Solomon's Compass

by Carol Kilgore

  “This is what’s wrong. Hold out your hand.” He dropped four tiny objects into it.

  “What are these?”

  “Cameras.” His jaw clenched. “They’re cameras, Taylor. I planted them Monday afternoon.”

  She stepped back and heat filled her face. “What? You planned this?” Her voice wavered, and her words came out through clenched teeth. “You wanted a record of fucking me?”

  “No.”

  Taylor shook so hard one of the cameras fell to the carpet. “Do you keep score? You sick—”

  “No! I put them in here to know if anyone broke in.”

  “You’ve been watching me all this time? And you didn’t tell me? In the bathroom?”

  “No, Taylor. The cameras don’t work like—”

  “Get out. Now.” She couldn’t think. This couldn’t be happening.

  Jake turned toward the door.

  Something else occurred to her. “Wait.”

  He stopped.

  “How could Randy trust someone like you?”

  He didn’t turn to her when he spoke. “He didn’t. He trusted my father.”

  And then he was gone.

  Jake closed the door of Taylor’s room and sank back against it. He was a heartless bastard. A soulless, arrogant, in-your-face piece of sun-dried cow dung who just sealed his fate in the inner circle of hell.

  Taylor hadn’t turned the deadbolt yet. He’d give her another minute.

  What was he supposed to do? He hadn’t meant to have sex with her, but he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation. To resist her. He turned off the lights and used the sheets and comforter so she wouldn’t see his body couldn’t be that of a man in his sixties.

  Then the sex turned into more. They were making love. Even then he never intended to reveal his identity. He rationalized he would tell her later. Maybe here in Rock Harbor, maybe after she returned to Charleston. After they got to know one another better, see if the attraction grew.

  If she hadn’t told him about Mark Vitulli, that’s how it would’ve played out. But Vitulli was like all the other men in Taylor’s life. Gone. Accidentally, for sure—the man hadn’t intended to die. Either he’d been negligent or the arrogance of youth sold him on invincibility. The result had been the same.

  And suddenly he had hated himself for not being up-front with her. For leading her down the wrong path. Taylor would never admit fragility, but he saw the vulnerability in her determination to find Randy’s killer. Her story confirmed it. The important men in her life all left. Her dad included. Taylor never mentioned him. According to his dad, Randy said she didn’t have one.

  Jake couldn’t put her through that kind of loss again.

  The only way he knew to be less of a son of a bitch was to tell her the truth. Yet when he’d attempted that, everything fell apart. He foundered. For a man who always had a plan, the feeling was new. He didn’t like it.

  Taylor still hadn’t set the deadbolt. He knocked, waited. No answer. He knocked harder.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me, Taylor. Lock the door.”

  The bolt snapped into place.

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  He walked diagonally across the hall to his room and let himself inside. Tomorrow Taylor and Will would go sailing. He’d already scouted places with unobstructed views of the bay and easy access to a boat he could steal, if necessary. His job was to keep an eye on her. He would do his job. But he wouldn’t tell his dad about this part of the night. Man to man his dad might understand, but Jake’s mistake was one his dad would never have made.

  Taylor finished putting the items back in the ammo can—slamming would be more accurate. Thinking about the personal effects Randy left behind did no more good now than when she and Jake had opened the can. Less, because now all she could think of was Jake.

  What a fool. Well, never again. How could she have fallen for a man who would stoop to such depths? Because he has dancing green eyes and a magic touch, that’s how. You know better. Maybe she was doomed to never have a permanent man in her life. The ones she loved never stayed.

  Jake consumed her. Or whoever he was consumed her.

  Had he told her the truth about the cameras? She thought so, but she couldn’t be sure. It explained why he’d kept staring at the smoke detector.

  Someone knocked on her door. She tucked the sheet in at her breast and it trailed behind her like a bridal train. Get that thought out of your head, Taylor. A bridal train plays no role in your future.

  The knock came again.

