They parked in the competition’s makeshift VIP parking lot for personnel and competitors and discovered they were far from the first to arrive even at this early hour. Dane didn’t worry much about arriving with a competitor though he was a judge. This competition barely followed the Association of Professional Surfing rules and didn’t care if they drew attention or ire from APS officials. If the radio news rehashing an interview from yesterday was any indication, there was little need to worry about rules. Jean Luc was quoted as saying the ASP could run their qualifying competitions however they liked, but the American Invitational Surfing Competition, or AISC, had their own rules and goals. Which he claimed were to attract and encourage young new talent to the sport with big prize money and a venue that was geared to new talent. Very democratic if it weren’t for the gigantic entry fee.
He switched the car’s radio off and Shana said, “What’s the matter? Don’t want to listen to Jean Luc playing his role?”
“That interview was done early in the day yesterday—before he was playing for our side. Not that he’s about to change his tune with Ned watching.”
“What’s Ned’s role in this competition, do you think?”
“He’s the Beach Marshal. Jean Luc is the Surfing Director. I’m the head judge. Don’t you read your official event emails?”
“No. I’ve been unforgivably distracted.”
“Get your head on straight, girlie. This is a high-stakes operation and you need to be on top of your professional form. Starting now.” He meant every word and felt the reverberations of what he said in a bone-deep chill. He looked sideways at her.
She stared straight ahead. But the look was not a worried look, not a blank poker face stare. Instead a dark rigid determination colored her features so that he hoped he was not the object of whatever malice she held—because there was malice inside that couldn’t wait to escape. Anger and disgust combined into determination on her face. Maybe he shouldn’t have called her girlie again. After last night. But it was too late in his life for him to worry about being an insensitive prick.
He slipped his phone from his pocket, thumb dialed and held it to his ear, waiting. While it rang on the other end, he opened his mouth and slid his jaw from side to side in an attempt to loosen the tension.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jean Luc. Testing him,” he said, a beat before the man himself answered.
“Are you crazy? You’re lucky I answered. This better be important.”
“Anything you hear from me from now on you should consider a matter of life and death, Jean Luc. Yours. And your brother’s.”
After a snort, Jean Luc answered. “Then your news is you should be more worried about the girl—Tamara. Ned just informed her she will not be winning the competition and she… made some threats. She’s too far gone for surfing—even my brother knows. Ned—the idiot—told my brother to watch her. Mon dieu. He has no concept of the havoc Cupid can play with a man’s brain. Of course, my brother is sufficiently taken with Tamara so that all he did is tell her to behave. He will not do anything else. And she knows it.”
“And the upshot is?”
“The upshot is that Shana must watch her back.”
“We’re all watching her back. Tamara isn’t going to be in a position to do anything once we get to the marshalling area. Too many eyes—not to mention TV cameras. I’ll be with Shana until she gets there.”
“Ah. I forgot to mention. Ned removed Tamara from the competition and ordered her to be Shana’s surfing caddy. This is the danger.”
“Shit.”
“Your man Chauncey Miller has been approved as an authorized water photographer. Chaunce is a bit beat up, but the swelling in his eye is down enough for him to see through the camera lens. You and he will have to keep an eye on things.”
“Sure. What about their house—The Sand Castle? Is the bulkhead leading to the basement unlocked?”
“Yes, but I doubt Ms. Whittier is down there. I asked my brother and he said he hasn’t seen her in a couple of days, but he’s been busy with the competition. I don’t trust any of the other men.”
“How many?”
“There are five others, but today the Brazilian brothers arrive and I don’t know how many men they’ll have in their party. They are not scheduled to stay at our house. We’ll meet with them after the first round of the competition today. Les imbéciles want to be interviewed on television. That seems to be their main goal.” Then he added in a dark voice, “That and they also want to meet Shana.”
“We’ll see about that. I’m hoping this thing doesn’t get past day one, but it depends on finding Susan Whittier and connecting the Brazilians to the operation. We did some background on them. We know what they’re into and I don’t need to remind you how deep you are in bed with them. You’re going to need to go out on a limb and ask Ned about Whittier.”
