Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) Read online

“Can you tell me what Jack’s up to?”

  Harry frowned. “Picking up where you boys left off, I’m afraid. But no more public company, no more newspaper coverage, and limited investors.”

  “Is that what he wanted from you? Money?”

  “Of course. And, dare I say, respectability. As I mentioned, Jack’s like a sharpened razor now and his focus is precise. He claimed not to need much money, but a select investor with contacts like mine would be advantageous. He also claims to have copies of all the old research materials that e-Antiquity had yet to pursue.”

  The air whooshed out of my lungs. If Jack had the same maps and information I did—and if Harry was funding him …

  Harry handed me a piece of stationary with Atlas’s address and phone number printed on it. He lived in Palm Beach.

  “He’s expecting you tomorrow morning at nine. And I’m sorry, dear boy, but my next appointment will arrive at any moment. Please give Lou my regards—and of course keep me apprised.”

  Had I said yes?

  “Just tell me what Jack’s going after, Harry. Please.”

  He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin.

  “The wreck of the Concepcíon.”

  I felt my eyes bug open. “Hispaniola or Saipan?” There were two famous Spanish galleons named Concepcíon that had sunk three years and nearly 10,000 miles apart.

  Harry frowned. “Hispaniola, dear boy.” A vision of my future suddenly crystallized. Using copies of the same maps I had, Jack would pick off the treasures one by one, dooming me to eternal poverty. My hesitation to pursue those treasures had been based on fear of failure—or maybe of success—but either way, the luxury of hesitance had just vanished.

  “Back me, Harry.”

  He squinted. “What’s that, Buck?”

  “Forget Jack. Back me to pursue the treasures—I have the same maps, the originals, and I—”

  Harry held up both his palms, and I pressed my lips together. My heart raced. What was I saying?

  “I need you to help Lou Atlas get answers about his nephew.”

  “But I—”

  “If that goes well, we can discuss your proposition.” Harry checked his watch.

  I headed back into the lobby, dazed by the events of the past hour. The Nuestra Senora de la Concepcíon, which had sunk off the coast of Hispaniola, was one of the wrecks I’d gathered information on while e-Antiquity was still on a roll. While I still carried the details with me in the Beast, what use were they to me now that Jack was out, had money, and was hell bent on succeeding?

  Unless I could get Harry to back me. Again.

  New York had not been kind to me today and I couldn’t wait to get out of the city. The tree limbs and bushes whipped wildly outside and the sky had turned gunmetal gray. I had to get to the Beast and head south or I’d be stuck here for the night and never make the meeting with Lou Atlas.

  Harry’s Rolls Royce was back in the cul-de-sac. Approaching the car felt like the walk of shame, and I remained pissed off about Jack Dodson’s ruining my day until Percy pulled into the seaplane base.

  The Widgeon was gone.

  I ran past the heavily clothed ramp agent to check the Beast. Her lock was secure, and once inside, I bent down to check the safe under my seat. Still locked. I entered the combination anyway, just to make sure.

  I felt the fat folder inside and my breathing finally began to slow.

  I awoke to the sound of something slapping against the side of the Beast.

  I lurched up in a sweat—had I fallen asleep while flying?

  A small jet roared by. Now I remembered—I’d arrived at North Palm Beach County Airport at 1:45 a.m., triggered the landing lights from my microphone, and landed on runway 26. After refueling and a brief conversation with my brother at the Leesburg, Virginia, airport, instructing him to stop sending money to Jack’s wife, and start sending it to me, I flew another 746 nautical miles and landed at this little field, running on fumes. The operating hours here ran between sunrise and sunset, so my presence this morning would have been a surprise to management—which, a quick glance out the side window confirmed, was the guy currently beating on my hatch.

  I glanced at my watch: 7:18 a.m. Sleeping in your plane here was a no-no too.

  Apologies, cash for the tie-down fee, and the news that I’d be departing in a few hours placated the line guy, who pointed me toward the pay phone and the pilot’s lounge where I could take a shower. But first I called the number Harry had given me for Lou Atlas. I told his assistant where I was and asked if someone could pick me up.

