The Pirate Path

2013 by Stephen G. Yanoff. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/01/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2286-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2285-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2284-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917995

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

For the man who made everything possible,

My father,

Arthur Yanoff

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T O MY LOVELY WIFE, PATTY, for once again keeping things together and feeding the body, mind and soul. To my precious daughters, Rachel and Rebecca. To Hazel Yanoff, my sweet mother, who continues to make all things possible. To my brother Glenn, a great supporter and wonderful source of insurance information. To Janice and Larry Baum and Grace Yanoff.

To my gracious cousins, Susan Wilson and Jimmy Deatrick. To my new son-in-law, Adam Zell.

To Karl Monger, my wonderful editor. To Emily Garrison, the best typist in the world.

To the Knights of the Austin Round Table, Barbara and Max Talbott, Helena and Lee Bomblatus, Jaime and Gary Rubenstein, and Judge Susan Marquess.

To my personal cheering section, Christine Nickles, Ingrid Kaminski, Vicki Isler, Kellie Hogan, Kevin Evans, Ken Evans, Cheri Baum, Donna DiLoreto, Karen A. Smith, Nola Firestone, Rich and Sharon Walker and Susan and Michael McKenna.

To Michelle Devlin and the staff of the Egerton House Hotel.

Finally, to Baker, my best friend. Thanks for listening!

For the man who made everythinNow and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.

-Mark Twain

Life on the Mississippi

CHAPTER ONE

A HUMAN SKULL CONTAINS 28 BONES, which might suggest that the likelihood of unearthing a complete skull dating back to the eighteenth century would be rather remote. After all, three hundred years was a mighty long time to be encased in the predominately soft soil of Lower Manhattan. Nonetheless, a complete skull was exactly what Juan Garza saw when he peered into the ditch he had just finished digging. Being a good Catholic, he made the sign of the cross, then uttered a short prayer. Shaking like a leaf, he climbed down from the backhoe and inched closer to the edge of the ditch. It was not until he was directly above the skull that he noticed it was attached to a skeleton that lay just below the surface. Kneeling down, he wiped the sweat from his face and stared at the white bones that were protruding from the dirt.

Dios me perdone, he mumbled. What have I done?

Then he noticed something else. The dark spot in the center of the frontal bone wasn’t dirt. It was a perfectly round hole, the size of a penny.

Que Dios me proteja, he whispered to no one but himself.

Garza knew that what he was looking at was a bullet hole—and a world of trouble. He had seen similar wounds many times in Ciudad Juarez, during his years as a Mexican Federale. What he didn’t know, but would soon discover, was that he had just stumbled upon a major archaeological find.

"Llame a la policia!" he shouted to a coworker.

His heart beating faster now, Miguel Estrada dropped his shovel and came closer. "Que hay de malo? he asked. Then, in English, he said, What’s wrong, amigo?"

Garza pointed toward the ditch. "Me encontraron un esquelto!"

Are you serious? he asked in disbelief. Where?

"Alli! Alli!"

Estrada stared at the bones, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. As it began to dawn on him, he felt the blood draining from his face. He stared in horror, unable to look away or speak. His gaze shot back up to Garza, whose eyes were locked on his. Cristo Jesus, he said aloud. Now what do we do?

It was at this moment that a N.Y.P.D. cruiser driving up Maiden Lane pulled up to the corner of Nassau Street. Spotting the car, Garza ran over and began to pound on the hood. "Ayuda! he shouted. Necesitamos ayuda!"

A young female officer stepped out of the car and told him—in Spanish—to calm down. "Cual es el problema?" she asked.

Garza told her what he’d found and begged her to come and take a look. Instinctively, she called for backup and then drove her car into the vacant lot where Garza and Estrada had been working. When she saw the skull and the skeleton, she gasped. Oh my God, she said softly. What do we have here.

By the time Captain Lou Feretti showed up, the entire lot had been cordoned off with yellow police tape and every major news organization had a reporter on the scene. The media circus caught Feretti by surprise, but being that he was now on the mayor’s staff, he had no choice but to be gracious and answer every single question that was lobbed at him—even the dumb ones. Who discovered the skeleton? When did they find it? Where did it come from? How long has it been in the ground?

Feretti promised to answer all of them just as soon as he was finished with his initial inquiry.

Would the mayor be making a statement?

