Follow the Evidence (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 2) (13 page)

I didn’t know how to start so I
just went for it.

“Madison, I’m sorry for…”

“Oh posh, don’t be sorry old boy.
That was the best shagging I’ve had in ages,” she purred. “I like that you
didn’t waste any time chatting me up. I knew you would get your ride if you
asked when I met you. I just wasn’t sure you’d ask.”

“Look…”

“Oh don’t get all American on me.
If I want to get my leg over with a man, I do it. Don’t you worry. Where do you
wish to begin with your investigation?”

“Madison…all right, have it your
way,” I said, “What’s the easiest way to get to Sandy Cay Marina? That’s where
the
Wind Dancer
was docked before it left for Florida.”

“What’s the name of the man you’re
looking for?” Madison asked as she took a sip of tea.

I took out my notebook and after
consulting it said, “Enderby Cox. He was the man who saw the kids get on the
boat and he watched them leave.”

“I can take you there,” Madison
said. “It’s not far, but on a small island, nothing is far.”

“Madison, I don’t want to
inconvenience you,” I said. “If you could just point me in the right
direction…”

“I’ll not hear of it,” Madison
interjected. “You’re my guest, a very special guest,” she giggled. Besides,
it’s Sunday, my day off. She patted my hand and said, “Enjoy your breakfast and
we’ll be on our way.”

“If you insist,” I replied.

“I do. I’ll check with the district
officer in that area,” Madison said, “and make sure Mr. Cox is there. Is there
anyone else you want to talk with?”

“There’s a Coast Guard investigator
named Hilton listed in the report. I think he works out of the embassy.”

“I’ll ring the embassy and see if
Mr. Hilton is available. It is Sunday, but my position normally cuts red tape.
The embassy is on Queen Street near Government House. We can stop there first.”

Madison looked up the path. When
she was sure we were alone, Madison put her hand over mine and winked. “You
were certainly full of beans last night,” she beamed.

“Full of beans…?

“You had a lot of energy,” she
explained. “You left me knackered on that damn sofa, but you’re welcome to have
another go. I’m afraid I startled poor Sidney. She’s not used to finding me
starkers in the living room.”

“Look Madison, I don’t usually…”

“Usually what, leave a woman
satisfied? Put a cork in it will you. You are so American,” she said with a
smile. I could see the laughter in her eyes. She was so different from last
night.

“Right, I’ll get on to the embassy
and the district officer, then change, and we can be on our…”

I grabbed her hand as she stood.
“Do you always have to be in charge?” I asked.

She looked up the path toward the
guesthouse then kissed me. I squeezed her breast, and then slipped my hand into
her top, while our lips ground together. When she pulled away, she gave a sigh.

“Randi doesn’t know what she’s
missing…or does she?” She patted my hand, gave me a peck on the cheek, and
said, “Let’s get to work.”

That was a damn good idea.

The tropical charm of downtown Nassau
was intoxicating, even at half past ten on Sunday morning. A circus of tanned
legs, sunglasses, hats, and shopping bags paraded about the pastel cafés and
shops. By the Straw Market, colorful carriages drawn by a single horse were
queued waiting for the surge of tourists arriving from a half-dozen cruise
ships squatting in the harbor. A Bahamian police officer dressed in his white
pith helmet, white tunic with its brown Sam Brown belt and dark pants with a
red stripe down the side stood on a pedestal in the center of the intersection
directing the light early morning traffic.

Madison’s phone calls revealed
Special Agent Hilton was at the embassy so we started there. The drive from
Madison’s place took no time. I took in the sights as we rolled down Bay Street
while Madison gave me a running monologue about the area. We turned on West
Street and then onto Queen. The embassy was a block from the British Colonial
Hilton with a McDonalds just down the street.
All the comforts of home
.

As we pulled up to the imposing
gate at the U. S. Embassy, Madison said, “Let me have your passport.”

I handed it over as a Marine guard
approached the vehicle.

“Good morning sergeant,” Madison
said as she displayed her credentials and my passport. “Superintendent Todd,
Major Crimes and an American citizen to see Investigator Hilton. I spoke with
him early this morning so we may not yet be on your clearance list.”

