Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

  "What's the girl's name?" she asked. Maybe it was a test, or perhaps she needed to humanize the problem.

  "Abbie," I answered. "She's three years old."

  "How is this connected to me?" she asked.

  "I know it's late, ma'am, but would you have time to see me tonight?"

  "It is rather late," she scolded.

  "I know, but I'm a little desperate."

  "I suppose that if you have my phone number, then you must have my address as well."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'll put some coffee on," she said.

  "Thank you." I hung up as I was climbing onto the dock.

  The drive to Sharon Goddard's home was very quick at this time of night. Her house looked like a marble castle resting on the bluff overlooking the ocean. The front window was illuminated by a chandelier that from the front sidewalk appeared to be ten feet in diameter with hundreds, if not more, crystals refracting and reflecting the light.

  The door opened before I could knock. A brown-haired man in a Florida State shirt and black sweatpants stood in the light.

  "Are you Mr. Gordon?" he asked with some caution.

  "Yes, is Mrs. Goddard in? She's expecting me."

  "She is. I'm her son. She called me and asked me to come over."

  He didn't invite me in, and I waited for a few seconds.

  "Harry," a woman's voice called from another room, "bring him to the kitchen!"

  Harry gestured for me to enter. He eyed me carefully, and I didn't blame him. His father had been murdered in this house less than a month ago.

  He led me through a small well-displayed museum of Japanese art and trinkets that pretended to double as a sitting room. The kitchen was larger than Carina. It was almost bigger than the Manta Club. A stainless-steel refrigerator and oven reflected the soft light. The walls were lined with alabaster cabinets.

  A handsome woman stood from the dark oak table. She rose to my height, her blue eyes stared into mine as she appraised me.

  "Mr. Gordon," she said flatly.

  "Chase. Thank you for seeing me so late."

  "I admit I was somewhat cautious," she spoke sternly.

  "Understandable," I affirmed.

  "Would you like some coffee?" Mrs. Goddard motioned for me to sit.

  "I never turn down a cup."

  "Harry."

  Her son poured some coffee into a delicate little porcelain cup. He gave me a questioning look.

  "Black," I responded to the unasked question.

  He handed me the ornate cup.

  I began to talk. "Some of what I'm going to tell you is my own conjecture. The girl I told you about is the daughter of a friend who served with me in Afghanistan. His wife came to me last week because he has been missing for weeks. Unfortunately, I think he may have been killed, although I can't prove it. What I do know is that earlier today, a man took his daughter. His demand to the girl's mother was that she 'return the necklace.' Here is where I get into theoretical, and I'll try to not bore you. I think that the necklace in question is the one that was stolen from you."

  "Why would your friend's wife have my mother's necklace?" Harry questioned with a sneer of disdain.

  My head turned to Mrs. Goddard. "I think that my friend was also involved in the burglary."

  "It was a murder!" Harry hissed at me.

  "Yes," I admitted.

  "I hope your friend is dead then. His daughter be damned."

  "Harry," his mother admonished.

  "I am sorry for your loss."

  Mrs. Goddard stated, "It's not the girl's fault."

  I nodded.

  "There were two men," she began. "We were going to be out of town, but I was feeling under the weather. I had retired to my room, and Harold was downstairs.

  "I heard a noise," she continued. "A man came into the room. He was surprised to see me there. He just stared at me for a bit. Then we heard..."

  Her voice caught in her throat as she fought against the emotions. "I think he was shocked to hear Harold cry out. He told me to hide in the linen closet. He promised he wouldn't let the other man hurt me. He said to be quiet."

  She paused and took a sip of her coffee. Mentally gathering herself together, she said, "He told the other man that there was no one upstairs. It felt like forever before I didn't hear them anymore. I came out and found Harold in the den."

  Harry put his arm around his mother.

  "Did you see the man downstairs?" I asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Could you identify the man that put you in the closet?"

  "If I saw him," she answered.

