“You’re meeting with Robert Justice tomorrow,” he says casually, stopping me in my tracks.
“How would you know that?” I ask suspiciously.
I’d be shocked if my teammates shared my hopes of intercepting the captain at the dock.
He shrugs, turning his eyes to the endless blue ocean.
“I’m here to talk to him and assume since you’re not on the flight with the rest of your team, you’re hanging around for the same reason.”
It shouldn’t surprise me Remington is chasing down the same leads I am. The big difference is he’s chasing a story for a byline, while we’re chasing down criminals to make sure they receive justice. Not exactly the same objective. Although, I grudgingly admit his knowledge came in handy earlier this year when we managed to shut down a youth center in Lanark, Kentucky.
Several teenagers had gone missing and we uncovered what can only be described as a ring of sexual predators. What had been a shock was finding Josh Kendrick at the helm. A man who supposed to have died twenty years ago.
Oh, he was using an alias and his appearance had changed dramatically over the years, but Kate who’d been at the center posing as Opal Berry—her cover name—recognized his voice immediately.
You’d think, after two decades, the sound of a voice would be hard to remember, but I don’t think any of us would ever forget Kendrick’s voice.
The man is dead now, his center shut down, and the sick perverts using his services are in jail and awaiting trial, but we have reason to believe this case was only the tip of the iceberg.
It’s why I ended up in the Caymans, following a lead by the name of Jesper Olson. He’d gone missing from the center as well, however, we discovered later he was not a victim but rather part of the plot, acting as a decoy to lure the other kids.
Jesper ended up on the islands and I tracked him down working on the Distant Promise, the yacht captained by Robert Justice, but sometime in the past few weeks the boy disappeared again.
I suspect he may have been dropped off during the yacht’s previous cruise, which is why I need to talk to the captain.
Alone.
Lee
I watch her stomp off.
Although, with her small feet sinking into the fine beach sand, it doesn’t really have the required effect.
As small as the woman is, I know better than to underestimate her. The one and only time I did, I ended up on my ass. That tiny package packs a big punch in more ways than one.
You’d think someone who weighs significantly less than what I bench press wouldn’t be able to take down a man twice her size, but you’d be wrong. Pearl looks deceivingly young and innocent with those delicate features and funky, angled, bob haircut.
I don’t bother following her, knowing I’d undoubtedly get the door to the beach house slammed in my face. She’s prickly, to put it mildly, which is why I opt not to share how I ended up here. Given that it was Jacob, her boss, who asked me to come and, apparently, he didn’t share that with her, I can only assume she won’t be happy.
He’s touched base with me from time to time these past months, looking for the same answers I am. Recognizing the mutual benefit to sharing information, I’ve been keeping him abreast of any progress I’ve made and vice versa.
Even though I’m not sure what his motivations are, our objectives seem to run parallel: to bring down the three individuals responsible for atrocities that took place two decades ago. Including the murder of my mother, who’d been a housekeeper at Transition House—a youth home at the center of the depravities—and was killed for what she knew.
Transition House burned down, its management supposedly having perished in the fire, but I’ve always had my suspicions around that. With good reason, as it turned out. Josh Kendrick—once program manager for Transition House—appeared back in Lanark as director of the new youth center.
The sick bastard wasn’t back for long though. If he hadn’t made the mistake of kidnapping the daughter of an FBI agent, he might’ve gotten away and started up shop elsewhere, but Opal—another GEM operator—took him out.
One down, two more to go.
I get to my feet and wipe the sand off my ass. I’m hungry and could go for some conch fritters. For a second, I wonder if I should ask Pearl along to try and break the ice, but I’m pretty sure that would be wasted energy.
I’ll catch up with her tomorrow morning at the dock.
I can’t hear what she mumbles under her breath when I saunter onto the dock, but I have no doubt it’s far from complimentary.
Pearl’s almost-black eyes regard me with disdain.
“You’re going to be in the way.”
I shrug. “Who knows? I could be useful. I understand you haven’t had much luck so far.”
Her scowl makes it clear she’s not happy with the reminder.
“You think you can do better because you’re a man?”
“Yes, I do,” I tell her honestly.
It just so happens, in this case, being a man—a Black one at that—he is more likely to talk to me than he would to an Asian woman. Not because I think I’m superior, but Robert Justice might.
It’s on my tongue to tell her Jacob Chance called me for that exact reason, but with the yacht coming around the end of the pier, this might not be the best time to get into that.
Pearl caught sight of it as well and spreads her stance, folding her arms over her chest as we wait for the ship to dock. I catch the older man eyeing her suspiciously as he orders his crew to fasten the lines.
The moment he steps foot on the dock, Pearl marches up to him, determined not to let him pass her by.
“Excuse me, Robert Justice?”
“Wah gwaan,” I interrupt, asking the man how he’s doing as I brush by her and hold out my hand.
With his narrowed eyes still on Pearl, he accepts the shake.
“Wah duh yuh want?”
“Lee Remington, mi ah journalist,” I introduce myself. “Mi a luk fah information, cyaah wi talk?”
I can feel the steam coming off Pearl, but I ignore her as I follow Justice, who starts walking toward the small office building at the end of the dock.
“Mi know nutten,” he mutters, trying to cut me off.
“Eh bout Martin Duyvenvoorde he wuk fi yuh.”
At the mention of his employee—the name Jesper Olson used here in the Caymans—he glares at me with guarded eyes.
“Nah nuh muh,” he responds.
Maybe not anymore, but we know he went out on the previous cruise as part of the crew.
It takes a bit to get him to admit the kid debarked in Florida three weeks ago, but that’s about as much as I can get out of him.
Last year, his yacht was chartered by a company by the name of Glan Development, but the moment I mention that name he blanches, shutting me down.
“Deh ask tuh bai questions a dangerous,” he warns me before he shuts the door in my face.
He’s obviously scared and I don’t blame him.
Glan Development is a subsidiary of Glan Industries, which is part of an almost impenetrable network of shell companies. I’ve tried.
Pure Caribbean is another one we found when following the flow of illegal funds. This company has a physical address here on Grand Cayman, but there’s nothing but a run-down, empty warehouse. The moneys paid by rich fuckers paying for the sexual exploitation of minors landed in Pure Caribbean’s local bank account, shielding it.