“Just a moment, ma’am,” the
sergeant replied. He returned to a gatehouse and made a call. He wasn’t on the
phone but a moment then returned to Madison’s vehicle.

“You’re both cleared for entrance
ma’am,” the sergeant said as he returned my passport and Madison’s shield.
“Special Agent Hilton will meet you at the Mission Entrance. Go to the right
when the second gate opens, please.”

“Thank you sergeant,” Madison said.
“I know it. Be safe, Sergeant.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant said. He
gave a wave and the gate opened.

Madison pulled through, but stopped
immediately as we were face to face with another gate. When the first gate
closed behind us, the second one opened and Madison drove on to the right and
parked in a space marked ‘Official Vehicles’.

As we got out of the SUV, we heard
someone call out. “Superintendent Todd.”

We turned to see a tall, buff
looking guy in khaki pants and a polo shirt waving to us.

“Superintendent Todd, I’m glad you
caught me. I was headed for the golf course when Sergeant Hitchcock called,”
the guy said seemingly in one breath.

“Sergeant Hitchcock is my aide,”
Madison explained. Turning back to our greeter she said, “You’re Investigator
Hilton?”

“Yes, ma’am, Philip Hilton United
States Coast Guard Investigative Service, not to be confused with the famous P.
Hilton.”

“Investigator, is it?”

“Special Agent if you want to be
technical, ma’am.”

“Special Agent Hilton, this is
Macdonald Everett from Orlando, Florida,” Madison said.

“Pleased to meet you sir,” agent
motor mouth said as he shook my hand.

He didn’t look too pleased. I was
prepared to dislike this guy. He had a too clean cut look about him that made
me queasy.

“Why don’t we step out of the heat
and then you can tell me what’s got you out so early this fine morning in
paradise.”

That sounded like a good idea. I
was damp with sweat already. We went to a set of double doors across from the
parking lot and came to a reception desk staffed by a Marine with a sidearm.

“Morning Webb,” Hilton said. “Check
in these nice people for me will ya?”

“Identification please,” the Marine
asked.

I produced my passport again and
Madison presented her shield and ID. Corporal Webb entered our information in a
log and gave each of us a visitor badge.

“Please wear these while on the
Embassy grounds and return them upon leaving,” Webb instructed.

“Follow me,” Hilton said.

We followed him up to two short flights
of steps. We walked through a set of double doors and into a dark wide corridor
lined with offices. He led us down the hall to a door labeled Coast Guard
Investigative Services.

“This is home,” Hilton said. “Come
on in and have a seat.”

The CGIS office was a cramped room,
no more than a glorified broom closet with a single window about head high, a
desk, and three chairs. Painted the typical institutional gray, it felt dingy
and smelled damp. It was nothing like the squared away facility at Station Canaveral.

“The accommodations aren’t much,
but being in The Bahamas makes up for it,” Hilton said. “It’s a one man office.
Grab a chair.”

Madison and I each took a chair and
Hilton sat on the edge of the desk.

“Special Agent Hilton,” I began,
“I’m looking into the disappearance of one of the young women on the sailboat
Wind
Dancer
. What can you tell me about your follow-up investigation?”

“The
Wind Dancer,
I guessed
somebody would be here about that eventually,” Hilton said. “Are you a
professional second guesser?”

I hoped I wasn’t right about this
guy, but my opinion of him was sinking fast and it hadn’t start out all that
high.

“I’m a private investigator,” I
replied ignoring his jab.

I needed this guy on my side, but
it was going to be tough if was going to needle me.

“I did my goddamn job. Go read the
report and get out of my hair,” he snapped. “I’ve got a round of golf to play.”

“You did a four-oh job on this
case. I have no bitch with your work, Hilton.”

The man relaxed a bit, but remained
guarded. “Well, what do you want then?” he asked, backing down a little.

“I want to retrace your steps to
see if a fresh pair of eyes can get anything more out of the slim facts. Are
you going to help me?”

His body language was tense and his
eyes bored into my forehead as his brows knitted together. Those eyes kept
flicking down and right. He was thinking, trying to decide if there was a
downside and I’d bet he was hiding something. Finally, he spoke again.

