Bimini Twist Read online

  “Well, the ship’s steward asked me where he could buy some cheap lobsters. So I called my uncle. He fishes, and needs some extra cash. All I did was deliver the crate of lobster to the ship. I never even looked in the crate.”

  “When did you deliver it?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes before you showed up.” The young man pushed the launch away from the float with his foot, and put the motor in gear. “Then I gave the cash to my uncle, and he went back to his traps. All but the twenty bucks that I got.”

  “What do you think was in the crate? And how much cash did you deliver to your uncle?” I asked, and wondered if this was part of the drug ring. It was clear that the launch captain knew that something illegal was going on, and that he had participated.

  “Shorts and V-notched, I guess. My uncle would never keep an egger!” he said, defending his uncle.

  “Shorts? Undersized lobsters, you mean?”

  “Yup. You can’t legally sell shorts and V-notched lobsters, so they are worth less on the black market. A hundred bucks a crate, which is about one hundred pounds. The ship buys legal lobsters that are delivered by the pilot boat—those are served to passengers. The crew gets the shorts.”

  A granite breakwater emerged from the fog. The launch driver followed the massive stone wall purposed to protect the harbor from storm surges to the end where a sparkplug-style lighthouse sounded a horn every ten seconds. Just as the lighthouse faded into fog, the bow of the ship appeared. The fog was so thick it hid the stern section of the ship until we were almost touching the hull side. I could hear the grinding of the anchor chain as the giant windless turned on the bow. The boarding door above us was wide open, but the ramp and float had been retracted. The ship’s steward appeared in the doorway and yelled, “Now what?”

  “Deputy Sheriff Jane Bunker. I have a search warrant. I’m coming aboard,” I yelled.

  “Too late, Deputy,” he called back. “We will be underway in less than five minutes. And three miles offshore, your warrant is meaningless.”

  “I am coming aboard. Now deploy the boarding ramp. I want to speak with your captain.”

  “No. You can catch up with the captain when we land in Portland this evening. Oh, that is out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it? Bye bye,” he said as the door slid closed.

  Oh yeah, I thought angrily. By this evening, there may be a couple more bodies bobbing around. And whatever illegal drugs are aboard may be handed off at sea before The Princess makes Portland Harbor. “Now what?” asked the launch driver.

  “Take me around the ship. Maybe I can flag the captain’s attention before he gets up a full head of steam.”

  “In this fog? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Your cooperation will make things easier on you,” I reminded him. “Come on now. Take me around to the port side. Go around her stern. Might be dangerous to go by the bow while the anchor is coming up,” I said with a real sense of urgency. I knew that if the anchor broke the surface before I was onboard, I would be out of luck.

  The young man did as I instructed, running the launch faster now. As we swung under the transom, I was close enough to touch the lettering, reminding me of the issues that could arise with foreign-flagged vessels. Bimini, I thought, must be a major link in the chain of drugs. And if I didn’t break this case wide open between Rockland and Portland, the murder investigations of Ron Thomas, Larry Vigue, Franklin Avery, and The Rat would go cold. And the possibility of learning anything about Bianca and the other girls who had been reported as missing would be nil.

  Just as the launch turned to starboard to run along the ship’s port side, I saw an opening in the hull. I pointed to it and said, “Take me over there.” As we neared, I saw that the opening was a cargo loading door that was often referred to as “the grub hole” for its intended purpose of loading food and other supplies onto a ship out of the sight of passengers. Fortunately, the grub hole had not yet been secured.

  The launch driver pressed the bow of the launch against the ship’s hull just below the door after some muttering about how stupid this was. But he was clearly afraid of what he would face if he did not oblige me. “Call the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department and tell Deloris where I am,” I said. I stood and grabbed either side of the door casing firmly, hopped, and pulled myself through the opening. I turned and waved the launch driver away. He disappeared into the fog in an instant.

