Baja Florida (18 page)

As we neared George Town and the broad, flat waters of Elizabeth Harbour, I went below to use the head. There's not much town in George Town, just a one-way main drag that circles past a business district with a couple dozen low buildings, then splits off to opposite ends of Great Exuma.

A narrow finger of land stretches from the road into the harbor. In another week or so it would be filled with thousands of people, a happy throng from throughout the Bahamas who come each year to watch the National Family Island Regatta and to party for four days nonstop. Except for a few vendors erecting booths the place was empty.

I had my cell phone with me. As I stepped into the main salon it gave a little beep, letting me know I had service. I immediately turned it off. Cops in the States track suspects on their cell phones. I didn't know if Bahamian cops had the technology, but I didn't want to chance it.

As I neared the head, the salon's aft door slid open. Jen stepped inside. She was studying the cell phone in her hand. And she was also on course for the head. She looked up, not particularly happy to see me, and not bothering to hide it.

I gave a gallant sweep of a hand.

“Please,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said.

The door slid shut behind her.

I was fairly certain she intended to use the cell phone from inside there. And I was tempted to stand outside and eavesdrop.

So tempted, I did just that.

I didn't lean against the door with my ear up to it. But I did strain to hear anything I could. I didn't hear much. No sound of Jen talking. No sound that might typically be associated with a woman using the head. Mostly what I heard was the boat's engine droning along.

And then my ears adjusted, I filtered out the engine, and I heard it. Barely audible but I heard it. A faint tap-tapping.

Jen sending a text message.

Five minutes passed. I made some distance between myself and the door. Another five minutes. I found a chair, sat down.

She finally emerged.

“All yours,” she said.

 

We didn't stop at George Town. Mickey turned
Radiance
around and we headed north, back the way we came.

There were a couple of hours of daylight left. And just shy of Lady Cut Cay, near a shoal where the water glimmered with three shades of blue, Mickey backed the engines to an idle and told Curtis to let out the hook.

“Nice little patch reef here if anyone wants to jump in and take a look around,” he said.

I grabbed a mask and fins from a locker. So did Boggy and Charlie.

“It'd be good to find some conch,” I said. “Have Miss Rose turn it into conch salad for dinner.”

Curtis shook his head.

“No conch down there,” he said.

“What do you mean there's no conch?”

“All fished out. Conch are scarce in these parts,” Curtis said. “You want to find conch you need to go south to Acklins or Crooked Island, around there.”

We jumped in and finned around. I split off from Boggy and Charlie, having a ball in the water, chasing schools of blue tang and snapper, trying to reach out and touch them, watching them swirl away.

I was rounding an outcropping of brain coral when I looked down and saw the conch. A big one, the size of a dinner plate, its rusty-gold shell standing out like a neon sign against the sandy sea bottom. I dove down and grabbed it.

Back on the boat, I showed off my prize. Curtis just shook his head, like he couldn't believe what he saw.

Boggy said, “
Cohobo.
”

“What's that?”

“Is Taino word for conch,” Boggy said. “And it bodes well that you found it, Zachary.”

“Bodes well for dinner,” I said. “And I can take the shell to Shula.”

Boggy took the conch from me, looked at it closely.

“The conch,” he said, “it is good for many things.”

He promptly set about cleaning it and managed to remove the meat without marring the shell. The inside of the shell was a study in gradations of pink, light on the edge of the lip, then flaming as the shell spiraled inward upon itself. It was a big, mature conch, its crown long and pointed.

I scrubbed it off and stuck it out of the sun, under some sheets of canvas beneath the gunwales. A perfect gift for Shula. I would hold it to her ear and show her how to listen to the ocean. I would tell her stories. I missed her something fierce.

Mickey made his way down from the pilot house and stood by the transom, looking out on the water.

“How was it, Zack?”

“Water felt great. Nice little reef.”

“One of my favorite spots,” Mickey said. “Saw a hawksbill turtle last time I was here. That was a while ago.”

