by George Fong
He studied it for a beat before shaking his head. “Nah, don’t know them. Sorry.” He wiped the counter in a quick swirling motion with a wet towel before walking away. Not a good start.
Jack turned around on his barstool and studied the customers, seeing if he could spot the regulars. Someone here had to be a frequent flyer. Maybe Jack would get lucky and find someone who knew Cooper, tell him who the other person in the photo was. The bartender returned with Jack’s change. Jack gave it one more shot. “Keep it. Just tell me who here’s a regular.”
The bartender remained still, hesitant to respond.
“Look,” Jack said, “I got a sixteen-year-old girl that’s been kidnapped. I’m just trying to find her before something bad happens.”
The bartender paused, giving him a hard once-over, then held up a finger and walked away, disappearing into a sea of bodies. Jack grabbed the photo and turned back around to watch the crowd. He caught sight of a woman bending over a jukebox, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a top resembling a small napkin.
“I hear you’re looking for a man.”
Jack turned to see a young woman with a drink tray shoved under her right arm. Thirties with long blonde hair and a look that would make any man hand over his wallet. Her breasts filled the low-cut white T-shirt she was wearing, the words, “Blackie’s, Order by the Pair,” stenciled across her bumpy parts.
“Yeah, that would be me. A couple as a matter of fact.” He took the photo from his jacket.
She took the photo from Jack’s hand and scanned the picture from all angles, before handing it back to him. “This one,” she said pointing at the UNSUB. “I’ve seen this one.”
“When was the last time?”
She shrugged. “Maybe six months, less than a year.”
“You got a good memory.”
“Only when I need it,” she replied.
“What’s your name?”
“My friends call me Whisper.”
Figures.
“Well, Whisper, do you know his name?”
Whisper shook her head. “I did, but can’t remember now. Nice guy. Was a regular, then kind of vanished.”
“Got any idea where I might find him?”
Whisper pointed eastward, toward the Peninsula. “Lido Piers. He worked for a guy who owns one of those coastal cruisers. One of those really big-ass yachts.”
“Got a name of the owner or the yacht?”
Whisper tilted her head and smiled. “Maybe.”
Jack reached into his wallet and pulled out a fifty.
Whisper plucked it from his hands. “The guy’s name is Peter Thibault, but his friends call him Skip. He owns a yacht called the Emerald Eyes.”
“Thanks, Whisper.”
“Why you looking for him anyway, detective?”
“That’s Special Agent.” Like it mattered. “And I’m looking for him because I’m trying to find a girl who was kidnapped. She’s sixteen.”
Whisper’s eyes sharpened and her glossy red lips gaped slightly opened. Her teeth were model-perfect.
“Thanks for the help,” he added. Jack stood from the barstool and started to walk away when Whisper placed a hand on his chest. He saw her take in a slight breath and her gaze fell toward the ground.
“Here,” she said, placing her soft hand in Jack’s, gently sliding the fifty into his palm. With her other, she gently patted him on the chest, grinned at no one in particular and walked away.
Jack stepped outside and immediately took in the smell and feel of the salt air. His gait was slow as he meandered his way though the lot to his car. Jack unlocked the rental and slid behind the wheel. A parking ticket was stuffed under a wiper blade.
Really?
He opened the door and reached around, grabbing the ticket by the corner, folded it in half and tossed it on the floorboard.
He entered back onto the 55 North over to the Lido Peninsula, along the coastline on Lido Park Drive until he saw the road sign that read Channel Place.
Million dollar yachts lined the harbor. Jack scanned the names looking for Emerald Eyes. He arrived at a dead end, flipped around and retraced his path, bending north from the southeast end. Then he spotted it, a large, majestic yacht, easily a hundred feet long. Large letters along the stern prominently displayed her name: Emerald Eyes. Emerald, Jack thought. Like the color of money.
