We sat in the yacht club's second story bar overlooking the harbor and Paradise Island. Gus' weathered sun-scorched face was familiar and pleasant. Watching the traffic in the channel, we sipped the heavy, dark, Anchor Rode beer.
"I'm looking for a boat, the Sun Dog. Know anything about her?"
"Yeah, she's bad news. Why you interested in that smelly mess of flotsam?"
Telling Gus as much as I thought he should know, I asked about the crew.
"The boat belongs to a drug smuggler running Snowpowder from here up to Grand Bahama and Abaco. Buys fuel from us at times. Always pays cash. Never heard his name. They got a slip over in Hurricane Hole and keep a low profile. Never no trouble around here that I heard of, but they have a reputation as being a mean bunch."
"They probably use it as the 'mother-boat.' Little boats come out and off load the stuff and run inshore."
"Yeah, they use those cigarette boats. Slim, fast things go forty knots. Someone said they cold-molded the dope into the hull and cut it out when they need it."
"Good way to hide it from the Coast Guard. Seems one would have to be careful removing it or you could end up with a boat full of salt water."
"That's funny…boat full of salt water."
"You got a car that I can borrow? I'm going to check in at a hotel on the island."
"If you'll bring it back, not leave it parked at the airport, like last time."
I drove over and checked in at the Paradise Island Hotel. It was a short walk from there to Hurricane Hole, a safe, natural, round, shallow bay the three hotels on the island used as a marina for guest's boats. Being registered at the hotel allowed free access to the docks.
My room was on the eighth floor with a view of Hurricane Hole and the boat channel. It was a big room and newly refurbished. The windows opened and a clean, fresh, salt-filled breeze wafted through the sliding glass doors. At the public docks across the channel on the mainland, islanders hawked their wares to visitors from all over the world. Automobiles crowded narrow streets, and Bahamian policemen in starched, white uniforms, gloves and military-style caps, directed traffic.
Placing a call to Glossman, I tried to pick out the Sun Dog in the marina. I could not. Glossman was out, but his secretary put me through to Bill Moran. "Jay, I'm glad you called. Anything, yet?"
"I'm in Nassau. Rene was brought to Bimini from here aboard a sportfisherman named the Sun Dog. I've traced it to a marina on Paradise Island. How's Lynn doing?"
"Well, that's just it. We've been unable to locate her."
"God, I didn't think about her being in danger. Whoever snatched Rene could do the same with Lynn. Get the police in on this."
"Already have. Don't worry, Jay. We didn't think of that possibility, either."
"Call me here at the hotel if anything turns up. I'm in room 816."
"Someone will be in the office all weekend if you need to communicate. Let us know what you find out about the boat. Be careful."
"Right."
There had been no ransom demand from Rene's disappearance, so it never occurred to me Lynn could be a target. What's the motive? None of this made any sense."
Taking a shower, I changed clothes, and walked down to Hurricane Hole. The Sun Dog was there, tied stern to the dock. Two men stood in the salon. One of them was big, well over six feet, and built like Mako, except more barrel-chested and light skinned. My guess he was a free diver from one of the northern islands. The other man was a small, Latin American with olive skin and silver-gray hair combed straight back. Both appeared in their mid-forties.
At first, I didn't see the women. Lying on deck, snake-like, just forward of the salon, they were flat, brown, lissome creatures wearing string bikinis that didn't contain enough thread to sew a button on a shirt. They had bleached blond hair with skin burned to the color of mahogany. Rounded buttocks, long, slim legs, and bare breasts glistened in the afternoon sun from coconut oil applied by the gallon. The pleasant smell of the oil drifted across me like a veil, stirring memories of other summer evenings, other women, and other islands.
Barrel-chest stepped out into the cockpit, fished an Anchor Rode from a cooler, and stood staring into the setting sun. He was even bigger than I thought, chest and shoulders like a fighting bull, and his neck disappeared under sun-streaked blond hair and a solid-looking square jaw. One of those that appear chiseled out of stone. His face was marked and scarred, eyes deep set. He wore a sweat-stained Guayabera shirt that was two sizes too small.
Walking to the edge of the pier, I stood directly behind the Sun Dog. She was almost exactly like the Lady Lorraine, except this boat was brand new, but looked in terrible condition. Her paint was chipped, railings bent and scratched, rust and corrosion was everywhere. She hadn't been washed down from her last trip, and sea salt clung to every wetted surface. It was a shame to see such a fine vessel treated so badly.
"Hey, you guys catching any fish? This looks like a really fine boat."
Barrel-chest slowly turned to face me. We were less than four feet apart.
"What's those long poles sticking out from the sides? Are they radio antennas? What kind of fishing y'all do?"
Easing the Anchor Rode down from his mouth, he cracked a malignant smile. "Bugger off, Mon. Get outta here before someone smacks your face."
Acting insulted, I turned and walked away like an offended tourist. I did get a good look at the boat and those aboard.
