Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) by John Cunningham (best manga ereader .txt) 📗

Get Out of Jail Free card. I’d ask about it at the airport when I got there. The first pick-up was in 90 minutes: the country singer Avery Rose. I’d never seen her in concert, but she endorsed some cosmetics company that had her face emblazoned on a Five Sixes taxi in Key West, and in the words of Ray Floyd, she was hot—or at least she’d been airbrushed to look hot.

I hopped aboard the launch from Frenchman’s Reef and we set out toward the dock in Charlotte Amalie. The sky was clear, a light breeze staved off perspiration, and laughter from those on board lightened my heart for a moment. Rather than dwelling on what I hadn’t found out or what Booth had shared, I sat back on the bench and caught some rays.

Once on shore, I waved down a cab. When I told the driver to take me to Burns Field by the university he gave me a double-take. I didn’t blame him. Based on my appearance, if I were headed to the police station it would more likely be in the back of a patrol car.

I phoned Captain Jeremy from the cab. He promised to be at the public dock next to the airport in two and half hours. I pulled out John Thedford’s schedule and gave him the contact information for Jamie Foxx, who was coming in by private jet and specified that he wanted to be taken to Caneel Bay on St. John by private boat.

“No shit!” Jeremy said.

“After that I need you back at the dock by Cyril King to get somebody else. I’ll let you know the specifics when the time gets closer.” I wasn’t being secretive—I could only plan a few moves ahead with so much going on.

“Got it,” he said.

“Text me to let me know you made the pick-up.”

The cabbie pulled up in front of the police station. The tinted double glass doors opened into a small lobby. In what looked like a bank teller booth with bulletproofed glass was a large black woman in uniform, her hair swirled up in an orange beehive. I tried my damndest not to stare. It wasn’t easy—her fingernails were at least an inch long, with a different exotic design painted on each one. There was a microphone button with a sign that said Push to Speak, so I did.

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Kenneth White.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is he expecting you?”

I caught my reflection was in the glass. Unshaven, hair wild after the crossing on the ferry, skin red. I smiled.

“Just tell him T. Edward Booth from the FBI is here to see him.”

Now both of her eyebrows lifted.

“Credentials?”

“Undercover, don’t carry any.” I kept a straight face. Feds don’t smile.

She opened the mag lock and pointed to a hallway.

“Conference room, second door on the right. He’ll be there in a minute, Special Agent Booth.”

The conference room had a wood laminate table and eight chairs that had faded from mauve to a sickly pink. A picture of the President hung on one wall, facing one of the Police Commissioner for the USVI on the opposite wall. Neither was smiling.

I sat with my back to the door. White came up behind me and stopped.

“Come in and close the door,” I said without turning around.

The door closed. He walked around the end of the table and saw me. His eyes changed from surprise to recognition to suspicion, all in half a second.

“You’re that pilot—the treasure hunter, Buck Reilly,” he said. “Where’s Booth?”

“I just left him at Frenchman’s Reef. He’s on his way to meet with the Task Force Against Gang Activity and sent me with a message for you. He also wanted you to give me a briefing.” My voice hadn’t wavered, despite the serious bullshit I was laying down.

“What? Why the hell would he send you?”

I pulled the FAA fax from my breast pocket.

“Read this,” I said.

His forehead tripled over with furrows. I hadn’t noticed when we met before, but his eyes were hazel, rare in black men. He shook his head.

“Water landings are illegal outside of Charlotte Amalie and Christiansted Harbors.” He sat down and handed me back the fax. “What’s this about?”

“I’m assisting the FBI in their search for John Thedford and Mike Kuznewski, a.k.a. Stud Mahoney.” I loved saying a.k.a. but managed not to grin.

“Why you? From what I’ve read, you’re under suspicion for enough crimes to be locked away until you’re a senior citizen.”

“You’re welcome to call Special Agent Booth.” I pulled out the cell phone and handed it to him with Booth’s name and number on the screen. “I’m not here to discuss anything sensitive, just to alert you that I’m headed to the BVI and that I’m allowed to make water landings around the USVI.”

“That’s fine, but has he alerted the Royal—”

“Duncan Mather’s expecting me.” I held out the letter addressed to Mather with the FBI seal on top. I held my breath.

“Dunk’s a good man,” White said. “Bit of a tight-ass, but hey, that’s the Brits.” He sat back in his chair. “So what can I tell you?”

“Booth’s getting a rundown from the Task Force on the spike in gang activity and whether or not any of them could’ve been involved in the kidnappings, but I’m supposed to get your thoughts on other suspects.” Sweat had started to drip down my back and I felt my forehead beading. “Are there any radical fringe pro-life or pro-choice elements?”

White rubbed his chin, shook his head.

“Things are different here than on the mainland. Not as many abortions, but nearly sixty percent of kids live in single-parent homes. Cheaper for women to have the kids, safer too I suppose, but the majority of fathers don’t offer any support.”

“So you think it might be a different angle?”

“There’s a power struggle brewing that could result in a gang war. Not sure how that would be connected, though.”

“What kind of power struggle?”

He rubbed his eyes. “We’ve had reports of a major international cartel making moves to