Jack tapped his foot pedal hard looking for a place to pull off. He heard a chirp from squealing brakes. The car following closely behind Jack bounced in his rearview mirror, the driver slamming on his breaks to avoid a collision. The car pulled to the left and sped by, laying down a hard palm on his horn while flipping the finger to Jack, who simply waved back as he pulled to the side onto a patch of dirt.
The yacht was docked, sandwiched between two other large vessels, their masts raised high above the roofline of the adjacent buildings. A man stood on the deck of the ship wearing khaki shorts, Sperry Top-Siders shoes and an untucked shirt. He was coiling yellow nylon rope on the ship’s deck. Fifty feet in front, Jack spotted a narrow road that led to the dock’s entrance. He crept the rental past a black metal gate into a large parking area, and found a slot fifty yards from where the Emerald Eyes was moored.
The man was still working the rope when Jack approached. The worker caught sight of Jack and tipped his ball cap. Jack looked up and the brilliance of the sun backlighting the man caused him to shade his eyes.
“I’m Special Agent Jack Paris with the FBI,” Jack called out, pulling out his creds and holding them up into the sunlight. “May I come aboard? I have a few questions. Won’t take much of your time.”
The man nodded and waved him up. Jack climbed the stairs, onto the deck.
The yacht was nothing short of pure elegance. Hardwood deck, slick fiberglass and chrome. Glass windows lined the entire length, smoked for privacy. A stairwell led to an upper deck where Jack could see two jet skis secured on a platform at the stern. He peered into the cabin as he walked past an open doorway. The interior walls were lined in deep burgundy wood and glass. A leather sectional spanned in front of a bar, flanked by velvet, covered winged chairs. Further inside a black lacquered table with a glass top adorned with a large decorative vase filled with brightly colored flowers. Real flowers. Jack estimated the furniture alone was more than his annual salary. He made his way to the stern of the ship.
The owner was about fifty, sporting a healthy tan with dark hair slightly graying at the temples under his ball cap. He was wearing a gray polo shirt with an embroidered emblem of a stallion. Ferrari Stallion. Go figure. He smiled and leaned against the port side railing.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m investigating a possible child abduction.”
The man’s smile turned to a straight line. “How can I help?”
“Are you Peter Thibault?”
“That’s right.” He stuck out a hand and Jack took it.
“Nice ship.”
Thibault smiled. “I like to call it home. It’s a Burger.”
“I take it we’re not talking meat.”
The man tilted his head and laughed. “If we were, we’d be talking pure Grade A, USDA prime. No, Burger Yachts. One of the finest made. One hundred twenty-one feet of pure luxury.”
“It’s a beauty.” Jack pulled out the folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to Thibault. “Do you recognize any one of these individuals?”
Thibault studied the picture a moment before his eyes fell heavy and his lips went tight. “Yeah, I know him,” he pointed to the UNSUB. Thibault shook his head and looked up at Jack. “Pretty old photo, though. He’s a lot older now. Worked aboard the Emerald Eyes for six months, about a year ago. Name’s Eric Youngblood. Showed up one day looking for work, scrubbing decks, polishing railings, things like that. Looked eager, so I threw him a bone and gave him a job.”
“Where is he now?”
“Said he had to move north, hook up with an old friend. Hated to let him go. He did a
lot around here. I relied on him. He kind of left me hanging.”
“You have an address for Mr. Youngblood?”
“No,” Thibault responded. “I paid him his last week’s wage and off he went.” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “I do know that he’s from around here, though. Grew up and went to high school in Newport Beach. Lived with an uncle up along PCH in Sunset Beach.”
“You got a name for the uncle?”
Thibault nodded. “Hold on. I think I actually do.”
He disappeared into the forward cabin and left Jack standing under the overhang of the upper deck. He returned after a few minutes.
“Here it is. I thought I had it.” Thibault handed Jack a file folder containing the payment record for Youngblood. Along with the record sheet was a sheet of yellow legal paper with hand written notes. “Right here.” Thibault pointed at a name and address scribbled on the bottom of the page. “That’s his uncle, Bernard Russell. It was his emergency contact.”
