Baja Florida (11 page)

They were talking on the deck, but this time Jen couldn't make out much of it until she heard him say, “OK, I'm going now. I could be a while. Can you take care of everything?”

“I think so. Just hurry.”

“If I don't come back…”

“Don't say that.”

“If I'm not back by morning, then don't come looking for me. Just do what you have to do. Look out for yourself. The farther you can get away from here, the better.”

Jen gave it a few minutes, until she was certain he was gone. Then she called out for help, heard footsteps approach, the hatch door slide open.

“What is it?”

“I need to use the head.”

Jen was pulled roughly to her feet.

She said, “Untie my hands. I'm having my period. There's a cloth bag with…”

“Yeah, I see it. Hold on.”

When she was inside, by the toilet, Jen said, “Close the door.”

“Forget it.”

“But, please, I…”

“I said forget it. I'm not closing that door. Just do what you have to do. And make it fast, you hear?”

When we got back to Marsh Harbour and the Mariner's Inn, there was still an hour until it was time to meet Abel Delgado in the bar.

Charlie Callahan had checked in while we were gone. He and Boggy went off in search of dinner.

I ordered room service and made some phone calls…

 

I called Mickey Ryser's house on Lady Cut Cay. Octavia answered.

“Mr. Ryser still hasn't dragged himself out of bed, not since we got here,” she told me. “Won't hardly eat nothing. I have to force food down him. And that detective man, he called here earlier.”

“Mickey spoke with him?”

“You could call it that. But it was more hollering than talking. At least on Mr. Ryser's end. I think that detective man, he was wanting more money.”

“Well, you tell Mr. Ryser I've got some good news,” I said.

The simple fact that I had verified Jen Ryser's arrival in the Bahamas was not the stuff on which to hang hopes. But I put a high gloss on it. And I left out the parts about Jen getting hurt during the crossing and the squabble on Miner Cay. Octavia absorbed it with excitement. I felt sure she would pass it along to Mickey in such a way that it gave him a boost. He sure needed one.

I called Barbara. She had just finished putting down Shula for the night.

“She misses you,” Barbara said.

“How can you tell?”

“The way she was looking around at the dinner table. And when I was kissing her good night, she was definitely wondering why you weren't there beside me.”

“I'm wondering that, too.”

“Not making much progress?”

“Inch by tiny inch. We've gotten luckier than I thought we would get in just one day. At least we know where Jen was even if we don't know where she is or where she's going.”

“Which is a lot more than you knew when you set out.”

“Yeah, I guess. One part of me keeps thinking there's nothing to worry about, this is just a bunch of kids out for a good time and they'll turn up when they turn up and be wondering why folks were so worried about them.”

“What's the other part of you think?”

“The other part is still gnawing on it,” I said. “But let's talk about something else.”

“OK, let's talk about the present.”

“You mean, as opposed to the future or the past?”

“No, I mean the present you are bringing back for Shula. When Daddy goes off on a trip he's supposed to bring back a present for his little girl.”

“It's not like Daddy's had time to do much shopping.”

“It doesn't have to be anything fancy, Zack. Just a pretty shell or something.”

“Like a conch shell maybe?”

“Perfect. You can hold it up to Shula's ear and show her how to listen to the sea. I used to love doing that when I was a child. Yes, yes, pick her out a pretty conch shell why don't you? I know she'll love it.”

 

I called Helen Miller in Charleston.

“Clete Boyer here,” I said.

“Why hello, Mr. Boyer. How you?”

That voice again. I wondered if the rest of her was as sultry as she sounded. Then I made myself stop wondering. Shame on you, Chasteen.

“Just calling to see if you'd made any progress on those things I asked you to check out.”

“Uh-huh, I see,” she said. “Listen, before I tell you what I found out, how about you tell me something.”

“Gladly.”

“Why are you feeding me a line of horse crap about your name being Clete Boyer?”

I didn't have an answer for that. So I didn't give her one.

“I'm waiting, Mr. Chasteen.”

“How'd you find out my name?”

“Christalmighty, I'm a detective. You gave me your phone number. Finding out the name a phone number belongs to, that's not heavy lifting.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

“Once I found out your name, Mr. Zachary Taylor Chasteen, it made it easier to find out some other things, too. Like how you served almost two years in Baypoint Federal Prison for counterfeiting, smuggling, and a couple of other pesky little felonies.”

“I was set up. The conviction was reversed. Got a pardon from the governor, along with a commendation for valorous service to the State of Florida.”

“Yeah, I found that out, too. And I made some calls and what I learned was that, all in all, you're a fairly decent, upstanding guy.”

“Glad to know that about myself,” I said. “Some days I have my doubts.”

She laughed.

“Plus, my daddy, he's a big football fan, too. He remembered you playing ball for the Dolphins. He said you were pretty good until you blew out a knee. Third-team All Pro, three years in a row.”

“Not the sorta thing that lands you in the Football Hall of Fame.”

“Still, not too shabby. That how come you named your daughter Shula?”

“You really uncovered a lot about me, didn't you?”

“I'm good at what I do,” she said. “I think it's kind of sweet, you naming your daughter after your old football coach. Good thing you never played for Howard Schnellenberger, huh?”

