Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) by Todd Moss Page B

out of earshot, Sunday picked up the receiver. “Sunday,” he whispered.
    “You still chasing pirates?” Jessica asked.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Have you seen the news?”
    “No time for TV, ma’am. Neck-deep in Somalia.”
    “Turn on CNN. Last night, Cubans seized an American fishing boat. Four civilians on board,” she said. “I need everything. Background, motives, anything you can find.”
    “Roger.”
    “Both sides. I want to know what the Cubans are up to. And us. ”
    “Got it,” Sunday said.
    “Story doesn’t make sense. Go deep.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Cuba. I’m on it.”
    “Do you need help with access or an alibi?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “I thought you were neck-deep in Somali pirates?”
    “Yes, ma’am. This sounds like pirates to me. Ship attacked and robbed at sea, right? Pirates of the Caribbean.”
    “Treasure Island.”

22.
    MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS
    THURSDAY, 11:44 A.M.
    T he parking lot of the Marathon Marina and Boat Yard was packed with television news vans, their satellite dishes sprouting like weeds reaching for the sun. A gaggle of well-coifed South Florida reporters were jostling for the same picturesque backdrop of a palm tree and the dock bar. The Monroe County Sheriff’s Office had set up a yellow police tape perimeter to keep back a crowd of onlookers.
    Jessica Ryker drove slowly past the scene and parked her Mustang down the road, under a coconut tree at Castaways Bar & Grill. She slid on sunglasses, a sun hat, and walked inside.
    “What’s all the fuss?” Jessica asked the bartender, a blonde in her late forties with leathery skin, name tag: BECKY .
    “Fishin’ boat gone missin’.” The walls were covered in fishnets, dented street signs, starfish, and old wine bottles. A twelve-foot stuffed blue marlin, with a sharp dorsal fin and long bill like a sword, was mounted behind the bar.
    “Oh my.” Jessica put her fingers to her lips. “Is that the boat on the TV?” she asked, pointing at the silent television above thebar where an overly tan brunette reporter was speaking into a microphone. “That broadcast is from . . . here?”
    “Uh-huh. Right outside,” Becky said, jerking her thumb toward the front door.
    “What happened?”
    “Don’t know. They musta strayed too close to Cuba. That’s what the TV says.”
    “Oh dear, that’s too awful.”
    “Who knows what happens out there on the high seas. You wanna drink, girl?”
    “It’s not too early?” Jessica shrugged.
    “It’s Florida,” she said, nodding toward an armless clock that announced IT’S MARGARITA TIME!
    “Okay.” Jessica slid onto a stool at the bar. “What’s your specialty?”
    “Margarita, rocks, salt.”
    “Perfect.”
    A few minutes later, the barwoman delivered a lime green cocktail, chunky ice cubes, and the rim covered in white specks. “Here you go. Becky’s Marathon Special.”
    Jessica took a sip, the sour lime juice mixing with the tequila and rock salt. She winced as she swallowed. “Yum. Thanks.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I’m Alexandra. From New York,” Jessica said.
    “Nice ta’ meet you. Weather way too cold up there for me.”
    “You get used to it,” Jessica said. “I wish I could live down here. Near the ocean.”
    “Uh-huh,” said the barwoman. “It takes some gettin’ used to as well.”
    “How long you been down here in Marathon?”
    “Too long.”
    “Oh, I think it’s lovely.”
    “Uh-huh. Too quiet.”
    “Not today!” Jessica said. “Kinda crazy out there with all those TV cameras, don’t you think?”
    “Been like that all mornin’. They’ll be gone by tomorrow unless somethin’ happens to them boys.”
    “Which boys? Did you know them?”
    “Nah.”
    “Not locals?”
    “From up north. Tourists out for some fishin’.”
    “My goodness, how terrible,” Jessica said, touching her chest. “You go out on a fishing charter and wind up in a Cuban jail.”
    Becky clicked her tongue and shook her head.
    “They weren’t on a charter.