  “Who is it?” No one should be knocking on her door at this hour.

  “Me, Taylor. Lock the door.”

  Son of a bitch. She snapped the bolt into place and flipped over the safety latch.

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  She stepped back and tripped over the sheet, almost falling to the floor. Had he been waiting out there this whole time? To hear her lock the door against him?

  Taylor ripped off the sheet and pulled her shirt back on. Happy. Ha. She should have worn Dopey today. She slumped into the chair Jake used to remove the camera from the smoke alarm. Nothing made sense. The man she made love with less than an hour before wasn’t the man she thought he was. He was that man’s son. But he still attracted her like nobody’s business and broke through the barriers she’d erected to keep from becoming involved with anyone. He was the man who was here to protect her and, perhaps, help her find Randy’s killer.

  She jumped up, dug her jeans out from the foot of the bed, and pulled her phone from the pocket. She punched in 411 and waited for a real person.

  “I need a number for Jacob Solomon in New York City.”

  “One moment. Manhattan or Brooklyn?”

  “Brooklyn. Number only, please—don’t connect me.”

  She needed some sleep in order to enjoy her boat ride. In the morning, she would call the Brooklyn number and see if it connected her to the Jake Solomon who knew Randy Rankin. If it did, she’d find out once and for all what was going on.

  Taylor zipped the PFD Will had handed her. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. I invited you, remember? Besides, you could re-injure your hand. If a summer squall stirs up, I may yell for help. Otherwise, enjoy. We’ll be out a couple of hours.” He helped her aboard the Red Witch, which was tied up at the end of the quay.

  She smothered a smile. If she couldn’t climb aboard a boat on her own, she might as well resign her commission. She knew enough about Will to understand he meant no disrespect. Her Coast Guard career didn’t matter to him. He was all about chivalry.

  A couple of hours was a good run. And she would be home in plenty of time to rest and get ready for Dan’s party. She leaned over the hull and ran her hand along the edge of a patch. “This catamaran is a beauty. You do good work.”

  “Thanks. The owner treats her like a mangy alley cat.”

  Nate Brady. She’d asked Dan about him, but no one else. Aside from Brady having scant respect for boats and people, that’s all she knew about him.

  “When is he coming back?”

  “A couple of weeks. Gives me time to repair anything that doesn’t check out today, then sit back and watch the paint dry.”

  “You don’t act like the watching-paint-dry type. Does Nate Brady have friends here?”

  Will shrugged. “He and Zia were so-so for a while. I don’t run in his crowd. From what I can tell, they come here to party out of the view of people in their hometowns.”

  “Did Randy know him?” Taylor could still see Brady’s pig eyes.

  “Everybody in any part of the boat business knows him.”

  “Some people never learn to take care of their toys. They usually don’t have respect for anyone else’s belongings either.”

  “Truer words and all. Find yourself a spot.”

  Taylor crossed the trampoline to give Will room. He cast off and pushed away from the quay. She made a mental note about Nate Brady. Not that she expected to do any
thing with the knowledge. If the police couldn’t tell Randy’s death was a murder, how could she expect to locate her uncle’s killer? She couldn’t remember if Brady had the scar Jake described or if he wore a bracelet. She should have told Jake about Brady’s eyes. Maybe they matched the eyes of the man he—no, his father—suspected.

  Will raised the mainsail and the jib and caught the wind, tacking into the bay eastward toward St. Joseph’s Island. The day couldn’t have been more gorgeous. Hot as hell, but the steady southeast breeze kept her cool. The bay could be choppy, but today the swells were less than a foot and evenly spaced. The few puffy clouds made perfect accents in the bright blue sky. They crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, Will keeping the Red Witch on a straight and steady course.

  Taylor let her thoughts wander. Before she left her hotel room, she had called the number she received for Jacob Solomon.

  A woman answered on the first ring. “Compass Points.”

  Whatever. She thought the number was his home. “Jacob Solomon, please.”

