by Landon Beach
Brad picked up the photograph she had her hand on. It was the one where the woman took up most of the frame with the red, white, and blue building looming in the background. He quickly said, “Looks like a place he’d be at—full of people drinking.” Then, she thought his expression turned to a mix of sorrow and disappointment. He studied the picture from every angle. “What are you mixed up in?” he said to the photograph and then passed it back to her.
The way he stared at the photo—the way he reacted—told her that he was onboard and concerned. He might illustrate covers for fictional accounts of life, but his body language and emotions were anything but an act, she thought. Additionally, he didn’t seem to pretend that he was living in a land of make-believe; rather, he projected a man who had accepted the fact that there was no guarantee that his brother would be found. She opened her laptop and brought up a web page. Then, she took the picture back from Brad and held it up next to the screen.
His eyes swiveled back and forth between the photo and screen. “The Round House Bar, huh?” Brad said. He then eyed the bag of groceries and bottle of wine. “Unless you tell me otherwise, we’re not going anywhere tonight, right?”
She placed the picture back on the table. “It’s a famous bar located on South Bass Island in Lake Erie. Once I identified the place, I did a little research. Most people take the fifteen-minute ride on Miller Ferry from Catawba Island Ferry Terminal, but boaters can get a slip in Miller Marina or one of the other docks at Put-in-Bay. From what I’ve read, it gets pretty rowdy there. Locals call themselves North Coast Parrotheads and refer to South Bass as the Key West of the North. And no, we aren’t going anywhere tonight.”
“A heaven-sent location for Conrad,” Brad said as he got up and stood at the boat’s small galley. “I’m starved. Since we’re not leaving, want some food and wine?”
She had two principles that she had tried to adhere to in the Coast Guard. One: Don’t drink on the job. Two: Don’t become involved with anyone in your profession. The first principle had been easy to follow. The second principle had been as well—until she had met Keller. Look where that had gotten her. But now, she did not have the constraints of the armed services restricting her choices. She had just met Brad Cranston but was at ease with him—almost too at ease. A glass of wine couldn’t hurt, and she had skipped dinner too.
“Okay,” she said and watched as he opened the bottle, poured two glasses, and prepared a plate of cheese, bread, crackers, and grapes.
He sat back down, and they each took a sip of wine. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “So, where does that leave us?”
She explained to him that other than the phone and the information that Mike was trying to run down, The Round House Bar in Put-in-Bay was the only lead they had. From her study earlier, it was a seventy-mile drive from where they were to the Catawba Island Ferry Terminal in Port Clinton, Ohio. There, they could each purchase a round trip ticket to Put-in-Bay and back for around $15.00. The earliest ferry left the terminal at 6:30 a.m., and the last ferry of the day left Put-in-Bay at 9:00 p.m., which was why they couldn’t go tonight. They could leave early tomorrow morning and have the entire day to investigate.
“Conrad said to bring a boat though,” Brad said. “Could we put the boat in here tomorrow morning and zip straight over to Put-in-Bay?”
She told him that she had thought about that too. It was an option, but the weather forecast for tomorrow did not look good—thunderstorms and high winds in their area and offshore. This meant heavy seas, and a small craft advisory had already been issued. She was not comfortable trying to cross a large stretch of open water in Lake Erie in the twenty-five-foot Stingray.
He said, “Agreed,” and popped a grape in his mouth. “What about trailering the boat to Catawba?”
She rubbed her left hand along the top of the v-berth’s navy-colored cushions. “Pretty determined to put this thing in the water, aren’t you?”
“Seems like a waste to bring it all the way down here and not use it. Maybe Conrad was out of his mind when he called me, but if there is a chance that he wasn’t, and was serious about the boat, then I think we have to try it.” He picked up the picture of the woman and Conrad on the sailboat. “He’s in swimming trunks and has a pair of fins by his feet.”
