Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) (2 page)

When the time came, he’d be seen as trying to reach both his mother-in-law and his daughter and would mobilize whatever assets he could to find them. He was certain their bodies would never be found, though. And if they were, he’d have no problem in subtly placing the blame on the late Pat DeGroodt, his impulsive and eccentric mother-in-law, for the death of his daughter at the hands of Jamaican drug smugglers. It happened often enough at random, he was certain it would work. Then he could be seen as throwing himself into his work once more, concentrating on legislation to halt the illegal drug trade.

Hell
, he thought,
if I play this right, I can guarantee reelections for the next decade. And be filthy rich, to boot.
Knowing his Colombian mistress’s penchant for shiny things, she’d be very excited about that. This brought a slow smile to the congressman’s face.

He’d met Chela Madeira on a trip to South America seven years ago. It was before he had begun exploring a life in politics and long before his wife had died. With some time off before a meeting with real estate developers in Bogota, Cross had found himself in the hotel’s very elegant lounge. Chela had been performing there as a singer. Cross had found himself mesmerized by her voice, enthralled by her petite body, long black hair, and smoky brown eyes. Though she was sixteen years younger than his thirty-six at the time, he’d actively pursued her affections. Sensing he was a very successful
hombre de negocios Americano
, she’d returned those affections.

Within two years, and many extended trips to Colombia later, each one full of more inventive and adventurous sex, Cross’s project had been completed. Chela had become his mistress and he’d put her up in the penthouse suite of the hotel he and the other developers had built, with him as controlling partner.

Since then, he’d made numerous trips to the Colombian capital, on the pretense of business, and they’d met several other times in exotic places all around the Caribbean. He’d even flown her to the Lowcountry of South Carolina a number of times for a booty call.

For the last few months, Chela had talked more and more openly about him bringing her to Washington, even hinting at marriage. With his wife dead for a year now, it wouldn’t be quite so scandalous for him to start seeing someone. However, Chela would probably never be that someone. Sixteen years younger than him would be bad enough, though she was a hard-bodied twenty-seven-year-old legal adult. But the tiny little woman projected an intense sexuality that just couldn’t be hidden or contained.

For a sitting congressman, that just wouldn’t work. And he just wasn’t sure if he was willing to give up the power his position gave him to have this sexually adventurous and voracious little minx with him full-time. Even when the inheritance and life insurance came in. Besides, it would complicate things with his other mistress in Charleston.

For a moment, Cross contemplated that.
Why not give up both the job and the other mistress?
There were a lot of bedroom adventures with Chela that he hadn’t explored, and she rarely let him get any rest. Sometimes for days.
No
, he decided,
I could never be just a one-woman man.

From the research he’d done on his mother-in-law, he knew that his daughter stood to inherit at least eight figures, with him in full control of the trust until she turned twenty-one. With both of them dying in a tragic mishap in another country, the wealth would come to him. Plus over one million dollars in insurance, a policy his late wife had taken out on their daughter. Cross smiled again, knowing that none of this pointed toward him. Nobody would ever suspect that he’d hired someone to murder his own daughter. His mind drifted to how he could live life with that kind of money on top of what he’d already squirreled away.
Hell, I can build a complete dungeon for Mistress Chela
, he thought.
Maybe even introduce her to Connie in Charleston.
The thought of having them both at once was very intriguing.

The intercom on Nick Cross’s desk buzzed, interrupting his lecherous thoughts. He pushed a button on it. “Did you reach Claude?”

“Still trying, sir,” Dennis replied. “There’s a call for you on line three. It’s a Miss Pritchard with Regency Cruises.”

“Thanks, Dennis,” Cross said, with faked concern in his voice. He’d expected the call earlier in the day. He’d also expected Claude to call, telling him the deed was done and demanding the balance of the payment.

Picking up the receiver, Nick punched the flashing button. “Congressman Nick Cross.”

“Congressman Cross,” a woman’s voice said over the phone. “My name is Natalie Pritchard. I’m the ship’s steward aboard Regency Star. Your mother-in-law and your daughter are booked on a seven-day cruise aboard.”

“Yes, Miss Pritchard. Is there a problem?”

“They failed to return to the ship last night, sir. Has Missus DeGroodt changed their travel plans?”

“Not that I’m aware of. My mother-in-law is impulsive, though. Is there a number I can reach you at? I’ll give her a call to see what is going on and if they plan to fly ahead and rejoin the ship.”

“Yes,” the woman replied and gave him a number to their home office switchboard. “They can connect you to the ship via satellite,” she explained. “But I’ve tried the number Missus DeGroodt gave us several times this morning, and it goes straight to voicemail.”

“Thanks, Miss Pritchard. I’ll try my daughter’s cell phone, then. Maybe Pat’s phone is dead.” Cross grinned again at his own joke.

Hanging up the phone, he found it hard to suppress the grin. Knowing that his phone records might be checked during the coming investigation, he quickly scrolled through his cell phone’s contact list and found his daughter’s number, knowing even before he hit send that this call too would go straight to voicemail.

When it did, he went through the same thing with his mother-in-law. That call went to voicemail as well, and he left a message for her to call him as soon as she got it. Cross then pushed the intercom button again. “Dennis, come in here right away.”

