Deception Bay (A Caribbean Adventures Novel)

DECEPTION BAY

Prologue

The game is played at a level most people are either oblivious to or can’t comprehend. The best players on one side own the money, power and politics. They’re masters at web-spinning and gridlocking others who dare to catch them. The best players on the other side are smart and committed but constrained by rules they often face having to bend in order to win. I’m on the bending side, playing at ground level. A front-line bender.
When it comes right down to it, though, I have to admit...I’m a stalker. I observe people who almost never know it. Still, I prefer to think of myself as more of a hunter. When I first spot my prey, they’re simply people of interest. I’m hunting what they’re hiding.
Trust me, everyone’s hiding something. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad people. It might be something they did on the job and don’t want their boss to know about. Hell, I’ve done that myself.
Or maybe they’ve never disclosed their first-ever sexual encounter to their current partner. That’s okay, right? Most of those encounters are awkward anyway. They’re too embarrassing to share.
On the other hand, it might be something they did in their youth and never shared with their family. Take my great grandparents. Experts at deception, they celebrated their anniversary two months earlier than the date on their courthouse-issued marriage certificate. Why? Because they conceived my grandfather out of wedlock. I’m not judging; it was a different time. But you get the point—even God-fearing great grandparents might choose to deceive us.
Most deception is harmless, so who cares? Unfortunately, there are those who hide horrifying things they’ve done. For unspeakable reasons. They’re the ones I’m tasked to hunt. And sometimes there are others I just stumble onto. People who don’t fit the typical mold. Those are the ones who make my work so damn interesting, because you never see them coming.
So you know what it is I do for a living. The other thing you should know about me is, I don’t have many friends. Too little time, I’m afraid. Most of the friends I do have, if you can call them that, are colleagues. Do they even count? Anyway, they all call me by my childhood nickname, Ryder. It’s what I go by with everyone…except my mom.

I

He slipped the transmitter into the left-side pocket of his black hoodie and exited through the front door, onto the creaking screened-in porch of the clapboard house. In the frigid night, the only movement he could see was the fog of his breath, lit yellow by a streetlight. He turned and locked the door as though he were the owner. Bending down, he placed the key under a clay flower pot containing the remnants of a long-deceased plant. After removing his gloves and tucking them under his arm, he pulled out a burner phone.
[K]: Done
[W]: All 3?
[K]: Yes
[W]: Proof?
[K]: In hand
[W]: Excellent
[K]: $$$...
[W]: Proof first
He put his gloves back on, cracked the burner, pocketed it and descended the front steps that groaned in pain. Crossing the street, he glanced back at the sad old place, its pale blue paint peeling away in apparent protest over years of homeowner neglect. Its misery was about to end.
Dried leaves crunched under his cowboy boots as he entered the corner park to retrieve the e-bike he’d left there fifteen minutes earlier, hidden among barren maple trees and woody caragana bushes. He rode it down over the curb and paused to place his thumb on the transmitter switch. It wouldn’t matter that he’d cleaned up the crime scene before leaving the house. That was his standard practice. But it was so much more fun to finish things up this way, he thought, as he rode south and depressed the switch.
The ramshackle dwelling erupted, the blast almost forcing him off the e-bike. He steadied himself and glanced back. The house was enveloped by orange flames licking out through shattered windows. The place roared in anger, as though resenting his decision to end its pain. He turned away and dissolved into the dark side of the night.
_____

Laurent rose and walked to the cockpit. Kaley placed the fragile old journal she was reading on the side table. She removed her reading gloves and opened the box containing the other four journals and a handful of edge-worn, creased photographs of her Great Grandma Kathryn, ‘GGK’ as she referred to her. The frail old woman had died when Kaley was three.
She reached in and withdrew one of the pictures, remembering that when she was growing up, these scratchy photographs suggested GGK had lived in a black and white world—so different from the vibrant, color-filled Caribbean life she herself now enjoyed. Yet GGK’s life, like most of her ancestors before her, was also spent here in these same islands. Their world had been no less colorful than Kaley’s. And the journals were proof that it wasn’t just about the environment—their lives were colorful as well. Why wouldn’t they be, given the rich history of piracy and war in this part of the world?
In the photgraph Kaley held, GGK was seated in her well-worn West Indies rocker, cradling one of the journals as though it were her child. Kaley took one last look at it before returning it to the box. She kept the old photographs with the journals GGK bequeathed to her. The books weren’t written by GGK, however. They were written by a distant ancestor near the turn of the seventeenth century and passed down to the eldest female child or grandchild for generations.
“Fifteen minutes,” Laurent called out. Kaley knew that was his way of telling her to furl the sails on the catamaran in preparation for entering the harbor. She slipped the journal and photograph into the box, carried it down to the master cabin and tucked it away in a bedside cabinet. Grabbing her cover-up, she headed back to the main deck. Her mind turned to the black-tie gala later that evening, hosted by the Mustique Island Marine Society. She was no fan of galas. There tended to be too many people she didn’t know and had to make conversation with, which wasn’t one of her strengths. Maybe it was because she hadn’t grown up in high society. In fact, she’d grown up in the lower end of the economic continuum with a culture-tainted view of the rich. This was Laurent’s world, however, and he was being recognized this night for his significant contributions to the Society.
Although this wasn’t the first time her husband was being honored for something, he seemed anxious about the gala. His usual demeanor was as even-keeled as their catamaran in glass-like water. But this last month he’d been in a dark mood about something. Distracted and distant, his sense of humor had hibernated. She worried it might be another woman. With his thick, jet-black hair, full eyebrows, flint-edged jaw, and athletic physique, Laurent was magazine-model material. He was also engaging and wealthy. That made him the frequent target of attractive young women. When she questioned him about his mood a few days back, he blew it off, citing the stress of his technology project. Whatever it was, she wanted it to end. It was impacting their relationship and even threatening their otherwise idyllic life.
“Let go the mainsail halyard,” Laurent called out. “Easy now.”
Kaley responded, lowering the mainsail, flaking it, tying it down and then doing the same with the self-tacking jib.
Laurent started up the dual diesel engines. “Ready to finish?” he said as Kaley came alongside beneath the hard-shell bimini. This would be her final test on bringing Rum Runner II into the harbor and docking it. At forty-five feet, the live-aboard Seawind 1370 was larger than their previous catamaran. Laurent had purchased it to replace his father’s ageing Andromeda MAC 12, with the agreement that Kaley would master the art of sailing it. She snatched Laurent’s captain’s hat from his head. “Out of my way, sailor.”

