Love for Sail Read online

  Love for Sail

  A Connie Barrera Thriller

  By C.L.R. Dougherty

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  Copyright © 2014

  Charles L. R. Dougherty

  All Rights Reserved

  Diamantista's Route

  The Virgin Islands

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Connie clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth would crack. She was intent on the heavy straps, imagining what would happen as they were pulled tight. From the corner of her eye, she could see the man with his hand on the control lever. The other man, the one standing in front of her, nodded his head. The machine groaned and creaked as it pulled the slack from the straps. She flinched and bit back a scream of anguish as the man in front of her waved his arms frantically.

  "Stop!" he yelled, over the noise of the machine.

  The other man pushed the lever back, easing the pressure, and Connie started breathing again. "What's wrong?" he asked as the noise abated.

  "We're gonna break her back if you don't watch it. Forward sling's gonna slide right off her bottom. We gotta tie 'em together, or she'll slip right out 'n' bust like a watermelon."

  Connie watched like a mother lion as the workers repositioned the straps under Diamantista and prepared to lift the 49,000-pound boat and move her to the launching area. She knew that the crew launched as many as ten boats per day during the busy season and that they never dropped one or even scratched the paint, but none of those other boats was hers.

  She was surprised at how attached she had become to Diamantista in the short time she had owned her. She'd never been one to care about possessions; she was more into collecting experiences than things. She knew that was ironic, given her impoverished childhood. Most people who struck it rich after growing up in desperate poverty were acquisitive, but she was a 'take nothing but memories, leave nothing but footprints' kind of gal.

  Initially, she hadn't been looking for a boat of such modern design; she had been enamored of traditional vessels like Vengeance, the Herreshoff 59 that belonged to her friends, Dani Berger and Liz Chirac. She had learned to sail on Vengeance down in the Caribbean, so it was her standard of comparison.

  As she had started shopping for boats, she'd been forced to compromise. She needed a private stateroom for her charter guests. The Herreshoff had two double staterooms; there were no other sleeping spaces and she couldn't manage with only two double accommodations. Liz and Dani shared the forward double when they had guests aboard, but she wasn't about to share her sleeping quarters with Paul Russo. She liked him well enough, but she was still off men since her last bad experience.

  Paul was her friend, and he was a great cook. She was thrilled that he was going to help her get started with the charter business, but she wasn't ready for romance, and he didn't seem to be, either.

  ****

  Paul was sitting on the patio at the Miami Yacht Club, sipping a beer and wondering what he had gotten himself into. Connie Barrera was drop-dead gorgeous, not to mention being a pleasant person, but he was still dumbfounded that he had agreed to spend a few months as the first mate and cook on her new charter yacht. Of course, at the time she had asked him, the whole thing had seemed like a pipe-dream. She hadn't even bought Diamantista when they were talking about it. They had been in Martinique on Vengeance, sailing along without a care in the world after he had helped bring Sam Alfano to justice. The fact that Connie was planning to buy a yacht with the money from diamonds she had found on a beach in the Bahamas had seemed no more real than the notion that she had just ripped off Alfano and his partner for over ten million dollars’ worth of those same loose diamonds.

  The morality of her 'finders, keepers' attitude didn't bother him; he had been part of her support group as she rationalized keeping the diamonds for herself. Alfano didn't deserve the stones; they were fruit of a tainted tree. If Connie hadn't contrived to end up with them, they would have enriched some undeserving government agency or further corrupted a few bureaucrats somewhere. He liked Connie and wished her well, but he was first and foremost a cop, albeit a retired one. Connie wasn't exactly crooked, but her ideas of right and wrong were much less structured than his.

  He'd been granted a little extra time to figure out what to do about the situation because he'd been called back from his early retirement to help prepare a case that he'd been working for almost two years. It was about to come to trial, and the prosecution team asked for Paul's assistance as a consultant because the other members of the task force of which he'd been a part were occupied with ongoing investigations. That had left Connie in a bit of a bind, as she'd planned on Paul’s helping her deliver Diamantista from Annapolis to the islands in the next week or two. She was up in Annapolis getting the boat ready and looking for temporary crew.

  And then there was the question of where this whole thing with Connie would end up. They were attracted to each other; they had discussed that at length on several occasions, but neither was ready for a romantic relationship. Connie still hadn't gotten over her last bad experience, and Paul clung tenaciously to his hard-won second term as a bachelor. He'd been single since his train-wreck of a marriage had ended in an acrimonious divorce five years ago.

  Even with that understood between them, Paul was dubious about the notion of the two of them living on a small boat in such a romantic environment. Despite their agreement, temptation could make a mockery of their intent. He didn't want to see either of them get hurt, and given their fragile emotional states, that seemed to be a strong possibility.

  ****

  Jimmy Dorlan and Kirsten Jones studied the index cards pinned in random fashion to the cork board outside the Annapolis Harbormaster's office. Kirsten grasped a card in her fingers, the bitten nails of her other hand plucking out the thumbtack that held the card to the board.

  "I like the looks of this one," she said, handing it to Jimmy.

