3 Crystal Blue Read online

  “As a matter of fact, he was. If you can retrieve my personal effects, you’ll see a letter from the United States Federal Aviation Administration providing me with authority to land my plane in USVI waters. There’s another letter, from the Special Agent in Charge of the South East Region and Caribbean Basin for the FBI to Commissioner Mather, respectfully requesting the same consideration be provided by the British Virgin—”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Officer Bramble!”

  I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking from Bramble to the magistrate.

  “This request is to assist both the U.S. and Royal Virgin Islands Police Force efforts to locate missing and kidnapped United States citizens,” I said in the lowest voice I could muster.

  Piling it deep now, I had to bite my lip to keep a straight face.

  “I will speak with Commissioner Mather myself, Mr. Reilly,” the magistrate said. “You can assume your request will be granted—”

  “Aboard that piece of junk airplane?”

  “Not another word from you, Officer Bramble. Last warning. Mr. Reilly, is there a number where Commissioner Mather can reach you if he has any questions?”

  I gave him my number, and just to turn the knife one more time recited Booth’s number too. The magistrate led the three of us out of the cell, Bramble shaking his head but finally silent.

  What had been one of the worst, most frustrating nights of my life had turned into one of the most enjoyable mornings in recent history. Not that I had time to gloat. I collected my possessions, got my passport stamped, and allowed the magistrate to make copies of the two letters, which he then scrambled off to present to Commissioner Mather after apologizing yet again.

  I tried to bolt for the door, but Bramble blocked my path.

  “A lot of people getting hurt in your islands. All the trash getting swept up.”

  After the battle we’d just had in the cell, his smile stopped me in my tracks.

  “That make you happy?” I said.

  He bit his lip as if he was trying to hold something back—then winked at me and sauntered away. Whistling.

  What the hell?

  THE HEAT HIT ME in the face like a sucker punch. I squinted into the sun and felt like I was in a kiln. Outside, policemen were coming and going, chit-chatting and loitering, none in a hurry. I doubted they felt any urgency to find Stud Mahoney and assumed John Thedford wasn’t on their radar at all.

  My cell phone came to life when I thumbed the power button.

  Ten missed calls. Crystal had called six times, Ray—

  “Mr. Reilly, can I speak with you?”

  I recognized Zachary Ober’s voice, but had yet to seen him in person. He was dressed in a uniform, had a gold tooth in the center of his smile, and tight-cropped hair. Tall and lanky, he reminded me of Kobe Bryant. I spotted his ambulance at the end of the lot.

  “Did you wait out here all night? And remember, it’s Buck.”

  “I called that number you gave me, okay? Agent Booth never answered.”

  “Then how—”

  “I called Michael Bush, the magistrate who was just here. He’s my girlfriend’s uncle.”

  “You got me out?”

  “I just let him know you were here and that you were either with the FBI or helping them.” He winked and the gold tooth caught the sunlight.

  Wow.

  “Thanks, Zach. Can you give me a ride to the airport in that thing so we can talk? I’m way behind schedule.”

  “Sorry, Buck, no rides allowed. I could lose my job.” He pursed his lips, crossed his arms. “I know my father ripped you off. He was a thief. I’m sorry. But he wasn’t totally lying. There is a treasure out there—”

  “Zach…how can I put this? I’m really not equipped to mount a salvage operation these days. I told you, I’m broke. Bankrupt. e-Antiquity is history, okay? Again, I’m grateful for your help, but I need to get caught up on this Adoption AID concert—”

  “The one on Jost Van Dyke?”

  “Yeah, you know about it?”

  “I’ll be there working, in case anyone gets injured,” he said. “But I’m kind of interested in the subject anyway.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I was adopted by my father. His sister was my mother, but she never cared for me, so he raised me.” Zach’s voice dropped. “He may have been an immoral man when it came to being a thief, but he was a caring man too.”

  His words tugged at my heart.

  “I need to get to my plane, Zach, so let’s walk out to the road and I’ll try to hail a taxi—but keep talking.”