  I knew that someone would be coming to secure the cargo door. I had to assume there were no friendly crewmembers, as doing otherwise might be dangerous to me and the investigation. Maybe I could find my way to the main salon and mingle with passengers. That would be the safest place, I thought as I looked around the storage area. I saw work boots coming down a gangway, and quickly ducked behind a pallet of cardboard boxes. I waited, and listened to the door being closed and the suction of the watertight seal. I had to remain unseen until I could get into a crowded area. Then I would insist on seeing the captain and hope that he would cooperate with, and possibly assist with, a search and some questioning.

  Within minutes, I heard the main engines increase RPMs and felt the ship lurch forward slightly. We must be underway, I thought as I peeked out from my hiding spot. I was alone. I quickly scurried over to the gangway, seeing no other exit. I climbed the steel stairs and slowly opened a door to a long corridor. I turned to the right, hoping to find signs that would lead me to an area of the ship where I could find safety in numbers. A door ahead suddenly opened out into the corridor and toward me, concealing whoever was behind it from me, and me from them. I grabbed the knob of the closest door, and was relieved that it opened. I entered another corridor, closing the door quickly behind me.

  A door at the end of the corridor opened to another set of stairs, these going back down. I was certain that I needed to get up a couple of decks to find passengers, and up to the bridge to find the captain. But I would have to get up by first going down, as this was my only option. At the bottom of the stairs, I heard voices. When a door slammed, I jumped and pulled my gun out of its holster. There was no way out other than this door, I thought. My best chance was to fling the door open quickly and lead with my Glock. I took a deep breath and kicked the door open.

  Again, I was alone. But I knew it would not be for long. The room was part of the engineering department. Walls were filled with gauges and panels, all electronically controlled with computer monitors that were secured to bulkheads at eye level. The door on the opposite side of the room had a sign that read “Hard Hats and Safety Glasses.” The door was made of heavy steel, made to dampen sound. I opened it slowly with my Glock in hand, poised to be taking someone by surprise.

  I entered a room filled with pipes and valves. I slowly closed the soundproof door behind me. I turned away from the door and found myself looking directly down the barrel of a gun. Instinctively, I drew my gun up to waist level, pointing it into the guts of none other than Pete Alfond, who had his gun pointed at my face. “Drop it,” we said in unison.

  TWELVE

  Slowly, I slid my thumb to release the safety on the trigger. There was no doubt in my mind that Pete intended to shoot to kill. I took a step backward and raised my Glock to eye level, squaring off to meet my nemesis face to face. If my index finger so much as twitched, Pete would drop with a slug in his head. And I suspected that I would have already been dead if Pete didn’t need information from me. I had been down this road before. I was not nervous. My training and instincts took over. “Drop it, Pete. There’s no way out of this for you. My team is aware that I am here to bring you in. If you kill me, you’ll lose your alibi for the murders that have already been committed,” I said, meeting his steely stare with one of my own. It was difficult to breathe in this steam-filled room. Without looking around to confirm, I knew we were in the ship’s boiler room.

  “Okay, okay,” Pete said as a bead of sweat rolled down and dripped from the end of his nose. It was extremely and dangerously hot in this area of the ship, I thought. Steam
pipes perspired and valves hissed as Pete deliberately and smoothly removed his finger from the trigger of his gun, squatted down and laid it on the floor, then stood back up and raised his hands in surrender. “Easy now, Jane,” he said nervously.

  “Back away,” I commanded as I thought about how Pete must have been living a nightmare, and actually been ready to be caught. No, this was too easy. I would have to be careful now, I knew. Obviously an expert manipulator, Pete would not go down without a fight, I thought. Pete may have partners waiting to ambush me as soon as they were made aware that I was on board. Pete would wait for an opening and try to overpower me. He must realize that I needed to have him alive to confess and explain. Pete slowly backed away from his gun. I stepped in and slid it aside with my foot, the sights of my Glock never leaving his forehead. Now out of his kicking range, I stooped and grabbed his gun, a .38-caliber revolver. Old school, I thought as I pushed in the safety and tucked the piece into the back of my waistband that was already soaked and sticking to my sweaty skin. “All right, now we are going to make our way to the bridge and have the captain put the brakes on. This ship isn’t going anywhere.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Pete said. “We are already underway. And we can’t trust the captain. Some of the officers are in on it.”