“A Girl Named Schnellenberger. Could be a Johnny Cash song.”

“More like Weird Al Yankovic,” she said. “Still, Zack…may I call you Zack?”

“Certainly, Helen.”

“Still, Zack, none of that explains why you lied to me, now does it?”

So I hemmed and I hawed and I came clean. I told her about my connection with Mickey Ryser and how I had been enlisted to find his daughter and how that led me to listening to the messages in Abel Delgado's office and calling her.

“OK, I'll buy it,” she said when I was done. “Now let me tell you what I found out.”

She'd found out everything I'd asked her to find out about Jen Ryser and a lot more on top of that. Graduated with a degree in art history from the College of Charleston. Solid B-student. Captain of the women's sailing team. Delta Delta Delta sorority. No criminal history beyond two speeding tickets. Prior to setting out for the Bahamas, she'd been working at a day-care center.

“But it wasn't like she really needed to work,” Helen Miller said. “Not with her trust fund.”

“I figured her mom must have left her something.”

“Yeah, twenty thousand dollars a month of something.”

“Explains how she bought that boat.”

“She paid cash for it, part of a lump sum from her inheritance. And it still left a nice little cushion in her account.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Miller, but bank accounts and trust funds—isn't that private information?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Chasteen. It's very private. Then again, I'm a private investigator.”

“Should I ask how…”

“No,” she said. “You shouldn't.”

I told her I needed her to check the background of the other crew members. I started telling her the names, but she stopped me.

“Way ahead of you,” she said. “Paid a visit to the marina where Jen kept her boat. Chatted up the dockmaster. He told me I should contact a guy named Tony Telan.”

“Coach of the college sailing team. He was supposed to go on the trip. He and his girlfriend.”

“Right. Only his house caught on fire,” Helen said. “Anyway, I sat down with him. Nice guy. He gave me the names of three of Jen's friends who were on the boat—Karen Breakell, Will Moody, and Pete Crumrine. I checked them out. Good kids. No blips on their records.”

“Did you contact their parents?”

“I started to,” Helen Miller said. “Then I decided it might freak them out for no good reason, so I held off. What do you think?”

I told her I had just spoken with Karen Breakell and shared what I had learned from her.

“As for Will Moody and Pete Crumrine, I think it's worth the risk of freaking out their parents just to know if their sons have been in touch. Maybe they've called and can shed some more light on all this.”

“OK, will do,” Helen said. “As for the other two people on the boat…”

“Justin Hatchitt and Torrey Kealing.”

“That's the first I've heard of their names. No one I spoke to knew anything about either one of them. But I'll check them out, too.”

“Hold on. I've got their passport numbers.”

I read them off to her.

“That'll help,” she said. “I did go back out to the marina and talk with the dockmaster after I spoke to Tony Telan. He remembered a couple of things that he didn't remember the first time I spoke with him.”

“Like what?”

“Like this guy who visited the marina a couple of times, said he was looking for work, either transporting someone's boat for them or hiring on as a captain. Dockmaster told him the only boat he knew of that was planning to go anywhere was Jen Ryser's boat but it already had a captain and a full crew.”

“This was before Tony Telan dropped out, right?”

“Yeah, must have been,” Helen said. “Anyway, the guy said he might as well check it out anyway, just in case anything came up. So the dockmaster gave him Telan's name and Jen's name and how to find them. I'm thinking maybe the guy might be Justin Hatchitt.”

“Sounds like a fit. Except…”

“Except what?”

“Except Karen Breakell told me they met Justin Hatchitt at a bar one night by coincidence. It was after the fire at Telan's house. They needed a captain. And…”

“And lo and behold, some guy just shows up and fills the bill.”

“Sound funny to you?”

“It does when I put it with something else.”

“What's that?”

“That fire at Telan's house? It wasn't an accident. State fire marshal's report was just filed last week. Definitely arson. The investigators found accelerants placed in three different locations.”

“And they don't suspect Telan?”

“No, they cleared him. He and his girlfriend were renting the place. They were both asleep when it happened and they barely got out of there. Lost just about everything including their dog. An old two-story wooden house on Montague Street. A firetrap to begin with, only someone nudged it along.”

“Landlord maybe?”

“Landlord's a ninety-year-old woman, lives next door,” Helen Miller said. “They pretty much ruled her out right off the bat.”

“You think this guy Hatchitt…?”

“Might have burned down the house just to get Telan out of the way? A whole lot of trouble just to be captain on a sailboat trip.”

“Not when the sailboat is worth nearly a million dollars and the woman who owns it even more than that.”

Helen Miller thought about it.

“I didn't have a name before. Now I do,” she said. “I'll start checking out Hatchitt. Torrey Kealing, too.”

I suggested a few other things she might want to check out. And when I was done, she said, “I'm not billing this to Abel Delgado, am I?”

“No,” I said. “You can bill it to me.”

“Along with that hundred-dollar bonus you told me to tack on Delgado's bill?”

“Yeah, that, too,” I said. “How deep am I in with you so far?”

“Oh, you're in pretty deep,” she said. “And for what you want, it'll get deeper.”

