Captain Finn Treasure Mysteries: Books 1 - 3: Short Sea Stories of Murder and Shipwreck Treasure Read online

  “I want you to find out what happened and who did this,” was her reply.

  Bluntly, he’d stated that he hunted treasure, not criminals. Alana, however, had heard gossip that Finn had helped solve a crime or two – which is true – and added she had plenty of money to pay him. When Finn asked her why she thought he could do more than the police, her reply had surprised him.

  “Because I think you care more.”

  At that he’d sent her away, with the promise that he’d make a decision by the afternoon. I didn’t know what there was to think about: we needed the money! And to be honest, my heart went out to Alana who seemed so lost and alone. Finn was really good at solving puzzles and, if there was even a slight chance of him figuring this out, I thought he should try.

  At last Finn surfaced. “Phill, there’s something I need you to ask Alana: Was the guy at the restaurant missing his right or left arm?”

  I punched the air and whooped. “We’re taking the case!”

  “I guess you should let Alana know and, Phill, ask her how I can talk to her mother, then find out who the lead detective is on this.”

  “Yes, sir!” I grabbed the phone and punched in the number Alana had given us. She answered almost immediately.

  “Alana, you’ve got yourself a criminal hunter.”

  Turned out that Alana’s mother, Luma, was already en route to Sarasota and would arrive the next day. Alana assured me that her mother would answer any questions Finn had. Meanwhile, she texted the detective’s contact information to me and offered to let the police know we’d be in touch.

  Having taken care of that, I returned to Finn. “OK, now what?”

  “We need to find that one-armed man. Which arm is he missing, by the way?”

  “Alana said the left one. Does it really matter, though?”

  “It very well might.”

  Just then a text came into my phone. “From Alana,” I informed Finn. “Detective Tanner is in charge of the case.”

  “See if you can get an appointment for me, then I want you to use your skills on the internet and find out everything you can about the Treasure of Lima.”

  “Ummm,” the change of subject threw me, “are you planning a new expedition?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s the Treasure of Lima?”

  “You’ll find out when you do the research.”

  God, I hated it when Finn was cagey, but I knew better than to waste my effort trying to get anything more out of him. Just to be sure he knew I was irritated, though, I heaved a very audible sigh and rolled my eyes heavenward. Of course, it didn’t have any impact on him so I gave up and reached for the phone again to call the detective.

  FOUR

  It was cocktail hour and I was making my version of a Fuzzy Pirate, with Blackbeard spiced rum, peach schnapps, blood orange bitters and fresh orange juice, and just a little sugar syrup. Yum!

  I built the drinks over ice in two tall glasses and headed topside where Finn was sitting, eyes closed, with his feet propped up on an overturned bait bucket. Setting the cocktails on a folding table I pulled a sheaf of papers from my back pocket and smacked him with them. “Wake up! The bartender has poured, and I’ve got that information you wanted on the Lima loot.”

  “Alrighty, then.” Finn took a generous sip. “That’s good. And I wasn’t asleep; I was thinking.”

  “Whatever you say.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.

  “I guess you didn’t get through to the detective.”

  “Not yet,” I sat next to Finn, “but I left a message.”

  “OK, then give me what you’ve got.”

  “First off, accounts are varied about the Treasure of Lima, and a lot of people think its existence is hocus pocus. Assuming you’re one of the believers, though, here’s the dope.

  “Pretty much everyone agrees the treasure was stolen from the Cathedral of Lima, in Peru, and included at least two, maybe four, solid gold statues encrusted with jewels. Some claim there’s a written inventory that lists a whole collection of cloth of gold, jewelry, doubloons, chalices and such, in addition to the statues. The date of the theft is variously given as 1820, 1890 and, according to a couple of Australian newspapers, 1798.

