Maizie Albright Star Detective 01 15 Minutes

by Larissa Reinhart

  “I'm kind of stuck going to the Bahamas with you, unless you can dock somewhere? These clothes are like so not Bahamas."

  I sounded like I was channeling Paris. Or Buffy. Or, oh my god, Kim.

  "Cut the crap." She pulled the gun from her pocket, but with her free hand on the ship's wheel, she had a disadvantage. "What are you really doing here?"

  "Whoa, Sarah. Chill. Here's the thing. The Coast Guard should be here any minute looking for this boat. If they drive up, or whatever, and see you with a gun, what are they going to think?"

  "Listen, you idiot." Sarah's frosty voice chipped at my nerves. "I've spent an enormous amount of time and effort planning the next stage of my life. I have come too far to let you stop me now. I'd advise you to cooperate. When we reach Green Turtle Cay, I'll decide what to do. Cause me trouble before then and I'll kill both of you. You know I will."

  I knew she would.

  twenty-nine

  #chatterboxed #tBacktrouble

  Sarah was an excellent multitasker, I'll give her that. With one hand, she steered the channel. With the other, she held the gun.

  A Glock by the look of it. Maybe a Sig Sauer. I wasn't sure. Gun labels weren't as easy to identify as clothing labels. Whatever it was, it looked dangerous.

  Her eyes would zoom from the winding channel to laser back to me. She had me empty my pockets—goodbye wrench, fish knife, and pepper spray—and stand before the big steering wheel, which looked nothing like the wooden kind that pirates employed. This one was metal and bigger than a bike wheel, with only three gleaming spokes for a sleeker, Mercedes star-type look.

  If I were Jackie Chan, I would thrust-kick through the wheel, turning my foot as it hit her chest, and knock her over the low transom wall.

  But I wasn't Jackie Chan. Kung Fu Kate had the help of green screens and harnesses for that kind of move. But I had to do something before Nash regained his sight and charged up the companionway.

  Although my pepper spray had been confiscated, my unbuttoned Simon Miller jeans and billowy Saint Laurent tee had concealed the flare gun shoved down my pants. I needed a distraction to retrieve the flare gun. And I needed Sarah not to point a real gun at me for best use of said flare gun. Which meant getting Sarah out from behind the steering wheel and into the slightly roomier cockpit area. Where I might be able to employ my few but surprisingly adept martial arts moves.

  "I have to know, did you really bring David lunch every day?" Chitchat as a pressure point. I could annoy her into moving around the steering helm, giving me more room to operate.

  She flashed me a hard look then averted her eyes to the dark channel.

  "But why, when you must have hated him? Every morning? That's like a total waste of time, unless you were doing something else. Stringing along Ed?"

  I snapped my fingers. "The BPG accounts. I bet BPG had daily passwords. My accounting firm does that, too. Very frustrating for Vicki who wants access at all times. Bringing David lunch gave you an excuse to get the password so you could shift the money a little at a time. With your accounting background, that must have been the easy part. I guess they noticed when you took a larger chunk before taking off. To make David look suspicious?"

  "Good Lord, do you ever shut up?" She flipped open a storage locker and rooted inside before slamming it. "Come over here and take the helm."

  Oh frigizzle, I thought. She was supposed to come to my side, not the other way around. Come on, Maizie, think of something. "I don't know how to steer a ship.”

  "Stay in the middle of the channel," she barked. "Run us aground and I'll shoot you."

  "But..."

  "Shut up." She motioned with the pistol. "Hurry it up. I need to find my duct tape."

  I slipped alongside to face her, hoping she didn't immediately look on the cockpit table for the tape. The flare gun was still secured inside my thong strap. Where I hoped it wouldn't go off.

  "Take the wheel."

  "What if there's a rock? Or another boat? Or a dolphin? Is it dolphins or porpoises? Honestly, I don't know the difference. I'd hate to run over either one. I hit a squirrel once. That was awful. I couldn't handle hitting a dolphin." I waved a hand at the channel where dolphins possibly lurked. The other hand swung behind my back, ready to yank the flare gun from its elastic bondage. "I heard there's a lot of dolphin activity around here and sometimes they swim up the rivers. And this water's super dark."

