Fallen Mangrove (Jesse McDermitt Series Book 5) (18 page)

Lopez looked up at him, his eyes dark and menacing. “No hablo inglés.”

“Por qué estabas siguiéndonos, idiota?”

The man’s eyes flashed with hatred and he tugged at the flex cuffs binding his wrists. It was useless, of course.

Deuce looked over at Reynolds and said, “You two are way out of your league here, Reynolds.”

“How the hell do you know my—”

“Shut up, fool!” Lopez hissed.

“If I don’t get an answer pretty quick, one of you is going to become shark food,” Deuce said.

I kept checking the radar to make sure the other boat continued on. They were now two miles ahead and still moving north-northeast.

Deuce looked up and saw me checking. “How far out of Nassau Harbor are we?”

“Just eight miles,” I replied.

“How far away is that other boat? Think they’ll hear a gunshot?”

I looked down at the radar again. “Two and a half miles and moving away. Pescador would be quieter. Messier, but quieter.”

At the mention of his name, the big, shaggy dog stood up with his front paws on the gunwale, snarling at the four people in the back of the Cigarette.

“Go aboard, Pescador,” I said. He leaped over the gunwale, landing softly at Deuce’s side, and turned slowly toward the four people. The women were now visibly frightened as the dog snarled, showing his inch-long yellow fangs, saliva dripping from his lower lips and the hair all the way down his neck and back standing on end. A low rumble emanated from deep inside his wide chest. Sometimes, even I couldn’t tell if his displays were just for show or if he was about to rip into flesh.

Lopez must have had a bad experience with a dog at some time in his life, because his eyes no longer showed hatred but were now filled with panic.

“Señor Lopez, les presento a Pescador,” Deuce said, introducing the private dick. “Pescador, say hi to Señor Lopez.”

Pescador moved slowly toward Lopez. Sitting in the low seat, he was at eye level with the huge, shaggy head coming right up to his. The low rumble emanated from Pescador’s chest again as he bared his teeth, yellow eyes locked on Lopez’s nearly hysterical eyes. Pescador’s favorite food is fish and he always has really terrible fish breath.

“Call it off, man!” he shouted. “We’ll talk! We’ll talk!”

“Pescador!” I shouted, actually afraid he was about to attack. A year ago, a man had stabbed me with a switchblade knife and Pescador went straight for the man’s throat, tearing it open and sending blood everywhere. He didn’t die quickly. Pescador quickly lunged up and over Lopez’s head, landing on the engine cover before jumping back across to the
Revenge
.

Deuce knelt in front of Lopez. “I’m only going to ask one more time. If I don’t get what I think is an honest answer, I’ll have the Captain’s dog eat your nuts right in front of you. Now, who sent you?”

Lopez swallowed hard, glancing across at Pescador then back up at Deuce, all the fire gone from his eyes. “We were told to find out as much about who all of you are and to follow you all the way to Elbow Cay if we had to.”

“Still doesn’t answer my question,” Deuce said. “Shall I get the dog?”

“Alfredo Maggio hired us,” Reynolds blurted out.

“I’m still at a loss to understand why you brought them in, in the first place?” Owen Bradbury asked.

Once again, he was at Chase Conner’s office in south Miami. The office was actually located in Cutler Ridge, but to Owen everything south of Palm Beach was Miami and lately, you couldn’t really tell when you’d left one city and entered another, beginning well north of Palm Beach and going all the way down to Homestead.

“They have the money and the muscle, Owen. We don’t. We’ve been all around this. The knowledge is key and that’s what we have.”

“Play it back,” Bradbury said.

Conner brought the audio file back up on his laptop and clicked play for the third time. The two men leaned in closer to the laptop’s speakers. The first voice was tinny and slightly distorted, as if the recording had picked up someone on the boat talking on a speakerphone with someone else.

“
I got a hit right away on one person who lives in Miami, so I prompted the software to search the data base starting in Miami and the south Florida area. It only had to go as far as Miami-Dade to get the other three.”

Conner stopped the recording. “I think they’re talking to this Chyrel woman over a computer video feed. Listen to this next part—it sounds as though she’s showing them a computer file, identifying people that are following McDermitt and his party.”

He clicked the play button again and heard clinking noises, as if someone were pouring a drink, then the woman’s voice continued,
“This is Jose Reynolds. American citizen, born in Cuba to a Marielista mother and adopted by her American husband. He’s a private investigator, but when he was younger he had a few scrapes with the law. He was a person of interest in a number of disappearances in south Florida, some trafficking charges, but nothing stuck. His mother is Consuelo Reynolds.”

Bradbury stopped the recording this time. “How did Conseulo Reynolds become a part of this?” he asked. Without waiting for a response he stood quickly, turning and lifting both arms out to the side in dismay. He suddenly turned again and put his palms on Conner’s desk. “She has Senators and Congressmen as clients, for God’s sake. Not to mention a lot of very large men of unsavory character for employees.”

