Tonton (A Hunter Kincaid Novel)

Andre spoke to her in Creole for several minutes. She finally nodded and wiped her eyes, “He is the Captain of the ship, and an evil man. He threw my husband to the sharks.”

“He did what?”

“He had his men grab my husband and throw him overboard. Sharks were behind the ship. They were always behind the ship after our fist day.”

“And you saw this?”

“They told me to stay on the deck and watch. I saw all of it.”

Andre and Hunter looked at each other. Andre said to her, “Will you tell us about the journey?” She nodded as a tear slid down her cheek. “Leave nothing out,” Andre said. She didn’t.

Later, Andre and Hunter told the woman’s story to John, Randall, and two Lauderdale homicide detectives named Bustamante and Rahinsky. “Jesus Christ,” Rahinsky said.

Bustamante asked, “But she didn’t give his name, the Captain’s name? None of them did?”

“No,” Andre said.

John said, “There aren’t any papers in the pilot house or anyplace else we looked.”

Randall said, “The ship has no current registration, either. Not even a name on it. The only thing found was part of a four-year old paper in the hold that showed a bill of lading for a business in Miami. ”

“One more jurisdiction issue, then.” Bustamante said.

John said, “We know some of those folks, since Randall and I both started down there. If you want, and since this is a big-ass case, we could see if we could help. Either officially or unofficially.”

Rahinsky said, “At least for introductions.”

Randall said, “How about an off-duty intro, so we can all be at ease.”

“Sure.”

Randall said, “I know the perfect place.”

Bustamante said, “Where are you thinking?”

“Lo-Deen’s Bar, on South Beach. The Hawaiian Tropic ladies are down there for the next two days shooting calendar layouts.”

Rahinsky said, “You are one crackerjack detective, Ishtee. Set it up.”

~*~

They sat so everyone could look across Ocean Drive at the models on the beach. Hunter was between Randall and John, sipping Maker’s Mark on the rocks. The Hawaiian Tropic models were having a fine time, and the shoot was energetic, with some good music drifting all the way to Lo-Deen’s. A little Katy Perry, a little Rihanna. Bustamante said, “Hunter, you could be over there. You look as good as they do.”

“Thanks, but I like carrying a gun and shooting people.”

The youngest of the two Miami homicide detectives, Jason Hale, said, “They’re thin, you’re not. You’ve got that lean, strong thing going on.”

Hunter said, “I attribute it to steady alcohol intake.”

Hale peered at her a moment, “Aren’t you from Texas, somewhere out near El Paso? That place where the drug smugglers gunned down the sheriff?”

Hunter took a sip, “Yeah.”

“I thought so. Were you at the murder scene? I heard they shot something like a thousand rounds at him.”

Hunter took a long swallow and signaled the server for another, “No, I wasn’t at the scene.”

“That Sheriff Rockman, he must have been something. The way they described him in Time, he was like Walker, Texas Ranger on steroids. The description of his shootout in Mexico and facing down a whole mob of killers was incredible. You knew him, right?”