Hot off the computer. Comments/recommendations? Too much detail or not enough?
At ten o’clock, Patrick slipped a black linen jacket over his 1911, picked up a 5X7 of Wendy and Renaldo, slipping it inside his jacket. A half hour later, he found a parking place in the middle of the South Beach strip, got out, and shook his head at the garish aqua and pink neon lights flashing up and down the strip. Blowing out a breath, he mentally geared up for what was going to take at least a couple of hours of shoe leather as he went from club to club. He trotted across the street and turned into the alley. Slipping in the back door of the Starlight, he nodded at the kitchen workers and asked in Spanish who was the duty host tonight. Moments later, Jose O’Malley stepped into the kitchen.
“Hola, Patrick. What can I do for you?”
Fishing out the picture, he asked, “Did you work Thursday night?”
“Sure did. Slow night.”
“Do you remember seeing these two by chance?” Jose took the picture, the tip of his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. A moment later, he shook his head. “No, but she’s a good-looking chica!” He handed the picture back and said, “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen them before, but not Thursday, sorry.”
Nine clubs later, he still didn’t have positive confirmation of anyone seeing them. The host at the Dance Club was pretty sure she’d seen them, but couldn’t remember any details. He stood on the corner, idly tapping the picture against his palm as he glanced to the left. Silvio’s was two doors down, and he saw an enormous black bouncer managing the entry line. Smiling to himself, he headed that way, walking by the line to the bouncer. “Scar, you keeping things under control?”
The big man smiled, which pulled the scar that went from his left eye, through the corner of his lip, and all the way to his chin, making him even more fearsome than normal. “Mr. B! What you doing out this late?”
“Out taking a walk for my health?”
Scar rumbled a laugh. “Yeah, right, boss.”
“How are your classes going?”
“I graduate in May, then medical school, hopefully?”
Patrick thought back to that day in 1971 when he first met Scar. I was just two years into my MPD narcotics slot when the t-bone happened in front of me down in Liberty City. They were in an old Ford sedan and a delivery truck ran the light broadsiding them.
Patrick showed him the picture, “You by any chance remember these two on Thursday night?”
Scar looked embarrassed. “Oh yeah. I remember them. She told me I was wearing my cummerbund upside down. She said it was supposed to catch crumbs.”
Patrick laughed. “Yep, gotta love the Brits. Do you remember what time it was?”
Scar squinted. “Uh, probably ten thirty or thereabouts. It was just before the rain shower.” He snapped his fingers. “I remember they came in by themselves, but they left with two hard guys about eleven-thirty, and didn’t look real happy.” He pointed to the curb and added, “Got in a black S Five Hundred Merc right there.”
“Do you remember anything about the two hard guys?”
Scar shook his head. “Not really…they were Hispanic,” he cocked his head. “For some reason, I don’t think they were locals. Maybe the suits.” He looked at Patrick apologetically. “Sorry, Mr. B.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Scar. You helped a bunch. Thanks.” Patrick headed for his car, trying to figure out what to do next.
***
Patrick spent Sunday going over the information he had, thinking of ways to go forward. Monday morning, he started by calling Coast Guard Miami’s office. After the obligatory ‘not a secure line’ crap, the petty officer asked, “How can I help you, sir or ma’am?”
“Is Lieutenant Fletcher in today?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Lieutenant Commander Fletcher no longer works here.”
Patrick shook his head. “Any idea where he might have gone?”
The petty officer brightened, “Yes, sir! The lieutenant commander is over at district ops. Do you need that number?”
“Please.”
Minutes later, he got through to the district operations number and said, “Master Chief Boyle for Lieutenant Commander Fletcher, please?”
The young lady on the other end said, “One moment, please.”
The phone rang twice, and a gruff voice answered, “Fletcher.”
“Commander, Patrick Boyle here. I have a question if you have a minute.”
“What you need, master chief? Haven’t heard from you for a while.”
“Do you keep track of foreign yachts that come into Florida?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Fletcher replied, “Nooo, not normally. That’s usually a customs function. We only get involved if there is a safety issue, or we do a stop offshore. What you need?”
“I was wondering if the yacht Azure out of Cozumel is in port anywhere in Florida. It’s possibly involved with drugs.”
“Gimme your number and I’ll make some calls.”
Patrick rattled off his office number, hung up, and got up to get more coffee. Mrs. Sanchez, look up and asked, “Are you making any progress?”
He shrugged. “Other than being pretty sure Wendy was kidnapped, no. I need some idea of where she might have been taken, but I’m drawing a blank.”
“Did you tell her parents?”
“Not yet. I don’t want to until I have a plan.”
She frowned. “That’s not right, Patrick. They deserve to know.”
Holding up his hands, he replied, “I’ll call them right now, Gloria.” He poured a cup of coffee and headed back to his office as the phone rang.
Hearing Gloria say, “Just a moment, Commander,” he hurried back to his desk and picked up the blinking line.
“Boyle.”
“Patrick, I found the Azure for you, it’s a hundred-foot Burger. They are at the Key Biscayne Yacht Club at the end of the T-pier. Came in last Wednesday. Customs said they came up clean and want to know what is going on.”
“Thanks, Commander. As soon as I’m sure, I’ll let you know. I owe you one!” That generated a laugh on the line, followed by a click and a dialtone. Dammit, there isn’t really any place to do surveillance down there unless I can get on another boat in the yacht club. Shit, shit, shit…
After a number of phone calls, a few favors, and a drive down to Key Biscayne in Hector’s old pickup they used at the farmer’s market, Patrick pulled into the ‘employee’ section of the yacht club and headed for the little office down by the pier. He knocked, and a voice said, “Come in!”
Sticking his head in, Patrick said, “I’m looking for Rusty. Is he—”
A wiry, white-haired, sun darkened man stepped out of a back office. “You got me. You must be Patrick. Eduardo called and said youse was on de way and needed a favor.” They shook hands and Patrick winced at the strength that the old man had in his grip. “What can I do fer youse? Outta school, of course.”
Patrick smiled. “I’m looking for a kidnap victim. I have reason to believe she may be on the Burger out on the end of the T-pier.”
Rusty spat, “Figgers, those useless shites don’t allow anybody on da boat. Hell, they ain’t even tied up right, only usin’ two springers and nothin’ else. I ‘spect to see ‘em gone one morning, bills not paid.” He scratched his whiskered jaw. “Guessin’ you ain’t wantin’ to be seen?”
“Not if I can help it.”
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