The following morning, the investigation was already in full swing. In Dennis’s eyes, Congressman Cross had seemed to be beside himself. Together, they’d tried calling both the congressman’s mother-in-law and his daughter. Both phones had seemed to be turned off. The congressman instructed Dennis to start contacting the authorities in Nassau.

Near midnight, the Royal Bahamian Police had reported that someone had seen a woman and a girl matching the description of Pat DeGroodt and Chrissy Cross. The witness said it appeared as if they’d been taken aboard a speedboat near one of the docks in Nassau and the boat had then roared out of the harbor. The men with them were described as three Rastafarian types, with long dreads.

Dennis Tigner had remained in the office all night, catching a few hours of sleep on a folding cot. He didn’t think the congressman had gotten any sleep at all.

Rising from the cot, Dennis set the coffeepot up once again. They were still waiting to find out more about the boat that was seen leaving with the congressman’s family.

How much bad can one man handle?
Dennis thought. It’d been just a little more than a year since his wife had been killed in a tragic and horrific car crash. It had happened near the congressman’s home. His wife was going shopping when a front tire blew out, just as she was approaching a bridge. The car careened off the road out of control, rolling twice before coming to rest in a salt marsh wetland area, upside down in five feet of water. The coroner had reported that she’d likely have died within minutes from the head injuries she’d sustained, but the actual cause of death had been drowning.

Now the congressman’s daughter and his late wife’s mother seemed to be victims of a random kidnapping. It had happened over twenty-four hours ago and there had been no ransom demand and no news since.

Dennis went quietly to his desk and wiggled the mouse to wake up his computer. He scanned his emails, and seeing nothing other than the usual correspondence from lobbyists and other legislators, he turned to Google and started checking news reports in Nassau. Stories of the abduction filled the first two pages of results, but nothing from the authorities.

Picking up the phone, he asked the switchboard operator to connect him once more with the Bahamian police officer in charge of the investigation in Nassau. By now, she probably knew the number by heart.

“Lieutenant Frank Cleary,” a slightly accented voice on the phone said in greeting.

Dennis had already spoken with the lieutenant a number of times. Seeing the light was still on under the door to the congressman’s office, Dennis wondered if the man had fallen asleep with the lights still on. He couldn’t possibly go on like this for long. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Lieutenant Cleary, this is Dennis Tigner, Congressman Cross’s aide. Do you have anything at all to report?”

“I was going to call yuh, Mister Tigner,” Cleary answered. “A security camera caught the speedboat in question, just as it passed a tiki bar. We were able to get the registration number of the boat, but it had been reported stolen three weeks ago. I’m afraid there’s just nothing else to report.”

“Well, that’s something anyway. Could you tell from the picture if the congressman’s daughter and mother-in-law were indeed aboard?”

“It is actually a video,” Cleary replied. “But I’m afraid the detail isn’t very good. It clearly shows an older white woman and a teenage white girl, hair color and length matching what you gave us. The three men on the boat with them had their backs to the camera, though.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. Please call me directly if you hear anything further. Anything at all.”

Dennis hung up the phone and walked back across the office to the coffee machine. Pouring a cup, he suddenly had an idea. His uncle worked at the Pentagon, his work involving the Caribbean, and he had lots of contacts there. Maybe he could do something, or find out something. He went back to his desk and picked up his cell phone. Finding the name in his contact list, he tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear. Though it was still an hour before sunrise, his uncle answered after the first ring.

“Uncle Travis, this is Dennis. There’s a situation with my boss, Congressman Cross.”

T
he wind was whipping at the plastic windscreen as I shoved both throttles to the stops, not bothering to warn anyone on board. There was neither a need to, nor the time. The urgency of the last few minutes was palpable, and everyone on board was a consummate professional. At least the rain had held off, but that was just a matter of time.

Gaspar’s Revenge
leaped forward. As much as a boat her size can leap, anyway. Her stern dropped as tons of water was sucked from beneath the hull by the two massive propellers. They shoved the heavy forty-five-foot charter boat up on top of the water, and a high-pitched scream split the night air as the twin superchargers on each of the powerful eleven-hundred-horsepower engines spooled up. Small-arms fire suddenly erupted from astern.

“Lay down cover fire, Tony!” I shouted unnecessarily from the bridge as I steered the
Revenge
toward the mouth of the small harbor. We all wore earwigs and could hear one another in a normal speaking voice. The tumbled rock breakwater on either side appeared as irregular gray-green walls through the night vision optics I wore.

A second later, the ripping sound of the
Revenge
’s tail stinger brought a quick end to any return fire from shore. The tripod-mounted 7.62mm minigun fired over four thousand rounds per minute. The near-constant flame from the muzzle spat a steady stream of bullets toward the enemy, with only forty feet between each round. The shore was a good hundred yards astern, so the minigun put almost a hundred projectiles whistling through the air at the same time. On target, they could chew through just about anything in a matter of seconds. Spraying an area, as Tony was doing, created more of a shock-and-awe affect, pinning everyone down so they couldn’t return fire.

Even though I knew the throttles were wide open, I leaned on them anyway while scanning the water ahead. Channels were best navigated at an idle, but we were quickly approaching the top speed for
Gaspar’s Revenge
. Beside me, hunched over the glow of the infrared camera monitor and forward scanning sonar, Art quietly read off the depth to me.