“You oughta jump in and give it a look. Might see that turtle again.”

Mickey smiled.

“You're right,” he said. “I oughta.”

Mickey started strapping on his fins. Jen leaned against the gunwale, watching him. He looked at her.

“Why don't you join me?”

“Sure, why not,” she said.

She pulled off her white linen top. She looked good in the bright blue bikini. I noticed it. So did Boggy and Charlie. But a buddy's daughter, you just don't stare.

Mickey stepped to the swim platform. He eased into the water as Jen put on her gear.

Mickey yelled, “Come on in!”

Jen stood on the edge of the platform, her back to us.

Only now I did stare. Because I was looking at her flawless skin, the back of her shoulders, tanned and smooth and without blemish.

And then she jumped in.

I knew Mickey and Jen wouldn't stay in the water for long. Despite all his spunk and mettle, he would tire quickly. I had only a few minutes at the most.

Jen's cell phone was probably in the straw bag she had carried aboard, the straw bag she snatched up and hauled off with her after our little set-to in the pilot house.

The bag wasn't anywhere on the deck. I stepped inside the main salon. Wasn't there either. I went up to the pilot house. No luck.

I made my way down to the main stateroom. And there sat the bag on the bed. I sifted through it, found the cell phone.

I am no expert when it comes to cell phones. I never owned one until after Shula was born and then only after considerable prodding from Barbara.

The cell phone I held wasn't anything like my cell phone. The power was off. It took me a good minute to figure out how to turn it on. The screen lit up and I didn't recognize any of the icons.

Barbara text messaged all the time, constantly it seemed. I had never tried it. And I had no idea where to find the messaging function on this phone.

I punched my way through various icons. Got an e-mail directory. It was empty. Got an address book. It was filled with names but sorting through it seemed a waste of time.

Finally punched an icon that opened the text messages. The most recent thread automatically popped up on the screen.

No names on the messages, just phone numbers. I began reading them in reverse order:

• G2g.
  
• When?
  
• Tomorrow. They'll be gone. Have plane.
  
• When?
  
• No!!!
  
• Come tonight?
  
• No!!! They hear.
  
• Shit. I'll call you.
  
• Out in his boat. Big problem. Visitors.
  
• Wtf? Where ARE you?
  

I didn't hear her walk up behind me.

“Excuse me?”

I turned around. She was still wet from her swim, a towel around her neck. She grabbed the cell phone from me.

“Just what do you think you're doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Huh?”

“You aren't Jen Ryser.”

She drew herself up.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don't know who you are, but you aren't Mickey Ryser's daughter.”

“Are you insane?”

“Possibly. But I don't think Jen Ryser would just sell her boat like that. She named it after her mother. She just wouldn't let it go. It meant too much to her.”

She didn't say anything.

“Something else. Jen Ryser has a scar on her back. You don't.”

“What scar?

“From when she got cut on the crossing to Walker's Cay. Will Moody stitched it up on the boat. Karen Breakell told me about it. Karen Breakell, who's in the hospital, in a coma. You know anything about that?”

She started to say something, then stopped.

“Start talking, Torrey,” I said.

“What did you call me?”

“Torrey. Torrey Kealing. That's who you are, isn't it? Because you damn sure aren't Jen Ryser.”

“You're fucking crazy. I'm not going to listen to this.”

She stormed off. I didn't stop her. We were on a boat. Where could she go?

 

By the time I made it topside, the engines had cranked up and
Radiance
was pointing toward Lady Cut Cay. Curtis manned the helm, Edwin beside him.

I joined Boggy and Charlie on the aft deck, told them what was going down. We could see into the main salon. Mickey on the rattan couch. The young woman pacing the floor in front of him, on a rant, arms flailing.

She showed Mickey the cell phone. She pointed out at me. And then she started crying. She collapsed onto the couch, face in her hands. Mickey patted her back and drew her close.