“Ned is not happy that I didn’t stay with Shana last night. I suggested to him I know my business and women better than he. He questioned me about Miller. I told him I knew about Miller’s protectiveness and that’s why I didn’t stay—I didn’t want to spook her or her protective gay friend. Now he’s more watchful and even more paranoid than normal. He wants to impress his bosses and considers this his big chance. They are big surfing fans. This is a—what do you Americans say?—public relations opportunity?”
“Maybe. But I don’t care how watchful or paranoid Ned may be. You need to find out about Whittier—whether she’s alive and where she is—dead or alive—and I don’t care how you do it. If we don’t find her in the basement today—either you’re on the hot seat or your brother will be compromised.”
“I understand.” Jean Luc paused, then added, “You need to watch out for Shana. Ned is… more than interested in her as a ringer for the event. I think he fancies her the prize for his bosses. And maybe more. I know what the Brazilian brothers are involved in and I am not a part of it. You must understand this.”
“I understand.” Dane’s jaw clenched. “Get us something on them. Find some files, a signature, an email, a check, a text message—anything that ties them to Whittier’s disappearance or the financial fraud of the surfing competition.” He shut the phone down and pulled into the nearest parking spot to the newly erected tent labeled Competition Personnel Only.
Then he dared to look at her. She sat still, her eyes ahead, and didn’t turn to him when she spoke. “What about Tamara?”
“She’s your surfing caddy and she’s angry and jealous and slightly crazy. If I were you, I’d watch for a knife.”
Shana nodded and then turned to him. “And you? What will you be watching for?”
“I’ll have a weapon—it’s in my bag, and since Jean Luc is the event director I’m going to bring it to my assigned post—which I’ll choose—and keep my eye on you and Tamara. Chauncey will be a water photographer, so he’ll be closer to the action and watching Jean Luc’s brother—but he’ll also be keeping his eye on you and Tamara.”
“Does he know about this?
“I’ll let him know as soon as you’re situated in the marshalling area and the TV cameras are shining on you. I’ll stay with you until you get your competition jersey.”
She drew a deep breath. “I have a knife of my own.”
“I figured. You’re a pro.”
She turned to him. “Don’t patronize me.”
“You know I’m not.”
She nodded. “It would be easier if you were.”
They got out of the car and headed for the officials’ and competitors’ tent with their bags. Dane scanned the horizon.
The beach was unrecognizable. Two-story open-sided canvas tents wrapped around aluminum poles with colorful triangular flags flapping in the breeze at the tops dotted the landscape like a beachside circus. There were three of them. There was a separate tall metal structure with a platform holding a large camera on a stabilizing unit. A giant Jumbotron screen overlooked the far left side of the cordoned-of
f area next to plain metal bleachers. Colorful banners emblazoned with brand names for surf wear, energy drinks and suntan lotion flapped everywhere. One of the canvas pavilions was as large as a small building and sported what looked like a bar on the second level. They all held canvas chairs on both levels and one tall wooden chair on their second levels. The judges’ seats. He turned back to Shana.
“As for the surfing, go for the pivot, carve, back foot jam move and throw as much spray as you can. Cameras will love it and I can get away with giving you an inflated score. As if anyone in this amateur field would know enough to complain. It all looks polished with the plethora of colorful circus tents and sponsors, but underneath the veneer of legitimacy this is the most Mickey Mouse setup I’ve ever seen.”
“They’ve waived most of the ASP rules—all the rules that are inconvenient or that make the contest fair and relevant,” Shana said. “The only thing keeping them on the map or getting them attention is the prize money.”
“Evidently, that’s all they needed. Money. And the media comes running.”
They saw Chauncey pull in but couldn’t afford to make contact in public.
“I’m taking a chance that no one but Ned gives a damn about whether we should be seen together, but someone might realize that a judge shouldn’t be sleeping with a competing surfer.”