  "Can you describe him?"

  She took another sip of coffee. "He was blond with blue eyes. He was a boy."

  "Was there anything else about him?"

  She studied me carefully. "He had the same tattoo that you have?"

  She was pointing at the unit tattoo that we all got before we went to Afghanistan.

  "What are you going to do about the girl?" Harry asked.

  "I have to find the man first," I replied, "but I have to get her back."

  "It was your friend," she spoke with determination.

  "I think so," I admitted. "I'm sorry about that."

  "We cannot be our brother's keepers," she informed me. "He did save my life, though."

  "Mother," Harry interjected, "that doesn't excuse his involvement."

  "Harry, I never said it did. There is more to this than just your father's murder."

  "If my friend is alive," I vowed, "he'll see the justice he deserves."

  Sharon Goddard gave me an approving gesture. "It seems," she said pointedly, "that the young girl's safety is of the utmost concern. Please let me know if I can help at all."

  The austere woman stood up, signaling my time with her was ending.

  I rose to my feet. "Thank you, Mrs. Goddard, for your time."

  With a curt nod, she ordered, "I expect to hear the outcome of this."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  31

  "Chase," Missy called from the companionway.

  My head was still buried in the pillows near the bow of the v-berth, where I had collapsed last night. Lifting it, I tried to guess the time. Maybe half-past six, I thought.

  My right foot hung off the bed and extended through the door to the front cabin. Missy touched my bare foot.

  "Chase," she said again. "A detective is looking for you at the inn."

  Groaning from the twitch of pain in my side, I pushed myself up and turned so that I was sitting on the edge of the v-berth facing aft. Missy was looking at me. She ran the palm of her hand gently over my stitches. Her eyes crawled up my chest to my face.

  "Does it hurt?" she asked.

  "Not so much," I explained. "The stitches pull some."

  Her fingers stroked my cheek. Two days without shaving had left some stubble that probably felt like sandpaper. She smiled at me.

  "He's waiting in the lobby," she said.

  "Let him wait," I mumbled.

  "Is this about the shooting?" she asked.

  "I doubt it," I answered. "Kayla was attacked yesterday, and her daughter was kidnapped."

  "The little girl from the bar?"

  I nodded. "He told Kayla that he wanted the necklace."

  "The one in my safe?"

  "I can only assume." I stepped past her and grabbed a pair of shorts. "Right now, no one knows that we have the necklace. It was stolen during one of the recent home invasions. Tristan was one of the burglars, along with the guy that shot me and kidnapped Abbie."

  "It was the same guy?"

  "Pretty sure," I pulled a clean shirt with a Guy Harvey painting screen printed on it.

  "Why did he shoot you?"

  "I plan to ask him that, but I guess he thinks I have the necklace."

  "Which you do."

  "But he can't know that." I slid my feet into a pair of canvas deck shoes. "Thanks, Missy."

  She caught my hand. "You need to be care
ful."

  I kissed her.

  Detective Charles was waiting in one of the wingback chairs next to the grand piano that was currently playing automatically. Something classical, but my music expertise only begins around the late sixties.

  "Mr. Gordon," he said, standing, "you seem to be in a lot of trouble."

  I sat down in the other chair without a word.

  "You took Mrs. Locke to the emergency room last night."

  "I did."

  "How did you come across her?" he asked.

  "I found her at her house."

  "Why were you there, Gordon?"

  "I was looking for her," I explained.

  "How are the two of you acquainted?"

  Rolling my eyes, I replied, "Her husband and I served together."

  "Her husband, Tristan Locke?"

  I nodded.

  "This is the one that Kohl said had been employed by Julio Moreno?"

  "That's Kohl's suspicion," I stated.

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "So, you went to your friend's house to see his wife."

  I wasn't sure if he was asking or telling. So I didn't answer.

  "Mrs. Locke said that she was attacked before her daughter was kidnapped."