Charlie said, “So if she's not Jen Ryser, who is she?”

“I'm guessing the third woman on the sailboat. Torrey Kealing.”

“Any idea who she was messaging?”

“Been trying to figure that out.”

“One of the guys on the sailboat?”

“Could be one of them.”

“That Will Moody guy…”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something's going on with him. Just can't pin it down. A little too neat for him to show up like he did. Something doesn't fit. But it could be someone else, someone we don't know about.”

In the main salon, the young woman still had her face buried against Mickey's chest. Mickey looked out at me—a world of pain in his eyes.

“So, that girl in there,” Charlie said. “She was pretending to be Jen Ryser so she could get money from Mickey?”

“No other way to figure it. And not just a little pocket money. The whole package. She knows Mickey only has a little time. So she shows up, says she's his long-lost daughter, and hopes Daddy will leave her something. Mickey had his will rewritten a few weeks ago, after he first spoke to Jen on the phone. I don't know all the details, but he's leaving her a bundle.”

“Pretty ballsy scam,” Charlie said.

“Could have worked, almost did. Mickey hasn't seen Jen in more than twenty years. He doesn't know what she looks like. This one, this Torrey Kealing, she shows up saying she's Jen when he's expecting Jen to show up, why not believe her?”

Inside the main salon, Mickey got up from the couch. He took a moment to steady himself on a chair before making his way to the galley. He pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator, brought it back to the couch, and gave it to the young woman.

Boggy said, “What now, Zachary? We go to the police?”

“We'll let Mickey finish things in there. See how he wants to handle it.”

It was shaping up to be a killer sunset. Still an hour away, but already the sky was warming up for the big show—streaks of gold against a blue backdrop darkening into purple.

Charlie said, “This doesn't necessarily get the heat off you, does it, Zack?”

“No, but it's a beginning. Time to let the police in on it. They can unravel everything.”

“You believe that?”

“Have to believe it.”

We watched the sky some more. Curtis backed off the throttle as we closed in on the dock at Lady Cut Cay.

Charlie said, “Kinda leaves everything where it started, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “So where the hell's the real Jen Ryser?”

The boat was anchored somewhere. It had been anchored for the better part of a day.

A long distance to get there, through most of the day before and into the night. Across a lot of open water. Big swells, pounding seas, one hellacious squall. The boat heaving up and slamming down.

It had bounced her off the bed and when he came down to check on her he was furious.

“I told you not to move.”

“I fell. The waves. I couldn't get back up.”

“I can't keep coming down here just to check on you.”

He made her take a pill. He put it in her mouth and gave her water and held her mouth shut until she swallowed.

And after that she slept. She wasn't sure how long. But when she awoke the motion had stopped. The noise, too. They were anchored.

He came down to check on her every hour or so. He had little to say. He was brusque and impatient and whenever she needed to use the head he stood right outside and kept telling her to hurry up.

Then he would go back up top. He never left the boat. She could hear him up there, sometimes pacing the deck.

Waiting. For what ever would happen next.

Curtis brought
Radiance
all the way in. He jockeyed the engines and pulled alongside the dock with nary a bump. Edwin hopped off the boat and looped its bow and stern lines around pilings.

“You get off and then I'll anchor her out,” Edwin called down from the pilot house.

We stepped off the boat and waited on the dock. It was several minutes before Mickey emerged from the salon. The young woman stayed in there, watching us from the couch.

Mickey looked weak and drained. He used his cane to make it across the deck. I offered a hand as he stepped onto the dock. He pushed it away.

“I can make it on my own,” he said.

“You OK?”

He squared off in front of me.

“I'm fine,” he said. “But you need to leave. You need to leave right now.”

“Mickey, what…”

He put up a hand to silence me.

“I don't want to hear it. I don't know what the hell you think you're doing. I don't want to hear a thing. I just want you gone.”

In the salon, the young woman got up from the couch. She moved close to the window and stared out at us. She folded her arms across her chest.