  A shower and change of clothes restored my humanity, while scrambled eggs, bacon, and a double-espresso got me ready to face the day. When I walked outside at 8:30, a black Mercedes limo awaited, which didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow from the line guy who’d waked me up.

  “Can you have her fueled up in an hour?” I yelled to him. “I won’t be long.”

  “I wouldn’t have charged you the tie-down fee if I’d known you were gassing up,” he said.

  I didn’t actually have the cash for a refuel—I was counting on coming back with an Atlas expense account.

  After a twenty-minute ride in silence, the limo turned down South Ocean Boulevard and a mile later entered a gated driveway that included two uniformed guards, a pair of Dobermans, and several cameras. The palm-lined stretch of crushed oyster shells led to an incredible 1920’s era red-tile roofed mansion that resembled the Breakers Hotel nearby. Lou Atlas was one of the richest men in the country—hell, the world—and he wasn’t shy about it. He was a self-made man who’d come damn close to being president, voodoo economics and all.

  I was greeted by a doorman with a Texas accent and delivered to a special assistant in her late-twenties, dressed in a tight pencil skirt, silk blouse, and stiletto heels. Her long brunette hair was so glossy she could have stepped right out of a shampoo commercial, but it was her silky French accent that had me following her as if in a trance. Well, that and the view from behind.

  Money did have its perks.

  She left me in Mr. Atlas’s private office, which was as big as the lobby at the La Concha hotel, where I lived in Key West. Every surface was covered with rich marbled wood, probably from rare trees of the Amazon. Lou Atlas wasn’t known for being concerned with the environment, which had been one of the knocks against him in the election he lost some dozen years ago. I sat in a leather chair that faced the massive gold-washed desk, which looked like it belonged in Versailles.

  A different set of French doors than the ones I’d entered burst open, and Lou Atlas stormed into the room. He might only be 5’ 9” but he had the frenetic presence of LeBron James. He crossed the room so fast I just got to my feet in time for him to thrust out his hand and take hold of mine.

  “Lou Atlas, pleased to meet you.”

  “Buck Reilly. Harry Greenbaum sends his regards.”

  “Ha! That Limey bastard’s beat me out of a few deals over the years, but I just love his suave demeanor, know what I mean?” His Texas accent was still strong, even though he hadn’t lived there in twenty years. “I tell you, their days as an empire may be long past, but those Brits still have some classy sons of bitches over there, and Harry’s one of ‘em.” Lou dashed around the end of his desk. Pretty spry for eighty-three.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your nephew,” I said.

  Lou dropped down into the chair and his face went from jovial to squint-eyed in a blink.

  “Don’t feel too bad—he’s a sorry piece of shit.” Lou grunted. “My only sister’s only child and nothing but a bum, but hey—” His lips bent into a smile his eyes didn’t share. “He’s family!”

  The blunt description pushed me back into my chair.

  “And you’re what—one of Harry’s investments that didn’t pan out? Former treasure hunter, something like that?”

  I swallowed. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

  “Bet it don’t for your former stockholders.” His smil
e faded. “But Harry says you’re still good at finding things, and while I think this is a damned goose chase, I owe it to my sister to check the box.”

  I rubbed my palms across my jeans. “What can you tell me about your nephew and his disappearance?”

  “I already told you he’s a piece of shit, but that’s as much my fault as anything. You give a young man a few million a year for life, you’re gonna get one of two things—someone who wants to prove he deserves it or a slacker who sits on his ass and does shit. Well, that’s Jerry, the latter of the two.”

  I found myself nodding. I’d known plenty of people with trust funds, and sadly, most of them fit Jerry’s category. A steady flow of money for nothing is not a recipe for hard-won success.

  “And Jerry lives on St. Barths?”

  Lou cackled. “That’s right. Not a shabby little rock, is it?” He nodded toward the doors where I’d entered the room. “That’s where Annette’s from, the little beauty who brought you in here. Father owns half the waterfront in Gustavia, the main harbor in town. Doing him a favor bringing her up here. Hell, doing me one too.” He pumped his eyebrows.