Jack took out a pen from his jacket and wrote down the information on the back of a piece of paper, then folded the paper and slid it into his jacket pocket. “Eric didn’t by chance mention the name of the friend he was going to see up north, did he?”
Thibault shook his head. “No. Just said he heard from an old friend and wanted to reconnect. Eric never seemed the sort to put down roots. I guess he just got restless and needed to move on.” He sighed. “Sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“You did fine.”
Thibault paused for a second before asking. “Did Eric have anything to do with this kidnapping?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
Thibault nodded. “For whatever it’s worth, Eric was a good kid. Got into trouble a while back. Drugs, mostly marijuana, nothing big. I told him if he wanted to stay working here, he had to clean up his act and he did. Never had any problems after that.”
“Thanks for the insight.” Jack looked around one last time, soaking in his surrounding. Working undercover, Jack had access to the undercover yacht, a Mercedes sport coupe, and a posh apartment overlooking the bright blue Pacific. The difference was it wasn’t his. It was all pretend. This, as he looked out over the side of this multi-million dollar yacht, was something someone actually owned.
“Mr. Thibault, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you come up with the name Emerald Eyes?”
Thibault looked at Jack and smiled. “My daughter, Mr. Paris. It was the color of my daughter’s eyes.”
“She must be very pretty.”
His eyes glistened. “She was. Died five years ago. Auto accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
Thibault forced a thin smile as the two walked toward the gang plank.
“Agent Paris, do you have children?”
Jack nodded, feeling a slight bit guilty. His envy of Thibault’s wealth was over-shadowed by something far worse than what money could fix. “I do. Two.”
Thibault again smiled. “Don’t wait until something bad happens to memorialize them.” He took a hold of Jack’s hand, a firm handshake.
“I’ll do that.”
“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”
The walk to the car was quiet. The pedestrian traffic grew thick as Jack found his way toward the parking lot. People lined the waterway, some walking their dogs, others out for an afternoon jog. Back behind the wheel of his rental car, Jack sat silently, staring at the Emerald Eyes, at its long sleek shape and the opulence of its stature. Some people measure success in dollars. But Jack knew that wasn’t always the case.
He rubbed the cover of his cell phone cradled in the palm of his hand, then flipped it open and remembered he had seven missed calls. He started filtering through them as he stared out the window, not paying much attention to any one of them until he came to the last message.
“Jack, it’s Border Collins.” The job offer. “Haven’t heard back from you. We’re still on for Friday if you can make it. Give me a call as soon as possible.” The call ended. Jack thought about Thibault, his daughter, his last remark. He pressed nine, saving the message.
Jack cycled through his phone address book, stopping at the number listed for home. He thought for a moment, considering calling Emily just to say hello, check on the kids, maybe mention the job offer. Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to say anything until he’d made a decision. Their last call, over a week ago, ended badly. The idea soured. He shoved the phone in his pocket and tried to clear the last thirty seconds from his mind. Sliding the key into the ignition, Jack cranked the engine over and backed out of the parking slot. He stared down the road, looking for the on-ramp that would take him north on the Coast highway. Two hours and ten minutes had passed since landing at Orange County Airport. The ticking of a clock and the thought of Jessica Baker without her insulin was all he could think of, and it didn’t make him feel any better.
24
Wednesday – 6:08 p.m.
The homes along the shoreline were long and thin, like books on a shelf, each paneled in shake siding with large glass windows facing the scenic Pacific Ocean. If the water wasn’t moving, you’d think it was a postcard. Feeder roads cut between the rows of slender beach houses where people on bicycles and joggers filtered through on their way to the beach. The air was comfortably moist, filled with the conflicting sounds of crashing ocean waves and the rumbling of convertibles roaring by.
