Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 6th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Read online

  SAILS JOB

  A CONNIE BARRERA THRILLER

  By C.L.R. Dougherty

  Copyright © 2016

  Charles L.R. Dougherty

  Windward and Leeward Islands

  Antigua

  Chapter 1

  "Who were you talking to?" Paul asked, taking in the faraway look on Connie's face as he joined her in Diamantista II's cockpit.

  She turned toward him, leaning back against the cushions in the shade of their big awning. They were in the marina in St. Georges, Grenada, waiting to pick up charter guests. She frowned and shook her head. "What?"

  "I heard you on the phone while I was stowing the groceries. You look troubled."

  Forcing a smile, Connie said, "Not troubled as much as surprised, I guess. And a little confused."

  "Who was it? I couldn't hear much of the conversation, but you talked for a good while."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to seem evasive. It was a guy named Leon Contreras. He's a cousin on my mother's side."

  "You've never mentioned him. Does he live in California?" Paul asked.

  "That's what he said. Bakersfield."

  "What he said? How long since you've been in touch?"

  "We've never met, or even spoken before," Connie said. "Not that either of us could recall, anyhow. That's why I'm a little taken aback."

  "Yeah, I can see that you would be. How'd he come to call you? How'd he even find you, for that matter?"

  "He was going through some of his mother's things after she died and found a postcard or something my mother had sent her, ages ago. He said he remembered her talking about me, and decided to do a search on the internet."

  "So she met you? His mother?" Paul asked.

  "I don't remember it, but she could have. There were always people around in the labor camps when I was a kid. My parents knew them; I wasn't paying attention. Some could have been relatives. I was too little to know what was going on. You know how that goes."

  "How old is this guy?"

  "I don't know," Connie paused. "He didn't say."

  "How do you know he was legit?"

  Connie grinned. "There's the cop I married. I guess I don't know that he was, but all the pieces fit. I mean, I know there was a cousin named Leon Contreras. I remember hearing my folks mention the name. But that might have been this man's father, for all I know. And he had my parents' names and backgrounds right."

  "You knew I was a cop before you married me. I can't help my old habits."

  "It's okay. I wondered about him myself, at first," Connie said. "The longer we talked, the more I realized that he knew quite a bit about the family -- at least the little snippets I remember my folks talking about."

  "Did he want anything from you?"

  "No. Not really," Connie said. "Just to talk, I guess. He's an only child, like me, and his parents are both dead. His mother just died, so I think he was probably lonely for family."

  "He married? Kids?"

  "He didn't say. He's involved in some kind of organization that works with disadvantaged children."

  "Disadvantaged how?" Paul asked.

  "From what he said, kids that are growing up like I did."

  "Interesting. How did you two leave it? Plans for future contact? You going to try to get together?"

  She shrugged. "I don't think so. We swapped email addresses and he gave me his phone number, but once we got through the family stuff, the conversation kind of fizzled out. There's not much common ground."

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching the seagulls swooping down on bits of trash floating out in the harbor. Connie shook her head, as if clearing away mental cobwebs. "Did you get all the provisions stowed?"

  "Yes," Paul said, "but we could stand a stop in Bequia for a visit to Gloria's Gourmet Market. This isn't exactly the spot to stock up on fancy snacks."

  "Fancy snacks?"

  "The questionnaire the Lewises filled out said they'd be wanting to host cocktail parties with heavy hors d'oeuvres from time to time," Paul said. "I'm okay for a couple of gatherings for half a dozen people, but ... "

  "This charter sounds unusual," Connie said. "Elaine said they were looking to use Diamantista II for entertaining a few select clients up and down the islands, right?"

  "Right," Paul said. "I wonder what kind of clients. This doesn't sound like a vacation for them."

  "I suppose we'll find out when they show up tomorrow. The money's good, anyway," Connie said. Elaine, their charter broker, had suggested a 30-percent surcharge to cover taking the charterers' guests on the occasional day trip and for catering on-board parties.

  "Wonder who they're planning to invite aboard?" Paul asked. "I'm not completely comfortable with this one."

  "Too late to back out now, cookie."

  "Aye, skipper. I'm sure it'll be fine. But you know my suspicious nature."

  ****

  William O'Toole leaned back in the soft leather swivel chair and put his feet on the antique mahogany desk. He cradled his notebook computer in his lap as he studied the spreadsheet on the screen. Sales in the southeastern U.S. were off for the second week in a row; he was troubled by that.

  Demand wasn't declining; that, he knew. Addiction was steadily increasing across the country, as were sales of various illegal substances. "Except down there," he muttered. "There's somebody new in the business, but who?"

  Business was business, whether legal or not. He had a steady stream of product going into the southeast, and junkies were a growing tribe. That meant one of two things: somebody was skimming, or he had a competitor encroaching on his turf.

  Either was possible, but the second was more likely, to his thinking. Economic barriers to entry in the drug trade were low these days. With product so easy to get, anybody could turn an investment of a few thousand dollars into a fortune in a matter of weeks.