Dodging and weaving, Feretti managed to convey the mayor’s interest without divulging his real concern. The lot where they were standing just happened to be the site of a brand new skyscraper, the first such building to be erected during the mayor’s term. Needless to say, the project was of great importance to the current resident of Gracie Mansion, as well as his supporters down at City Hall. By most accounts, the project would generate twelve hundred jobs and millions of dollars in new revenue and taxes.

The mayor had given Feretti a relatively straightforward assignment, or so it seemed. The highly decorated captain was supposed to make sure that the wheels of progress rolled on unabated. Translated, that meant a cursory investigation, orderly disinterment, and no delays. Time was money, and in this case, a lot of political donations were at stake.

Who called this in? Feretti demanded to know.

I did, answered the female officer, whose name was Ortiz. One of the workers flagged me down.

Which one?

The backhoe operator. She pointed to Garza. He’s a little shaken up, but he’ll be all right.

Did you question him?

Yeah, but he doesn’t speak much English—and my Spanish isn’t what it used to be.

What did he have to say?

She told him that Garza worked for a company called Messina Excavating, a site preparation firm located in Newark. He and his coworker had been hired to clear the lot of debris and dig a few pipe lines. They had been working at the site for two months and were just finishing up with phase one of the project.

She glanced at her notepad. Garza and Estrada. They both live in Jersey City.

Feretti pulled her to the side. Are they here legally?

I didn’t ask.

What do you think?

Probably not.

Swell. He lowered his voice, just a little. Why don’t you tell them to knock off early.

She looked puzzled. You want them to leave?

Yeah, I do.

Officer Ortiz chuckled, mistaking Feretti’s response for a joke. They might not come back.

Let’s hope not.

Sir?

Tell them to find another job.

She gave him a blank stare. I don’t understand.

Have they committed a crime?

No, sir.

Then why should we detain them?

Should I notify ICE?

Feretti rolled his eyes, The mayor has a good rapport with the Hispanic community. Let’s keep it that way.

Ortiz shot a dubious glance at Garza and Estrada. Should I check for outstanding warrants?

No, Feretti said sharply, You shouldn’t check for outstanding warrants. Nor should you check for parking tickets, unpaid fines, or overdue library books! Just let them go. You got me?

Ortiz saluted hastily and walked away.

Feretti eyed the skeleton critically. It looked unusually well preserved for something that had been in the ground so long. Of course, it may have been encased in some sort of protective sheathing, or some other material that had rotted away. He groaned when he saw that the bones were being inspected by a woman in a hazmat suit. He assumed that she was part of a C.S.I. Unit, but where was the rest of her team? For fifteen minutes, he watched over her shoulder as she measured each and every bone. When she reached the skull, she seemed to pause, as if in prayer, and reverently ran her hand over the face several times.

Feretti knelt down and tapped her on the shoulder. Excuse me, he said harshly. Are you planning to stay down there all day?

She looked up and without removing her hood asked politely Would you mind moving that way? She gestured to her left with a suited hand. You’re blocking my light.

Feretti cleared his throat, seeming suddenly irritated. Would you mind coming up here a moment?

She took off her hood and shook her head, allowing her long, black hair to spill out onto her shoulders. Then, with a weary sigh, she raised her chin, staring at him through deep blue eyes. When she spoke, it was with a slight British accent. How may I help you, captain?

Feretti hesitated. He had been unprepared to encounter such an incredibly pretty woman. The contrast between her dark eyes and smooth ivory skin was mesmerizing. He suppressed a smile and asked, What’s with the suit?

Just a precaution, she replied. Better safe than sorry.

Where’s the rest of your team?

Team?

The C.S.I. Unit.

She gave a tired smile. I’m not a police officer. My name is Sarah Kidd. I’m an archaeologist. I work for the State Historic Preservation Office.

Feretti rubbed his tired eyes wearily. New York’s State Historic Preservation Office (SHPO) was the one organization that could shut down a construction project in a heartbeat. Located in Waterford, a picturesque town in Saratoga County, it was comprised of four separate entities: the National Register and Survey Unit, the Technical Assistance and Compliance Unit, the Archaeology Unit, and the Outreach Unit. Each staff person was assigned a specific territory, which generally encompassed numerous counties and municipalities within them.

The Archaeology Unit conducted environmental reviews and provided guidance to the public in matters relating to the preservation of cultural resources.

