Assassins and Liars
Page 1
Assassins and Liars
The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series
C.L.R. Dougherty
Copyright © 2018 by C.L.R. Dougherty
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
rev Aug 2019
Contents
Assassins and Liars
Puerto Rico and the Lesser Antilles
St. Vincent to Carriacou
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Mailing List
A Note to the Reader
About the Author
Also by C.L.R. Dougherty
Assassins and Liars
The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series
Book 1
Death and Deception in the Caribbean
1
Her feet were the first things I noticed about her. That may seem strange, but it wasn't as strange as the things that happened later. Still, her feet caught my attention and that led to the rest.
About those feet. They were at eye level. That's why they were the first things I noticed. I was tying the dinghy to a cleat on the dock at the marina, and the feet stepped into my field of view. Tanned, slender, and clean. They looked cared for, but like they worked for a living. No nail polish or toe rings, just nice feet.
Oh, and the soles. She wasn't wearing shoes. Not even flip-flops. The soles of her feet were like mine. Callused, cracked, and salt-cured. Tough as leather. She went barefoot, maybe all the time. Like I said, working feet.
I finished my figure-of-eight knot and let my eyes wander up her legs. Dancer's legs, well-muscled, with smooth skin the color of café au lait.
The tattoo of the cobra slithering around the inside of her left thigh was lifelike, startling. It wrapped around her leg, the perspective exaggerated. With its tail hidden behind her thigh, the snake's life-sized head was heart-stopping.
It leapt from her tanned flesh; I felt myself flinch from its strike. Recovering from my shock, I overcame the urge to let my eyes linger and looked up, curious to see her face.
She had even features, no makeup. She didn't need any. Her eyes locked on mine. Gray eyes, almost colorless. They would have been cold and forbidding, except for the creases at the corners. She must smile a lot. Her face gave away nothing. She wasn't smiling now.
"Single-hander?" she asked.
"For now," I said.
"By choice? Or by chance?"
"Does it matter?" I asked.
"It might," she said. "I'd respect your privacy if it's by choice."
"And if it's by chance?" I asked.
"Then I'd offer to buy you a rum punch."
"Reckon it's my lucky day." I climbed up onto the dock.
"Mary," she said, extending her right hand.
I took it, surprised at her grip. She wasn't a slight woman, but she wasn't big enough to have a grip like that, either.
"Finn," I said, matching her grip, careful not to overdo it. I liked the way her hand felt. Solid, with enough calluses to tell me where she got the grip. Like her feet, her hands worked for their keep.
"Irish."
The way she said it made me wonder what it meant to her.
"American," I said.
"Me, too," she said, with a hint of a smile. "I meant your last name."
I nodded. She had a nice smile. "About that rum punch ... "
"Come on, then, Finn." She turned and started walking up the dock.
I skipped a step and fell in beside her, matching her pace as she headed for the tiki bar at the head of the dock. She was about my height, tall for a woman, average for a man. Our strides matched; walking with her was comfortable.
"Finn is your last name, isn't it?"
"People just call me Finn."
She nodded and kept walking.
The bar was an open-air place. When I dragged a stool up for her, it woke the bartender. It was a weekday. The people who owned all the fancy sportfishing boats were in their air-conditioned offices trying to make money to pay for their boats. The real fishermen were out on the water, slaving away in the tropical sun. Things were slow in Puerto Real at best, but during the week, not much moved.
The bartender got up from his chair in the corner and shook his head, blinking, reminding me of an iguana.
"Buenas tardes, Finn."
"Gracias, Julio. Y tu, también," I said.
"Para la senorita?"
"Rum punch," she said, settling onto the stool and dropping her backpack on the floor.
I sat down next to her. Julio put a glass on the bar in front of her and turned to open the refrigerator. He retrieved a pitcher of rum punch and a bottle of Presidente. After he filled her glass, he pried the top off my beer and returned to his chair in the corner.
"You're a regular," she said. "You live here?"
"For now," I said. "You?"
"Passing through," she said, "looking for a boat."
She picked up her drink and extended it toward me. I clicked my beer bottle against her glass, and she took an honest swallow of the punch.
"Cheers," I said, sipping my beer. "You headed north or south?"
"It depends," she said.
"On?"
"On which way the boat's going. I mostly want out of Puerto Rico. Been here, done it. Time to move on."
She took a sip of her punch, pacing herself after that first slug. I was relieved to see that. I was interested, but not if she was a rummy.
"Where'd you come here from?" I asked.
"Miami. Deckhand on a big Perini Navi."