Barrel-chest's accent was one I was familiar with on Abaco Island. I would bet he was a lobster fisherman from around there. The people of Abaco are ninety-nine percent white, and are descendants from Loyalists who left America after the war with England. Settling Abaco, they brought their slaves with them from the plantations. Blacks in the Bahamas are descendants from these slaves, and they now run the country. The Loyalists are honest, hard-working people who make their living from the sea, boat building, and what few crops that can be grown in the thin, sandy topsoil.
There was a good view of Hurricane Hole and the Sun Dog from my room. If they left the dock, there was little I could do, but the bet was that they would stay in port long enough for me to formulate a plan.
Surveillance is something I've never grown used to. It's boring, and if you have a lapse in concentration, that's the moment something will happen.
At sunset, the two women went below deck. By nine o'clock nothing had moved aboard the Sun Dog. It grew too dark to see.
Going down to the casino, I found it crowded with pre-show gamblers. The show started at ten o'clock, and there was no sign of the foursome from the Sun Dog, but what I did see stopped me in my tracks. Sitting at a blackjack table was Lynn Renoir. There was no mistaking her. The long, blond hair was pulled tightly back from her face and braided into a single ponytail. A single strand of pearls enhanced the sculpted nose, thin, unpainted lips, and tanned skin. She wore a black dress with a single strap on the shoulder. No wonder Bill Moran couldn't find her, she was in Nassau.
Easing out of the casino so that she could not see me, I went to the front desk and asked if my wife, Lynn Renoir, had checked into the hotel. She had not, but there were two other hotels on the island, and all shared the same casino. The desk clerk checked with them and said that she wasn't registered at either.
Heading back to the blackjack table, I thought it time to confront Miss Renoir. She was gone. The dealer said she didn't remember her leaving with anyone, but she really wasn't paying that much attention. I thought of offering a bribe to jog her memory, but the cameras were looking.
Lynn had disappeared. Leaving the hotel, I walked down the path to Hurricane Hole to see if the Sun Dog was still there. It was, but blacked out. Going back to the hotel, I checked the dining room. Lynn wasn't there, but the foursome from the boat was seated at a table in the middle of the room.
Sitting down in the lobby to think, it was hard to imagine why Lynn was in Nassau. Glossman would not get her off the hook this time. I cannot babysit an amateur; it could get one or both of us killed. Exhaling a deep breath, I glanced at the entrance to the dining room. Now would be a good time to take a look around the Sun Dog. The dope pushers should be at dinner for at least an hour, longer if they took in the show.
The path to the dock was winding and narrow. Crushed seashells crunched under my feet, Palmetto bushes, Palm and Almond trees, and many species of tropical flowers bordered the path. In the cool night air an ocean breeze rustled the fronds. A brilliant field of stars lighted the sky. A romantic place, but the path was deserted.
Nearing the harbor, I eased off to the side and crouched under small palm trees surrounded by Bougainvillea shrubs in full bloom. Their aroma permeated the night air, reminding me of a good zinfandel wine.
Birds chirped and flitted in the shrubs, boat traffic on the channel produced throaty, muted rumblings. From my position there was a clear view of the Sun Dog. Nothing stirred on the boat. Lights from the tall poles surrounding the dock danced on the water as small ripples ran through the harbor.
Slipping off my leather-soled shoes, I eased down the path, slipped into the cockpit, and tried the salon door. It was not locked. Cool air hit me in the face and I could hear the air-conditioner humming quietly. I stood for a moment letting my eyes adjust. The interior was designed galley-up, which gave more room below. Rene was brought over to Bimini aboard this boat, and probably from this very dock.
Light filtering through the windows offered enough illumination to see clearly. It seemed as if some deranged person was playing a spotlight into the salon as the light moved spasmodically around when the boat nudged gently against her mooring. Starting down the companionway ladder to the lower deck and staterooms, I heard a faint noise. Stopping and standing deathly still, I counted to sixty. There were no more sounds. The smells emanating from the cabin were familiar, disinfectant, recently fried food, diesel fumes, coconut oil, and a perfume that I recognized, but could not name.
Entering the master stateroom on the portside revealed a queen-sized bed with wall to wall mirrors and a big walk-in shower. The mirrors gave a massive look to the room. There were several storage drawers built into the bottom of the bed holding the usual things, clothes, bathing suits, and socks. One drawer at the head of the bed contained two automatic handguns and several boxes of ammunition. This was not unusual, as most boats carry firearms for protection.
Looking closely at the mirrors, I noticed that they were also sliding glass doors. Inside were hangers of expensive clothing and, something much more interesting, six AR-15 assault rifles and dozens of cases of ammunition, along with several automatic pistols; guns resembling MAC-10s. This was heavy stuff. Snowpowder protection. How did Rene Renoir fit into this equation?
Every human being has a sixth sense for danger left over on the DNA strand from long ago when we were hunters and gatherers dodging meat-eating predators. The hair bristled on the back of my neck at the instant my world ceased to exist. There was no pain, only a millisecond of warning from a long ago ancestor.