Allison rested her back against the cushions and took a long drink. The wine was going down too fast. She needed to pace herself, but when was the last time she had sat and talked with someone like Brad over wine and cheese? Eons ago. Of course, he was right. They had to bring the boat. “Can’t talk you out of it?”
He gave her a tired grin and tapped her laptop’s screen. “Let’s look at where we can launch.” He glanced at her near-empty wine glass. “More?” he asked.
She knew that she shouldn’t. “Please,” she said, holding out her glass.
He refilled their glasses. This time, he raised his in a toast. After they both had swallowed, he gave her a grin.
“What?” she asked.
“Just getting a kick out of life. I apologize in advance if I seem a bit awkward, but I haven’t had a drink with someone in private for a long time.” He let out a peal of laughter. “I never would have guessed that working with a professional investigator would be the occasion that led me back.”
He was self-deprecating in an honest way, and she liked that. She had to be careful, though. Two glasses of wine were it. Still had to drive back to her house, which was over half-an-hour away.
She closed the laptop.
“Not going to show me where we can launch Reminiscing?”
She gave her first grin. “Did your friend name it after the song by Little River Band?”
“You know, I never asked him, but I do like that song.” He cleared his throat then quietly sang, “Friday night, it was late, I was walkin’ you home, we got down to the gate, and I was dreaming about the night. Would it turn out right?”
Smooth voice. She swirled the wine in her glass and picked up the lyrics. “How to tell you girl...I wanna build my world around you. Tell you that’s it truuuueee.” She drank.
“Well, we’re both off the hook for awkwardness now,” he said.
She picked up a piece of cheese, loaded it on a cracker, and bit down, enjoying the crunch of her teeth severing the combination in two. After washing it down with a sip, she said, “I thought you might be stubborn about launching the boat. We can put her in at West Harbor Public Boat Launch on Catawba. As long as the weather tomorrow doesn’t swing that far east, then we should have a decent ride out to Put-in-Bay. From there, we can poke around The Round House Bar and see if anyone recognizes the woman or Conrad.”
“We could also check on the sailboat. The photographer could be the owner.”
She nodded and picked up the other picture. “I wish we had something more in these shots that could help us identify the boat. We know that it is well-kept, white-hulled, and probably over forty feet. However, I looked at some online pictures of Put-in-Bay’s various docks, and there are probably over a dozen boats that fit this description. Plus, boats are arriving and departing every day. I read that over a million tourists visit South Bass Island every summer.” She shrugged and passed him the picture.
“Sorry I asked,” Brad said.
“No. We have to check it out. It’s just a long shot.”
He set the picture down. “You don’t have to keep lowering my expectations,” he said. “This whole thing is a long shot. But he is my brother, and I’m all the family he has left.”
“Pardon me, but it sounds like you’re the one who is lowering expectations.”
He didn’t reply, and the hum of the cabin’s air conditioner was the only noise present, giving her enough time to regret what she had said. It wasn’t Brad that was making her edgy. She was enjoying his company and found herself attracted to his easygoing manner, and, perhaps, even attracted to him. And he wasn’t disinterested in finding his brother; he was being realistic about the prospects of finding him
, which is what she was trying to be. Was there some insecurity in feeling like her first case would be a failure? Yes. That is what he thinks he’s picking up on—my lack of confidence. But she knew that what he had really discovered was her hesitation to commit. The guilt of telling him earlier that the way she works is to go all-in on a project was making her uncomfortable. Her entire career in the Coast Guard had been spent in and underneath the water, and now she was afraid of it. And tomorrow, she would have to face that fear. The odds were that they would not be doing any diving, but traveling on a boat was enough to make her heart beat faster.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My lack of optimism isn’t helping.”
“I came out a little strong there, myself,” he said. “It’s late, and we don’t have much to go on.”
“We’ll see what we can do tomorrow.” At least that sounded a little optimistic.
“Yeah, I suppose we should get your gear loaded up when we’re done with this,” he said, gesturing to the wine and food, “and then get you on your way.”