  "Lord, you're an idiot. David insisted on watching that stupid show so he could ogle you in that ridiculous cheer outfit. I hated it then and I hate you now." She raised the handgun to center it on my chest. "Get your hands on that wheel."

  Now we were both behind the wheel with no room to maneuver. One wrong move and I'd be shot at point blank range. Or I'd fall over the stern's folding transom wall into the river. Or both.

  "To be honest, I wasn't crazy about the cheer outfit either." My hand dug inside my jeans for the flare gun, but the thong had caught itself around the handle.

  "Hands on the wheel," snapped Sarah, flicking her finger against the safety.

  My hand flew out of my pants and latched onto the steering wheel. I had the most epic wedgie in the history of wedgies and a weapon lost somewhere in my butt crack. If I were shot, it might relieve me of my discomfort, but I'd never live down the humiliation.

  And I'd be dead.

  The cabin door burst open and Nash rushed out. In two long strides he reached the stern. His hand shot through the steering wheel.

  My hands flew off the wheel.

  Grabbing Sarah's arm, he twisted. She spun toward him, jerking the muzzle off my chest and toward the bow.

  One shot rang out. A portlight exploded.

  Sarah grabbed for the handgun with her free hand.

  He reached through the opening, gripping her elbow. With his other hand, he reached around the wheel for Sarah's neck. Nash was stronger, but she rammed her body against the steering wheel, using it for leverage.

  In the dim light, I could see his puffy, red eyes, no hint of the marvelous blue, and tears streamed in constant rivulets down his cheeks. I hadn't counted on him attacking Sarah half-blind.

  Sarah fought with a ferocious desperation, utilizing Nash's awkward stance as an advantage. She pushed against the wheel, ramming the spoke against his arm.

  Nash grunted and his hand lost its grip on her elbow. His other closed on her neck.

  Sarah hopped back, jerking out of his reach, and swung the gun between them. The muzzle smacked against the hub of the wheel.

  Just as I feared, Nash would be shot. My heart accelerated in my throat. I couldn't kick with the damn flare gun tied up in my thong. I didn't have time to consider what Julia Pinkerton would do. I lunged at Sarah, throwing my heavier self at her. Knocking her sideways, we both fell to the teak deck.

  She rolled.

  I flopped on top, spreading my arms and legs wide, like a massive starfish. Somewhere beneath me was a pistol. I reverse planked, pushing my torso into Sarah, trying to pin her with my body.

  Sarah was lithe and wiry, a sailing and ladies' golf master. Wriggling beneath me, her muscles corded and flexed, like the sinewy rippling of Madonna's arms. Sarah probably lifted weights at the gym to make her more sea-hearty.

  No longer gym fit, I couldn't wrestle Sarah and win. But I could use youth and voluptuous shaping to my advantage.

  I could squash her.

  Heaving myself into a pushup that would make Trainer Jerry proud, I dropped one hundred forty-plus pounds on top of Sarah. My forehead slammed into her nose. I heard a crunch and a grunt, followed by a clatter and a shot.

  The reverb of the gun blast shuddered through me. My vision spotted, my ears rang, and I felt a heavy thud hit the decking. Sarah lay limp beneath me. I rolled to one side, squinting into the dim light.

  The gun lay near my hip.

  And Nash lay on the floor of the deck.

  Oh God.

  I had accidentally shot my boss.

  This was much wors
e than a California prison sentence.

  thirty

  #HighSeasEscape #ShotintheDark

  "Nash. Nash?" I scrambled to sitting and glanced at Sarah. Blood trickled from her nose. Her eyes were closed and her body still. My body slam had worked. Too well.

  Without thinking, I snagged the gun with two fingers and flung it over the side of the boat. I turned and looked at Nash. His body was also still, eyes also closed. And still puffy and red. Sliding across the decking on my knees, I scooted to his side and bent over him.

  "Nash. Can you hear me?"

  He didn't move.

  "Please don't be dead." I planted a small kiss on his forehead. Still warm. My fingers skimmed the contours of his tough but secretly lovable face, then felt behind his head and neck.