Entering the harbor, Kaley thought back to the first time she’d done this. The rows of sailboats and other vessels nestled edge-to-edge in tight slips made for a visually daunting gauntlet. Back then, she’d wondered whether it was something she’d ever accomplish. While her fine motor skills were well developed as a pianist, her gross motor skills were seldom tested. Thank God it was the fine motor skills that were called for when handling the throttles.
“Remember, two knots,” said Laurent.
Kaley grimaced at him; he hadn’t needed to tell her. Guiding Rum Runner II down their channel, she let it slow to less than a knot, let go of the helm, locked it, and then grabbed hold of the throttles. Nearing the slip, Kaley eased back on the starboard throttle and slid the port throttle forward, turning the catamaran hard to starboard. There was little breeze and no tide. She came in head-on. “Gently now,” she whispered to herself as she checked the sides. There was enough distance from either hull to manage any drift as the boat slid forward. She maneuvered the throttles to neutral.
‘Welcome back,” hailed Queenston, the dock attendant dressed in all-white. As he approached, Laurent threw out the bumpers. Rum Runner II coasted into position. Queenston grabbed the mooring line at the bow as Laurent jumped onto the dock with the stern line in hand and wrapped a hitch knot around the rear cleat. He saluted Kaley, “Well done, Captain!”
Kaley responded with a big smile, launching Laurent’s Captain’s hat into the air like a college graduation mortar board. He watched it descend into the saltwater. Queenston laughed, his white
teeth gleaming in the bright, early afternoon sun.
_____
I drove to the property manager’s office to sign the papers for the box-like pink house I’d be renting. Not my color preference but it suited my needs. It was in a neighborhood with a small park behind it, not some mixed-use area. And it wasn’t far from where the shops, restaurants and bars were. That was important to me.
There was a bit of time to spare when I arrived so I parked and texted my mom.
[R]: Found a place. Signing papers today
Mom doesn’t always have her phone nearby so I didn’t expect a quick response but she texted back within moments.
[M]: Is it in a safe neighborhood?
[R]: That’s what they tell me
[M]: I hope they’re right.
[R]: Don’t worry, I got this
[M]: Are you sure you can afford it?
I couldn’t tell her Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) was paying for it.
[R]: Not a problem
[M]: Your dad always worried about the rent. It creeps up a lot over time.
[R]: I know. Dad watched every dime
[M]: I hope you do too.
[R]: I try. Gotta go now. Love you
[M]: Love you too.
I disconnected and glanced at the strip mall. Despite the colorful signs on the various units, the place was stark. What looked like black mold spread across shadowed portions of the walls. As I opened the door, it rubbed the floor of the property manager’s small, stuffy office. A roundish, dark-skinned local sat behind an old wooden desk with a folding chair in front that I presumed was there for clients like me.
“Good morning. I’m Ryder.”
The man rose with a broad smile, reaching across the desk and extending his large, fleshy hand. “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Cruz. You be right on time. That not always the Barbadian way.” He short-laughed.
“My dad always said, ‘If you’re late, you lose’.”
“Did he grow up in Estados Unidos, like you?”
“Not born there, but yes.”
The manager nodded knowingly. “Things be different here. We enjoy island, life not rush through it.”
“I wish I could too. It’s just not in my genes.”
He shook his head as though I was a typical American and pushed forward the rental papers, pointing out where to sign and initial. I grabbed a pen from the glass tumbler and completed the signing.
“You brought deposit?” he asked.
I pulled a thin stack of Barbadian dollars from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Well, enjoy the house. And keep it clean, yeah?” He grinned. We both knew the place wasn’t what you’d call clean. Not by my mom’s standards anyway.
“I will,” I replied, knowing damn well my current mission would take priority over house cleaning.
_____

