Rising Force Page 6

  “I’m only looking for my girlfriend,” I replied. There, I’d said it. I wanted Savannah, and not just because I might be the father of her daughter.

  “Den all dat we want is for yuh to find her and leave di Bahamas.”

  “Are you kicking me out of the country?” I asked, incredulously.

  “No, Cap’n. But if dere is anything dat we can do to facilitate yuh departure, we will be more dan glad to help.”

  I doubted he could help with locating Savannah. At least not until her six-month cruising permit expired and she had to renew. She might even have left the country already. But if she hadn’t, he could lie and say she had, just to get me to leave.

  “I’ll be leaving Nassau in the morning,” I said. “From here, I’m going to Chub Cay to continue my search. After that, I don’t know.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then grinned. “I hope yuh find what it is yuh looking for, Cap’n.”

  Bingham left just as Finn came trotting back. I waited until the man disappeared beyond the marina office, then went down into the boat, Finn right behind me.

  Getting my laptop out, I powered it up and waited for it to make all the connections. While it did, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper Tony had given me. I flattened it out on the dinette table and looked at the container number. I was curious and had at least a couple of hours to kill.

  I quickly learned that the first three letters designated who owned the container, and the fourth letter determined what kind of container it was. The one we’d found had a U for the fourth letter, so it was a utility container, for general, unrefrigerated commodities. It was owned by one of the larger international shipping companies in the world.

  After the letters were seven numbers, the last one with a box around it. That last one was a sort of mathematical check to validate the rest of the number code.

  Running a search for the container number itself resulted in nothing at all. I found a website that would submit the number to the owner for tracking. Entering the number, it asked for my shipping authorization. Dead end. I put the container number in an email to Chyrel and asked if she could find any information on it. As an afterthought, I asked her if she knew of any reason an internet search of my name would set off an alarm somewhere.

  Rising, I went over to the fridge for a bottle of water. The computer pinged an incoming message. It was from Chyrel.

  Already ran that for T. Current shipping info for that container says it was primarily marine electronics; GPS units, radios, radar and sonar equipment, and other stuff. The ship left Taiwan on Nov 18, with stops in Cartagena and Caracas, before its final stop in Charleston. The container was lost at sea in a storm, one day after leaving Caracas, on Dec 28. The destination for that container was the Port of Charleston, then by truck to a business in North Charleston called Tropix Electronics, owned by Joel Mendoza. I checked and Bahamian authorities identified the body in the container as his. I’ll let you know if I find anything on the other question. –C

  So, the container had only been in the water for eight days, not the ten to twelve that Bingham’s lab had reported. Obviously, the body had been added to the shipment in Caracas, since Bingham had said the guy died only a day or so before the thing went in the drink. Caracas is one of the most violent cities in the world and a hub for shipping South American cocaine to the States and around the world.

  Running a search for the dead man’s business didn’t throw up any definite red flags. It was a marine electronics wholesaler, selling equipment to the hundreds of boat dealers in the Southeast.

  The owner was a Venezuelan-born immigrant who came to the States sixteen years ago at the age of twenty-four. He’d apparently arrived with enough money to go into business right away, or he had financial backing. Joel Mendoza did well, his business seemed to have thrived, and seven years later he’d married an American woman, giving him full citizenship.

  Sidney Clark Mendoza was from a prominent family in Charleston, South Carolina and was nine years younger than her husband. The couple had two children: a boy of seven and a three-year-old girl.

  I spent the next two hours packing while I considered what I’d learned. I wasn’t taking everything; I’d been moving stuff aboard the Revenge for over two years, though not much. I’m sort of a minimalist, buying only the things I need. Going through my meager dresser, I put all my clothes in the bottom of the same seabag I’d been issued in boot camp, nearly thirty years earlier. They didn’t even fill half of it. The smell of the canvas seabag brought back old memories—days of camaraderie and adventure, challenges, and victories.

  He was a smuggler, I thought, while going through the drawers. I didn’t know a whole lot about the marine electronics business, except that everything I’d bought for my boats had always been expensive. The photos I’d seen of Mendoza and his wife seemed to have them living an opulent lifestyle, at the very least. Did he earn that from his business?

  And just why in the hell was I so interested? True, I’m a naturally curious person; as a kid, I loved puzzles and riddles. Pap had a million riddles and never gave me the answers. I could ask questions, and sometimes did so for weeks, until I’d solved his riddle. But there was something about the way Bingham had described where the body was located that bothered me. He’d been tied to a frame just inside the container, so that his body would be displayed when someone opened the doors. The Colombian necktie was a clear message to whomever that was. Mendoza, or maybe the person who found his body, had said something that he shouldn’t have.

  On top of my clothes, I placed a few mementos that hung on the bulkhead in my cabin; a couple of framed pictures of me with my folks from when I was a kid, a slightly older me with my grandparents on the day I graduated high school, and me with the president, when he came down to the Keys for a little fishing.