  “Long time ago, in the early 1800’s, there was a big riot on-island when a rich plantation owner killed one of his slaves—man named Prosper.”

  I looked both ways up and down the road. Deserted.

  “Why’d he kill him?”

  “They said it was because he let a mango fall off the tree and hit the ground. Word spread through the West Indies and slaves began to rebel, give their owners big trouble, so the court did what had never been done before. They convicted the plantation owner—hung Arthur Hodge right over there behind where the jail stands today.”

  Zach was pointing over to the field where the goats grazed in tall grass. Something about the story stirred a memory, but I couldn’t nail it.

  “It was a big step in the move toward emancipation here in the islands,” he said.

  “Convicting a plantation owner for killing a man over a fallen mango?”

  “That was the official story.” The gold tooth again glistened. “Prosper was a distant relative of ours, great-great-great uncle. One of his women, well, down the road she told the truth behind the murder.”

  If I hadn’t already been hooked, the mischief on his face would have done it.

  “Mr. Hodge’s plantation made rum, and he was a rich, rich man. He was also a miser who didn’t pay his expenses, didn’t trust nobody, and treated his slaves real bad—had as many babies by the females as he could because he was too cheap to pay for slave labor. Everybody hated him.” He smiled again. “Old Hodge hid all his gold in rum barrels, and the story was that Prosper found the gold and stole it.”

  My old treasure-hunting instincts fired right up. This was an entirely different story from the one Zach’s dad had told me when he sold me the map. And this kid oozed sincerity.

  “Keep going,” I said.

  “So Prosper, before he got killed, drew a map showing where he buried that gold on the old plantation estate.”

  I held a palm up. “Look, I don’t have the money to buy any more maps.”

  “I’m not selling any, Buck.”

  His smile was either the best con I’d ever seen or the real deal.

  “Story goes that the old barrels—”

  “Barrels?”

  “—were filled to the top with gold coins.” He paused. “Right, three fifty-gallon barrels.”

  My mouth hung open while I tried to do the math—

  “The gold’s in a place where I can’t get to it, but you, with your reputation as an international archeologist—”

  “That kills it,” I said. “The only doors my reputation open these days are jail cells, trust me.”

  “But you could advise me on how to get onto the Hodge estate!”

  Hodge. That’s what I recognized.

  “Do you know a guy named Valentine Hodge?” I said. “Old guy, drives a taxi?”

  “Sure, I know him.” His face had turned serious. “He’s a relative of Arthur Hodge, the plantation owner.”

  “Valentine’s black—”

  I stopped, remembering what Zach had said about Arthur Hodge and his female slaves.

  Zach watched the penny drop, then said, “He’s a distant relative.”

  Valentine was an old friend from back when I spent time down here on e-Antiquity business. He used to drive me everywhere. Even better, Zach had his phone number. When I called he said he’d be happy to come pick me up. When
I said I’d been at the jail, he laughed and said he wasn’t surprised. Nothing like old friends to keep you humble.

  “Listen, Zach, your story’s intriguing,” I said. “Maybe when I’m done helping with the concert we can talk more about it, but I’m up to my neck in this situation right now.”

  His eyes dropped to the pavement.

  “The concert promoter disappeared—last seen on a red Cigarette boat out of Scrub Island or Marina Cay owned by a guy known as Baldy Baldwin.” I paused. “Ever heard of him?”

  “No, but I can ask around.”

  I gave him my cell phone number just as Valentine pulled up.

  “Please don’t mention the gold to him, Buck.”

  “I understand. Don’t worry. And call me if you get a line on Baldwin.”

  “I’ll see you at the concert, and we’ll talk afterwards,” he said.

  “Right.”

  The maybe-con artist, the drug smuggler, and the arms merchant. I should flip a coin to see who’s likeliest to get me killed.

  “KING CHARLES! BACK ON-ISLAND, back in jail.” Valentine Hodge’s bright smile lit up the dark interior of his old Ford Crown Victoria.

  “Seems I get arrested wherever I go.”