  “Mr. Solomon isn’t in. We’re having difficulty with our voicemail. I’ll be happy to take a brief message.”

  So even a high-flying security company had voicemail problems. Taylor smiled. Maybe Jake wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. She had left her name and number for Jacob Solomon to call her. Who knew if he would or when it would be. Probably while she was out here on the bay and her phone back on land. She wouldn’t chance it going overboard.

  She took a deep breath and pointed toward the island. “Are we going there?”

  Will shook his head and tacked north, just off the wind.

  Salt spray slapped her across the face, and she laughed out loud. “I love this!”

  He gave her a thumbs-up, sheeted the jib, and they really took off. To her right, a group of fishermen waved as they rocketed past. She waved back.

  Taylor closed her eyes, enjoying the sun and salt spray and wind in her hair. This was the first time in years she’d been on the water without any responsibility. She could take pleasure in everything she’d first fallen in love with. The shushing of the sea against the hull. The tang of salt on her lips. After several minutes, she opened her eyes.

  Jake came immediately to mind. She blinked to make his face go away. Today she would enjoy the water and the time with Dan and A.J. later. Tonight would be soon enough to think through the Jake puzzle.

  The Rock Harbor marina lay ahead, and Will flew with the wind until he drew alongside the entrance. Then he furled the jib, slowing the catamaran, and sailed into a small cove created by the outer dock of the marina on the west and a fishing jetty on the east. No other boats were around.

  On shore big tents spotted the area, and loud Texas music bounced over the water. People roamed everywhere. “What’s happening?”

  “The First Annual Rock Harbor Redfish Romp.” He headed the cat into the wind, dropped anchor, and lowered the mainsail. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect. What a ride. I’m glad we get to do it again.”

  “When we go home, we’ll give her a workout to make sure she’s good for Brady to tear her up again. If you want to go to the festival, we can come back later. I can’t leave the Stiletto unattended.”

  “I’ve been to plenty of festivals. Don’t need another one today. I’m having too much fun being on the water.”

  Will scooted to the cooler and pulled out several items. “I love being out here. Hope you’re hungry.”

  She pulled on her Susquehanna ball cap. With only a slight breeze, the heat exploded, and sweat gathered around her bra.

  “Here, have some water.” He held out a bottle. “I have chicken and sides, more than enough of everything, so eat up.”

  Taylor poured a long swallow down her throat.

  The boat bobbed up and down on the tiny swells almost in time with the music. She loaded a plate with cold salads and fried chicken strips and leaned against the mast to enjoy the music and food.

  “This is really good.”

  “Best the deli had to offer.”

  Waves lapped against the hulls and seagulls laughed while they hovered for goodies in the cloudless sky. They didn’t get anything from her. She wiped her mouth. “That’s the best meal I’ve had since I’ve been here. Or at least tied for best. I had barbeque for lunch one day, and Lulu’s.”

  “Damn Lulu. She made you a burger, I’ll bet.”

  She grinned. “Yep. Texas food is different from that on the East Coast. I’d almost forgotten how it tasted. Like that Texas country playing over there.”

  “I’ve only lived here, but I’ve traveled some. The other places told me Texas is home.”

  “I’m the opposite. I don’t want to miss out on anything, so I want to visit everywhere.”

  “Randy once told me that’s why he liked watching the water. It had been every place in the world and shared all its secrets.”

  If she hadn’t known about Solomon’s Compass, she would’ve thought that statement was romantic. “He’s told me pretty much the same thing. He liked it here.”

  The mast shook.

  “What the hell?” Will jumped up.

  It shook again.

  “Get down, Taylor! Make yourself flat. We’ve got two bullet holes in the mast.”

  A good twenty feet up in one of the live oaks in front of Rankin’s house, shielded from the brutal sun and anyone passing by, Jake found the perfect spot to police the red sails on the catamaran. His military binoculars gave him distance and bearing in the lens. Will sailed almost three miles into the bay before turning west-northwest and picking up speed. Taylor leaned back and let the wind blow through her hair.

