Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) John Cunningham (the rosie project TXT) 📖

“Do you mind if I take some notes?” She reached over and took a notepad off the corner of her desk.

I bit the side of my lip. I needed to be careful—being quoted about the Concepcíon would really piss Jack off.

“There are men on the island searching for the Concepcíon, including a pair from the Dominican Republic that you might want to avoid. And a pair of Americans—”

She pursed her lips, and full as they were the expression drew me in. Her eyes fluttered behind her glasses as she sat back and crossed her legs.

“Why—”

Her office phone rang. She glanced at her watch and jumped up.

“Pardonnez-moi.”

She answered the phone and I glanced around the office while she murmured into it. There were books on maritime history on shelves, maps and seafaring art on the walls—all the trappings of a maritime historian’s abode. Caterina fit in too, but there was a vibrancy to her, a beauty under the glasses and hair that made me wonder what she’d look like if she let herself go a little.

Once she hung up, she turned back to me.

“I am so sorry, Buck, but I must leave for a meeting. Do you have a car or can I drop you somewhere? I truly would love to interview you about e-Antiquity and your future plans.”

“I’m, ah, just walking up to the hospital to visit a friend—”

“Then how about dinner tonight? My friends who own la Langouste in Flamands tell me the lobster are plentiful.”

My heart fluttered. “Sure—”

“And you can tell me more about the Concepcíon.”

We agreed on a time, and I led the way down her stairs. Once in the sun, her even tan and green eyes were even more striking. She leaned forward and we casually kissed each cheek before she started down the road. God bless the French custom—especially with a woman who actually appreciated my efforts at e-Antiquity. Now that was a rare find.

Before entering the hospital, I called Agent Booth.

“Didn’t I tell you not to call me on this phone?”

“You learn anything yet? And what’s an ex-con doing out of the country? Isn’t that a parole violation or something?”

“This is all confidential information, Reilly.”

“It won’t be if the New York Times learns about it. And what about those Dominicans who beat up Truck—”

“Don’t threaten me, hotshot!”

“I need answers! There’s plenty more going on down here than meets the eye, including Lou Atlas maybe knowing more than he’s sharing. There may be a payday for you here, Booth, but only if I live long enough to find the truth!”

Silence.

“Now what the hell’s the deal with Gunner?”

“You sitting down?” Booth said.

“No, I’m sweating my ass off walking up a steep street to see my buddy in the hospital—”

“Dodson was remanded into Rostenkowski’s supervision.”

“What the hell?!”

“The Bureau had nothing to do with it! Rostenkowski’s a CIA informant—he has a lot of knowledge, and it was apparently decided very high up that he could not be allowed to stay in Cuban custody.”

I stopped halfway up the street.

“Back up, Booth. Why would Jack be remanded to Gunner’s custody?”

“I don’t have the answer—but if they’re working with Gutierrez, the FBI’ll arrest both their asses, that I can promise you.” I knew he meant it. “If you can prove that, I’ll get your slate wiped clean. You hear me?”

Giddiness hit me as the enormity of what he’d said crept into my brain. No more worries about my past—but what about the evidence Jack had on me?

I swallowed. “As in immunity?”

“Damn straight. You give me Gunner, Jack Dodson, and the Cubans in a nice neat bundle, your ass is off the list.”

Wow.

That would substantially clear the playing field for the Concepcíon, except for the Dominicans. According to Booth, the fact that Jack and Gunner’s plane—my plane—was registered in Cuba wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

“Follow the trail, Reilly.” He hung up.

I continued up the hill with a spring in my step.

“Broken collarbone and broken rib, dammit,” Truck said. “Should of listened to my brother and stayed away from your ass.”

I agreed we didn’t have a very good track record together, but usually I’d helped Truck more than put him in harm’s way. The doctor wanted to keep him overnight. I told him I was meeting a maritime historian for dinner but kept my fascination with Caterina to myself.

“Sounds boring—damn, I was supposed to see my British lady friends again tonight.” He pumped his eyebrows. “You mind telling ‘em I’m laid up?”

I nodded and promised to retrieve him once the doctor gave him the okay. His face was less puffy and the cuts were scabbing over, but he looked like hell and it turned my stomach to see him like this. Treasure has a way of bringing out the worst in people, whether it’s gold and silver on the bottom of the ocean or the numbers on a dead man’s bank account.

Truck smiled, his unswollen eye squinting.

“Have fun talking maritime history tonight.”

My smile caused him to arch his brows. “You can count on that.”

I made my way through the hospital and found a taxi parked out by the front entrance. At the traffic circle above the airport, I said: “Go straight, then take a quick right.”

There were no planes approaching from the left, and to the right a Winair plane was taking off over the beach at St. Jean. We wound our way down to the private aviation ramp. I held my breath as we rounded the private hangar.

The Widgeon was still there.

Betty.

I paid the driver, told him not to wait, and slammed the door shut. I did a quick inspection of the Beast, checked the tie down lines (taut), the pitot tube (clean), the—

What’s this? Something was taped to the portside window. I pulled it off—it was a shipping receipt for a package sent—to Special Agent Edwin Booth—Federal Bureau of Investigation, 9001 Brickell Avenue, Miami, Florida.

I held my breath and stared into the fuselage of my