“What do you want to know?”

Hilton had caved, but he wasn’t all
in, not yet.

“I’ve seen your report. You did a
good job tracing those people before they left Nassau. I wondered how you got
so much information.”

“Tracking their movements was the
easy part,” Hilton said. “Verifying the information with witnesses, now that
was hard.”

“How’d you do it,” I asked. I was
buttering him up. It’s always easier to get crap from people if you’re nice. Be
nice until it’s time not to be nice. The trick is to know when to switch gears.

“I used credit card receipts. They
spent a lot of dough in the short time they were here. They did some
parasailing and dropped a bundle on food, drinks, the usually stuff for kids in
the islands. The hard part was figuring their point of departure.”

“Why’s that?” I asked. I could
guess, but I was still buttering him up.

“I didn’t know the dockage,” Hilton
said. “I got lucky. There must be six hundred marinas on this rock.”

“One hundred sixty-two,” Madison
corrected.

“What?” Hilton said.

“There are one hundred sixty-two
marinas on New Providence and another twelve on Paradise Island. Some are
private and others are associated with a hotel or resort. There are hundreds of
established anchorages offshore and in the various bays, of course.”

“Of course,” Hilton replied. He was
a red-faced, but tried to cover his embarrassment. “Sorry Superintendant. Guess
I should have called you.”

Madison waved away his apology and
said, “Think nothing of it. You have my card. In future, call us when you need
something. The BRPF prides itself on providing professional courtesy.”

“Thank you ma’am.” Turning his
attention back to me, he said, “They flew in the morning of October 7,” Hilton
continued. “They hit the beach and then the casinos for some partying. I can
place them on Cable Beach and at the Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island,”
Hilton said.

“The girl’s parents told me the
same story,” I explained. “Is there any CCTV footage from the casino?”

“I’m sure there is, but I didn’t
have pictures so I didn’t try to get it,” Hilton responded.

I looked at Madison who nodded and said,
“I can help you with that, if you like.”

“The girl’s parents also said
Jennifer and her friends spent the night on the boat,” I said.

I didn’t tell him about Hannah and
I wasn’t sure I would.

“That makes sense,” Hilton replied.
“Hotel rooms are expensive and if you have a free place to crash...”

“Social media?” I asked.

“All three made posts to Twitter,
Facebook, and Instagram. They helped confirm the credit card records. Their
tweets were from all over the island.”

Instagram is a photo and video sharing
social networking service. If he’d looked at Instagram, he had pictures of the
three young people so his excuse for not checking CCTV was bogus, but I decided
to let that slide.

“How about cell phone tracking,” I
asked. “Did you try that?”

“I don’t have access to that here,”
Hilton replied. “I would need two warrants, one from the states for the
subject’s cell records and another one from a Bahamian magistrate for access to
the cell tower logs. It’s a waste of time tracking phones here anyway. Results
are hit or miss at best.”

“That’s true,” Madison added.
“Bahamian law requires a judicial warrant to access private cell phone records,
even from another country and a separate one for the cell phone tower
activity,” Madison explained. “We can triangulate phones here, but location
accuracy is hampered by the limited number of towers.”

“See,” Hilton added.

The guy was only a little
defensive, but at least he wasn’t being a jerk, yet.

“How did you find the marina?” I
asked.

“I just started making calls,”
Hilton replied. “They had to be docked somewhere. I started with the north side
of the island, closest to the places I knew they’d been.”

“Makes sense,” I acknowledged.

“I asked the manager or
harbormaster to check their logs for the
Wind Dancer
.”

“That makes sense too,” I added.

“I’d only called half of the
marinas on my list when I got a hit at Sandy Cay.”

I looked at Madison, hoping she’s
have something to add.

“Sandy Cay would be a convenient
location for these people if they went to Cable Beach and Paradise Island,”
Madison declared. “It’s on a small island at the east end of Cable Beach, very
small and exclusive.

“How would they get there?” I
asked.

“There’s a shuttle boat,” Madison
said. “It’s only a ten minute trip.”