Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) John Cunningham (psychology books to read TXT) 📖

“These are my islands, bro. Nothing gets past me for long. And when the time comes, you’re going to help me step up to the next level in exchange for me finding your lost sheep.”

Perfect.

“And when the concert goes down,” he said, “I want a front row seat and an introduction to Jamie Foxx and Denzel Washington. Heard they’ll be there.” He smiled—a real one. “They some bad motherfuckers.”

I took some comfort from the fact that on the return trip I was in the back seat, not the trunk.

THE CELL PHONE IN my pocket rang as Dreadlocks and Brass Knuckles drove me back toward Cruz Bay. The caller ID indicated it was Crystal, but I didn’t want to talk to her with Diego’s goons listening in so I hit END.

The small car rocketed down a hill near Chocolate Hole toward the intersection below.

“You guys can let me off here,” I said.

“The Westin?” Dreadlock said.

“No, here’s fine.”

The car screeched to a stop.

“When Mr. Francis calls you, be sure to answer,” Brass Knuckles said. “Otherwise, we’ll come find you.”

I jumped out, rubbing my sore chin as they sped off. They drove a blue Hyundai, and I made a note to avoid it if I saw it again. Nice-sized trunk, though.

A steady stream of pick-up truck taxis packed with tourists spewed out of the road leading toward the Westin, the largest hotel on the island. I retrieved Crystal’s number and hit SEND.

“Buck, I’m so glad you called back.” She was out of breath. “Everything okay on St. John?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s paradise here, what could be wrong? How about on Jost? I take it you made it there okay.”

“Oh, I made it. The ferry worked out fine and Customs was a breeze, albeit on island-time.” She paused. “But when I got here, I found out Scarlet—that’s my assistant—was understating the amount of shit that’s been going on.”

“What’s the deal?”

A brittle laugh.

“What’s not the deal would be more like it,” she said. “There’s no new news on John or Stud, and the latest problem is protestors—Pro Life, Pro Choice, Pro-Statehood, religious groups, and some I’m not sure about yet.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my temple.

“Are they threatening you in any way?”

“No, but if looks could kill, I’d need armed bodyguards just to survive the walk from the dock to the stage.” Her voice wasn’t shaky but it had an edge.

I urged her to contact the authorities, then told her I’d just arrived at the Westin and wanted to check John’s room for any clues.

“Good idea—no point in coming here now,” she said. “I need you to pick up people in San Juan and St. Thomas tomorrow and fly them to where they’re staying. And then we have to get people here for rehearsals. A couple of my board members are helping too.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“I can’t land my plane in BVI waters, Crystal. The government won’t allow it. And there’s not many places I can land in the USVI, either.”

Silence.

“Crystal? Are you there?”

“I was thinking. We have those speed boats from St. John on retainer. Talk to them. The owner’s name is Bill something…. Bill Hartman, that’s it. Can you talk to him?”

Billy the boozer, I presumed. I promised I’d see him and she said that if John’s luggage and briefcase were still in his room at the Westin, there was a schedule of arrivals and logistics for ferrying people around.

We hung up as I arrived at the Westin. After a lot of persuasion, the hotel manager agreed to give me a key to John Thedford’s suite. The police had already been there but the rooms weren’t sealed since they hadn’t detected anything suggesting foul play. Thedford was paid up through half of next week, so all his possessions were still there.

I took in the beach-front view from the balcony. God knew how many rooms were spread out over close to fifty acres on the palm-lined shores of Great Cruz Bay. Verdant hills formed a horseshoe around the turquoise water, the masts of countless moored sailboats swaying in the afternoon breeze. Looking down I watched children run around the compound, squealing with delight as their parents watched from their deck chairs and sipped umbrella’d drinks.

Back to work.

Aside from the luggage and a few shirts and slacks in the suite’s closet, nothing suggested anyone had actually occupied the room—no toiletries in the bathroom, the king bed made, everything in its place. I slid the shirts across the rack—good quality resort-style—checked his shirt and pants pockets and found nothing. No receipts, no cash, not a business card or even a pen.

I pulled out the Tumi suitcase—shoes, underwear, a belt. Damn. Now the briefcase, a leather Coach bag with lots of wear and tear, loaded to the hilt with files, paper, and brochures.

I found the mini-bar and liberated two tiny bottles of Bacardi rum, which I emptied into a glass and gulped neat. Then I sat at the desk and started sorting.

After a half-hour I had the files sorted into a few piles: logistics for the event, correspondence with the participants or their managers, bills, and ISA-related legal looking documents. None of it provided any insight into what might have happened to John Thedford. At least the logistics offered me a road map to where he’d been and planned to go—along with a ball-busting schedule of arrivals over the next 48 hours, which I had no idea how I’d manage. I scanned the list and counted a dozen different people I needed to retrieve who would’ve been covered by Seaborne. Then there were another half-dozen to shuttle to different exclusive resorts throughout the Virgin Islands. And the first arrival was tomorrow morning in St. Thomas.

There was no way I could do it alone, and no way I’d have time to look for John. Even if the charter boats were still willing to help, that wouldn’t be enough to cover everyone.

I sat back in the chair.