  “Majority opinion seems to be that the Spanish entrusted the treasure to William Thompson, captain of the British Brig, Mary Dear. Thompson was to transport it to Mexico for safekeeping from the wars of independence in South America. He and his crew couldn’t resist the lure of riches and murdered the guards then set sail for Cocos Island – that’s off the coast of Costa Rica – where they buried the treasure.”

  I paused for a quick sip of my drink before continuing.

  “There’s a different version of what happened to the treasure that states a pirate, Benito Bonito – otherwise known as ‘Bloody Sword’ - had it. Supposedly, he concealed the booty in a cave near Queenscliff, in the state of Victoria, Australia, but blew up the entrance when he realized a British man o’ war was waiting for him in Port Phillip Bay.

  “Over the years, both Queenscliff and Cocos Island have been searched by treasure hunters; all to no avail. Cocos is now a UNESCO world heritage site, so anything buried there is going to stay buried because digging is no longer allowed.

  “A 1937 article in the Sydney Morning Herald reports that two jewel-encrusted gold statues were found in a 58 foot shaft in the Queenscliff caves by a diviner, of all things, but the shaft was closed for fear of subsidence before the relics were recovered. A later article on June 14, 1953, claims that a vacationer found an 18th century Spanish silver coin near the caves.

  “Are you following this, so far?”

  Finn nodded. “I’ve heard some of it before, but I suspect you have a few more morsels of interest to feed me.”

  “Nothing definite. Just some other odd tidbits.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “Well, first off, I couldn’t find anything to confirm there ever was a “Treasure of Lima,” or any ships fleeing Lima with treasure. However, according to one article, the Peruvian Colonial Archives were sold off in 1870. If that’s true, then any reports would have disappeared.

  “Then there’s another character mentioned from time to time, who is sometimes called “Stingaree Jack.” He might have been a cabin boy on Bonito’s ship. At any rate, it’s said he escaped the pirates, recovered some of the treasure, then hid it elsewhere.

  “The last oddity is that Benito Bonito might have been Captain Thompson’s mate, though other reports say it was a man named Chapelle. And that’s it.”

  “Good job Phill,” Finn stroked his neatly trimmed beard and looked thoughtful, “that’s a lot of information.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m damned if I see how it helps us figure out who killed Obotien.”

  “Oh, it does. It does.”

  “Are you going to spill? Or just leave me hanging?” Now I was irritable.

  “We’ll go over it later. Right now, you need to take those notes away and make three more Fuzzy Pirates.”

  “Three? Just how much of an alcohol fix do you need?”

  Finn jerked his head toward the walkway. “We’re about to have company.”

  FIVE

  When I came back on deck with a tray of drinks, a woman was seated in my chair.

  “Phill,” Finn said, “this is detective Dixie Tanner. She’s in charge of the Obotien investigation.”

  I figured detective Tanner must be in her fifties, but the lady was seriously in shape. Not many women that age can get away with a sleeveless, form-fitting dress. There were no jiggling biceps, her stomach was flat, and long, shapely legs were stretched out in front of her. She was even wearing heels, for Pete’s sake. What kind of detective dresses like that?

  “Call me Dixie,” she said, “and I’m here informally.” She must have noticed the way I looked at her clothing.

  “Uh, hi. It should be OK for you to drink this, then?”

  “This is?”

  Fi
nn broke in as I pulled up another chair. “Phill likes to create cocktails. Try it.”

  The lady took a tentative sip. “Wow. This is really delicious. I’m usually a dull vodka tonic; I might have to get more adventurous from now on. Thanks.” She turned a full-on smile at me and I began to think she was pretty OK.

  We all exchanged a few pleasantries about adult beverages and how our dock was well-sheltered from the still-rough Gulf waters before Dixie got down to the reason for her visit.

  “Alana Azevedo told me she’s hired you to look into her grandfather’s death. She also said she’d like me to share information with you…. That’s not likely to happen.”

  Finn said nothing; I figured I didn’t like Dixie so much, after all.

