“See? I wouldn’t hurt your friend. I was very gentle. I wouldn’t want there to be any marks on her wrists and ankles later. Although I doubt either of you will ever be found if I’ve judged the tide and currents correctly.”
I shuddered involuntarily. He meant to throw us overboard. An ebb tide must be approaching. Ebb tides in the bay are far more powerful than incoming flood tides. Even ocean liners and military ships will choose to enter the bay on a flood tide, but not when water is moving out of the gate. The Coast Guard is forced to haul in stranded windsurfers on a daily basis, but if anyone has passed the “line of demarcation,” an imaginary line extending from Mile Rock off Land’s End to Point Bonita in Marin County, it’s too late. They are invariably swept out to sea. Even if we could survive the cold water, we’d have no chance.
“Let her go.”
“Sorry. No can do. I saw her with you the other night. At Macao.”
“So that was you!”
“And then I saw her there again last night. I don’t believe in coincidences. Picking her up was actually amazingly easy.” Rob reached over and stroked Cheryl’s cheek. She would have bitten his hand if she hadn’t been gagged.
I felt a hot rush of anger well up. Lana smiled but remained silent.
“And then of course I knew you’d try to rescue her, like the little do-gooder you are.”
“And Rita?”
“Poor Rita. I’m afraid it’s all your fault,” Rob said lightly. “That day at the Palace restaurant, you told me you’d questioned her. I couldn’t take the chance. She might have seen me picking Moira up outside that disgusting bar.”
“I see.” I was doing my best to breathe normally. “And Moira?”
“That was unfortunate. That wasn’t my plan, you see. Poor deluded Moira. I had her convinced only Brooke stood in our way. She was supposed to shoot Brooke in the garage when Brooke went down to let Cassie out. That was the plan. She was so in love with me. It was really too bad she couldn’t stay the course. It would have been the perfect murder. She would have been caught, of course, and then it would have been my word against hers.”
“You wanted Brooke dead?”
Blood rushed into his face. “She thought she could divorce me!” he shouted suddenly, spittle forming on his lips. “My perfect blonde wife thought she was too good for me.” He took a deep breath and gained control once more. “I couldn’t have that, you see.”
I hoped that if I could keep him talking long enough, I might think of some way for Cheryl and me to escape. “What screwed up your plan?”
“At the wedding, Moira told me she had a change of heart. She was pregnant and she wanted to come clean and tell Brooke everything. She wanted to do things right, she said. She wanted me to leave Brooke for her, if you can believe that.”
“But that would have shown up on the autopsy.”
“Exactly. Turns out the bitch lied.” Rob laughed bitterly. “But I couldn’t take that chance, that something could tie me to her. I had to move quickly.”
“You poisoned her drink.”
“Twice actually, but not poison. Barbiturates. No one would have believed she didn’t take them herself, given her history.”
“And Sally Stark?”
“An unforeseen glitch.”
“And you shot Moira with David’s gun.”
“Of course.”
I gasped. It was clear in a blinding flash. I saw Harry, Michael’s poodle, the day I’d stopped at Michael’s family’s house, with Michael’s glove in his mouth. It was the vision hovering at the back of my mind. It all clicked into place. “You trained Cassie.” I remembered the muddy prints she’d left on the carpet when she’d rested her head on Rob’s knee after the shooting.
Rob smiled slowly. “Isn’t Cassie amazing? She’s actually a very clever dog, well-trained. All I had to do was let her out the back door of the garage and off she went, over the fence. The gun and the glove I used are somewhere at the bottom of a pond in the Presidio.”
“And you and Lana wrote those emails?”
“Oh, yes. Months ago.” He nodded in Lana’s direction. “If Moira screwed up and Brooke survived, the plan would still have worked. The emails were proof of their conspiracy to murder me. The police would assume Moira mistook Brooke for me in the darkened garage. I, of course, would play the dutiful husband, believing in my wife’s good heart while she and Moira went quietly off to jail. Unfortunately, none of that came to pass, so I had to improvise. Oh, before I forget. Let’s have that bracelet you’ve been showing around town.” He grabbed my purse and dumped the contents on to a tiny fold-down table. He grabbed the Rochecault box with the bracelet inside.
“Here you go, dear.” He smiled and tossed the bracelet to Lana, who slipped it into a small purse. She stood and walked toward Rob. As she passed him, she laid her gun on a shelf. He slipped an arm around her waist, pulled her body close, and kissed her passionately. She responded to his kiss, glanced over at me one last time, and smiled. She hadn’t said a word. She climbed the narrow stairway and clambered off the boat.
“Lana will be happy to provide an alibi for me just in case either of your bodies ever wash ashore, which I doubt, but it pays to be careful.”
“So Lana gets the prize, huh? Brooke’s career and her husband?”
“Lana and I are so much more compatible. Twin flames, you might say. But enough chatter, ladies. Julia, turn around.”
“No!” I spit in his face in a desperate burst of anger.
