Chapter 23 #2
“This way.” He took her hand, and they wandered down a side street, then onto a sidewalk lined with palm trees.
The buildings on each side of the narrow cobblestone road were short—most not more than three stories high—and colorful.
Though the first floors held businesses—restaurants, tourist shops, real estate offices to lure the tourists who never wanted to leave—the higher floors housed apartments or inns.
Jaz knew Phillipsburg well enough that he didn’t need to consult a map. One of the reasons he wanted to see the addresses for himself was because, if his memory served, they were very close to each other. Which felt…off.
But maybe they were clustered together for a reason. Maybe there was a yacht showroom nearby or something. He just needed to see the area himself, to get a feel for it, find out if it was as suspicious as it felt.
The first address led to a three-story building painted a pale, sand color on the bottom and bright pink on the upper floors.
Quintessential St. Martin. There were three shops and a restaurant on the street level, all open at this hour.
At the very end, a single door was flanked by windows.
No sign announced the business it held, and the windows were dark, just reflecting their images.
The address on the door matched one written on his note.
He knocked. When nobody answered, he tried the door. Locked.
“I guess they’re closed,” Kenzie said, voice bright and nonchalant.
“Guess so.” Jaz checked the next address. “This way.”
They found another door, right around the corner in the same building, though the address named the cross street instead of the busier road they’d just left.
Also closed, also locked. If Jaz wasn’t mistaken, this door would open into the same space as the other door. So two addresses, but one place of business.
He looked at Kenzie, who raised her eyebrows.
“One more in this area.” They moved to the end of the cross street, and he checked the street sign. Huh. This was the right road, and…
He swiveled and gazed at the three-story building. The same one—pale on the bottom, bright pink on top.
There was the door. Unmarked except for the number that matched the address on his paper. It was locked.
“Clever,” Kenzie said. “Three addresses, one space.”
“They’re playing quite the shell game.”
“There was another one, wasn’t there?”
“Two more. Can I use your phone?” She handed it over, and Jaz pulled up the map, checking the other addresses, the ones further from town.
They needn’t bother walking all the way there. A postal center was housed in that building. He assumed they’d find two businesses that were no more than rented mailboxes.
He showed Kenzie the business on the phone.
“Wow,” she said. “We’re about to blow this case wide open.”
His chuckle was dark. “At least we have confirmation of what we already thought. These companies only exist on paper.”
“But who opened them? Who owns them? Who’s pulling the strings?” She looked as frustrated as he felt.
He shrugged. “I need food.”
She laughed, maybe taken aback. “Are you always hungry?”
“It’s been a long day. You like Jamaican?”
“One of my favorites.”
He led her through a maze of side streets to a small restaurant tucked among vacation rentals. The scent of jerk spices drifted from the open door.
They stepped inside, and he breathed in the familiar scents. When he’d lived on the island, this place had been one of his favorites, mostly because nobody here knew him, and nobody cared to.
It hadn’t changed. Ten tables, all of them empty now except for two locals chatting at the bar. It would fill up later, mostly with locals. The tourists weren’t interested in a place like this.
A woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
She looked Jaz up and down. “Been a long time.”
“Good to see you, Miss Pearl. You look lovely, as always.”
She uttered a skeptical “hmm” and motioned to the room. “Sit wherever you like.” She grabbed two menus and followed them to a table in the back, away from the windows. “What can I get you to drink?”
They ordered water and dinner—jerk chicken, rice and peas, and fried plantains.
When she left, Kenzie checked her phone, her expression darkening.
“Something wrong?”
“Alyssa’s getting Dad involved—said she can’t get the information on Edwin’s death but thinks he can.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Nope.” She set the phone down. “Just… He’s probably furious with me. I’m a little nervous to call him.”
Miss Pearl delivered two ice-cold bottles of water.
Kenzie smiled at her. “Thanks.”
“You be welcome.” She returned Kenzie’s smile, then scowled at Jaz.
When she walked away, Kenzie’s grin spread. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Some women just can’t resist me.”
Kenzie’s look was mock-disgusted.
“So.” He leaned forward. “Why is a grown woman like you still afraid of her daddy?”
She smirked. “I’m not afraid, just…” She seemed to grope for a different word, then shrugged. “You tell me what you think when you meet him.”
When?
If Jaz survived this, would he get to meet the man? Did Kenzie want to introduce them?
Her eyes widened, and she sat back. “Not that we’re at the meet-the-parents stage. I was just saying…” Her cheeks turned bright pink. “I just figured, when this is over…” She gestured to him, then didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands.
“You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
“Shut up.”
“I would be honored to meet your father, unless you think he might want to hurt me, in which case, maybe we could meet over Zoom or something?”
She relaxed. “He might want to hurt you, but he probably won’t.”
“Great, thanks for the reassurance.”