“No one knows about that but us.” Shana squinted into the sun, continuing to minimize their eye contact. It bothered him. Way more than it should. A need to rattle her surged and he took a deep breath to keep it from overpowering him.
“Everyone will know the minute they see us together.”
She stopped walking, looked him straight in the eyes with glinting green trouble in hers that nearly stopped his heart and said, “Then we can’t be together.” She flattened her luscious lips to a grim line and turned away and walked off, carrying her board, her bag—and he hoped a sharpened knife to match her attitude.
Remembering his promise to cover her back, Dane forced himself to follow her at a discreet distance.
Day 1 of the competition
Crowds assembled as the loudspeakers positioned at the corners of each pavilion announced the start of the first heat. The digital display at the front of the largest pavilion listed the names of the surfers slated for each heat. The women were up first. The men would surf later, in the early afternoon as the winds picked up and the swells were predicted to be less even and more of a challenge.
From his perch, Dane held up his binoculars and watched Shana in the marshalling area wearing jersey number twelve. Tamara, in a matching caddy jersey, and wearing a sullen face, stood nearby. Arcing the binoculars slowly over the entire beach area, he spotted Chauncey in position, then found Jean Luc in a stand with the announcer nearer to the marshalling area. There were several men and women reputed to be sponsors seated in the top level of the three-level structure that looked like an open air circus big top with the flags touting sponsor names flying at the peak and every corner. According to the Jumbotron that showed all the pre-competition interviews, action shots from a few of the so-called seasoned competitors’ prior amateur events and advertisements, that was the VIP stand.
Dane perched on the second level of a covered stand adjacent to the main VIP stand. He’d been there for only two hours and this was already the worst surveillance stint he’d ever experienced. It was tough to sit still watching her from three hundred yards away through binoculars. Working with Shana had been a mistake from the first minute he saw her. He knew it then and he’d been right. As always. A picture of Elena popped into his head reminding him of his past sins. Reminding him why his survival instincts could be overridden by lust or worse. Feelings. Connection. Damn.
He looked for Ned in the organized chaos along the beach and couldn’t find him.
“See anything interesting?”
The voice startled him like a punch to his heart, but he absorbed the shock to his system without a flinch. He took the binoculars from his eyes in a slow, deliberate move and looked at the man who’d climbed up to the platform.
“Ned.” He nodded at the man with a neutral look and without answering his question.
“We’re off to a perfect start. Got to hand it to Jean Luc. He’s put together a good show.”
“Why aren’t you over there trying to impress your VIP guests?” Dane waved a hand to the nearby elevated pavilion spotted with colorful wide umbrellas.
“I’ll take care of them after the show. Right now my job is to protect my investment.” He sat next to Dane on a high stool, still a half a foot lower, and picked up the electronic tablet that would be used for scoring.
“Don’t trust me? And I thought we had a very clear understanding.”
“I hear you spent the night with our girl. And I thought we had an understanding.” He shifted on his too-small wooden stool and looked out over the ocean from atop the second story of the heavy canvas-wrapped pavilion. Their seats were out in the open and off to the side of the big top-covered portion where the rest of the sponsors and personnel sat or stood around the portable bar.
Dane didn’t bother responding to Ned, but continued watching their girl through his binoculars. The only response the man deserved was a punch in the nose followed by an uppercut to the jaw to keep him shut up. And there would be a time for that and more. Now was the time for patience. Dane called on his reserve now as he watched Tamara towing Shana out to the waves to take her place in the queue. She was third up.
Shana concentrated on the waves and on her caddy both. They exchanged not a word, and since they were both veterans of surfing competitions, they knew what to do and when and how. So far, Tamara did what was expected, but the knot in Shana’s gut said she knew better than to relax her defenses. She wore the competition jersey over her own which was fine since it helped hide the bulge in the sleeve pocket holding her small but effective knife. Although she hadn’t had any practice with the knife in two years, it was one of those skills that never left you. Like making love. The thought caused a jitter in her chest and she heard the announcer from shore announce her as the next surfer. Tamara separated from her and she turned her attention to the wave.