  “I know it well—St. Barths, that is.”

  “So Harry told me. That’s another reason you’re sitting there.”

  I wondered if he actually knew his nephew. Or was all his information second-hand?

  “What else can you tell me about Jerry that might help me learn what happened to him?”

  “Aside from being a drunk who spent his days at a circuit of beach bars, he went and got married to a local girl and had a few kids he hardly ever sees. Hasn’t worked since he was in the Air Force in his late teens—he’s forty now, and aside from a brief failed attempt at trying to buy and build a business, he ain’t got shit to show for the millions he’s pissed away.” He paused. “Sound good so far?”

  “And he’s been missing—”

  “About a month now. Plumb disappeared—wife don’t know shit—and given their pre-nup, he’s worth more to her alive than dead, drinking buddies ain’t seen him, police don’t much give a damn since Jerry’s caused more problems than probably any other resident on the island—wrecking cars, starting fights, that kind of thing.”

  “Any chance of foul play?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me none, but more likely he drove one-a his cars off one-a them steep-ass cliffs and vanished into some desolate scrub.”

  Jeez, no love lost here. Guess he did know Jerry.

  “What about his mother—your sister?”

  “Dead seven years now. Like I said, feel I owe it to her to find out what happened, otherwise when I see her next she won’t be too happy with me.” Lou slapped his palms down on the top of his paper-free desk.

  I licked my lips. “Pretty cold trail, sir.”

  “Yep, I don’t expect much out of your efforts but I’ll give you a week, cover your expenses, pay you twenty grand, and if by some miracle you find him alive I’ll garnish his trust and pay you a quarter million. It’s high season down there, so it’ll be expensive, but I don’t give a damn.”

  He leaned toward me and thrust his jaw out. I felt like he was waiting for me to counter, so I did.

  “I’ll need a cell phone and credit card.”

  He pulled a drawer open, took out a Visa Black card and a cell phone, and slapped them down on the desk.

  “They don’t like American Express down there. Hell, they don’t much like Americans, but what else is new?” He snickered. “Even though the damn Russians make us look genteel by comparison. So.” He slapped the desk again. “We got a deal, or what?”

  Going to St. Barths with what I assumed to be an unlimited expense account and getting paid while being there?

  “You have a deal, Mr. Atlas.”

  “Call me Lou, I’m retired now. Got enough people kissing my ass, so I need straight shit out of you, Treasure Hunter.”

  Once we nailed down the terms, he pushed the credit card forward—fast— and I caught it as it was about to fly off the desk. He pulled a piece of stationary from another drawer, took out a fat Mont Blanc pen, and scribbled down some names and numbers of contacts he thought might be helpful. He also wrote out a note on a separate piece of monogrammed paper that stated I was looking into matters on his behalf. He must have pressed a button somewhere, because Annette reappeared and stood next to me.

  Lou said something loud and indecipherable that made Annette giggle. I realized he must have spoken in French, the one language I spoke enough of to get by, but his nasally Texas accent made it incomprehensible to me. Annette, however, seemed to understand.

  Lou turned back to me.

  “I hear you got your own plane,” he said. “When you gonna leave?”

  “Soon as I get back to Key West and pack some things.” He sneered when I mentioned Key West but didn’t say anything. “I like to have help when I work on salvage projects. You mind if I bring an associate?”

  “Long as it ain’t some girlfriend.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Or significant other, as they say down there. This ain’t no paid vacation, Reilly. Harry damn-Greenbaum or not, I want a daily report.”

  And there I had it—my dream job.

  And while I was searching for trust-fund trash on St. Barths, Jack Dodson would be searching for the treasure of the Concepcíon.

  The flight down the Keys usually put me in a relaxed mindset, but Jack had left a reality hangover even Lou’s Visa Black card couldn’t erase. I thought of my binder with each potential treasure file stored in archival sleeves. I couldn’t wait to review what I had on the wreck of the Concepcíon to assess whether Jack had a shot to find it.