“Look, I don't know what she told you,” I said. “But she…”

“She told me all I needed to hear, dammit. You've been after her since we got on the boat. Asking her all those damn questions.”

“She's not your daughter, Mickey.”

He looked away. Then he fixed me with an angry glare.

“What proof do you have of that?”

“Her story about selling the sailboat, for one thing. It doesn't make a bit of sense.”

“Just because it doesn't make sense to you doesn't mean it's not true.”

“Jesus, Mickey. Just think about it. Ask her to produce a bill of sale, a bank deposit, anything. No one just up and decides to sell a boat like a Beneteau 54 and finds a buyer right off the bat. It doesn't happen.”

Mickey's jaw clenched.

He said, “You got anything besides that?”

“I found one of your daughter's friends, Karen Breakell. She told me Jen had an accident on the crossing. Got a bad cut on her shoulder. They had to sew it up on the boat. That woman in there…”

Mickey dismissed it with a flick of his hand.

“Jen told me all about that. She told me this Karen girl was drunk the whole time and didn't know what was going on. She told me she couldn't wait to get her off the boat. Jen said it was another girl who got cut.”

“Torrey Kealing?”

“I don't know. What difference does it make? But I'll tell you one thing: I don't appreciate you invading her privacy the way you did. Getting her cell phone, looking at her messages. What the hell, Zack?”

“She was messaging someone from the boat.”

“OK, she was messaging someone. There a law against that?”

“She was messaging someone and telling them not to come yet. Not to come here to this island. Not until tomorrow. She tell you who that was? Or why they are coming here?”

“Matter of fact, she did tell me about that, Zack.” He looked at me. “It was her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

He let out some air.

“She didn't want to tell me about him before now. She said she wanted to meet me face-to-face first, see how it went between the two of us and go from there. But she's got this boyfriend…” Mickey shook his head. “I think he was a big reason she got rid of the sailboat, wanted something a little smaller for just the two of them. What she did, she said she went to this marina in Marsh Harbour and struck a deal with them where they would keep the sailboat and she would take this other boat, a powerboat. Some kind of cruiser, I don't know. Worth a whole lot less than her sailboat. Once the marina sells her boat, they'll settle up on the difference. And that explains that. You satisfied?”

“This boyfriend, she tell you his name?”

“Will Something. I didn't get the last name. All I know, she was messaging him and that's what you found. Sticking your nose where you had no business sticking it. She's upset. You owe her an apology.”

I looked at Boggy and Charlie. They were as done-in by everything as I was. I looked at Mickey.

I said, “Abel Delgado's dead.”

Mickey flinched at the news.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying someone killed Delgado night before last in Marsh Harbour. In his hotel room.”

“Who?”

I shook my head.

“Don't know.”

“Goddam. That's awful,” Mickey said. “But what does that have to do with us? You're not saying…”

He turned and looked at the young woman standing on the other side of the salon window. Her face was unreadable. He looked back at me.

“You're not suggesting Jen had anything to do with that, are you?”

“She's not Jen, Mickey. I don't care what she's telling you and how much you want to believe it. I'm sorry. She's not your daughter.”

Mickey's eyes twitched. He shook with anger. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a passport. He handed it to me.

“You look at that and you tell me what you see.”

I opened the passport. The photo was of the young woman in the salon. The passport said her name was Jennifer Anne Ryser. I handed the passport back to Mickey.

“I don't know what to tell you,” I said.

“You can tell me you made a mistake.”

“The passport could be fake.”

“Can't fake a U.S. passport anymore, Zack. Not since 9/11.”

“It can look like a passport, but it might not act like a passport.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“She's playing you, Mickey. Let's you and I go back in there right now and talk this through with her. I've got plenty more questions I could ask.”

Mickey shook his head.

“You've asked her all the questions you're going to ask.” He tapped a finger on my chest. “You need to leave. You need to leave right now.”