"Gold-plater," I said. "You cook?"
"I get by."
"Drugs?" I asked.
"You looking for a handout? Or offering to share?"
"Smart-ass," I said.
"Yep." She grinned. "Got a problem with that?"
"What if I said yes?"
"Then I'd thank you for the company and tell you to fuck off."
I laughed. I was enjoying this.
"About the drugs," she said.
I raised my eyebrows.
"I'm clean," she said. "Don't use, never did. You?"
"Same."
She nodded. "But I don't judge people. They make their own choices. Long as they don't mess me up that's okay. Everybody gets to pick their own road to hell."
I liked her. She was clean, articulate, and she was damn good looking. Not in a barfly way, either. And I liked her sense of humor.
This could work for both of us. She wanted a ride. I'd be less noticeable as half of a couple.
"You in a hurry?" I asked.
She frowned and didn't say anything.
"To leave," I said.
"Oh," she said, her face stretching into a smile like a sunrise.
I wondered what she thought I meant at first.
I started to tell her, then thought better of it. She probably wasn't working for them, but why risk it? I was planning to leave this evening; I only came ashore to pick up a few things at the little grocery store across the street.
"I'm itchin' for open water. Sooner's better, for sure."
"Sooner like tomorrow, maybe?"
"That could work. You really don't care where we go?"
"No, I don't. I'm tired of Puerto Rico — too big. Where are you thinking about?"
"We've got a strong northeast wind; looks like it's settled in to blow for a while. A close reach would put us in the Grenadines in four days, maybe farther north if the wind backs a little."
"All the way to the Windwards, huh?" she asked.
"It's either that or beat our brains out hammering into the wind to get to the Virgins. I'd rather spend my time on an easy sail. We could work our way back up the island chain from there if we want to."
"Sounds good," she said.
"You got a passport?" I asked.
She leaned over and picked up her backpack. Unzipping a side pouch, she extracted a dog-eared passport and handed it to me.
I looked at the mugshot; her, no doubt about that. Mary Elizabeth O'Brien. Twenty-four years old. I flipped through it — not many stamps, given the rough shape it was in. I gave it back, and she zipped it away, lowering the backpack to the floor again.
"Want to go sailing for a while?" I asked.
"Sure," she said. "I'm game."
"Should we go get your stuff?"
She gave me a hard look. "There's something we need to talk about, first."
I raised my eyebrows, inviting her to continue.
"I'm a woman," she said, and paused.
I nodded. "I guessed that."
"And you're not."
"Not last time I checked, anyhow."
"There's this thing men and women do. Sex."
I held her gaze and said nothing.
"It could happen," she said, "or not. I'm not narrow-minded, but I'm not easy. If it happens because both of us want it, that's okay. If you think it's how I'm paying my way, get over it."
I nodded. "I'm with you. If it happens, it happens. Or not. We'll just have to see." I was a little surprised that she seemed to take my word for that. Either desperate or naïve, I figured. I was wrong, I was soon to learn. About the naïveté, at least.
"Let's go see this fine vessel of yours," she said, standing up. She pulled a rumpled bill from her pocket and put it under her half-full glass of punch.
I took a last swig of beer and got up. "Where's your stuff?"
She hefted the backpack and turned. "I travel light," she said, leading the way back to the dinghy dock.
2
"Let's go get those groceries," Mary said.
"Now?" I asked. We'd only been aboard Island Girl for about ten minutes. In that short time, she stowed her backpack in the empty locker I showed her and went back on deck.
She checked the tension of the shrouds, putting her weight into it, and cast a critical eye over the rest of the rig. Back below deck, she opened lockers and exercised the through-hull fittings, yanking hard on the hoses attached to them. She was no novice; I saw her eyes narrow at a few things that could use attention.
When I thought she was finished, she pulled the scrap of indoor/outdoor carpet up from the cabin sole and lifted the panel that exposed the bilge sump. She stuck her head in the bilge and took a deep breath. Putting the panel and the carpet back in place, she stood up.
"Well?" I asked.
"She'll do," she said, moving on to the galley, opening drawers and lockers one by one.
I was licking my wounded pride; this was my home she was talking about. "She'll do?" I asked, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice.
She looked at me for a long few seconds and said. "Yeah, she'll do. She's no beauty, but she's ready. She'll take us wherever we want to go."
I just nodded, not trusting myself to say anything.
"What do you need from the grocery store?" she asked.
"Peanut butter, a couple of loaves of bread. Some snack food, depending on what they've got."