Kaley stepped out of the shower, into Laurent’s line of sight.
“What do you think?” asked Laurent. “The Tom Ford O’Connor or the Brioni?”
“The Italian,” she replied. “Every time.”
He laid both tuxedos on the Bernhardt canopy bed and came at her with a smile, his left eyebrow raised, arms extended. “You are…ravishing.”
Kaley was surprised. Laurent was in a much better mood. Of course, he had this fetish about her being fresh from the shower, wrapped in a thick towel—as though he had a thing for easy prey.
“There’s no time,” she protested, turning her back to him.
Laurent pressed against her, wrapping his arms around and under her breasts. “We’re on island time,” he whispered. “Bahamas, I believe.” He used that line often, knowing the Bahamas were an hour behind Mustique.
“Since when does it take an hour?”
“We won’t use much of it,” he said, loosening the towel.
Kaley turned and looked up into his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible is where I live.”
It was indeed. Laurent’s brilliance had taken him to Cal, for his PhD in Engineering from the Sutardja Center for Entrepreneurship and Technology. His doctoral thesis was on the application of artificial intelligence to ‘Nano LEDs’, the near-impossible frontier of the digital display universe.
Her hair still wet, Kaley felt the drip far down her back. “Impossible is where we’ll be if we don’t make it to the gala on time.”
“Trust me,” he said, sweeping her up and carrying her to the canopy bed.
“You may want to move the tuxedos,” she said.

 
II
“It’s Kostin, sir,” announced the guard at the entry gate.
“Let him through,” answered Worthington. He left the back patio and headed to his office. It was designed with a modern law library in mind. The walls were covered in dark mahogany bookshelves with back-mounted LED lighting strips. His expansive desk was a complementary mahogany with sterling silver edging. He kept the desktop free of clutter, with the exception of his laptop, a modern style reading light, and a coffee-table book about Caribbean Islands life.
Worthington stopped at a side cabinet and poured himself a glass of 25-year Macallan scotch, neat, before heading to his desk. He opened a drawer and withdrew an envelope containing Kostin’s money. He was anxious to pay the man and move on. His private plane was waiting to transport him to Mustique Island for the Marine Society Gala.
“Mr. Kostin sir,” announced Ranesha, his admin.
Kostin entered, his white linen pants, tropical shirt and cowboy boots shouting ‘tourist’. The former Army ranger didn’t need the heels on his out-of-place boots. He was 6’4” without them. He had a menacing look—dark piercing eyes and a bald head except for a thick, graying beard. The 3” scar on his upper right cheek aimed at the notch in his ear, both reminders of enemy fire in Kandahar. That bloody place also left him with a slight limp. He didn’t bother extending his hand to Worthington.
“Have a seat.” Worthington pointed to the leather chairs across from him. They were set low, giving him the power position he preferred. In this case, however, the difference in their height put them at eye level.
Kostin pulled a flash drive from inside his flowered shirt pocket and slid it across the desk. “Your proof.”
Worthington popped it into his laptop. The folder opened, containing a handful of photo files. He double-clicked on the first—the bloodied face of the man who’d left his employment six weeks earlier; now deceased. The second photo showed the same man’s body strewn on a hallway floor, near the entryway of an old house. The next two photos were of two other men, each laying prone on the floor of a room. He nodded at Kostin. “Well done.” He closed the laptop and withdrew the flash drive. “You have the ring?”
Kostin pulled out the skull ring taken from the primary victim and flashed it.
“Good. You can keep that.”
“I’ll add it to my collection.”
“I presume you left no trace.”
“Never do,” Kostin sneered. The image of the flaming house lit up in his mind.
“Of course.”
“Even if I hadn’t blown up the place there’d be nothing to suggest anyone but the three of them had been there.”
“Then why blow it up?”
Kostin grinned, not bothering to answer. His passion for explosives was a leftover from his experiences in Iraq.
Worthington slid the thick envelope across his desk. “I believe this is what we agreed upon.” He picked up his whiskey glass and sipped his Macallan.
Kostin laid the envelope in the palm of his left hand, as though weighing it.
“Hundreds,” explained Worthington.
“Feels right,” Kostin nodded. “Any other assignments?”
“Maybe soon. I have an underperforming asset I may need to walk away from.”
“The timing?”
“Can’t say. I’ll be in touch if and when the time comes.” Worthington slipped the flash drive in his pocket, intending to destroy it later. “How long will you be staying?”
“Long enough for a painkiller.” It was Kostin’s go-to drink in the Caribbean. He got up to leave, knowing Worthington liked to keep their meetings short.
Worthington remained seated, scotch in hand. “Don’t go far. And keep Ranesha up to date on your burner numbers.”
Kostin nodded and left, fondling the skull ring in his right pocket.