  Jake ached to kiss the smile on her face, but that would never happen again.

  It couldn’t matter. His job was more important.

  He scanned the area. Two miles up the coast, a point of land jutted out. Will slowed and turned north. In the background, the Rock Harbor marina came into view. Will took the catamaran into the outer harbor between a marina and a short stretch of beach. Off the beach and wrapped around one side of the marina, several white tents had been set up and hundreds of people roamed around. Another security nightmare. His dad would’ve stroked out.

  Jake brought the binoculars back to the catamaran and watched Will pull food out of a large cooler. While Will and Taylor ate, Jake kept the binoculars in motion. People on shore, people on boats in the marina, more boats passing in the bay as well as coming and going from the marina. And him in a tree more than two miles away.

  It was what it was.

  The cat, the people, the cat, the boats, the cat, the bay. And back again.

  At one point, he removed the binoculars and wiped them and his face with the tail of his shirt to get rid of the sweat. He checked again. Nothing had changed.

  The cat, the people, the cat, the boats, the cat—what the hell?

  Taylor lay spread-eagled across the trampoline. His heart launched into his throat before training took over.

  Will crouched with his head lower than his ass. Nothing looked amiss. Maybe a hungry gull had swooped—and then the mast trembled.

  “Fuck!” Jake looked up and saw two holes in the sail. He followed the mast downward. It shook again, but remained intact. The cables remained taut. Taylor and Will were talking, and there was no blood. He released a pent-up breath and worked his shoulders.

  He swung the binoculars to the shore. Only one thing could have caused the holes. Bullets. No one at the fair or on the beach appeared frightened. No sign of anyone with a gun.

  Marina traffic consisted of a single lazy shrimper coming in. No one stood on the far shore on the other side of the channel. Nothing at the marina.

  Jake returned his attention to the cat. The port hull rode lower in the water. Taylor and Will were already moving out. As long as they were dealing, he was okay. Taylor was much more than competent.

  The bullets had to have come from one of the boats in the bay. He pulled the notebook from his po
cket. One by one he followed each boat until he saw a name or registration number. When he finished, he had a list of fifteen boats and a basic description of people he saw aboard. And one boxer puppy. Anyone who would fire toward hundreds of people had to be an expert shooter or be a couple of beers short of a six-pack. Or both.

  Jake wiped his face again. Before he brought the binoculars up, loud metal-on-metal clanging sounded from below and startled him. He would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed a branch and braced with both feet. He couldn’t see anything through the bushy branches until he adjusted his position.

  Someone had jumped the gate at the boatyard and was pounding the shit out of Will’s truck with a sledgehammer. By the force of the blows, Jake judged the person to be male, but he couldn’t be sure. The vandal’s attire consisted of a ball cap, coveralls, and work boots. Jake observed and resisted pulling out his phone. He didn’t want to get hung up with the PD—he may need to take action. If the guy went for Will’s business or headed this way for Taylor’s car—or Jake’s—he would step in. Otherwise, a watchful eye would do.

  This man wasn’t the shooter. From this distance he would have needed a high-powered rifle and a tripod to inflict the sort of damage Jake saw. High-powered rifles didn’t come cheap, especially for a street hood, and neither rifle nor tripod was in sight.

  The steady pounding and clanging became part of the background. A minute or two from the sound of the first blow, Jake pulled the binoculars back to his eyes and found the wounded catamaran. They’d just passed the entrance to the marina channel. Taylor worked the tiller and Will had control of the sails. Or that’s what it looked like. And it looked like they were heading home. Jake wasn’t a sailor. He liked boats, but only when they had big motors.

  The shrimper had tied up in a row of a dozen or more. They all looked alike to Jake.

  The pounding stopped. Across the road the vandal, his ball cap in his back pocket—male, slender, Hispanic—climbed over the gate and strutted toward the main road carrying the hammer over his shoulder. At Church Street, he turned right.