Jorge. Maybe you ought to be a detective.” I made a mental note to remember that kick-in-the-door technique for future use.
“How can I find out who the other mook is?”
Jorge took another bite of donut. “I’ll print a screen shot of the guy’s face and email it to the Atlantic City and Wilmington organized crime guys. They’ll give me professional courtesy, but it could take a few days since this is low priority.” He stuffed the rest of the donut in his mouth and grabbed another one.
“A few days is too long, amigo. It’s Thursday afternoon. The Super Bowl is this Sunday. If the situation is what I think it is, I gotta handle this before then.”
Jorge shrugged. “Your call. I’ll send the screen shot right now. Should hear back maybe Monday. But if you were to press charges…” He let the sentence hang.
I shook my head. “Would you personally call the OC people in Jersey and Delaware?”
“Sure, couldn’t hurt. After all, I’m a lieutenant now.”
“I’m sure that will impress the hell out of the cops in Jersey.”
He started on the second donut. “Refill my coffee while I make a couple calls, smart ass.”
By the time I got back, two more donuts had disappeared from the box. Jorge was on the phone. He nodded to me and smiled as he talked to the other police department. “Man, you sure know your stuff. Thanks for the help. I owe you one.” He hung up and took the coffee cup. “I’m printing his rap sheet. Grab it from the printer.”
I did and brought it to Jorge.
“Keep it. Other guy’s name is Bradovic Pisarczik. His nickname is Pistolet Pisarczik.”
“Pistolet?”
“What can I say? It’s Polish for pistol. You sure wouldn’t want to call him pisser; he’d kill you for that. Pisarczik came to the land of the free and the home of the brave to improve himself. Somehow became an American citizen, so he couldn’t be deported. He’s had a few arrests for pistol-whipping people who annoyed Teflon Vic. No charges filed. The victims had a sudden case of amnesia.” He shrugged. “Go figure.”
“Thanks, Jorge. It’s nice to know who I’m up against.” I stood.
He held out the half-empty donut box for me.
I waved them away. “Keep ’em. They’re not good for my figure.”
“You know you don’t have to do this alone, Chuck. Press charges and we’ll rattle both these guys’ cages. With your security video, we can make the charges stick real easy.”
“Maybe next week. Right now, I’ve got too much on my plate. And I’m not alone; Snoop is in this.”
Jorge shook my hand. “I’m sure he’ll do his best to keep you out of trouble.”
“Probably won’t work, though.”
“Probably not.”
Chapter 32
“Mr. Greenbaum, I’m Chuck McCrary, a friend of Graciela and Bob Martinez. I am Skyping you from my office in Port City, Florida. This is my associate Raymond Snopolski.” I pointed to Snoop, standing behind me where he could see the monitor.
“What can I do for you, Mr. McCrary?” The computer monitor showed Greenbaum at a desk, an out-of-focus New York City skyline visible through the office window behind him.
“Call me Chuck. In addition to being Gracie’s friend, I am a private investigator.” I held my license where the camera could focus on it. Sometimes it impresses people. Or not. “Graciela is missing. Bob hired me to find her.”
“Missing, since wh
en?”
“Since three o’clock Sunday morning. The last time she was seen was on a hotel security video a few hours after she attended a Sports 24/7 Network Super Bowl party. Do you know where she is?”
“Wow...this is a shock. No, I have no idea where she is.” Greenbaum sipped from a blue coffee mug with World’s Greatest Agent printed in white on the side. Fat chance. “I suppose you’ve tried her parents?”
“Yes.”
“How about her best friend—the Asian girl—I don’t recall her name offhand. It’s in my file somewhere.” He looked to his left and reached for something off-camera.
“Miyoki Takashi. Yes, I’ve interviewed her.”
Greenbaum paused. “I don’t know what else to suggest, Mr. McCrary.”
“Call me Chuck. What about Sharky? Would he know where Graciela is?”
His eyes shifted left and right before he looked back at the camera. “Who?”
“Sharky,” I repeated. “Your drug connection.”
Greenbaum shook a finger at the camera. “Now listen here, McCrary, I don’t know any Sharky, and I don’t do drugs.”
“Cut the bullshit, Jerry. I’ll refresh your memory with this text you sent to Graciela’s secret cellphone, the one Bob didn’t know about. Sharky wants his money. He is becoming insistent. You cannot ignore this any longer. He has threatened me too.” I held the phone up to the camera, showing Greenbaum the tiny flip-phone screen.
I waited for him to react. There was a long pause.
“Jerry, I’m not a cop. I don’t care what you buy from Sharky, and I don’t care how much money you owe him or why. All I care about is finding your client Graciela. You can help me out here. It’s in your own best interest.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you know Sharky’s real name is Sam Torrance?”
“No.”
“You may not have known he has a police rap sheet. Arrested six times on suspicion of drug dealing, assault with a deadly weapon, and maiming.”
Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3) Page 10