  Valentine let out a deep laugh.

  “You know what they say, karma’s a bitch.”

  We caught up. I was surprised to hear he now had four great-grandchildren.

  “So why was you in jail?” he said.

  “That old son-of-a-bitch Bramble’s still got a grudge against me—at least that’s what I thought it was, but… do you know him? Is he on the up and up?”

  “Don’t really know him but I could ask around.”

  Valentine drove, not too slow, not too fast, just steady and straight. I’d forgotten how old he was, but he still looked good. I told him about the Adoption AID mess and the disappearances, neither of which were news to him.

  “Do you know a guy named Baldwin from Marina Cay, drives a fancy red Cigarette boat?”

  “Baldy? Shoot, Buck, he’s one of my nephews. I got thirty-seven nieces and nephews now. He in some kinda trouble—again?”

  I swallowed. “I’m not sure, but he was paid to snatch John Thedford on St. John and apparently delivered him to somebody who’s been trying to put a stop to this concert.”

  Valentine shrugged. “That sounds like Baldy. His father weren’t no better. Always looking to make fast money. I seen that red boat of his and knew it was only a matter of time till he got himself arrested for something.”

  “I’d like to talk to him, find out who hired him and if he has any idea if—where Thedford is.”

  “I can find out where Baldy is. Can’t promise he’ll tell you squat, though.”

  As we passed over the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge onto Beef Island and the airport, Valentine whistled.

  “Tell me you ain’t flying that plane there, are you?” He pointed toward the Beast. “Land that thing in the water, you’ll go right back to jail.”

  “The magistrate’s supposed to square it with Duncan Mather—”

  “Dunk’s my son-in-law, heck, I’ll call him myself.”

  I smiled for the first time since seeing Bramble’s expression when he thought I was FBI. Valentine pulled up in front of the airport terminal and I had my hand on the door handle, ready to jump.

  “What do I owe you for the ride?”

  “Forget it, man. Give me your phone number. Something tells me I’ll be seeing you again, real soon. I just hope it’s not back at the jail.” Again with the brilliant smile.

  “Me too, brother. Me too.”

  THE BEAST ROARED DOWN the runway headed due east. Rather than pulling back on the stick to gain altitude, I kept low and headed straight to Marina Cay, then banked to starboard over Scrub Island. I spied the fuel dock and marina. I kicked down on the pedals and banked to port, which spun the Beast on its wing, a few hundred feet over the big Marriott and private villas behind it.

  No red boat. Damn!

  Would Baldy agree to talk to me, or just disappear?

  We gained altitude and banked south. I had a lot of people to catch up with and only moments of flight time to Peter Island. I removed my headset and grabbed the cell phone.

  “Buck, where’ve you been? I’ve been worried sick!”

  “Sorry, Crystal. I was arrested at Customs on Tortola—”

  “Arrested!? Why, what happened?”

  ”Old e-Antiquity loose end. No valid charge so they let me go this morning with a gazillion apologies. I’m headed over to Peter Island now. Is Avery Rose still there?”

  “Yes, she said she’d wait for you. But, Buck?” Her voice dropped. “There’s been more bad news. Stud Mahoney’s kidnappers have raised their stakes, again. And they mentioned John this time.”

  Uh-oh.

  “What did they say, and how was it relayed?”

  “They called one of the networks, CNN, I think. They were furious their demands hadn’t been met. They increased the number of prisoners they wanted released from Guantanamo and raised the ransom to two million dollars for Stud—”

  Her voice broke. I wished I could see her face, but she sure sounded cut up.

  “What about John?”

  “They said he would…die…if the show…wasn’t cancelled,” she said between sobs. “The show’s… tomorrow night. “Everyone’s here—”

  “So the same people that have Stud also have John?”

  It took her a few moments of whuffling before she could speak.

  “I assume so.”

  “Did they make the demands at the same time to CNN?”

  “Oh, no, the man called me again on my phone about John, right after the broadcast. They have to be connected, don’t you think?”