  Given a little luck and a few friends, a street punk could become a millionaire. But they were bottom feeders. Punks didn't have the skills or the discipline to give O'Toole serious competition.

  Whoever was cutting into his business knew what they were doing. The impact wasn't confined to a city or two. Sales were down across the whole region. That required a sizable organization, and based on the speed with which the share erosion happened, a mature organization. "Who?" he muttered.

  O'Toole was a businessman. The drug trade was just one of his many interests, and he ran it the same way he ran the other components of his multibillion-dollar empire. Hotels, resorts, casinos, illegal gambling, prostitution, drugs, freight lines: they were all the same to him. He was a portfolio manager; he had teams of Ivy League MBAs running things day-to-day.

  When he'd made his move into this business several years ago, he had taken the time to identify the biggest and best-run parts of the mob. He avoided the hotshots and the cowboys, focusing on people who thought like he did -- the second and third generation mobsters, the ones with law degrees or MBAs.

  He'd nurtured relationships with the brightest, using his unique strengths to complement their hereditary ruthlessness. Over time, he and his partners had come to dominate what he thought of as the extra-legal markets. He played by his own rules, but he was careful to always add value to each partnership, favoring the carrot over the stick.

  He knew that the lower levels in the hierarchy still clung to the old ways. Violence, fear, and intimidation had their place in business, just as they did in government. But O'To
ole was as remote from that as the President was from what went on in the black sites that were part of the war on terrorism.

  It was time to pass a signal down the chain of command, time to stimulate those lower levels a bit. But that would have to wait. He had a pressing matter to take care of, first. He glanced at his watch, wondering what the holdup was. It was time for the call he'd been expecting.

  He closed the laptop and set it on his desk. He'd get to that problem later. He took a deep breath, composing himself, getting ready.

  The phone on his credenza chimed -- the intercom line from his secretary. He swung the big chair around, lowering his feet to the thickly carpeted floor. Tapping a button on the telephone, he said, "Yes, Mandy?"

  "Sorry to interrupt, Senator, but it's your call from the White House."

  ****

  "I still say you should take them," Frank Lewis said, watching his wife struggling with whether to pack her diamond earrings.

  "You think we're gonna get dressed up?" Kathy asked. "I thought the islands were pretty laid back."

  "Yeah, laid back is right. But money still talks. We gotta act the part, damn it."

  "But I'm not even taking a cocktail dress. You said -- "

  "I know what I said. No formal clothes. But we still gotta dress up when we're entertaining. Just what we wear is different. That's all."

  "Where you gettin' this, anyway? You never been there."

  "I celled with a guy from St. Vincent up at Reidsville, Kathy."

  "Yeah? If he was so smart, how come he was in the pen?"

  "Shit happens. You know that. I was in the pen."

  "Yeah, that's right. See what I'm sayin'?"

  "Keep it up, woman. You're gonna keep on 'til you make me angry." Frank took a deep breath and willed himself to relax, like the counselor taught him. He exhaled slowly for a ten-count, his fists clenched. After he let the last of the breath out, he relaxed his hands and shook out his arms, loosening up.

  "You think that yoga stuff's gonna make me feel different?" Kathy asked.

  "It's going to make me feel different, Dr. Lewis. How you feel is up to you."

  "Why are you callin' me Doctor, all of a sudden?"

  "We need to get back in character, Kathy. Play our roles."

  "Not 'til tomorrow," she protested.

  "As soon as we step out the door, you need to be Dr. Katherine Lewis, from the London School of Economics, and me, I'm Frank Lewis, Harvard Law, class of 2000. You never know who we might run into."

  "But it's such a pain, always saying and doing the right things. It gives me a headache, Frank."

  "Me, too. But it gets easier, remember. Especially if we don't let our hair down like we have for the last few days."

  "I know, but I really needed this break. We've been behaving ourselves for months, now."

  "It pays well, Kathy. Just stay focused on the payoff. Another couple of years, and we can behave any way we want."

  "Right. I know you're right, Frank. We've really come a long way, haven't we?"

  "We have. With what we've got in the account, we can keep this thing rolling for several months without any new investors. Once we get ourselves a dozen directors in place, we'll let them bring in the new money for a few months and then we'll cash out. We'll be long gone by the time it all comes undone."

  "How long do we have the boat for, again?"

  "Two weeks, with an option to extend for two more. Basically, it's ours for a month, at least. Why?"

  "I was just wondering how long we have to live in close quarters with that couple. That's going to be stressful, don't you think? Keeping our guard up all the time for that long?"

  "We can do it. We've been doing it for a year, now. Just keep reminding yourself what's riding on it. Besides, they're like our servants, kind of."

  "Yes, sir. If I don't take a cocktail dress, what do I need the diamond earrings for?"

  "Sunbathing. Just the earrings and that red string bikini you're wearing. Let's see how you look. Nothing says rich like wearing diamond earrings with nothing else."

  "Nothing else?"

  "Well, almost. When that bikini's soaking wet ... " He reached for her, grabbing at the bows that held the bottoms around her hips.