  He stared at it, squinting, as she read aloud over his shoulder.

  "Fifty-six-foot sailing yacht bound for the Virgin Islands in early November seeks two experienced crew members. Expenses and return airfare paid. Apply in person to Connie Barrera aboard Diamantista, at anchor in Back Creek, any day after 5 p.m."

  "How we gonna find that?"

  "Water taxi. Wonder if Connie's got a man aboard?" Kirsten asked.

  "Why? You lookin' for a little action on the side?"

  "No, stupid. If she's a single woman, it would be even better."

  "Connie's a man's name sometimes."

  "No, it's not."

  "Is, too. I had a roommate named Connie, an' he sure as shit wasn't a woman."

  "We'll need to convince her we know what we're doing, Jimmy."

  "Yeah. I still bet it's a man, though."

  "Doesn't matter, but you'd better let me do the talking, okay?"

  "Whatever."

  Kirsten slipped the card in her shoulder bag and they turned and walked toward one of the park benches that overlooked the harbor. They were a mismatched couple, physically and intellectually. Kirsten was one of those girls best described as 'cute,' a chipper, five-foot, four-inch-tall blonde. Her short, curly hair framed a round face with rosy cheeks and baby-blue eyes separated by a perfect little upturned nose. She looked like the college cheerleader that she had been until her recent downfall.

  In contrast, Jimmy was tall, an inch over six feet, and strong-looking, but in that wiry way of men who did manual labor. His mouse-brown hair was pulled back in a short, unkempt
ponytail, exposing what could have been a handsome face except for the arrogance that was all too obvious in his dark, flashing eyes. He was attractive to women in a dangerous, bad-boy way, and he knew it. Where Kirsten was quiet, well-brought up, and well-educated, he was brash and street-smart. Although only a few years older than Kirsten, he had seen much more of the gritty side of life, and it showed in his dissipated features.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Ralph Giannetti sat on the patio of his Star Island mansion, his iPhone pressed to his ear, listening to Mark Murano's bullshit. He put it on speaker phone, turned up the volume, and put the phone on the glass tabletop as Murano babbled. Gazing across the water toward the Miami Beach Marina, he picked up the Cuban cigar that his butler had brought out with his mid-afternoon coffee. He rolled the cigar under his nose, enjoying the rich aroma and thinking about the stories of how the cigars were rolled on the thighs of virgins. He chuckled at the thought, paying more attention to clipping the end from the cigar than he did to Murano's chatter. Striking a wooden match, he lit the cigar. He held the match well away from the tip, drawing the flame, making a ritual of the simple act. He savored the first puff of smoke and then held the cigar a few inches away, studying the ash forming on the tip. He set it down in the ashtray and picked up the phone.

  "Mark?"

  "Yeah, boss?"

  "Never mind all that. I already told you that you can try this, even though we gave it up years before you were born. I know times change and you MBA bastards know stuff about marginal costs and shit. I already said it was okay to try moving the product north on yachts, like we did in the old days. All I want to know is whether it's gonna work and when we'll be back to moving the full volume. You got a boat spotted for the trial run yet?"

  "Yeah, we got one picked out. The kids are gonna go see the owner tonight. They'll sign on as crew. Once that's done, I'll get the cash to them and they can stash it aboard. Supposed to leave in a couple days."

  "How long to St. Martin?"

  "Week, ten days, maybe. It's not like smuggling the shit on an airliner."

  "Yeah. So once they make the buy in St. Martin, then what?"

  "Then they get another crew gig on a northbound yacht and bring the product in."

  "So how's this different from the way we used to do it in the '80s?"

  "First off, we're not stealing the yacht. The owner's aboard, and none the wiser, so they handle all the customs clearance. There won't be any of that hassle of trying to slip in past the Coast Guard like you used to do."

  "Customs still checks some boats when they come in."

  "Yeah, but we're picking boats that won't meet their profile."

  "What about random searches with the dogs?"

  "This shit's vacuum packed like you wouldn't believe, and we got a perfect new place to hide it."

  "How's that gonna work, smart guy? Every damn boat's different. That was one of the big problems when we used to do it back in the '80s."

  "They all got these holding tanks, now. It's the law. They didn't used to have to have them, right?"

  "Right. You gonna put the shit in the holding tank?"

  "That's why it's there, to put shit in. Every boat's got one now. Between the stink and the vacuum pack, the dogs'll never find it, and the customs agents aren't gonna look down in the bottom under two weeks' worth of sewage."

  "Maybe. Sounds cobbled together to me, but you're the one's gotta make it happen."

  ****

  "So how far is it, anyway?" Jimmy asked, slurping the foam from his second beer. He and Kirsten were sitting at an outdoor table at a dockside bar overlooking the anchorage in Back Creek. They had taken one of the water taxis from the dock in front of the Harbormaster's Office and told the driver they just wanted to ride through Back Creek and look at the boats. They spotted Diamantista nestled in among all the other boats in the anchorage and decided to wait at the bar until five o'clock, figuring they could hitch a ride in one of the dinghies that were constantly coming and going from the bar to the anchored boats.