  Kneeling at the foot of my bed, I punched in the code on the electronic lock’s touchpad and raised the bunk. I then added three Penn fishing reel boxes to the half-full seabag. Opening a fourth one, I took out four thousand dollars in American currency, shoving the bundles into both cargo pockets of my pants. Then I closed the box and put it in the bag as well. Reaching under the bunk, I removed a flyrod case, placing it beside the seabag. Then I closed the bunk storage compartment and carried the seabag and case up to the salon.

  Taking a break, I went to the marina office to pay for a second slip for tonight, right next to the Revenge, explaining that a friend would be coming to pick up my Rampage, as I was moving aboard a ketch.

  “Di boat dat belonged to di young Cap’n dat was killed last week?” the dockmaster asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied, unsurprised that he knew why I was here. “I’m taking it back to the States,” I lied.

  “Dat was a shame. I met di mon only once, but I could tell by di way he kept his boat dat he was a good mon.”

  When I got back to the Revenge, I called Deuce’s office. Julie picked up on the first ring. “Are you ever planning to come home?” she asked, instead of the typical hello.

  “One of these days,” I said. “Why? Can’t your husband get anything done without me?”

  “Funny, Uncle Jesse,” she said. “Actually, everything here’s going very smoothly in your absence. But we all miss you. Any leads?”

  I assumed everyone now knew that I was traipsing around the Bahamas like a love-sick puppy.

  “Charity was with her New Year’s Day,” I said.

  “Sorry to hear about Victor. How’s Charity handling it?”

  I thought about that a moment. “Better than you’d think. She has a mission.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “I guess you could call it a humanitarian mission. Anyway, Savannah was reported to be leaving High Cay early the following morning, four days ago, heading across the banks toward Chub Cay.”

  “So, what can
Livingston and McDermitt Security do for you?”

  “Is Andrew free for a day?”

  “You bought it?” Julie asked, hardly concealing her excitement.

  She and Deuce had moved aboard a forty-two-foot Whitby ketch when they got married. They both loved the boat, and even with a son on the way, they had no plans of moving ashore. Unlike a lot of dock queens, the James Caird had put a lot of water under her keel since Deuce and Julie got married about two years ago.

  “She wouldn’t let me say no,” I replied. “Besides, it’ll blend in with the rich, old yachties a lot better than the Revenge.”

  “Ha!” she exclaimed. “A lot more twenty-something, blue-collar types live on boats than you’d think.”

  “That’s what I’m finding out.”

  “Andrew just left, but I can have him on the first flight out in the morning. It’ll be noon or later before he can get there. He’ll have to spend the night and leave on Wednesday.”

  “Thanks, Jules. Tell him the key will be with the dockmaster.”

  “Good luck, Jesse,” she said. “I hope you find them.”

  Saying goodbye, I ended the call, then finished packing some things from the galley. About an hour before sunset, I went back up to the marina office to pay for another night for the Revenge, so Andrew wouldn’t have to pay it.

  Just as I was about to enter the office, I heard a big diesel from across the street. If you’ve hung around some of the larger marinas, the sound of a Travelift is pretty familiar. They’re giant machines, with four wheels at the ends of long struts, enabling it to straddle a large boat.

  Turning around, I went out to the street. The big mobile boat hoist was moving into position across the street, towering over all but the tallest masts. Several workers threw large cradle straps under Salty Dog’s keel, then went around to the other side to connect the ends to the massive block pulleys.

  Slowly, the cables on both sides raised the blocks, which then lifted the big ketch like it was just a toy, hanging free on the straps. I watched as the larger main gate retracted and the Travelift moved toward it at a very slow crawl. The workers went out into the street to stop traffic, but there weren’t any cars, so they just stood in the street and waited for the crawler to get across.

  A few minutes later, the boat hoist moved out onto two narrow concrete docks, spaced as far apart as the gantry’s wheels. Once in position at the ends of the piers, it slowly lowered Salty Dog into deep water next to the marina.

  I went back inside the office and paid for another night, leaving the spare keys with the man, and telling him that a friend by the name of Andrew Bourke would arrive in the morning to take my boat back home for me.

  Then I went out to where the Travelift was just driving off the dock. John Brown was there, helping two of his workers tie Salty Dog off to the work dock.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked, as he finished tying off a line to a rusty bollard.

  “Miss Fleming already paid for most of di work, Cap’n. Di total only came to five hundred more dan we figured, by adding di extra workers.”

  “Maybe Detective Bingham should pay for the extra labor,” I said. The surprise in his face was evident. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Not your fault.” I counted off twenty-five twenty-dollar-bills and handed them to the man.

  Brown took the money and shoved the bills into his pocket. “I am sorry, Cap’n. I just do what dey say.” He handed me an unsealed envelope. “Here is di receipt and itemized list of parts and services.”

  I peeled off five more bills and extended my hand to him. “I run a twin-engine powerboat and it’s been years since I maneuvered a sailboat. Can a couple of your guys meet me over on the other side of the marina to help me get her into a slip?”

  He took the offered tip, called to one of his workers, and told him what to do. Then he turned back to me and handed me a float with a key attached to it.

  “Will ya need help moving it over dere?”

  The Salty Dog’s bow was pointing out into the harbor. “No,” I replied. “Just when I get over to the slip. It’s the one next to my Rampage.”

