The next morning, I woke well before sunrise. The prospects of at last locating Baumann made it all but impossible to sleep in. The strong likelihood of a face-to-face confrontation with Baumann, I have to say, propelled me in a dark malevolent way that was all too familiar. The prospect infused my bloodstream with just enough adrenaline to preclude any meaningful rest until the job was done. I grabbed a quick breakfast after packing a light bag with a change of clothes and a few toiletries. If I had to stay longer, I could always buy clothes. A little less than two hours later, I was inside the small Fokker turbo-prop commuter plane that had seen far too many hours of service and buckled into my cramped bulkhead seat.
I arrived at Nassau International Airport barely three hours after sunrise on a clear, sparkling day. The stiff northeastly breeze kept the humidity at bay and made for a relatively comfortable morning outdoors. More importantly, a wind like that churned up the ocean enough to keep most pleasure boats close to port and that included Baumann, too. That bought me another day to find the bastatrd. Half an hour later, I had cleared immigration and customs and was driving a rented white Jeep Wrangler, windows down and reggae tunes thumping from the radio. I was headed for Paradise Island.
Last night before hitting the sack, I had called an old acquaintance in Nassau: Paul Lespiere. We had met years ago on Peter Island, British Virgin Islands, when he was the assistant manager of a four-star resort there. Paul relocated to the Bahamas ten years ago, when he was named general manager and vice president of the newest, most expensive beach resort and casino in Nassau. I had hoped he could accommodate me on such short notice.
I reached him on my first attempt. Yes, of course I could get a room! Whatever I needed. And I simply must be his guest for dinner. I told him I’d love to, but it would have to wait until I concluded the business that brought me here. He understood, and we left it open.
I drove up the perfectly manicured coral driveway to the seaside resort. The place was abuzz with activity and purpose: excited vacationers pouring out of white shuttle buses; others, with long-faced kids, obviously leaving the resort; hotel staff members in crisp white Nehru jackets over khaki slacks. I asked a valet to keep the Jeep nearby, handed him a twenty, and went inside.
The interior of the enormous main building was colossal in both size and scope. It was obviously built to recreate some artist’s idyllic version of an underwater palace at the center of a lost watery kingdom. There were expansive columns supporting elaborate beams of a gigantic scale decorated in the soft pastels of the rainbow. A colossal stained glass and copper copula high above allowed filtered daylight into the surreal world beneath. Splendid bronze and copper chandeliers in appropriate proportions dangled from the unlikeliest of places. Soft music emanated from hidden speakers and worked like magic to mask the din of hundreds of happy excited voices and twice as many flopping flip-flops, shoes and heels trampling the polished travertine floors. Over the elaborate balcony rail overlooking the expansive lower level, I could see gigantic glass windows that offered an unreal view into a world of blue and aquamarine, an unfamiliar world filled with rare and magnificent sea creatures. The total effect of beams, light, colors and images, I suspected, overtaxed the senses in an unexpectedly gratifying manner and prompted the visitor to expect more and spend more. The effect was mesmerizing, I had to admit. I even found myself momentarily buying into the fantasy.
My room, on the seventeenth floor of the West Tower, had two spacious balconies. And should I ever tire of the unimpeded ocean view, I could retire to the living/dining area and separate bedroom complete with a king-size bed, fifty-five-inch flat-screen TV, separate sitting area with overstuffed chairs, walk-in closet, and marble-clad bathroom.
I changed into the typical mainland wannabe fishing attire of white long-sleeved fishing shirt, khaki shorts, white sneakers, and blue Dodgers baseball cap. I had even brought along a pair of aviator sunglasses with the mandatory retainer strap and, of course, an eager smile. I grabbed the printout with the list of marinas and a map of the island and headed out the door.
***
By two in the afternoon, I had visited five of the seven marinas on my list and driven all the roads that afforded the best views of the navigable waters separating the narrow sand spit known as Paradise Island from the bigger island of New Providence. I had spoken to every deck hand and boat dweller I could find. No, a blue-hulled gulet like that hadn’t tied up here or, more precisely, “No, mon. Not seen nothin’ like that.” No one had seen the motorsailer anywhere.