  "That's what she told me," I confirmed.

  "Her description of her attacker seemed to be very similar to the suspect who shot you yesterday."

  Again there wasn't a defined question.

  He sighed at my silence. "What do you make of that?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "I wouldn't know. I never saw the guy before he shot me."

  "Mrs. Locke's home looks like it was searched. Does this have anything to do with Julio Moreno?"

  "Look, Detective Charles, I honestly don't know. The man yesterday didn't fit the demographic that Moreno has working for him."

  "Mrs. Locke said that the man wanted a necklace. Does that mean anything to you?"

  "I did a little research," I offered. "A valuable necklace was stolen during a home invasion a few weeks ago."

  Charles narrowed his eyes. "The Goddard house?" he asked.

  "It might not be the same necklace, but it's my only guess."

  He stared at me for a second before shifting his eyes back to his notebook. His face was perplexed. Unraveling threads that he hadn't seen left him speechless.

  "Is there anything else?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "No, that's all I have right now. Stay around in case I have more questions."

  I crossed my legs as the detective walked out of the lobby. A few seconds later, Missy dropped into the detective's seat.

  "He didn't arrest you," she commented.

  "No, he didn't. But the day's still young." I looked at her. There are so many ways I see her, from naked and sweaty to this professional hotelier. The green dress she was wearing cast an emerald glow.

  "Has anyone told you that you look beautiful today?"

  "Not yet," she answered.

  "I would say everyone has dropped the ball because...damn, you look good."

  Her eyes twinkled.

  "What are you doing today about the girl?" she asked.

  "One of the other guys from my unit is coming in today. I'm hoping that we can get in contact with the guy that has Abbie and make a swap for the jewels."

  "You didn't tell the detective about the necklace then?"

  "If we have to make a trade, I don't want anyone interfering. I'm not sure what the cops would do, but they might take an approach that will endanger the girl."

  "Your friend," she questioned. "Is he like you?"

  "I'm not sure what that means," I said. "He's a bad ass, though."

  She pursed her lips.

  "Can you set a room aside for him?" I asked.

  "Yeah, what's his name?"

  She took his name to the front desk, and I walked over to the coffee stand to pour me a cup.

  "He's good to go," she said, handing me a key card. "1127."

  "I'm going to check on Kayla," I told Missy. I showed her the phone I took from the concierge desk last night. "I have the valet's phone. I used it to text what I hope is the kidnapper."

  "I'll call if anyone comes looking," she replied.

  For a moment, I wanted to kiss her, but restraint prevailed. Our eyes lingered on each other for a second. The sigh remained in my chest, and I turned to leave.

  Kayla was dressed when I got to the hospital.

  "My mom is on her way down." Her somber voice echoed softly in defeat.

  "The detective came by to see me this morning."

  She nodded. "He told me that they would be bringing in the FBI because it's a kidnapping."

  "I sent a text to Tristan's phone, hoping that the kidnapper will get it."

  "What are you going to do if he answers?"

  I sighed and sat in the seat facing the bed. She turned and let her feet hang off the hospital bed, her cheeks were puffy and red. I wondered how much rest she got last night.

  "I'm going to set up a swap," I explained.

  "Did you tell the detective?"

  "Not yet," I stated. "It would be premature. This might not even work. He may not even have Tristan's phone anymore."

  Her gaze narrowed on me, and she furrowed her brow. Her voice croaked as she asked, "Do you think Tristan's dead?"

  My stomach flipped with a wave of nausea. I swallowed back some bile, feeling the effects from my throat to my stomach.

  "I think he must be," I finally said. "He was into some bad things, but I don't believe he would have abandoned you. Not like this."

  She shook her head. "He was a good man," she iterated.

  "He was," I assured her. "He only started out trying to take care of you and Abbie. Things just spiraled out of control, and his attempts to stop it just made matters worse."

  "The drugs?" she questioned.