Conner leaned back in his chair, surprised at Bradbury’s uncharacteristic display. “That does present a problem—it looks like her people have figured out what McDermitt’s after, too.” Conner clicked play again.

The next voice was familiar to both of them. They’d met the man in person. “
The Consuelo Reynolds?
” McDermitt asked.

“
Yeah, more money than God
,” the tinny-sounding woman’s voice replied.
“If a Judge isn’t one of her clients, he’s on her payroll. The Teflon Madam, they call her.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then the Chyrel woman said,
“This is Gary Lopez. American national, parents both from Cuba. He’s Reynolds’s business partner, also a private investigator and also with a less-than-stellar record. He did two years upstate for involuntary manslaughter. Pled down from murder two. A few arrests for B and E, drugs, and soliciting.”

Bradbury stopped his pacing, leaned over, and clicked the pause button. “Murder? Breaking and entering?”

“Madic’s people have a worse reputation, Owen. That’s the kind of people we have to have to get this done.” He sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and continued. “Look, what’s the worst that can happen? The two factions collide with McDermitt in the middle? Madic’s going to come out on top of that, I promise. And we get our share. The best thing that could happen? They all kill each other and we hire someone else to go get the treasure. Or just do it ourselves.”

“What about the two women with this new group? I watch those forensic shows. Bad women are far more dangerous than bad men.”

Conner leaned forward and clicked the play button again. Once more the woman was doing all the talking. It puzzled both Conner and Bradbury, but both agreed that she seemed to be the one in charge of things.
“The redhead is Bianca Garcia. Puerto Rican-born, natural citizen. More than ten arrests in Puerto Rico for prostitution, but only one in the US. Bailed out and fine paid by Consuelo Reynolds. The brunette is Faye Raminez, American national, Cuban parents, both dead under suspicious circumstances. Several arrests for prostitution in Las Vegas. Arrested for killing a john in Miami two months ago. She claimed self-defense at the arraignment through a court-appointed attorney and was held over for trial. Alfredo Maggio, senior partner of the law firm representing Consuelo Reynolds, took the case pro bono the next day, right after she was visited in jail by Consuelo Reynolds. Charges were dropped by the DA a day later.”
Bradbury stopped the recording this time, sitting back down and looking at Conner with his face close to the desk lamp. “A murderer? Maybe she killed her parents, too? That’s bad enough. What’s worse is that I don’t see how McDermitt and his people manage to get this kind of information so fast.”

“They probably have a computer hacker working for them,” Conner replied, sitting forward with his arms crossed on the edge of the desk. “Remember, they have quite a bit of money now.”

Conner clicked play again. McDermitt’s voice came over the speakers next, discussing the four people they’d just learned about. The two people he was talking with, Conner and Bradbury both agreed, sounded like the two that were on the boat with him in one of the earlier recordings.

“I swear I’ve seen them before. In the Keys.”
McDermitt said.

“So, we’re being followed across the ocean by an escort service?”
the unidentified black man responded.
“I don’t get the connection.”

“Could just be two rich guys taking a couple hookers to the islands,”
a new woman’s voice said.

“I don’t think so,”
another man’s authoritative voice said after a short pause. Both men surmised it sounded like the quiet man with the crew cut they’d met on the boat with McDermitt that day.

“Me either. What do we do?”
McDermitt asked.

Another man’s voice, one that neither Conner nor Bradbury had ever heard, spoke next. His voice was deep and booming. Both men though that he must be a large man, based solely on the tenor of his voice.

“If we leave now, we can be on Elbow Cay before dawn,”
he said in a quiet, even tone.

“Run from two hookers and a couple of private dicks?”

Conner stopped the recording. “That guy there,” Conner said. “I’m certain he’s the one they call ‘Doc.’ Apparently, from the other recordings, he’s the one who found the first clue about the treasure and brought in McDermitt and the others.”

Conner clicked play again and the big man with the booming voice quoted one of Bradbury’s favorite playwrights, Oliver Goldsmith, and the man named Doc finished the prose.

“‘Live to fight another day.’”

“‘But he who is battle slain, can never rise to fight again.’ What? You think they want to kill us?”

Another Goldsmith verse came to Bradbury’s mind just then. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates and men decay.
They both should have read more Goldsmith
, Bradbury thought.
Maybe I should, too
.

“It’ll be hard to follow us in the dark, whether by boat or plane. If we see them on Elbow Cay, we’ll know they’re following us,”
the big voice said.

There was a few seconds of silence, then McDermitt said,
“Cast off, Rusty. Me and you have first watch.”

There was a lot of rustling noises, then what sounded like a door closing. After that, nothing but silence for thirty seconds and the recording ended.