She gave a weak nod, not wanting the night to be over yet.
“There is another option,” he said.
Her spirits picked back up. “And what is that?”
“Well, there’s a bunk right behind that privacy curtain if you want to stay on board tonight. I’d sleep up here, and that way we could get an early start together.”
Sounds good to me, she thought. But she couldn’t agree that easily. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at her watch.
“Just an idea,” he said. “Sorry if that was a bit forward, but when you’ve been divorced for ten years, your formality filter disappears. Not that I meant anything more than just staying on the boat for the sake of convenience.”
Now she could proceed. “No offense taken. It would make it easier to get an early start.” She looked around the cabin. “I’m game if you are.” She eyed him. “However, just so you know, I’m a light sleeper and am going to text Larissa with the plan.”
“Point taken,” Brad said. “I promise you that the only thing I have in mind for the rest of the evening is sleeping. However, if I snore and keep you up, you have permission to wake me up, and I’ll go conk out in the truck. Feel free to bill me for the extra time.”
“I planned to,” she smirked. Okay, I’m starting to like this man.
Fifteen minutes later, all of Allison’s gear had been transferred from her vehicle to the boat and was neatly stowed. They stood in the cockpit, and Brad threw a blanket over the four scuba tanks that he had secured to the deck, just aft of the captain’s chair. It was now past one in the morning.
“Go ahead and make yourself at home below,” he said. “Just call up to me when I can come down.”
“Thanks,” she said. “What time do you want to get up?”
“We don’t need to leave too early. The Round House won’t be open until around noon. Let’s both set an alarm for seven. That will give us time to get there and check out the marina and docks before heading to the bar.”
“Got it,” she said and headed below.
Later, as she drifted off to sleep, she felt secure that they would start to get answers tomorrow.
However, if she had known what those answers would be, she wouldn’t have slept a minute.
14
FBI Detroit Field Office, Michigan
3 Days Ago . . .
Patrick Bruno got off the elevator on the twenty-sixth floor in the building located at 477 Michigan Avenue in Detroit. Walking down the hallway, he said hi to a fellow assistant special agent in charge, smiled at the young receptionist, and then entered the FBI Detroit Field Office’s small breakroom. There was no time for small talk this morning, not that he liked shooting the shit to begin with. He had a few minutes before the meeting and needed sustenance.
The room was empty, but the smell of fresh coffee restored him. He grabbed his mug from the rung underneath the cabinet, which housed the coffee essentials, and then poured himself a fresh cup from the large Krups pot by the sink. A tray full of donuts, muffins, and bagels sat next to the coffee maker. He grabbed a napkin and a chocolate cake donut. He’d start the diet tomorrow. He was carrying 235 pounds and needed to be carrying two hundred. “You’ve got bowlegs, and the cartilage is almost gone from the area underneath and to the right of your left knee, bubba,” his doctor had told him. “Now, I can fit you with a brace to try and shift the wear to the other side, which could postpone surgery.” He had paused and looked at Patrick’s chart. “Losing weight would also reduce pressure on your joints.” Reluctantly, he’d left the office with a brace...and gained five more pounds over the next week.
About to turn and head out, his hand holding the mug bumped the side of the coffee maker, and some of the hot, life-saving liquid splashed over the side and onto his hand. He set the mug and napkin with the donut down and pivoted toward the sink. The dirty dishes from last week were still piled so high that he couldn’t get his hand underneath the faucet. There had been an annoying string of internal e-mails sent telling employees to please wash their dishes and take them home. In his two months here, the situation had not improved. Still feeling the pain from the burning coffee, he decided that he had had enough. He pulled the garbage can over and then threw every dish, cup, and piece of silverware that was in the sink into the trash. Time for the adults to start acting like adults. Satisfied, he washed his hands, wiped his mug, and left the break room.