  “We’re not in the habit of sharing information from an ongoing investigation with anyone, let alone someone who’s not even a licensed investigator. Obviously, I can’t prevent Ms. Azevedo from passing along things she may become privy to, but my Chief really wants to keep this thing under wraps. The town doesn’t need a panic over a shark attack.”

  Shark attack? Did the police really believe that?

  “Dixie, Dixie.” Finn was shaking his head. “We both know this was no shark attack. And though you didn’t say so, you’re a homicide detective. You wouldn’t be running a shark attack investigation.”

  She had the good grace to look a little uncomfortable as Finn continued.

  “Here’s what I think happened. Someone hacked off the man’s arm, probably while he was still alive. That means there was likely to be an accomplice or two, because they’d need to hold Obotien down. To get rid of the body they went out into the Gulf. No doubt they planned to go a few miles out but the seas were really rough so they probably had to ditch the body quickly and get back into the relative safety of the bay. The flood tide through Big Sarasota Pass began that night at about 10.30pm, which means they were most likely out there after that time. And the tide was especially strong. My guess is the body was swept into the bay and ended up against my boat.”

  By now Dixie and Finn were locked in an eye fight; each holding the other’s gaze and neither willing to give. I knew how this would end, though, and sure enough, Dixie finally looked down.

  “Alright, Finn. I won’t pretend this isn’t murder. But why do you say Obotien was still alive?”

  “The cuts were very jagged and you might assume a blunt knife was used. When I looked closer I could tell the knife was fairly sharp, so the jagged effect had to be because Obotien was struggling.”

  The detective ran her hands down her thighs as if smoothing out her dress. Then she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. It seemed she was playing for a little time.

  “You didn’t hear this from me.” She looked at Finn and glanced over to me. “Your conclusions agree with ours. And Obotien drowned; he didn’t bleed out. Beyond that, however, we’ve got nothing. No idea why Obotien left the hotel or where he went. No murder weapon; no crime scene.”

  “So you’re saying he was dumped in the water right after his arm was cut off?” This was grizzly but I couldn’t help myself – I was fascinated.

  “Maybe not. I doubt the killers would have tried this on the boat with the weather as it was; they could all have been tossed overboard. And sometimes blood vessels will close up as an automatic protective measure when a limb is severed. He could well have survived for an hour or so.”

  “I take it you’re checking boats that left their moorings that night?” Finn asked.

  “That’s a dead end. Most people were too busy bracing for the storm. And if the boat came from a private dock – just like here – who would notice?”

  “What about the other one-armed man?”

  Dixie looked startled. “What man?”

  So Finn told her about the man Alana saw at the Columbia Restaurant. Dixie seemed pretty miffed that Alana had not told the police about him, to which Finn suggested they had not asked the right questions.

  The tension was rising again; time for me to jump in. “Another drink, anyone?”

  Finn got the message. “Sure. Let’s all have one. And what are you fixing for dinner?”

  I glared at him. That wasn’t quite the message I wanted to send. “Whatever take-out we order.”

  “Look,” the detective rose. “I barged in on you. What say I go get pizza? I like mine with double cheese, pepperoni, Italian sausage and bacon if that suits you. Maybe a few cannolis, too?”

  “Done,” Finn said. And as she headed off I looked at him, “I like her.”

  SIX

  It was 7am and I was on a mission. After we’d chowed down on pizza the night before and Detective Dixie had taken her leave, Finn announced that he needed me to do some surveillance.

  “Surveil what?”

  “Now that the good detective knows about our other one-armed man, it won’t take her long to track him down. I’m betting that by tomorrow she’ll be paying him a visit and you’re going to be following behind.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “You’ll be waiting outside police headquarters. Get Enos and Jafet to help, and use two vehicles.” Fortunately, we had the use of a car our sponsor kept at the house. “One of the guys will need to watch to see what car she drives away in, so find a picture of her to show them. There’s bound to be something online. Just get me the man’s address and don’t,” he really stressed the “don’t,” “do anything else. This guy could be very dangerous.”