  "No head trauma, thank God.” Splaying my hands across his chest, I ran them over his shoulders and down his sides, searching for a wound. My hands glided over the hard planes and indentations, feeling for the hint of blood or worse. The man had abs of steel. How did he do that? I was pretty sure he didn't have a gym membership. And his arms. Hard, packed muscle. Solid biceps without flexing. I knew an actor who paid a hefty price for implants that couldn't compare to these guns.

  I ran my hands back to his chest, relieved at the steady thumping beneath my palm. Wasn't that a good sign?

  "Lower," he croaked.

  "Nash," I cried. My hands lay on his flat belly, mere centimeters from the button on his fly. I shot a look at his face. “Lower?"

  A slit of fierce blue appeared in the puffy red eyelids. "My foot. She shot me in the foot. Get my boot off."

  “O.M.G.” Exhaling, I slid toward his feet. A singed hole had torn through the side of his left boot. Blood oozed from the hole, darkening the leather. I rested my hands on either side of his ankle and leaned over his foot. The sole had ripped and burst. More blood oozed inside the jagged tear. "The bullet went clean through. But you're bleeding pretty bad."

  "I know.”

  "Hang on." I hopped up and grabbed the duct tape from the cockpit table. Winding the tape around the ripped boot, I cinched it tighter with each circle. "I'm leaving your boot on to exact more pressure. No time to find a tourniquet. Just lie still, okay? I'm going to shoot the flare and get help."

  He nodded, staring at the underside of the cockpit table.

  "I'm sorry about the pepper spray. But I didn't want you to get shot. I just knew you would. And it scared me into action."

  He flicked a glance at me, his lips twisting into a thin line. The white scar pulsed on his chin beneath the grinding of his jaw.

  "I guess you got shot anyway. But if you had stayed below, you wouldn't have." My point was lost somewhere in his anger. "I couldn't bear it if Sarah had killed you."

  "Too bad," drawled the voice behind me. "Because I'm going to do it anyway. I'll put you out of your agony soon after I get rid of him."

  thirty-one

  #flaregunfollies #sugarshakershakeup

  I pivoted on my knees to face Sarah. Blood had smeared beneath her nose and the bridge looked puffy. I had broken her nose.

  Ironic, considering the start of my failed detective career.

  She stood above me, holding a wicked-looking folding knife. Small enough to keep in her pocket, but gleaming sharp and half-serrated for all sorts of nautical jobs.

  Like gutting fish or stabbing humans.

  "Just stay where you are." Snatching the duct tape from the deck, Sarah slipped it over her left wrist.

  "You should put some ice on that nose before your eyes blacken," I responded without thinking. "Or mashed banana. Totally worked."

  In reply, she stomped on Nash's foot.

  His howl made my hair stand on end. I leaped to shove her away from Nash. The knife point whipped across my torso, slicing my silk Saint Laurent. Tiny beads and sequins flew across the deck.

  My Barney's personal shopper would have slapped her.

  "Sit down," barked Sarah, pointing the knife at my chest.

  I sat.

  Beside me, Nash drug himself to lean against the cockpit table leg. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and his scar stood stark against his jaw. "You're facing double homicide, kidnapping, and embezzlement."

  "Don't forget assault," I said. "And battery. Deadly force? And can I charge damages for my Saint Laurent? What do you think?"

  Nash's puffy eyes flashed me a grim look.

  I quieted.

  "You're not going to make it to Nassau," he said. "Give it up, Sarah."

  She responded by kicking his foot.

  The curses he screamed at her would have made a pirate blush.

  Sarah's swollen nose burned crimson against her pale cheeks. "As long as I get rid of the evidence, I don't see a problem. No one knows I'm alive but you. Ed and I already registered A Little Nauti under my new identity." She brandished the knife, gave me a mean smile, then shook the duct tape bracelet down her arm. "Now where's the gun? Obviously, you don't have it on you."

  "I threw it overboard."

  I felt Nash's disapproval before I heard his low growl.

  "Flare gun?" Sarah ripped off a piece of duct tape.

  I shrugged.

  "You told the detective you had a flare gun. Lift your shirt."

  I flipped the hem up.

  She caught my hem with the knife blade and poked the tip into my skin. "Higher."

  "Close your eyes," I hissed at Nash and raised my shirt past my bra.

  Sarah peered over my shoulder and down my back.