The bright sunlight glinted everywhere as she concentrated, so when she noticed the flashing shadow above her as she was about to dig into the waves, she rolled instead and the blade of a six inch knife dug into her board. Tamara grunted with her effort and swore. Darting a quick look into the woman’s eyes, Shana realized Tamara was nothing short of crazy or high. Very high.
Grabbing hold of the board for leverage with one hand, Shana kicked her foot up as Tamara lunged forward again and knocked the woman square in the jaw and out. Turning back as the sounds around her began registering, she saw the official watercraft headed her way. The screams, the tense voice of the announcer and wild splashing of nearby surfers heading her way surrounded her. She grabbed Tamara by the hair before she went under and hauled her onto the board where the knife remained sticking straight up. All the while she searched the faces and concerned voices for the one she really wanted.
When an arm snaked around her from behind and pulled her against a hard body, she relaxed her head back and let go, leaving her board to the officials on the watercraft to tow the twenty yards back to shore. It was a relatively short distance, but still she wondered how he’d gotten to her so quickly. She turned her head and looked into his eyes and gasped. Staring back at her was Jean Luc Ruse.
Chapter 20
Dane shot from his chair, knocking it down, and lunged to the nearby metal staircase to the beach. The glint of the knife had been unmistakable in the lens of his binoculars. He moved fast, but Ned grabbed him from behind.
“Where are you going? This competition is still on. You let the professionals handle any problems,” he said as Dane lashed out with an arm to bring it down on Ned’s. The man let go before Dane’s blow landed. Lucky for him or his bones would have snapped in half.
“Bullshit. If they were professio
nals, the caddy wouldn’t have had a knife on her,” Dane shot back as he raced down the steps. The crowd was on their feet, mesmerized by the unreal scene in the water and close up on the Jumbotron, not paying attention to him. When he got to the sand he tore his shirt off, mostly so he couldn’t be easily identified as a judge and ran for the water. Another shirtless man was ahead of him. Jean Luc was already in the water. He dove into an oncoming wave with the smooth expertise of a surfer with as many years of experience as Dane had.
Even without the binoculars, Dane could see that Shana had knocked Tamara unconscious. He hit the water and continued to move forward in spite of Jean Luc’s head start. He lunged forward into the waves as surfers came from the water toward him with the event announcer wildly calling for a break. The TV and water photographers’ cameras were all trained on the scene and moving in. All except for Chauncey, Dane noticed as he looked over his shoulder. With the surf swelling around him, he stroked hard until he saw Jean Luc reach her. Dane watched as she leaned into the man’s embrace. The war between feeling relief that she was okay and the burning singe of jealousy heated him from his core so that he was surprised the water around him wasn’t evaporating in a steaming cloud. That stopped him cold. He sputtered water as a wave crashed into him. Forcing himself to turn away while his gut churned more violently than the waves around him, he swam back toward shore. It was all right. Shana was okay and Ned would like the fact that Jean Luc came to her rescue. And that she let him. If Jean Luc hadn’t already asked Ned about Susan Whittier, he had better damn well do it now while he had some points.
Of course, the fact that Jean Luc was the Surf Director made his swimming to the rescue most newsworthy and when he emerged from the water with Shana, they were surrounded by every camera and sportscaster at the event. Dane thought about shoving everyone aside, but he’d be blowing everything. Captain Nice was still on standby with his men at the ready to move on the house at his signal. He saw Ned join the crowd around Shana and Jean Luc. Maybe this was the ideal time to give the signal. No sense in waiting for any further confirmation that Susan was alive. He jogged back to his metal and canvas two-story pavilion and climbed the clanging steps two at a time to the top where he left his bag and his communications equipment. He hooked on his earbud and found the tiny microphone. Clipping it on a spare shirt, he pulled the shirt over his head and spoke.
The Beachcombers: Prequel - Beachcomber Investigations Series Page 16