Feretti felt a sudden sinking sensation, now painfully clear on why she was taking measurements. Who gave you permission to play in the dirt, Dr. Kidd?

Sarah’s blue eyes were like stone.

For the record, captain, I don’t need permission. My office has jurisdiction in these matters.

Since when?

Since Congress passed the National Historic Preservation Act. I believe that was in 1966. Incidentally, the state of New York passed its own preservation act in 1980. You might want to read them sometime.

Feretti inhaled deeply, his patience being put through its paces. He was half-tempted to drag her out of the ditch by her hair, but of course the press would have a field day with that. Instead, he took a deep breath and counted to ten. I don’t mean to be rude, he said calmly, but you’re interfering with a homicide investigation.

She glanced up at him, and a thin smile spread across her face. Has someone been murdered?

Feretti was liking this smart-ass academic less and less with each passing moment. You’re standing over him, he replied curtly. Maybe you were too busy taking measurements to notice the head wound.

If you’re referring to the hole in the frontal bone, that was caused by a musket ball fired from close range. She covered her mouth and yawned. Murder can’t be ruled out, but if I had to guess, I’d say he was killed in a duel.

"A duel? Feretti looked at her like she was nuts. What the hell are you talking about?"

Murder victims are usually shot in the back of the head, or in the parietal or temporal bone. Only a musket ball could have made such a perfectly round hole, which takes us back to the eighteenth or nineteenth century, when dueling was quiet common. Am I going too fast, captain?

Feretti finally caught on and he tried to dispel the notion before they wasted any more time. No offense, honey, but you need to get out more. Take a look around. You’re in New York City, not Charleston or Richmond. Dueling was outlawed in this part of the country.

You don’t say. She gave him the same sort of condescending smile you might give a first grader. My goodness, I must have misread my textbooks. She climbed out of the ditch and removed the hazmat suit. Feretti turned away, apparently in no mood for a lecture. She moved toward him, still smiling. The next time you’re on the West Side, take a look across the river. Just below the Palisades there’s a spot known as the Heights of Weehawken. Back in 1804, it was the site of a very famous duel between two prominent politicians—the Vice President and the Secretary of the Treasury. You might remember their names—Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton?

Feretti fell silent for several long moments and then slowly nodded as if she might have a point. Finally, he said, Maybe we should move the skeleton to a safer location.

I don’t think that would be wise.

Why not?

Well, this particular specimen is quite old, which means that the bones are very fragile.

Despite Feretti’s growing impatience, he replied in an even tone. Maybe it’s not as old as you think.

A faint smile crossed her lips. The skeleton is at least 300 years old.

How the hell do you know that?

Calmly, she reached for Feretti’s hand and slapped a fistful of dirt in his palm. He opened his mouth to protest, but paused when he saw a silver coin encased in the dirt. She ran her finger over the number 8 that was stamped into it. "You’re holding a Spanish coin known as a reale. It was probably minted in the 1600s. If we put it on a scale, it would weigh approximately one ounce."

Feretti grunted and raised his eyebrows, giving her an odd look. Am I supposed to be impressed?

No, captain, you’re supposed to be delighted. You’re holding a ‘Piece of Eight.’ The currency of pirates. She reached and very gently pulled the coin free. Her heart pounded wildly. She held it up, slowly turning it around. This is the third one I’ve found. There might be other graves in the area. Who knows, we could be standing in the middle of a pirate graveyard. Wouldn’t that be something?

It certainly would, Feretti thought as he called Gracie Mansion. Something awful.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Told himself to slow down.

Breathe through the mouth. Deep, steady breaths. This too shall pass.

Truth was, it didn’t matter what she thought. She was swimming against the tide of progress, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d be swept away.

CHAPTER TWO

A DAM GOLD HAD NO IDEA why Irene Kaminski, the newly installed president of the Anchor Insurance Company, wanted to meet at the Pearl Street Diner instead of her office. The informal setting was puzzling. To date he’d only had two brief meetings with her, and she did not strike him as a woman who enjoyed small talk. So why would the straight-laced actuary want to meet for lunch? Maybe she felt guilty , he thought. She had never invited him to lunch before, and they had never had a face to face meeting. She was a strange one. Typical bean counter , he thought. You never knew what they were thinking.

All work and no play, he told himself.