  To get my mind straight, I repeated my down-island process of naming the different islands as I flew over them. Tavernier blended into Islamorada and then the Matecumbes were followed by Fiesta, Rattlesnake, Grassy, and Marathon. I flew over the old bridge at Bahia Honda, past No Name, Big Pine, and down through the Saddlebunch Keys. I vectored west to stay clear of the naval air traffic at Boca Chica, got into line behind a commercial Dash-8, and followed the air traffic controller’s cue to cross over A1A and set down on runway 27.

  With my binder of maps tucked into my flight bag, I checked the private terminal for Ray Floyd, then remembered he was at a video game convention at the Hard Rock Hotel in Fort Lauderdale. Good grief. He’d counted down the days to that gathering like a kid before Christmas. I pictured the beaches in St. Barths, most of which were dotted with nude sunbathers, and wondered whether Ray would have chosen that over the digital warriors he was gaming against now. Then I remembered one of his ‘Floydisms.’ He called it the Wealth / Narcissism factor: the more money someone has, the more self-obsessed they are. St. Barths was not his kind of place.

  My old Rover Series II took several tries to start and I exhaled hard when she finally caught. The old girl needed a tune-up and several parts replaced, but the restoration of the Beast had exhausted my funds. As soon as I collected the $20,000 from Lou Atlas, the Rover was next in line for some TLC from Jonesy, my Australian mechanic.

  The La Concha was crowded, augmented by the new lobby bar and change in circulation that came with the renovation, and the holiday season was now in full swing since the annual snowbird migration had commenced. Once the massive spa was finished where they had torn down The Top on the roof, the traffic here would be insane. I held my breath as I passed by reception, hoping to avoid Bruce, the day manager—

  “Buck!” A female voice sounded.

  Emma, one of the reception staff, held a FedEx envelope out to me. Why would someone be sending me an overnight package? I took the lumpy parcel, thanked her, and hastily bumped and jostled my way to the elevator. I squeezed in between cocktail-carrying tourists with glassy eyes and fixed smiles. They had that comfortably numb-and-on-the-crawl look.

  Once in my room, I dropped my gear and tore open the envelope. Inside was a DVD and a number of photographs. There was a handwritten note clipped to the pictures.

  Buck
,

  Not so nice to see you yesterday. Better be the last time. If we cross paths hunting for artifacts, then a package just like this will be sent to the FBI. I took the fall, you take a hike.

  It wasn’t signed.

  I pulled the photographs apart and—shit! They were all from a folder inside our former office safe—the same folder I still kept inside the Beast. My sheaf of maps and more damning stuff in the folder, laid out page by page. Which, dammit, we’d documented for insurance purposes. The photos were dated before e-Antiquity went bankrupt.

  My fingertips were numb as I removed the DVD from the jewel case. #5 was written in black magic marker on the disc. I hurried to my machine, turned it on, and watched what I instantly recognized as security footage from what had been our conference room. My father was standing there.

  My heart lurched—I hadn’t seen him in video since he’d died four years ago, and what was worse, I recognized the moment even before I saw myself rush into the room, the same sheaf of documents now in my hands. Younger, hair slicked back, Hugo Boss suit, face pale and wild-eyed. I heard my voice fill the room.

  “Dad, thanks for coming—”

  “What’s so urgent, son?”

  “It’s over—this crazy run’s over.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The market—our company—the auditors—everything. We’re toast.”

  “e-Antiquity?”

  “What else would I be talking about?”

  My father sat down. I remembered this scene as if it were yesterday. Jack and I had destroyed all the security tapes before the Feds stormed our offices—at least, I thought the tapes had been destroyed.

  My father shook his head, a pained, terrified look on his pale face. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched, just as they did on the screen.

  “Your mother and I have everything invested in—”

  “Sell it now,” I said, “before news hits the press. You have a couple of weeks, I hope. And take this for safe-keeping.” I pushed the sheaf across the table toward him. He just stared at it. “It’s the best maps and information we have on other missing treasures—it’s worth a fortune!”