  For once, I felt glad for the wedgie. Thanks to all the kneeling, the flare gun had slid into the seat of my pants. As long as I didn't have to ride a horse, it would remain hidden.

  "For an actress, I thought you'd be more fit.” She pulled off a length of duct tape.

  I dropped my shirt, feeling a hot flash of humiliation tear up my spine to burn my neck and cheeks. Bad enough to expose yourself while kneeling in jeans—not a flattering pose, unless you arch your back like a swimsuit model—but in front of Nash, it was downright mortifying.

  And insulting someone while threatening them? Total salt in the wound stuff. Instead of facing death, I could’ve signed with Vicki for this sort of thing.

  With more force and excitement than necessary, she slapped a piece of duct tape over my mouth, grazing my cheek with the knife blade.

  I needed another distraction to retrieve the flare gun before she busied herself duct taping me into a cocoon. No room for Kung Fu Kate moves with Nash's long legs and bloody foot taking up most of the available floor space. Not to mention the flare gun lodged in my pants.

  The boat slowed and the engine whined, distracting Sarah. She glanced over her shoulder and muttered a curse. A Little Nauti bumped against something below surface, tilted, and righted. "Damn it, we're motoring starboard."

  With Sarah distracted, the boat's pause gave me my exit cue. Pushing to my feet, I stumbled toward the cabin door, hopping like a cowboy saddled too long. The flare gun had caught in the crotch of my jeans, pointing down one leg hole. I unzipped my Simon Millers while reaching for the door. I’d grab another fish knife, then retrieve the flare gun.

  Footsteps slapped the deck.

  Leaving my fly open, I yanked on the companionway door.

  Sarah slammed a hand on the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "Mowm m Mem.”

  "Get back here." She shoved me away from the door, then pulled at her duct tape bracelet. "We'll see how well you swim with your legs and arms tied."

  I staggered two steps and fell over Nash's legs.

  "Maizie," he muttered, "just jump ship. You can swim to shore."

  I wanted to tell him I wouldn't leave him. No way. No how. Sarah was going down. No one shoots my boss and gets away with it. I would have also liked to mention my hidden surprise. But I'd have to rip the duct tape off to speak clearly and my hands had busied themselves with the effort of reaching into my jeans for the unsaid flare gun.

  "What in
the hell are you doing?" he whispered as I flopped against his legs. "Move it, Maizie. Get off the boat."

  "Get up," said Sarah. "And you, detective. Don't move." She rammed her cute Sperry into his boot.

  His thighs tensed, then jerked against the floor. His chest shook with the effort not to scream.

  I pushed off the deck and carefully stepped over Nash's shuddering body. My jeans' fly flapped against my hip and my teal whale tail peeked beneath the torn Saint Laurent. The flare gun had slipped into my right leg, wedged against my inner thigh. As I turned my back to Sarah, I stuck a hand down my pants.

  Classic fits and I still couldn't retrieve a damn gun. Of course, if I had worn skinny jeans the gun never would have made it down my back in the first place.

  Sarah grabbed my arm, jerking it from my pants, and spun me toward her.

  "Did you know there are a lot of sharks off this coast? And plenty of gators nearby." She sliced my arm from wrist to elbow. "We're not far from the Wassaw Sound. It'll be deep enough to dump you. This should help the predators find their dinner."

  The pain appeared with the line of red dots down my arm. A wave of dizziness smacked me. Pulling my focus off my bleeding arm, I glanced over Sarah's shoulder. A sprawling live oak with a zillion knobby knees stretched into the river. The boat's diagonal trajectory set us on a course for ramming into that old tree.

  Within my duct tape gag, I shouted and pointed at the giant speed bump in our path to ruin.

  Still gripping my arm, she glanced behind her. "Shit."

  I pushed down my jeans with my free hand and prayed Nash wouldn't notice my exposed left cheek.

  Nash pulled in an astounded breath.

  He noticed.

  "I've got to straighten us out." Sarah whipped back to face me. "What are you doing?"

  I needed both hands to peel down the jeans. Or someone else's hands. Ripping at the duct tape covering my mouth, I felt my skin give like the worst facial peel ever.

  She yanked on my arm, pulling me toward the stern. "Come on. You're coming with me."

  "Nash, my jeans," I said. "Rip them off."