“Do you think we should—”

“Tell Madic there’s more of them on the boat than we originally thought?” Conner interrupted, sitting back in his chair again. “No. I think we should just let this play out. In hindsight, we should have planted more than just one listening device. They seem to spend more time outside the cabin than inside.”

Bradbury leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. He wasn’t a criminal and couldn’t think like a criminal. But how this would play out looked obvious. Two different factions, both with deep pockets, plenty of manpower, and connections to the criminal world, seemed to be converging on McDermitt and his people. And it was he and Conner that had pointed them out.

Tony and Julie remained on the Cigarette, while the rest of us went into the salon to talk about what to do next. The four captives didn’t know anything about the bug—at least they said they didn’t.

“I still want to know how this Maggio guy was able to get a bug on my boat,” I told Deuce.

“We might never find out,” Deuce replied. “The two things have to be connected, though. Those four are just subcontractors. It was most likely another sub that managed to get aboard undetected.”

Bourke cleared his throat. “The question we need an answer to right now is, what do we do with those four?”

“You’re right,” I said. “We’re sitting out here in the open, tied off to a boat that for all we know could be stolen, with four captives aboard.”

Deuce thought for a moment, then said, “We can’t just release them. Their boss will only send more and probably better.”

“I don’t like the other option,” Tony said.

“Don’t worry, Tony,” Deuce replied, clapping him on the shoulder as he made his way past him to the coffeemaker. “We’re not going to kill them, either.”

“All that’s left is to sit on them,” Bourke said. “That could be dangerous. If we were in the Keys, sure. But we’re in a different country here.”

“There’s a tiny sandbar with a few trees, twelve miles southeast of here,” I said. “It’s a mile off of Rose Island. Completely uninhabited.”

“We could be days on Elbow Cay doing the search.” Deuce said. “Maybe a week. I get what you mean, but that’d be worse than putting a bullet in their heads and dumping them here. Do you know of a deserted island closer to Elbow Cay, where we can run food and water out to them?”

I turned to Rusty. He’d been running back and forth to these islands since he was a kid. Rusty leaned back on the couch, clutching his hands over his huge girth, with an equally huge grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Rusty said, as Julie came in through the hatch. “There’s a few, but most are day trips for snorkelers and picnickers. I know the perfect place to stash them, though. It ain’t a deserted island. It’s on Great Abaco, in fact.”

“Hole in the Wall Light?” Julie asked.

Rusty said, “Yep,” then stood up and crossed the salon to where Deuce and I stood on the other side of the cabinet in the galley. “An old guy I know lives at the lighthouse there. Someone from Marsh Harbour brings him supplies the first of every month. He’s basically a squatter, but nobody seems to mind. Other than that, hardly anyone ever goes there. It’s a hardscrabble three-mile hike to a rock and dirt track that ya gotta have four wheel drive to get over. Then it’s another thirteen miles of a bone-rattling two-hour drive to get to the first paved road. Might as well be uninhabited.”

“How well do you know this guy?” Deuce asked.

“Well enough. He’ll welcome the company. I told you about Charles, didn’t I, Jesse?”

“The crazy guy that eats land crabs?”

“He’s the one. Spent three weeks stranded on an island as a kid and never been right since. He’s somewhere between seventy and a hundred years old. Even he don’t know for sure.”

“Will they be safe there?” Deuce asked.

“The south end of Abaco is as barren as the moon and north of the light is mile after mile of jungle. Those four don’t have to know they’re twenty-five miles from a settlement at Sandy Point. Even if they did, they’d turn back before they got five miles. They’re city people.”

“I didn’t even know that light was manned,” I said.

Rusty laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call having King Charles living there the same thing as being manned. It’s automated, no need for anyone to be there, but he’s kinda took to maintaining it some. There’s a deep-water sand beach to the east of the hole that’s usually protected from wind and wave. We’ll have to take ’em overland from there about half mile to the light.”

“Will your friend be safe from them?” Deuce asked.

“King Charles?” Rusty asked with a chuckle. “He’s crazy but he ain’t stupid. Never goes anywhere without his old Navy Colt. He sleeps in the top of the light. Thinks the land crabs’ ghosts come after him at night, so he locks himself in there. We can put them in the light keeper’s house and leave enough food and water to last a couple of days. Tied or untied, they ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Okay, what do we do with the boat?” Bourke asked.

“I can answer that,” Julie said. “It’s a rental, believe it or not. Rented to the Maggio and Maggio Law Firm, in Miami. I found the rental contract on board. It’s not overdue for ten more days and the tanks are nearly full.”

“Then we take it with us,” Deuce said.

“It’s a hundred miles from here to Tilloo Cut,” I said. With a stop for maybe an hour along the way, we’d make it there before sunrise.

“Hole in the Wall is halfway there,” Rusty said. “And no more’n two miles outta the way.”