  Looking past me, Brown let out a low whistle. “Dat is a fine machine, Cap’n.”

  He shook my hand, and I stepped aboard the big ketch. Starting the engine, I looked at the simple analog gauges on the pedestal. Oil pressure was good, and the ammeter showed that it was charging the batteries. I let it warm up for a minute while I untied the lines.

  When I pulled the ketch away from the work dock, I idled straight out into the harbor about a hundred yards. Not knowing how the boat would turn under power, I wanted plenty of room.

  Salty Dog turned easily as I spun the big wooden wheel. A conch shell lying on the deck rolled slightly against the bulkhead. Visibility over the bow was a lot less than I was used to on the Revenge, but better than a lot of sailboats I’d been on. Forward of the cockpit, the cabin roof of the pilothouse extended only two feet above the wide side decks and ended just before the mainmast. Forward of the mast, there were a pair of doghouse hatches, side-by-side and low to the deck. Other than that, there were the typical air intakes, white and standing a foot high, but mostly there was just a lot of open deck area. A wooden storage box was on either side, just forward of the main, both built to resemble the doghouses. A very clean and uncluttered deck.

  With help from Brown’s two workers, I managed to get the big ketch into the slip without incident. Once they left, I stepped across the short finger pier between Salty Dog and Gaspar’s Revenge, and opened the salon hatch.

  Finn came out into the cockpit and stood with his paws on the gunwale looking over at the sailboat. He was also curious by nature, and I had no doubt he saw me bringing the ketch in.

  “That’s our new home for a while,” I told him, as I ducked inside to grab my seabag and case. I placed them on the deck in the cockpit, then went back inside to get the boxes from the galley.

  When I came out, I locked the salon hatch and lifted my belongings up onto the dock. Finn was at Salty Dog’s bow, looking at the older boat. He turned toward me and cocked his head.

  “I agree, Bubba, it’s gonna take some getting used to.”

  I stepped up to the side deck and went aft to the cockpit. Finn jumped over onto the ketch and started sniffing around. Suddenly, I realized we were going to have a problem.

  If we were on the water for a long time on the Revenge and Finn needed to go, he could use the swim platform, though he was very uncomfortable doing it. Salty Dog had no swim platform. In fact, away from the dock, the boat had at least three feet of freeboard at the lowest point along the side deck.

  While Finn snooped around on the foredeck, I scratched my head, trying to come up with a solution.

  “Yuh didn’t say yuh had a dog, Cap’n.”

  I turned and saw John Brown approaching. “Yeah, we’ve been together almost a year,” I said. “But I just realized a dog on a sailboat presents a few challenges.”

  “I might have di fix for one,” he said. “But how dat big, yella dog gwon get up and down di companionway, I don’t know.”

  “A fix for what problem?” I asked.

  “To where di dog gwon do his business. We make something yuh might be interested in. Sort of a cat box for dogs dat fits into one of di showers.”

  “A litter box?”

  “It has a fine mesh with fake grass dat look and feel very real.”

  “Grass?” I asked.

  “Di pee go right through,” he said. “Just wash it down good. His poop yuh can just shovel into di commode or just spray it down till it breaks into pieces dat will go through di mesh. We redo di drain so it go into di black water tank.”

  “Does it work?”

  Brown chuckled. “Ya, mon. I live on a boat with two dogs. Dat’s how I got di idea. Come over to di shop, I show you.”

&nb
sp; Inviting him aboard, I went below, and Brown handed my gear down to me. Then we went to the forward head and he measured the shower.

  “Dat a big one,” Brown said, as we went back up to the cockpit. “I got just what yuh need, Cap’n.”

  I locked up, and Finn and I followed him across the street. He guided us around behind the big warehouse repair shop, to a spot where dozens of various sized boxes were stacked.

  Finn sniffed around the plants growing there. “No,” I told him, pointing to an overgrown area in the back of the yard. “Go on over there in the weeds.”

  Brown watched Finn trot away. “He a good dog, Cap’n. I guarantee dat he will like dis.”

  He went to the end of the row and measured the last two boxes. “Dis one,” he said, taking the one next to the end and handing it to me.

  It was hard, but lightweight. “Fiberglass?”

  “Yes, suh,” Brown said. “Di legs on di corners let it sit up above di shower floor, so a flex pipe can connect to di drain in di floor. Den we just go into di bilge and attach di shower drain to di black water pipe from di commode.”

  “How much?” I asked. “Installed. Tonight.”

  Brown smiled. “I can have two men carry one over right now. Dey will put it in and do di plumbing in less dan an hour, for five hundred.”

  As the sun slipped toward the horizon, I started exploring the boat. Starting on the foredeck, I opened the storage boxes. The port box held four fenders and a single folding deck chair. The one on the starboard side held the same, minus two fenders that were hanging over the side of the boat. I glanced toward the sun. It was only ten minutes or so from setting, so I pulled out a deck chair and unfolded it on the foredeck.

  After going down to the galley, I sat down in the folding chair with a beer for what had become my and Finn’s daily ritual. He seemed a bit confused and kept looking over at the Revenge. Finally, he lay down beside me on the deck, forelegs crossed, head up, and looking around.