The food came, steaming and fragrant, and Jaz’s stomach grumbled. They hadn’t eaten since lunch, back before the world had fallen apart.
He forced himself to eat slowly and enjoy the flavors. Sweet followed by spice, earthy and delicious.
“This is so good.” Kenzie scooped some rice and peas onto her fork.
“It’s a best-kept-secret kind of place.”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
He smiled, but his mind was elsewhere.
The locked offices, the mailboxes—they’d confirmed what he’d suspected, but he had no new information. They were no closer to identifying El Fantasma.
He set down his fork. “Five years I’ve been chasing this ghost, and I’m still just running in circles.”
“It’s not going to happen in a day, and you’re not working alone anymore.
” Kenzie met his eyes across the table. “Alyssa’s tracing the emails.
Wentz is running down the shell companies.
Dad’s looking into Edwin’s death. We’ve confirmed your belief that the management companies are just fronts—that’s progress. ”
“It’s not enough.”
“I know.” She reached across the table, and he slipped his hand into hers. “We just have to keep pushing until we find the answer.”
She was right, of course.
But they needed more than digital forensics and database searches. They needed physical evidence, something concrete that would lead them to whoever was behind this.
Maybe…maybe he knew where to find it.
Jasper slipped out of the hotel room at one in the morning, pausing at the door to glance back at Kenzie. She lay curled on her side, her hands pressed together and tucked beneath her head, breathing soft and even.
For some reason, she thought he was worth saving.
For five years, Jaz had been Magras’s asset and the DEA’s informant. There hadn’t been time for anything else.
He didn’t want to just survive anymore. He wanted to be the man his father had raised him to be. He wanted to find his faith again, to find out if Kenzie was right and God really did want him back.
And maybe, if God was on his side, he’d live long enough to find out what this thing with Kenzie could become.
He locked the door behind him, moved silently down the stairs, and stepped into the warm night.
Making his way to the business district, he passed a handful of tourists who’d lingered past last call at the local clubs. All the structures looked similar at night, their bright colors muted to various shades of gray.
He reached the building they’d scouted earlier, where three yacht management companies shared an address.
All the first-floor businesses were closed now. He’d seen no security cameras earlier but scanned the area again, just in case. He spotted nothing that indicated he was being watched or recorded.
He rounded the corner to the entrance on the side of the building and worked the lock with his pick.
He had it open in under thirty seconds.
Inside, a narrow entry had doors on both sides. He chose the door on the left, the office that would face the busier of the two roads, and got the lock open.
He used the flashlight he’d bought at the souvenir shop earlier, careful to aim it away from the windows.
A real estate developer worked here, based on the blueprints and computer-generated images of luxury condos.
This was probably not the office Jaz wanted, but he’d come back and search it if necessary.
He slipped across the entry and got the other door unlocked.
Inside, the air felt stale, undisturbed, like no one had been here in days. This room had no windows to the outside, so he closed the door, then flipped a light switch.
This was a much smaller space than the last and held a metal desk and chair and a short filing cabinet. There was a screen on the desk, but no laptop attached. A single-serving coffeemaker sat atop the filing cabinet, a box of coffee pods and a mug beside it.
On the desk was a framed photo of a fifty-something woman and three twenty-something young people. He didn’t recognize any of them. Was this the woman’s office? Or her husband’s?
He wished he could take a picture of the photo. Instead, he studied the faces, then opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Hanging folders, neatly labeled. He flipped through them and found invoices for slip rentals, maintenance records for dock repairs, insurance paperwork.
These were related to marinas in different ports around the Caribbean.
The second drawer held more of the same. Contracts with boat owners, fee schedules, inspection reports.
Something caught his eye.
The signature line at the bottom of a property deed.
Richard Sterling.
He pulled the document out and studied it. Sterling’s name was printed clearly beside an illegible signature. Owner of Marina del Sol, Barbados.
He grabbed another file, this one for a marina in Antigua. Also owned by Sterling.
Here was one on the French side of St. Martin.
He saw Sterling’s name, and his pulse kicked up.
Jaz had known Sterling for years. Silver-haired, late fifties, with the kind of distinguished features that belonged in yacht club brochures. Always impeccably dressed, always kind in a detached sort of way.
Sterling had approached their table at Magras’s party just two nights before. He’d greeted Henry and Francine like old friends, introduced himself to Kenzie.
Simone, at the time.
Jasper had never thought twice about the guy.
Sterling owned marinas—that wasn’t a surprise. The man had been in the Caribbean maritime business for decades. Respected. Connected. Above suspicion. The perfect cover for a man moving drugs.
Jasper dug through the files, looking for anything related to the yacht management companies using this address. But he found nothing about that. Everything here had to do with his marinas.
He didn’t understand, yet, but for the first time in five years, he had a name, a real, tangible lead.
Could Sterling be The Ghost?