I never saw it coming. He backhanded me across the face. I went flying into a corner of the cabin hitting my head on a cabinet. Everything went black.
forty-five
The first sensation I had was the vibration of the motor. I came to slowly, not sure where I was. My cheek and head were throbbing. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious but I struggled to regain clarity. Then I felt the pitch of the boat. We had left the slip and moved out into the bay. Droplets of rain streaked the portholes. The storm had arrived.
“Mmmm.” Cheryl was pushing me with her bound feet. I opened my eyes. At least Rob hadn’t gagged my mouth.
“Cheryl,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Cheryl nodded her head and started to sob. I looked around. We were tied to hand railings screwed into paneling on either side of the cabin. I craned my neck to peer out the tiny porthole next to me. Rob had piloted the boat toward the center of the bay, away from the reefs and shoals. The small sloop heaved and pitched in the rough currents. We were approaching Fort Point, which marked the city side of the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. I figured Rob’s plan must be to pass under the bridge and then, after disposing of us, make a U-turn around its pylons to head back to the Marina. He wouldn’t risk going past the line of demarcation in a small boat if the tide was turning. He’d have to throw us overboard past the Bridge and hope the sea currents did the rest.
I had to find a way out of this. I had to do something quick. Across from me were built-in narrow drawers. If I could reach them, I might find a tool or a knife and be able to cut through the cloth restraints that bound me. But there was no way to reach that far, with my hands and my arms bound to the railing. I slipped my shoes off and managed to pull the lowest drawer open. Inside were charts and navigational maps. I tried to reach the second drawer but it was just out of reach. Cheryl saw my struggle and murmured something. Then, shifting as far as she could, she pulled the draw open with her foot.
Something brightly colored caught my eye. It was a utility knife sheathed in red plastic. If I could only move it out of the drawer. I balanced on the edge of the seat and, stretching as far as I could, slipped one foot into the drawer and tried to lift the knife out. It was impossible. Then Cheryl shoved the drawer with her foot. It fell out of the cabinet, its contents spilling onto the floor. The boat lurched and the knife slid away. Silently, I cursed.
&nbs
p; I stretched as far as the bindings would allow, but the utility knife was too far out of reach. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat covered my face. The boat lurched again and the knife began sliding in the other direction. As it went past, I stepped on it. I slipped one foot under it and, holding it tenuously between my feet, I leaned sideways. Twisting my body, I managed to drop the knife on the seat cushion next to me. I reached back with my bound hands and grabbed it.
Cheryl watched this procedure wide-eyed. I straightened up and slid the blade open behind my back to start sawing through the strip binding my hands. My arms were still tied to the handrail with another piece of cloth, but as soon as my hands were free, I could easily cut through that.
I was slicing blind with one hand, but I was making progress. The knife was sharp, and after a few false starts, I felt the cloth start to give. I felt a sharp pain on the side of my hand and wasn’t sure if I’d cut myself. It didn’t matter—I had to keep going. If I could free myself and then Cheryl, perhaps we had a chance.
The cloth finally split just as the door to the upper deck opened. Rob had cut the motor and I hadn’t noticed. Quickly I shoved the knife between the seat cushions and grasped the cloth ends, wrapping them loosely around my wrists and holding the binding tight.
Rob glanced at the drawer on the floor and its spilled contents. “Didn’t I tell you no tricks?” He reached into the jacket of his windbreaker and pulled out a sharp, serrated knife. Reaching down, he cut through Cheryl’s ankle bindings and the cloth lashing her to the handrail. Her hands were still bound. Her mouth was gagged. He lifted her up by one arm and half dragged her up the stairs. She looked terrified.
He returned and cut through the strip holding my feet and attaching me to the handrail. “Don’t worry. I have your friend secured to the deck. She’s not going anywhere yet.”
He pulled me up roughly and shoved me through the door. I grasped the cloth around my wrists, hoping he wouldn’t notice it was no longer secure. Cheryl was barefoot, tied to the railing by the cabin doing her best to maintain her balance. We were just under the bridge now and starting to drift out. I heard a blast of the foghorns above us and the slapping of the water against the pylons. The thrum of traffic on the bridge reached our ears between gusts of wind. Slowly, the tide was carrying us out into the blackness of the nighttime Pacific. We had to escape. The sea offered only a cold and watery death.
Rob shoved me against the cabin and wrapped a cloth strip around one of my arms, tying me loosely to the handrail next to Cheryl. Then he untied her and pulled the gag from her mouth.
“You first, my dear.”
“You bastard!” She desperately kicked out at him. He pushed her away, and she slid and fell to the deck. Rob quietly cursed. He reached down to pick her up and heave her into the sea. Cheryl was screaming, one hand clutching the railing in a last ditch effort. In desperation, I looked for something to stop him. I spotted a small blue-and-white buoy attached to a coiled rope two feet away. Dropping my wrist restraints, I grabbed the buoy and its rope with my free arm, and, as Rob straightened up, swung a loop over his head—around his neck—and pulled. Cheryl fell to the deck, still clinging to the railing.
He gagged and reached up for the rope, trying to tear it away from his neck. I pulled harder, barely maintaining my balance. Suddenly, Rob lunged away from me and the rope slid through my hands, breaking my grip. Then he turned and rushed at me. As he came near, Cheryl, in a sitting position, her knees up to her chin, thrust her feet out and tripped him. Rob fell forward, sliding across the deck of the pitching boat. He recovered in an instant and stood up.