  “We?” I asked mockingly. “There’s no we here. Now get your ass in gear, and keep your hands over your head.” I assumed that Pete knew his way around the ship and might lead me into a trap. But I knew we couldn’t stay in this steam bath and wait for his accomplices to find us.

  “Jane.” Pete collected himself with a deep breath. “I am FBI Special Agent Peter Alfond. I have been working this case for two years undercover.” He stopped and waited for my response. I remained silent. “Now I am going to show you my badge which I wear under my clothes and protective gear.” He slowly lowered his hands to unbutton his perspiration-stained, oxford-cloth shirt, exposing a bulletproof vest. He reached inside the vest, never breaking eye contact with me as I stood poised for him to pull a second weapon and attempt to gun me down. He gently removed his hand from his vest and flipped open a credentials wallet for me to see.

  “Toss it over here,” I said, unwilling to allow him to hand it to me, a rookie mistake that had killed many young officers. Pete pitched the wallet underhand to my feet, then raised both hands again over his head. I grabbed the wallet and opened it to find what appeared to be official credentials. The bifold black leather case displayed both the FBI ID card, which indeed indicated that I had “Special Agent Peter Alfond” at gunpoint. The badge displayed the scales of justice and the thirteen golden stars that encircled the FBI shield and laurels. Below was a scroll that read “Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.” I had no desire to apologize. And I assumed that we had no time to spend talking. We needed to escape the extreme heat that had intensified as the ship’s engines increased throttle. I holstered my Glock and handed Pete his wallet.

  “I’ll explain. But let’s get out of here first,” Pete said as he held his hand out for his gun. I reluctantly withdrew his revolver from my waistband and handed it back to him. He flipped the safety back off and led us away from the wet heat with the barrel ready to blast away. I followed Pete through a steel door, my Glock drawn and ready to back him up if needed. On the opposite side of the door it was relatively cool. We both breathed deeply, enjoying the relief. This room was filled with generators, air compressors, feed pumps, and fuel pumps. We were alone except for the security cameras that we both noticed and acknowledged. “The engineers will be monitoring this room,” Pete said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  We crept around like mice, in and out of various compartments—manned and unmanned—until we found ourselves in a utility closet with cleaning supplies. The closet was small, requiring Pete and me to stand pressed against each other to allow the door to close. “We have to move quickly, so I’ll keep this brief,” he said. “What do you know?”

  “I assume we are busting a drug smuggling operation,” I said. “I know that whoever we are looking for does not value human life. The Rat is dead, and I was nearly killed trying to save him.” I removed my sunglasses, exposing what I knew must have been a stomach-turning sight.

  Pete swallowed hard and winced quietly as I pushed the sunglasses back onto my swollen face. “The Rat was a government informant. No drugs. We have been investigating a human trafficking operation. Young girls. Bianca Chiriac is the most recent. I have reason to believe she is aboard.”

  “Let’s find her,” I said.

  “First we’ll need to stop the ship from leaving US waters,” Pete said as he pulled a phone from his hip pocket. “No battery. I have been aboard since I saw you yesterday at the clambake,” he said. “And I have searched the entire aft section of the ship including bilges.”

  “Need my phone?”

  “Just let your people know we are aboard and need backup. Have them call the Coast Guard.” Pete pulled a paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. It was a diagram of the ship’s compartments below the main deck. It included the ventilation and mechanical plans and all doors and access hatches.

  I quickly dashed a text off to Deloris, requesting that she get the Coast Guard to intercept The Princess, now underway from Rockland. “Done,” I said as I felt the slight vibration of a text successfully sent.

  Pete pointed at the diagram. “We’ll take the engine room by storm, and force the engineer to disable the main propulsion. That will buy us some time to locate Bianca. But this needs to be fast. As soon as they know we are aboard, she’s as good as dead. And so are we.”

  “How many are we up against?” I asked.