She gave me a dollar amount.

I let out a whistle.

“Like I told you,” she said. “I'm good.”

Charlie and Boggy weren't back from dinner by the time eight o'clock rolled around. So I paid my visit to the Mariner's Inn bar without them.

It wasn't hard to pick out Abel Delgado. He was the biggest guy at the bar and he occupied one corner of it, his stool turned so he could see everyone who came in the place.

At least that might have been his original intent. But as it stood now, Delgado was in no condition to see much beyond the salted rim of his margarita glass. He wore some kind of Tommy Bahama knockoff, aqua-marine with orange palm trees, that was supposed to make him look like a real island guy. His hair was tousled, his jaw slack, and it was better than even money that he'd been slamming down drinks ever since we'd spoken on the phone three hours earlier.

He sat hunched over, both elbows on the bar, talking to a young man next to him. I took the stool on his other side. He didn't pay me any attention.

The bartender, a busty Bahamian woman wearing a red silk blouse and a toothy smile, asked what I wanted. I ordered a Kalik. She delivered it. And I sat there, sipping my beer and eavesdropping on Delgado's conversation.

It was really more of a monologue, with Delgado doing the talking, his voice thick, the words slurred. The young man offered an occasional nod just to hold up his end of the proposition.

“…and I told the old man, I said, I got expenses you know. Plus, my day rate, a case like this, it's twenty-five hundred. And I already been on it six days, which is…which is…”

“Fifteen thousand,” the young man.

“Yeah, fifteen thousand. So I said to him, I said I need that, plus my expenses before you find out what I found out. And, believe me, I'm finding out some things. Give me a couple more days and…”

I tapped Delgado on the shoulder. He turned and squinted at me, trying hard to focus. His head rolled, as if it were on a swivel atop his neck.

“Howya doing, Abel?”

“I know you?”

“Zack Chasteen. Here as promised.”

It took a moment to sink in with him.

“You're a fucking asshole,” he said.

“That's no way to make friends, Delgado.”

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole.”

He said it loudly and it quieted the bar.

“Easy,” I said.

Delgado turned on me, knocking over his glass, splattering the two of us.

“You're trying to fuck me over, you piece of shit…”

He lunged at me and I grabbed his shoulders, trying to hold him off. But his sheer bulk and momentum sent me backward off the stool and both of us fell to the floor. Drunk as he was, Delgado managed to land a couple of blows to the top of my head that probably hurt his knuckles more than they hurt me. I wrenched out from under him and onto my feet. I held off the urge to kick him.

I heard women screaming, saw men backing away. I caught a glimpse of Boggy and Charlie entering the bar. Under most conditions, the sight of the two of them would rivet a crowd's attention, but right now Delgado and I had center stage.

I crouched, ready, as Delgado pulled himself up. He stood there, swaying for a moment as he got his bearings.

The young man he'd been talking to was standing now. He was taller than Delgado and in a lot better shape. He grabbed Delgado's arm, trying to hold him back. The bartender reached across the bar and tried to grab him, too. But Delgado pulled away and charged me, head down, roaring with rage.

I sidestepped him and planted a foot into his backside as he went past. It sent him crashing into a nearby table, scattering its occupants, and sending plates and glasses and bottles of beer in all directions.

Delgado lay there a moment, his face in the remains of someone's fish dinner. He shook his head, then he shook himself all over, like a dog coming in from the rain.

He got up. Winded and heaving, he came at me again. I grabbed his shirt at the shoulders and slung him into the side of the bar. He hit it hard and slid to the floor. This time he lay there a little longer.

And then he got up again. Give the guy points for perseverance. He steadied himself on a bar stool. The bartender got a hand on his shirt, but he ripped away and charged me.

He aimed high this time and I went low, ramming a shoulder into his gut, lifting him up and driving him back against the bar. I felt all the wind go out of him, heard his head snap back and hit something. When I stood up, he stayed down. His head lolled against the bar rail, eyes closed. His tongue hung from the side of his mouth. He was out for the count.

I stood there getting my wind. It hadn't lasted long, but it had sucked the air out of me. I needed to work out more often, get in better shape. Story of my life.

The bartender looked at me and said, “You know him?”

“Casual acquaintance.”

“Well, either you get him out of here or I call the police and they do it.”

“I'll take care of it,” I said.

“I'll give you a hand,” said the young man who'd been sitting beside Delgado. He was a good-looking guy—tanned, built like an athlete. I put him in his late twenties. He wore a two-week beard and his curly black hair framed a face with sharp features. He got his hands under Delgado's shoulders and pulled him away from the bar.

Boggy and Charlie joined us.

“Sorry we didn't get here earlier,” Charlie said. “I swung by the airport to check a couple of things on the plane.”

“Wouldn't have made any difference. He was gunning for me no matter what.”

I went through Delgado's pockets and found the card key for his room. The bartender was still watching me.

“You got his tab?” I asked her.

“Sure do. He was charging it to his room.”

“I'll take it.”

I looked it over. The room number was written in a box at the top—221. I put a hundred-dollar bill on it, handed it back to her, and told her to keep the change.