At that moment, the sky broke and a deluge descended. A wind swell hit the boat and we lurched sickeningly to one side. Rob held out both arms to regain his balance on the slippery deck. He stood for a long moment, his face registering surprise, realization dawning that he might not regain his balance. Cheryl and I clung to the railing, watching in terror as Rob opened his mouth to scream, his body listing backward into the sea.
I grasped Cheryl’s arm with my free hand and hung onto her. The black violent water closed above Rob’s head. I saw a hand rise from the inky darkness. He bobbed once. He was flailing wildly, a silent scream on his lips as the current swept him away.
forty-six
The boat continued to pitch and yaw. We stood there for precious minutes, unable to speak or to move. I looked to the east and saw the lights of the Bridge receding from us. I felt the swell of the ocean under my feet, moving us inexorably out to sea.
Some instinct clicked in and I was finally able to move. I untied the restraint holding my arm and untied Cheryl’s hands. We climbed into the cockpit and, sheltered from the wind, turned the engine over. It caught—we felt rather than heard the vibrations as the motor kicked in. Slowly we turned the wheel until the boat was facing Alcatraz and the City. Then we opened the engine to full throttle, praying it wasn’t too late. We had to be able to conquer the tide and not be driven onto the rocky reefs at the mouth of the Bay.
Cheryl ducked below and called 911 on my cell phone to alert the police and Coast Guard. It felt as if hours passed as our engine chugged, moving us incrementally closer to the Marina docks. It was an eternity of fighting the tide before we reached the pylons of the bridge. I felt as if we were moving forward by inches, struggling against a force that wanted to sweep us toward the sea.
A police boat was waiting as we reached the protected reef. Searchlights cut through the dark and the rain. We shut the engine down as we approached the nearest slip, but the impact with the dock sent us reeling. Something metallic caught on the edge of the deck and I realized we were being secured to the pier. A man in a Coast Guard uniform jumped onto the deck. Cheryl and I clung to each other, shivering and soaking wet from sea spray and rain. Two other men climbed aboard and, wrapping blankets around us, helped us disembark.
An ambulance was waiting by the Marina Green, silent, its lights flashing in the darkness. Police officers led us into the yacht club building just yards from the entrance to the boat docks. Inside, we were given hot drinks and fresh dry blankets. We sat on metal folding chairs while the police and Coast Guard officers conferred.
A female officer who looked so young I would have mistaken her for a high school student approached us and pulled up a folding chair. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
Cheryl looked at me and I replied, “Yes. Detective Ianello—SFPD.”
The officer raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Please call him. What happened tonight—it’s related to a murder case he’s already investigating.”
She nodded and started to move away.
“Wait,” I said. She stopped and turned back to me. “Are they going to search for … for the man who was on the boat with us?”
“That’s what they’re discussing now. But I don’t think it’s possible. The Coast Guard will start at first light.”
Cheryl and I exchanged looks. Her eyes betrayed the satisfaction of dark justice. No one held out much hope of finding Rob Ramer.
forty-seven
It was a basic beige-on-beige conference room lit with overhead neon lights, one of which buzzed occasionally. Just enough to keep me from nodding off. I sat at the end of a long table, in a cushy upholstered chair, surveying my surroundings at the FBI field office on Golden Gate Avenue. A neglected potted plant took up a corner of the room. Two Customs officials sat to my right, and a man from the Department of the Treasury on my left. A government reporter sat slightly behind me, her fingers poised over her tiny keyboard, ready to take my statement. She stared at the far wall. I wondered if she appreciated the buzzes and pops of the neon lights as much as I did.
One of the Customs agents nodded to the reporter. “We’re on the record. The date is August 5th. The time is 1:30 p.m. This is the testimony of Julia Bonatti. Ms. Bonatti, as we explained to you, this will be your official statem
ent regarding what you saw on June 23rd at an establishment called Macao on the Embarcadero. You have sworn that you give this statement willingly. It will be used in evidence in any criminal actions brought against Luong Cheng and possibly others unknown to us at this time. This statement will stand in court and we may possibly call upon you to give testimony in person. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Let’s begin.”
My statement took no more than half an hour. When I finished, I found Paolo Ianello waiting for me outside the conference room. Macao had been raided a week after our close call in the bay. Whether Don had made good on his promise to alert his contact I didn’t know, but obviously this was an investigation that had started long before Moira’s murder. Enough hard evidence had been found at the scene to put Luong Cheng and his cronies away for a long time. My statement was nothing more than backup. I’d been told off the record that I would not be called as a witness at any future trial. I hoped they were telling the truth. Andy’s involvement in Cheng’s money laundering schemes had come to light and he was in custody, also facing charges. In fact, the Customs agents had confided that the information I’d gleaned from Tony, the bartender, was accurate—Andy had already been under investigation.
Ianello stood as I entered the waiting room. He smiled. For once, his face didn’t seem wolflike. More like a happy raccoon.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Came to escort you home. Can you use a ride?” Ianello was wearing leather wingtips today.
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