  “The ship’s steward, a couple of foreign workers who are low on the totem pole, and I’m not sure who else. That’s the problem. I have no idea who or how many are involved aboard here. But I assume that the girls have been hidden somewhere in the vicinity of the engine room because the rest of the ship has heavy passenger and crew traffic.”

  “Split up?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I’ll take the engine room, and you get into every space you can on the starboard side of the ship looking for our girl. As soon as we are dead in the water, I’ll start up the port side.” He handed me the paper and added, “I have the layout memorized. Good luck and be careful.”

  That was the third time someone had advised me to be careful today, I thought as I left the closet and crept through a corridor. I passed through another steel door, closing it behind me. I followed a short set of steps down and into what appeared to be just above the ship’s bilge. I walked on a steel grate through a dimly lit area that seemed to be storage for plastic fifty-five-gallon drums. Midway through the corridor, I felt and heard the ship’s engines stop and shut down. I knew that Pete had been successful in that part of his plan. At least now, at drift, it would be easier for the Coast Guard to catch up and get aboard.

  Seconds later, the lights went out altogether, and the ship became eerily quiet. All I could hear was water sloshing. Pete had managed to shut down all power, including the generators, I thought. Or someone had done so to impede our search. I holstered my gun and fumbled through my bag for a flashlight. Flicking it on, I made my way to the next door which opened to another long corridor. This space was lit up with red bulbs. Bulkheads beneath the bulbs were labeled “Emergency Lights.” I stashed my flashlight and continued, removing my sunglasses and keeping my right hand on the starboard bulkhead as I walked as quickly as I dared in the low light.

  I thought I heard a very faint tapping. I stopped and listened. I didn’t hear it. I continued. I heard it again, louder this time. I answered the tapping with some of my own, using the butt of my Glock against a steel longitudinal beam. I stopped and listened. The tapping started again, louder and faster. I hurried now forward, in the direction I had been heading, stopping to tap and listen every thirty seconds or so. I followed the tapping to a watertight door with twelve dogged latches, one of which was padlocked.


  The tapping was coming from the other side of the door. It had to be Bianca! I worked furiously to open eleven of the latches, twisting with all my might to swing the handles ninety degrees. I drew my Glock and fired a round into the padlock that secured the final latch. The ability to fire open a lock with a single shot is a fallacy promulgated by television. I fired five of the fifteen rounds held in my Glock’s magazine directly into the padlock before it was destroyed and fell open in pieces. Holstering my gun, I twisted the final dogged latch and pushed the heavy door open with my shoulder.

  The compartment was damp and cold. The only light was that which spilled in from the corridor behind me. A young woman huddled in the far corner, shivering and staring in disbelief. She had a high-heeled shoe in one hand. I assumed she had used the heavy heel to signal against the steel in which she was surrounded. She stood and faced me, trembling and wielding the shoe over her head as if she would use it as a weapon if needed. “Bianca Chiriac?” I asked. “Hancock County Deputy Sheriff Jane Bunker. I’m here to help you.”

  Bianca did not say a word. She crumbled in the corner and sobbed. I approached to help her to her feet and get her out of the dark, wet hole she had probably been in for the past three days. The remains of pizza crust were scattered around with a few empty water bottles. “Come on. We need to hurry. The FBI is here, and the Coast Guard should arrive soon,” I said as I helped Bianca to her feet. I snapped the heels off from both of her shoes, and instructed her to put the now flats on her feet. She did. Just as I turned to exit the holding cell, the door slammed with great force.

  Now in pitch darkness, I heard one latch squeak and click into the locked position. When the second latch squeaked, I jumped and started feeling the inside of the door with both hands. It was no use. The inside handles of the dogged latch system had been removed. I listened in horror as all twelve latches swung and clicked. Bianca let out a screaming wail that echoed in the tiny, dark chamber. I tried to quiet her by comforting her. “We’ll be fine. The FBI is here and looking for us,” I said, hoping that Pete’s plan had not been compromised, or worse. I checked my phone and was disappointed that Deloris had not yet responded to my text. As long as we were locked in this compartment, we were safe, I thought as I used the light of my cell phone to find and huddle with Bianca in an attempt to warm her up a bit.