I had two more marinas left, but they were the least promising. Being smaller, they afforded less in the way of concealment to someone primarily interested in hiding a large vessel. Tired and hungry, I drove to a waterside restaurant where I could count on fresh seafood, always grilled to perfection. It was expensive and a bit of a tourist trap, but the impeccable service and the view of the turquoise waters from almost every table in its expansive split level and perfectly air-conditioned interior made up for it.
I parked the Jeep and went in, and the friendly hostess led me to a table with a nice view of the water. Just as I was about to be seated I heard a familiar voice call my name. I ambled over to the table of an old acquaintance, James Burke, and shook hands. James was a “conky Joe,” a descendant from the Loyalists who fled the American colonies just after the Revolutionary War and settled in the Abaco Islands.
James cheerily informed me that he had just finished lunch with some clients and had stayed behind to have one last martini for the road. He required a cocktail or two to insulate himself from some of his more demanding clients. As the president and chief operating officer of the mega-yacht charter company he co-owned, he was always wining and dining wealthy clients and their overbearing friends, submitting to their wishes, always supremely aware that his business and personal fortunes rested with an acute awareness of the client’s need for recognition. People who could afford to spend upward of twenty thousand dollars a day to charter a crewed hundred-plus foot yacht were entitled to a bit of attitude. And James was good at it, right down to the just-so flair and accent of a Loyalist descendant an accent further refined by years spent attending some of the best schools in England. No one really knew James’s age “Information withheld by royal decree, need-to-know only,” was his standard reply. Rumor had it that he had more than once hosted British royals as guests on one of his yachts.
James was maybe five-eight and a bit overweight, though still in fairly good shape for the compulsive workaholic that he was. He had patrician good looks, blondish-red hair worn a bit long in back, a ruddy, freckled complexion, and expressive blue eyes above a bulbous nose that had seen rather more sun and rum than it needed. He apologized for not having attended my father’s funeral, but he had been laid up recovering from appendicitis. No, he hadn’t seen the
Stella Maris
. Damn.
I sat down.
“But why the interest, if I may inquire?” James asked, his canny eyes probing mine.
“Long story, my friend.” I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Best left for another day, when we have more time. Suffice it to say the craft belongs to a client and is part of, shall we say, an estate currently in dispute.”
“Ah-h,” he replied. “One of
those
‘disputes.’” He did the quotation marks with his fingers. “Sizable estate, is it?”
I nodded. The din of the restaurant had jumped up a notch, and we both looked up to see a large, well-heeled party being led to a long table near the water. Gents in fine linen slacks and tropic-weight sport coats; attractive women in large colorful hats and tasteful sundresses.
“Makes you feel right at home, doesn’t it?” he said, giving the group a cordial nod and taking a sip from his martini. “The purview of the smartly dressed predator, isn’t it?” he added by way of returning to our conversation.
“It’s a living,” I replied.
By “predators,” he meant lawyers, of course. Divorce lawyers, to be precise. “Shark-suited shysters” was another of his favorite terms of endearment. According to James, the legal profession was made up of bottom feeders unscrupulous men and women who profited from the misfortunes and misdeeds of others. As far as he was concerned, lawyers were a necessary malady of capitalism and, like a vicious guard dog, should always be kept outside, preferably chained, and never allowed too near the good people. At least in this particular case, he was wrong: there would be nothing lawyerly about my involvement. This was me, Jason Justice, Army of One, attempting to do some good, righting a wrong.
“Quite,” James replied. He glanced at his watch, a Patek-Philippe that properly belonged in a museum. “I apologize, Jason, but I must run. More clients arriving shortly. You know how it is: money talks, bullshit smells to high heaven, and all that. But not to worry, lad: I’ll ask around about your missing motorsailer. Call my office. You still remember the number, don’t you? Talk to Iris, my assistant. Leave her with a number where I can reach you.” He offered one of his business cards, just in case my memory was not up to snuff, he said. I took it and agreed to call, shook his meaty paw, and thanked him. We agreed that on my next visit to Nassau we must schedule supper together, maybe even squeeze in a bit of fishing and a bottle or two of his favorite sipping rum his words.