  "That seemed like easy money. I'm pretty sure he was picking up drugs off the coast and smuggling them in for a Miami drug dealer. That was going fine until the Coast Guard boarded him. He dumped the drugs to avoid being arrested, but the drug dealer still wanted his product."

  She blinked as she listened to me.

  "Miami was still looking for him, so I don't think they killed him. He got involved in something else. Something that could get him some money to pay off the dealer and protect both you and Abbie. That's what went awry."

  "What did he do?"

  "He was burglarizing houses. A man was murdered, and that seemed to be the line that Tristan didn't want to cross. He didn't kill the man, but he did save the man's wife."

  "Oh," she uttered, tears welling in her eyes.

  "I talked to the woman last night. She described Tristan to me, right down to the tattoo on his arm. She said that when his partner murdered her husband, that Tristan was surprised. That must not have been the plan. He hid her in a closet, knowing she could identify him."

  "You think his partner found out and killed him?"

  "I think that Tristan kept a valuable necklace, intending to probably pay off the Miami connection, and the partner killed him for it. He was tearing your house apart looking for it. He shot me thinking maybe I found it. His last straw was coming after you in case you knew about the necklace."

  "I don't have it," she said. "What's he going to do to Abbie?"

  "Nothing," I said. "I told him that I had it. If he wants it, he has to keep Abbie safe."

  "You told him?"

  "In the text to Tristan's phone."

  "What if he doesn't have his phone?"

  I sighed. It was a strong possibility, but I wanted to keep her hopes up. "Doesn't matter," I said, "she's his only ticket to getting the necklace."

  Tears formed in her eyes again.

  I put my hand on her knee and tried to comfort her. "Did Tristan ever talk about Jay?"

  She wiped her knuckles across her cheek. "From your unit?"

  "Yeah, him. He's going to be landing here in an hour or so. The two
of us are going to get Abbie back, and nothing is going to stop us."

  She nodded.

  "I am sure that the police will be back in touch with you," I said. "I already told Detective Charles that Tristan was involved in the burglary. They may be able to find his partner through official channels."

  I added, "If he contacts you about Abbie, tell him we have what he wants."

  "Do we?"

  "We want him to think so," I replied. "Maybe we can make him see reason. Just tell him that I'll make the swap."

  "Should I call the detective?" she asked.

  "Yes," I answered. "I'll do what I can, but honestly, I'm more of a pointy stick. The cops have a lot more experience in this area."

  I was struggling with the police's involvement. The Corps had ensured my skill set involved a wide range of things. Finding kidnappers wasn't one of those.

  Why didn't I mention I had the necklace in my possession, you ask. Human nature being a predictably undependable sort of thing; I couldn't tell how anyone would react if I revealed the necklace. Mrs. Goddard, or more likely, her son, Harry, might demand the jewels back immediately. Maybe the insurance company would want possession of them. Even the police might lock them in an evidence locker. All the while, those diamonds might be the only real negotiation tactic to get Abbie back.

  I don't mind playing with others, but in this case, showing all my cards didn't seem prudent yet.

  Leaving Kayla to wait on her mother, I decided to wait at the Tilly for Jay to meet me there. I pressed the down button on the elevator as the phone in my pocket chirped.

  "No cops," the text message said. "I'll contact you to meet."

  32

  "Flash," I heard the voice behind me exclaim.

  Twisting on the barstool, I saw Jay standing at the entrance of the Manta. He was holding a canvas duffel bag and smiling behind a pair of aviator glasses.

  "You look like a cop," I quipped. "Want my license and registration?"

  "I'd be surprised if you hadn't had it taken away already."

  "Flash?" Missy asked with an eyebrow lifted slightly.

  "It was my call sign," I admitted.

  "Oh," she chuckled, "Gordon, right? You guys aren't that creative."

  I hopped to my feet and wrapped my arms around Jay in a bear hug. Jay planted a kiss on my cheek.