If the truth be told, Kaminski did not suffer fools gladly, but she did have a mischievous bent. Back in Vienna, she was known to be a lover of the avant-garde.

There were rumors that she had been a nude model during her college days, but nobody knew if this was really true—or just wishful thinking.

By the time Gold sat down, Kaminski was on her second glass of wine. Am I late? he asked.

No, I’m Austrian. We’re always ten minutes early. They shook hands. Would you care for a cocktail?

No, thanks. I’m American. I might need a nap.

Kaminski looked practically amused as she studied the menu, glancing up at the waitress who was hovering over the table. She ordered a salad, and Gold asked for a lean pastrami on rye. When they were alone, she said, Why do New Yorkers always ask for a lean pastrami or lean corned beef?

I’m not sure. Must be hereditary. You see your parents do it, so you naturally do the same.

She sat back and smiled at him. Were you surprised by my invitation?

A little.

You’re our lead investigator. I think it’s important that we get to know each other.

I agree.

She held out her hand. My name’s Irene.

Gold shook her hand. Nice to meet you, Irene. My name is Adam.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I have a few questions about my predecessor. I understand that you knew him well.

Not as well as I thought.

What sort of man was he?

Well, I guess you could say that McKenna was a complex person. A man of many faces.

What did you think about his management style?

Not much.

Why do you say that?

He was too secretive.

Huh, that’s interesting. She leaned forward, revealing ample cleavage. I’ll try to be more open.

You’re off to a good start.

She looked into his eyes. I think you and I will get along just fine.

Gold smiled. Why are you so interested in Bill McKenna?

I’m always curious about the people that I replace. I don’t want to make the same mistakes they did.

I don’t think you have to worry about that.

I hope not. She paused before continuing. Adam, she said, her tone grave. There’s another reason that I wanted to meet with you. She retrieved a file from her briefcase and placed it on the table. I assume you’ve heard about that skeleton they found on Maiden Lane.

Yeah, it’s a fascinating discovery.

They may have found a pirate grave.

So I hear.

Did you see the photograph of the head archaeologist? She’s a real beauty.

She’s prettier in person.

You’ve met her?

We’re old friends.

No kidding. Her face showed the hint of a smile. She sounds intriguing.

Right, Gold said, frowning. To a fault.

Well, oddly enough, one of our insureds has been clearing the very lot where they found the skeleton. She put on her reading glasses and opened the file. Messina Excavating. Ring a bell?

No, but I happened to know that Messina is the name of a town in Sicily. I drove through there two summers ago.

Kaminski wasn’t sure why Gold felt compelled to share this information, but she smiled just the same. Messina Excavating is located in Newark, New Jersey. For the most part they’ve had a good loss history. The smiled faded. Unfortunately, they’ve had two claims in the last month.

Gold heaved a long sigh. That’s the way those firms operate. You get a few good years and then a few bad years, but in the end we usually make a profit. Of course, a lot depends on their risk management team. He studied her over the rim of his glass, wondering what exactly she found so troubling. Are these worker’s comp claims?

No, they’re not.

What are we talking about?

Theft.

Uh-oh. He shifted in his seat. What sort of items?

Construction equipment.

Gold drew a sharp breath. That could be costly.

Especially when you’re dealing with organized crime.

For a moment, Gold thought he’d misheard her. What makes you—

She held up her hand to cut him off. We got a tip from Interpol. Both items were shipped out of the country. I’m not at liberty to say more.

What was stolen?

She handed him a loss report, which described the theft of a John Deere backhoe loader and a Caterpillar dozer. The items were valued at $40,000 each. They had been stolen one week apart, and like most heavy-equipment vehicles, neither had a vehicle identification number or a serial number.

Doesn’t that strike you as odd? she asked.

Unfortunately, that’s par for the course. Even if they had numbers, they’d be removed. That’s the first thing they do. He glanced down at the report. If they don’t remove the numbers, it means that the vehicle is going to the chop shop.

What happens then?

They dismantle it and sell the component parts on the black market.

Kaminski said nothing.

Gold went on to tell her that equipment theft was considered low risk, high reward, and a fairly easy way for a thief to make a buck. Most items were poorly secured, easily disguised, and very expensive. Additionally, many manufacturers employed a one key fits all ignition system.

According to the National Insurance Crime Bureau, in the United States, there were over 13,000 heavy-equipment thefts per year.

The annual total losses exceeded one billion