Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3), John Cunningham [top fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

still bothered me. Could it be the same person who called John Thedford? Was it a local from the Virgin Islands? His statement was so brief there wasn’t much to go on. I didn’t like being on the radar, but it meant they were watching the situation closely and intent on disrupting ISA’s plans. If I was being watched, it might be possible to flush them out. The note taped on the Beast’s hatch was another mystery, but one I’d have to visit later. With any luck, it was the first break in this mess.

Air traffic control answered my call, and with no commercial airliners due in before noon, allowed me quick entry. I breathed a sigh of relief, more confident in the security at Cyril E. King than leaving the Beast a sitting duck in Charlotte Amalie’s harbor. Now, if I could hurry through the paperwork and find a cab, I should be able to catch Crystal in Red Hook.

I MADE THE 7:30 A.M. FERRY by the skin of my teeth. Turns out the FBO wasn’t wild about unscheduled antique flying boats popping up out of the harbor and onto their radar screen. Especially when they viewed the Beast as equivalent to an aviation version of the Flying Dutchman.

Hey, she needs a paint job. Sue me.

Crystal, pecking away at her cell phone in the ferry terminal, gave me a tepid smile as I walked into the waiting area. Having decided not to mention my surprise wake-up call just yet, I simply told her I needed to move the Beast to solid ground.

Between emails, texting, and phone calls, she didn’t have much to say to me during our crossing through Pillsbury Sound. She spent most of the time trying to placate yet another worried star handler.

“Everything’s still set for this weekend,” she said. “No, we have a private plane to meet Mike at the airport—whichever airport you like, St. Thomas is closest.” She glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “No, there was no bomb threat on his plane—it’s a really cool vintage seaplane the pilot brought me over in from Key West… Buck Reilly, Last Resort Charter and Salvage…”

Poor Crystal. Neither my reputation or the name of my company would give anyone confidence. Even if she was able to cajole the rock stars into showing up, they might still get cold feet when they spotted the Beast.

As our boat pulled into Cruz Bay, there was a new condo development up on the hill above the town that hadn’t been there last time I’d visited. St. John was 80% parkland, thanks to the vision of Laurance Rockefeller back in 1956, and so far only a few hotels existed here, which made this smallest of the U.S. Virgin Islands the most peaceful. Though I guess John Thedford might disagree, since this was the last place he’d been seen.

As we disembarked from the ferry, Crystal put the phone away and looked at the beach to the right of the dock.

“That’s American Watersports.” She pointed toward a dozen boats of various sizes anchored close to shore. “We have a couple of their boats chartered for the rest of the week.”

“Good, let’s stop in to see them after we talk to the Park Police.” Speedboats might be more comforting to her celebrity concert participants than the Beast, and I didn’t have permission for water landings yet.

I led Crystal off the dock and through the collection of pickup trucks with elaborate benches and canopies erected in their beds—the vehicles of choice for the taxis on the island that shuttled tourists back and forth from town to the pristine beaches. Traffic was hectic along the one-way street, but we managed to get to the far side without getting flattened. There, past a parking lot, was another ferry terminal—the gateway to the British Virgin Islands—and past that, on the far side of the harbor, the fleet and headquarters of the U.S. Park Police.

Once around the small harbor we passed two center console boats and another small cabin cruiser, all with official National Park Service emblems on their hulls. The idle boats gave me a sense of angst as we entered the Virgin Islands National Park Visitor’s Center, the two-story off-white building where the Park Police had their offices. We took the stairs and once we said who we were, the receptionist went to get the officer on duty. Tall, tanned, and in his early thirties, he came out dressed in a pressed white shirt with gold epaulets.

“Hi, I’m Chuck Deaver.” He shook our hands. “I’m sorry about your husband, Ms. Thedford.”

“Is there news?” Crystal said.

“I’m, sorry, no. We haven’t found him yet.”

“How big’s your fleet?” I said.

Deaver walked over to the front window.

“That’s all of it moored out front.”

“Three boats?” I said.

He nodded. “Budget cuts.”

“Is that just for St. John?”

“And St. Thomas. There’s one more boat over on St. Croix. We’re pretty understaffed these days, considering all the, ah, activity in the region. There’s a Coast Guard base on Puerto Rico, but they don’t mess with missing persons reports unless a boat’s lost at sea.”

Those three boats couldn’t do squat against a well-financed criminal organization. No wonder the USVI was a hub for guns and drugs.

“Why aren’t they out searching for my husband?” Crystal said.

Deaver took in a short breath.

“We’ve scoured the entire southwestern coastline multiple times, Ms. Thedford. Normally, if there’s a drowning near Cruz Bay, the currents are pretty predictable—not that it happens that often, mind you. We’ve also deployed scuba divers and asked the local operators to help us dive the harbor by the ferry docks, just in case. Again, we found nothing—in that case fortunately.”

Crystal, her body as rigid as a board, squeezed my bicep.

“You’re familiar with the event that the Thedford’s organization is hosting on Jost Van Dyke this weekend?” I said.

“I am, plus I saw it on the news last night. Pretty amazing line-up.” His sudden smile revealed straight white teeth. “We’ve been