  She giggled and twisted away from him before he could hook a finger in the bikini bottoms. "Behave, counselor. Let me finish packing, at least. If you're taking that linen jacket, I think I'd better take a white cocktail dress, just in case." She folded the dress into her suitcase and turned to the mirror on the hotel dresser, putting on the earrings.

  "Whatever you say, Doctor." He rolled over, facing away from her. "Hurry up and finish packing. It's time to get to sleep; we've got an early flight."

  "Sleep?" She said, pouting, her voice husky. "We need to talk."

  "Talk?" He yawned.

  "About my ass," she said, tugging at the bow with one hand as she closed the suitcase with the other.

  Chapter 2

  Joe Torres clicked the remote control lock release and opened the driver's door of his black Mercedes S550. He didn't notice the two men until he slipped behind the wheel, and then it was too late. They were already in the back seat.

  "The fuck you assholes want?" Torres growled, recognizing Dick Kilgore and Cary Horton. Kilgore was Pinkie Schultz's enforcer; Horton was his business manager. Torres was reaching for the glove compartment when he felt the cold muzzle of a pistol touch the back of his neck.

  "Easy, Joe," the man on the right side of the back seat said. "No trouble. We just need to talk. Don't do anything to make Kilgore nervous, okay?"

  "Yeah, okay."

  "Good. Start the car and drive."

  Torres turned the key and the big engine purred to life. "Where we goin'?"

  "It doesn't matter. Just get on the Interstate and head north."

  "Whatever you say," Torres said, pulling away from the curb. He was relieved when the man behind him lowered the gun.

  "Good," the man on the right said. "You just drive nice and smooth; stay with the traffic while we talk. Keep both hands on the wheel, and everything'll be just fine."

  Torres accelerated up the ramp onto I-95, headed toward Fort Lauderdale, his eyes flicking nervously to the rearview mirror to see what his passengers were up to.

  As he edged the car into the northbound traffic, the man doing the talking said, "Relax, Joe. Nothing bad's going to happen. We just have a few questions from Pinkie."

  Torres made eye contact with him in the mirror and nodded. "Okay, man. Whatever."

  "We're wondering about the next order, Joe."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. That's why we're here."

  "I don't get it. What about the next order? I ain't called it in yet."

  "That's it. It's past time."

  "Huh? I don't -- "

  "You've been cool so far, Joe. Don't go acting stupid now."

  Torres looked up at the man's reflection again. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second and said, "Things kinda tightened up."

  "Tightened up?"

  "Business is slow right now; maybe it's the cops on the -- "

  "Don't do this, Joe," the man said.

  "Do what? I -- "

  "Don't start lying to us, Joe. You've had a good relationship with Pinkie; he trusts you. Don't do anything to change that. You remember Sam?"

  "Sam the Barber?" Joe asked, swallowing hard. "I thought he retired to Central America somewhere."

  The men in the back seat laughed. "You do remember him. He's come out of retirement; he says he got bored. You don't want to lose the boss's trust, Joe. He might send Sam around to give you a little shave. You need a shave?"

  "N-no. I just -- "

  "We know you're still moving the same amount of product through your street people, Joe. But you're buying somewhere else, aren't you?"

  "I was jammed up; they offered me terms, let me pay after I turned the shit over, you know?"

  "They offered you terms? After all this time, y
ou got jammed up and you turned to strangers for help instead of coming to your friends? Joe, Joe ... "

  "it was just the once, okay? Too good a deal to pass up. It's business, right?"

  "I don't know, Joe. Once the trust is broken, it can be hard to go back. These new people, are they going to be able to keep you afloat? Can they cover your back?"

  "I don't want to change suppliers. It's just ... "

  "Just what, Joe?"

  "Look, what's it gonna take to fix this?"

  "That's what we want to hear, Joe. What do you think? Like you said, it's business."

  "Money?" Joe asked, making eye contact in the mirror.

  The man nodded. "Money will help."

  "How much?"

  "We lost a week's worth of business. Say a million?"

  "But only the profit, right? Not the whole -- "

  "We're only talking about the profit, Joe. You got a problem with a million? We could arrange a loan, maybe."

  "How much? For the loan?"

  "It's business, Joe. The vig would be 25 percent, like always."

  Joe swallowed hard. "Maybe I can scrape together a million."

  "But it's already two weeks late, Joe. Plus, there's our expense, coming out here to track you down. A mill and a half, say."

  "Look, I can do a million, but that taps me out."

  "It's business, Joe. A mill and a half. Maybe I can get Pinkie to give you a couple of days for old-time's sake. Say day after tomorrow."

  "I ... there's no way I can put that together. How about the vig? To stay current?"

  "Half a mill."

  "Half a million?" Joe said, his voice squeaky.

  "That's two weeks vig at simple interest -- no compounding, yet. Even though you're late. How's that for fair?"

  "Uh, what about, um ... "

  "What, Joe?"

  "The penalty? For being late."

  "You know the penalty, Joe. Pinkie can't go easy on you. People would take advantage. It's just business. And Sam likes you. He probably won't make you put too much skin in the game." The man laughed at that. "That's a joke, Joe. You get it? Sam and his razor? Skin in the game?"