  “If you think you’re going to talk to him without me…”

  “I’m not going to talk to him at all,” Finn interrupted. “I only need his name. And I’m hoping that once we have his address you’ll be able to find that out.”

  As usual Finn was no more forthcoming, so I’d taken myself to bed. Now, here I was with Jafet, parked – unobtrusively, I hoped – near the police station. Enos had drawn the short straw and was hovering near the Courthouse Café. I was already on my second coffee and wondering what I was going to do if, or should I say when, I needed to hit the bathroom.

  An hour later I needed to pee so bad my eyeballs were floating, and I was thinking I’d dash to the café to relieve myself and, as long as I was there, grab one of their amazing breakfast sandwiches, when my phone rang. It was Enos; Detective Dixie was on the move. She had another cop in the car with her and I followed them east along Fruitville Road until she pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts. The two of them went inside; I did a sharp turnaround and headed to a nearby store I knew would have a ladies’ room. Meanwhile, I called Enos, who was in his old truck a few blocks behind, and told him to take over for a while.

  It wasn’t long before the detective and her compadre left the donut shop and headed north with Enos and me – much relieved - not far behind. We wove around a few streets: a walled development of mobile homes came up on our right – or modular homes, I guess I should say – and Dixie turned into the entrance. I kept driving, glancing in as I passed. It was a gated community with a guardhouse. Aw jeez. Now what was I going to do? The police vehicle was quickly allowed in and I pulled to the side of the road, wondering what to do.

  Just then, a van pulled up to the gate. Along the sides were signs that read, “Jim Will Fix It. No job too small,” and an idea popped into my head. I turned to Jafet.

  “Quick. Get into Enos’ truck and follow that van as if you’re with Jim the fixit man. Pretend you can’t speak much English. They might just let you in.”

  Fortunately, Jafet was a quick study. He ran over to the truck and swapped places with Enos and managed to pull up to the guardhouse moments after the van pulled away. Enos joined me in the car and we could see Jafet gesticulating wildly. The guard shook his head several times, Jafet got more animated and, finally, the gate opened and we were in. Enos and I high-fived, then I got on the phone to Jafet.

  “Just find the detective’s car, get the address, then get back out here.”

  The community was pretty small; it only took a few minutes and Jafet
rang back. “OK, it’s 1718 Pawpaw Place.”

  “Got it. Let’s hope it’s the one armed man’s home, because I don’t think we can do this all day.”

  “It is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m looking at him.”

  I squeaked. “Jafet, you can’t be seen. Drive away.”

  “Don’t sweat it. The cops are at the front door with their backs to me, and if anyone even notices me they’ll think I’m just another one of the Mexican workers around the place.”

  I was only slightly mollified. “Alright, but we’ve got what we need. Let’s go.”

  “On my way.”

  We were sitting round the galley table, sipping on Florida Cracker Ale from Cigar City Brewery as Jafet recounted his adventure to Finn. OK, it was only 10.30 in the morning and some of you probably think that’s a little early for beer, but we had been up since five. Anyway, for the heck of it Jafet had taken some cell phone pictures. The first was of the home; a neat-looking place with a cheerful coat of blue paint. According to Jafet, the neighborhood in general had a well-cared-for appearance. The next picture showed the front door, and we could just make out the one-armed man as he spoke to Dixie. Then there was a close-up of the man’s face. Though it was a bit blurry, it was the face of a man as old as Obotien. Weird. Now we had two one-armed octogenarians.

  The guys didn’t hang around, and as soon as they left, Finn asked me to research the address. It only took a few minutes of online browsing to find a name – actually two - using the Sarasota County Property Appraiser’s website: Rodrick and Elise Hardie. They’d owned the home for 15 years. Of course, the one-armed man could be a renter, but Finn seemed pretty certain that Rodrick was both the owner and, hence, Mr. One-arm.

  “Now that we have a name,” Finn said, “there’s something else I want you to search for.”