The houses had been around for decades. Most were rentals to families and college students during the summer months.
Jack slowed along PCH as he entered Seal Beach. Small businesses lined the major highway with gaps leading to the sandy coastline. Jack continued north, parallel to the coast, coming upon a row of older beach cottages, colorful nylon flags gently floating from their front porch decks. He parked in front of a deep, navy blue cottage sandwiched between one painted bright yellow and another weathered to a dingy brown. A white picket fence formed a rectangle around the front of the building.
An uneven brick walkway led to a hardwood door with a triangular glass window. Jack knocked and peered inside. Soon, a man appeared. Late sixties, maybe early seventies, thin white hair, clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He peeked through the window and caught Jack staring back. The man returned a blank stare, like Jack was a salesman or worse, someone trying to enlighten him on the word of God. Jack pulled out his credentials and held them up to the glass. “Can I have a word with you, please?”
A metal latch pulled back and the door creaked opened.
“Mr. Russell?” Jack asked. “I’m Special Agent Jack Paris with the FBI. Can I come in?”
Russell hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and stepped aside.
Russell motioned with his hands, nervously. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, making for the back of the home and the kitchen, which like the house itself was small and narrow, the walls canary yellow, the floors burgundy and white, checkerboard asphalt tiles. A bay view window looked out toward more rows of quaint homes. Russell pulled two mugs from a cupboard next to the stove and poured them each a cup.
Jack removed the photo from his jacket and pointed at Eric Youngblood. After Russell acknowledged their relationship, Jack’s finger slid toward Cooper.
“Do you know the person standing next to your nephew?”
Russell glanced at the picture, eyes shifting down through his black plastic bifocals. “Yeah,” he whispered as he shook his head. “That’s Alvie. Alvin Cooper. Eric met him when we first moved into the neighborhood back in 1990.” Russell raised his eyebrow. “He’s in jail for murdering his family, you know?”
Jack nodded. “I know. We’re looking into another matter.”
“Is he in more trouble?”
“Could be.”
“Is Eric all right?”
“I don’t know. I spoke to his former employer, Peter Thibault. He said Eric took off about a year ago. I was hoping you could help me find him.”
“Haven’t heard from him since he left.
Kind of his style, though.” Russell stood from the table and walked to the counter, where a wire basket spilled over with unopened mail and folded correspondences. Russell plucked a small card. “Got this from him maybe a month after he split.” He handed the card to Jack and sat back down at the kitchen table.
The postcard featured a picture of the Space Needle in Seattle. Two scribbled lines on back: I’m doing fine. Thanks for everything. Eric.
Russell rubbed his jaw. “Only thing I got from him. Far as I know, he’s still up there.”
“Any family or friends live in Seattle?”
“None. Eric’s mother, Gayle, died back in the early ’80s. Cancer. They lived in San Diego back then. Didn’t know his father. Just some guy passing through town, a one night stand. Eric came to live with me after his mother died. Had no one else.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Going on fifteen years. That’s about when we met Alvie. We moved here at the end of ’89. I got a refurbishing job here at a local boat shop. Rented this place and we had an extra room. Thought it would be good to have a tenant to help pay the bills.”
“He would’ve been about nineteen,” Jack said.
Russell nodded. “That’s about right. Same age as Eric. He said he needed a place to stay. He graduated from Bolsa Chica High School, not too far from here. Said he took a couple of months traveling Europe, a graduation gift from his mother.” Russell cleared his throat and his voice became sullen. “While he was away, his mother died of a heart attack. He didn’t find out until he returned. Hell, when he told me that, I felt sorry for the guy. Took him in that afternoon, told him he could pay me when he got a job.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Just under two years.”
Jack thought about the timing. Two years put him right in line with a trip north and the killing of Grace Holloway in Renton.
“You know, Eric and Alvie traveled up and down the coast. Disappear for weeks. At first, I worried, but it brought a little life back into Eric, something that was missing since his mother died.”