When he arrived at the end of the hallway, the door to his boss’s corner office was open. He peeked in and saw fifty-eight-year-old Terrance Nolan seated behind the enormous desk on the far side of the room. Nolan’s feet rested on the desktop, and he was flipping through a sheaf of papers. Patrick tapped the door with his knuckles.
Nolan looked up from the papers and invited him in.
He wasn’t an intimidating man, but Patrick sensed an undercurrent in Nolan that bred uneasiness. At first, he had thought that Nolan was like a coiled spring, waiting to extend at any moment and attack. But after a month of observation, he had backed away from that theory and now thought that Nolan was simply solitary, preferring his own company. Staff meetings were rare, and, when they happened, more of a case study on keeping your own counsel than collaboration. He wasn’t antisocial—he could bend an elbow at a bar on a Friday afternoon—but he made no attempt to form relationships with his co-workers beyond the mandatory meetings or the office’s impromptu let-off-steam gatherings.
Patrick shut the door and walked across the newly carpeted office. For being stationed here for over ten years, Nolan’s quarters were bare—the very definition of a space maintained by someone who worshiped minimalism. Navy carpet, walls painted tan with no pictures or artwork hanging on them, a wet bar, a couch, and six black file cabinets in a row against the wall opposite the desk. More than likely, this would become his office when Nolan retired, and even though he considered himself organized and appreciated a person who could keep his area clean and uncluttered, Nolan’s spartan room came off as cold and too quiet. The four other assistant special agents in charge and the senior supervisory intelligence analyst had all been here for at least a year and would not be happy that the new guy was getting promoted or getting the coveted and high-profile job of running a Top Echelon Informant. Had Nolan already told them? Patrick had felt a few stares—some envious, others disbelieving—at the end of last week but didn’t think that Nolan would make the announcement informally. It would probably be this week. He thought perhaps yesterday, but Nolan had been out of the office all day.
The job would also entail coordinating with the eleven satellite offices in Ann Arbor, Bay City, Flint, Grand Rapids, Kalamazoo, Lansing, Macomb, Marquette, Oakland, St. Joseph, and Traverse City. He’d traveled up to Flint for a great uncle’s funeral when he was a kid, dated a girl who was from Oakland while he was in college, and been to one football game in Ann Arbor after the joys and disillusionments of college, but the rest of the cities were foreign to him. He
didn’t care for traveling, but if he had to meet the agents at these satellite offices, then he preferred to do it in person. All the rave about virtual meetings was mystifying. If you’re going to meet someone, then meet them face-to-face. Don’t do it behind a screen.
He sat down on one of the two leather chairs in front of the vast oak desk.
Nolan threw the sheaf of paper onto the desk. “Not a fan of paperwork,” he said.
Patrick nodded, and for the next few minutes, Nolan discussed how he would systematically destroy the Bureau’s massive tentacles of bureaucracy.
“But that’s for someone else to tackle now,” Nolan said. He eased back and folded his hands behind his head.
“So, we’ve got a new Don?”
Nolan smirked. “Yes. We. Do. Ciro ‘Ace’ Russo. Little shit isn’t ready for it...and doesn’t deserve it either.”
“You had someone else in mind?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Nolan said.
What was that about? He thought about asking more but decided to switch topics. He wasn’t here to talk about the new Don today. “I’m ready to start discussing Nineteen,” Patrick said.
Nolan laughed. “Right to the point. I should take my own advice and stop flapping my lips.”
“Does anyone else here know that I’m being promoted to your position or that I’ll be handling Nineteen?”
Nolan remained motionless. Then, he raised his eyebrows. “Nope. Never been discussed.” He looked out the window for a few seconds, seeming to search for the next words. His eyes swiveled back toward Patrick. “I figure we’ll make the announcement at the end of the week. They know I’m due to retire soon. Another few days won’t hurt. That way, we can get a couple of days of turnover done in peace without the rest of the bastards snooping around.” He paused. “You look worried about something.”
“Never handled a Top Echelon Informant.”