  The mystery within the mystery, I wanted to say.

  “What about the police, they given you any updates?”

  “A senior agent from the FBI was here to ask questions. He wasn’t very friendly.”

  Booth. Investigating his theory about Crystal.

  “How did that go?”

  “He asked a lot of questions about the phone calls, then he wanted to know about our marriage, whether John was faithful… whether I was….” She was sobbing again.

  “Did he have any news or updates at all?”

  It took a moment for her to catch her breath.

  “Only that they had all law officers mobilized in both the USVI and BVI. He asked a lot more questions about Stud, but…”

  My knuckles were white on the wheel. I waited, but she was done with the news.

  I said I’d be there after I collected Avery Rose, then we disconnected. I’d been played for a fool before, and while I had a hard time believing she was involved, I had to face the fact that she could be. If she was innocent, Crystal was damned if she cancelled the show and damned if she didn’t. Would John Thedford really be released, either way? What if he was already dead? What if Baldy’s job was to throw him into Pillsbury Sound, not to transfer him?

  What if Booth was right?

  Peter Island grew larger ahead of me. Avery Rose wasn’t the only reason I was headed here, but for now I had another call to make.

  “So you managed to get out of jail?”

  “No thanks to you, Booth. Didn’t you get my call from Customs?”

  “I did, but you’re off the case. I can’t afford the negative baggage that follows you like a caboose.”

  I hesitated. “Fine with me—”

  “I’m disconnecting the phone and cancelling the credit card.” He paused and I glanced at the fuel gauges. They were half-full. “And no more water landings. I’m telling the FAA to revoke your privileges.”

  “What the hell? I still have a job—”

  “Not for me you don’t.”

  Good thing there was little air traffic as I sat there with my mouth agape. What crawled up his ass?

  “But I found the name of the guy with the red Cigarette boat—”

  “There is no
red boat, Reilly—I said you were done! I don’t want to hear—”

  “What, my leads? What the hell’s with you?”

  I could hear him gnashing his teeth.

  “Damn gang war. People disappearing, getting killed—”

  “What’s that have to do with me?”

  “No more questions. Like I said, you’re through.”

  The line went dead.

  Already well past Peter Island, I initiated a long slow turn to the west, then scanned the horizon for planes and the water for boats. I had to get my breathing under control.

  Now what?

  Since Peter Island was private and didn’t welcome boaters, there was little traffic. I spotted a long beach on the northwest coast, the water a deep blue that faded quickly to turquoise close to the beach.

  With my headset back on, I flinched at the scream in my ears.

  “Grumman Goose, Grumman Goose, return to St. Thomas approach, Grumman Goose, do you read me?”

  I pulled the headset back off. Damn.

  Was I about to commit yet another offense that would put me back in jail?

  One last look around. No boats, private or police.

  I smiled.

  They’d have to catch me first.

  THE BEAST SPLASHED DOWN with authority into the mild chop. As much as I missed Betty, I once again appreciated what a couple thousand extra pounds will do for stability.

  I feathered the props and alternated throttles between the two engines to aim us toward the channel markers that led to the beach. The wings see-sawed, and each float alternately skimmed off the surf, but once my course was set the Beast sliced through the water like the regal old yacht she was at her core. People had emerged from villas, the restaurant, and cabanas on the beach to watch us approach.

  Since Peter Island was private, there shouldn’t be any BVI police here to arrest me for making a water landing. Of course, there could always be an over-zealous security chief looking to make points with Roadtown. Even if the magistrate or Valentine Hodge had spoken to Duncan Mather, I had no signed piece of paper from them, and thanks to Booth the one I had from the FAA was no longer valid.

  Once through the channel markers, the water color abruptly turned lighter, so I pulled back on the throttles. The draft on the Beast was about three feet, and I couldn’t take any chances with her recently patched hull. Seventy-five feet or so from shore, I manipulated the throttles to spin halfway around to face into the current and reduced the power to almost nothing. I unbuckled my seatbelt, sprang from the left seat, hunched down into the crawl space—