"That's it?" she asked.
"Yeah, unless you want something."
"You're fond of beans and rice," she said. "Looks like a lifetime supply, and you have plenty of smoked chorizo to go with 'em."
"You don't like my diet?" I asked. "What more do you want?"
"I love beans and rice with chorizo," she said. "But we need tomatoes and fresh onions. A couple of heads of garlic, too."
"What for?"
"Beans and rice are good for you. Throw in a few extras, and it makes 'em taste like they're worth eating. The chorizo's a good start, but the other stuff makes a big difference. You okay with that?"
"Sure. I'm pretty easy when it comes to food; it's just fuel."
"Yeah," she said. "Life's short. Might as well eat fuel that tastes good."
"There's a big grocery store about a ten-minute walk east of town," I said.
"No need," she said. "Not unless you want something else. The little place across the street will have everything we need. Let's go now; I'll cook supper when we get back. We can make an early evening of it if you still want to get out of here in the morning."
"Let's go," I said.
She climbed back up into the cockpit and pulled the dinghy alongside. I untied the painter and held it while she got settled in the little inflatable. I lowered myself into it and started the outboard, heading back to the dinghy dock.
When we got there, she tied the dinghy up and locked it as if she did it every day. That dock was maybe five feet above the water. This is where I came face to feet with her not long ago. I was trying to wriggle by her so I could clamber up and give her a hand. Then she stood up, facing away from me. She was right in front of me, blocking my way.
She put her right hand on the dock, gave a little jump, and vaulted up. I was pretty sure no part of her body touched the dock except the palm of her one hand and the soles of her feet. Damnedest thing I'd ever seen, like a gymnast or something. Next thing I knew, I was standing there in the dinghy admiring those feet again.
I took a deep breath and hoped I could get up there without embarrassing myself. Fortunately, she turned away, so she didn't see me struggling. But I think she guessed. Once I was standing next to her, she looked around at me and smiled.
"You okay?" she asked.
I gave her one of my taciturn nods, and she started walking up the dock. I skipped a step or two and caught up with her, matching her pace again. Damn, I liked walking next to her. "You're pretty fit," I said.
"I work out. You?"
"Well, I swim a lot."
"That's good for you," she said.
By then, we were walking out the marina gate. I've spent a good bit of my forty years in hostile environments. Situational awareness is deeply engrained in me; that's why I'm still walking around. I saw the car idling at the curb on the opposite side of the street and thought it looked out of place. There was a guy behind the wheel and two in the back seat.
With practiced speed, the two passengers jumped out, both on the street side, leaving the door open. One grabbed Mary, and the other took a swing at me. I slipped his punch, hooked his ankle, and gave him a shove on the back of his shoulder. His momentum took him to the ground. The other one held Mary in a bear hug, dragging her toward the car.
I knew the drill; if they got her in the car, it was over, whatever it was. I rushed the car. The driver's window was open. He was shifting his eyes from the rearview mirror to the windshield, watching for traffic.
He saw me, but it was too late for him to react. I hit him below his left ear with my right fist, all of my 185 pounds behind it. He flew across the front seat and landed in a pile against the passenger door. I snatched the keys from the ignition and dropped them in my pocket.
I turned, ready to go back and deal with the two who were grappling with Mary. Before I took more than a couple of steps, I watched her go limp in the bear hug. The guy holding her staggered forward, her dead weight throwing him off balance.
The other one was getting back on his feet. He took one step toward Mary and she dug both heels into the pavement and lurched back, legs pumping like mad. She drove the guy holding her back against the wall of the building. He came to a bone-jarring stop against the concrete.
Mary snapped her head back, smashing the back of her skull into his nose with an audible crunch. He let her go, but not before she raised her right foot behind her and raked it down the front of his right leg. She caught her foot on the top edge of his kneecap and put her weight on it. All that happened in the time I took to get to the other man, who was still closing on Mary.
The one whose knee she dislocated started screaming and fell to the sidewalk. Mary squatted and pivoted on her left foot, coming up with her right foot snapping out at head height. Her heel connected with the point of the last man's chin just as I grabbed him from behind. I heard the crack of his jawbone breaking as the force of her strike knocked us both down.
"Good move on the car," she said, as I slithered out from under her unconscious victim.
"I've seen this play before," I said. "As long as they didn't drive away with you, I figured we'd be good."
I got to my feet in time to see her spin and plant another one of her deadly kicks on the side of her first assailant's head. That's when I realized he was screaming non-stop, when she knocked him into oblivion and it got dead quiet.