I finished my crab cake and salad and was soon in the parking lot, gravel crunching noisily under my sneakers, as I strode with renewed determination toward my rented Jeep. It was just after two thirty in the afternoon. The sun was high in the cloudless sky now, savagely bright and hot, which explained why the parking lot was less than half full. Although the uninitiated couldn’t really tell, this time of the year is known as the “low season” in these islands simply too damned hot and damp for tender Yankee northerners accustomed to much milder weather. They tended to wait until there was snow on the ground back home, and daytime temperatures here had settled down to a more bearable seventy-five degrees, before flocking in mass to these shores. This time of the year, Nassau was relatively uncrowded, the airport almost devoid of the usual hordes of sunburned travelers in bright clothes. In my opinion, this fact alone made it the perfect time of year to visit.
Spend any time at all in these islands, and they inject a casual familiarity into your subconscious: the briny aromas, the tang of tropical fruits and flowers, the sweet breath of moist heat that greets you as soon as you walk out of the airplane. Even in the shade-less heat of mid-day, the tropical sun was undeniable, and so vital, that memoires of cold harsh winters back home were soon forgotten for the vast majority of winter-weary visitors.
I climbed in my Jeep and flicked the air conditioner on high. Mercifully, the seats were made of an ugly plaid cloth that absorbed far less of the sun’s vicious heat than did those plastic and pleather coverings that could raise a blister on unprotected skin. I left the restaurant and was soon traveling over the Paradise Bridge, headed back toward the main island of New Providence. My plan was simple: visit the remaining marinas and, if I couldn’t get a bead on the
Stella Maris,
drive along West Bay Street another narrow two-lane road that snaked its way across the northwestern portion of the island and continue on to Southwest Road. From there I would proceed south and east on Carmichael Road, which transected the island, searching as many private docks and anchorages as possible.
In the low season, there were few cars on the narrow roads that crisscrossed the island, which actually made for a pleasant drive. I had whizzed past numerous homes, both large and small, from palatial estates overlooking pristine coastlines and secluded coves to humble lean-tos with corrugated-metal roofs, and the hand-painted signs of convenience stores, gas stations, and roadside stands offering local beer, fresh local fruits or cracked conch, Bahamian style. I had spent another two and a half hours driving from the west end to the eastern shore, and my luck had not changed much. A worker at a fuel pump in one of the marinas remembered seeing a boat fitting the
Stella Maris
’s description but wasn’t too clear on when he saw it or where. “Somewhere ’round, mon,” was all he had said. I believed him.
At any given time, there were simply too many boats cruising through these waters for one casual encounter to form much of an impression. Granted, Mediterranean gulets in these waters were an unusual and elegant sight, not easily forgotten, but that didn’t seem to help my case. I felt a bit deflated. My bet thus far had not pan out. It was evident the
Stella Maris
had not sailed these waters for some time.
Baumann seemed more elusive than ever.
Twenty-four
The sun hung low, a great orange orb burning away above the clear blue western horizon. It was past five in the afternoon. I was sure I had visited every place where a gulet could be safely moored or tied up, and had only a sunburned left arm to show for it. Having combed every possible berth on the island, I returned to the hotel in search of a stiff drink and a nice steak dinner.
Inside the dim vastness of the lost-world wonderland that was my hotel, I found myself suddenly immersed in improbably cool and perfumed air, silently pumped by unseen machines into places where large-scale gambling is not only permitted but encouraged. Under different circumstances I would have headed straight for the nearest blackjack table, but mental images of Baumann enjoying his ill-gotten fortune, Elizabeth drowning in booze, and Amy’s face beaten purple suppressed any desire to indulge. I ignored the high-energy din and glitter of the casino and headed straight for one of the poolside bars.
I called Sammy, who had nothing new to report. He would expand his search for Baumann all the way down to the Islands of Curaçao and Bonaire. It was wild speculation to suppose he could have sailed that far from Florida or the Bahamas but we didn’t have much else to go on.