  "From the Virgin Islands to St. Martin?" Kirsten asked.

  "Yeah."

  "I don't know. They're both in the Caribbean; it can't be too far."

  "You college chicks are supposed to know shit like that."

  "Gimme a break; I'm majoring in theater."

  "Yeah, well, I hope you can act good," Jimmy said, gulping down the last of his beer and signaling to the waitress for another.

  "Well," Kirsten said.

  "Well, what?"

  "You hope I can act well."

  "Ain't that what I said?"

  "That's enough beer until after we meet with her," Kirsten said as the waitress took his empty glass and replaced it with a full one. "She's not going to take on somebody that shows up drunk for the interview."

  "Jesus! It's just beer. I'm not drunk. This is my show, Kirsten, and don't you forget it, hear?"

  "I just want to be sure we get this gig; it's the only way we can get square with your scumbag friends."

  "You don't think they're such scumbags when you want some blow."

  "Yes, I do. I just keep it in perspective and do what I have to do to get what I want. That's what you need to do right now, babe. That's all I'm saying," Kirsten laid her hand on top of his clenched fist and stroked it gently. "Now let's go over our story again -- make sure we got it right, okay?"

  Jimmy clenched his teeth and jerked his hand away from her, but he nodded his agreement.

  ****

  The yard crew had launched Diamantista with no problems, and the foreman had insisted that one of the line handlers accompany Connie aboard the boat to help her get anchored. She had been grateful for the assistance; she still found it intimidating to handle the boat by herself, especially in close quarters like the anchorage off the boatyard's dock.

  Once she had satisfied herself that the anchor was holding and that Diamantista wasn't too close to the neighboring boats, she and the line handler had climbed down into the dinghy. As she took him back to the yard, he had complimented her on how easily she negotiated the crowded anchorage. She had felt her chest swell with pride, even though her cynical side suspected that he was angling for a generous tip.

  As he climbed onto the dock, he grinned as he pocketed the folded bills she had given him. Touching the brim of his cap in a quick salute, he had said, "Thanks, Captain Barrera. Give a shout on the radio if we can do anything else for you."

  Although she had recently acquired a captain's license, it was the first time that anyone had called her 'Captain.' She liked the sound of that.

  Connie took the dinghy around to Ego Alley to check out of the hotel where she had been staying, relieved to be moving back aboard Diamantista. After she signed the credit card receipt proffered by the desk clerk and slung her duffle bag over her shoulder, she walked out the front door with a spring in her step. As she wove her way through the throngs of tourists, she felt herself start to swagger; she and Diamantista were part of the local color that the tourists came to admire along the waterfront.

  Dropping the duffle bag into the dinghy and climbing down to untie the painter, she realized that not too long ago she had carried a purse as big as the duffle bag. In the last few months she had adopted a minimalist's approach to life. Once she would have found the idea of living for a couple of weeks with what she could fit into a small shoulder bag ludicrous, but now she felt a great sense of freedom at being so unencumbered.

  Though her physical burden was light, her mind was filled with the things that she had to do before she could set sail for the Caribbean. There was a long list of stuff to buy and stow and enter into her computerized inventory. From toothpaste to fishing tackle, olive oil to engine oil, she had to provision the boat for two or three weeks at sea.

  Planning meals and buying groceries were foreign to her; she wished Paul were around. She desperately needed a cook for the trip south. That was more important in her mind than competent crew; she was
comfortable with her ability to sail the boat, especially in open water, but putting food on the table was beyond her ken.

  She was surprised when she looked up and saw Diamantista. Lost in her thoughts, she had negotiated the ten-minute dinghy ride from downtown Annapolis to the anchorage in Back Creek without realizing it.

  She tied the dinghy alongside Diamantista and set her duffle bag on deck, scrambling up the boarding ladder. She took her key ring with its orange foam float from the pocket of her shorts and unlocked the companionway. She went below and tossed the bag on the double berth in the aft stateroom. She would sleep there until she had to give it up to paying guests.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Connie settled in the cockpit with a glass of Shiraz and a plate of fruit with some cheese cubes. The day had been exhausting. First, there had been the helpless anxiety as she watched and waited while the yard crew had launched Diamantista. Then, as she pulled away from the boatyard, she had the sudden realization that she was truly on her own.

  When she had taken delivery of the boat two months ago, Paul had been with her to sail Diamantista from Charleston, South Carolina, to Annapolis. She had been in charge, but she had known she could depend upon his years of sailing experience.

  Today, for the first time, she had gotten a sense of the stress that accompanied being the only one responsible for a vessel. The line handler from the yard had provided much-needed muscle power, but no advice. She had been on her own when it came to matters of navigation and seamanship.

  She was frustrated to realize how much she had been depending on Paul when they had brought the boat to Annapolis. Determined to be her own woman, she didn't want anyone else, male or female, to make decisions for her. For the first time, she was glad that Paul wouldn't be accompanying her on the offshore voyage to the Virgin Islands. She wouldn't have anyone to rely upon except herself.