by Tripp Ellis
"I will." She paused, and her head sunk to the floor. She pulled her sunglasses down and looked up at me with those gorgeous eyes. "I'm really sorry. Who knows what could have been between us?”
She smiled and slid the sunglasses back into position, then exited the salon. "My cab is waiting. Watch yourself."
"You too," I said.
In the aft deck, Karina scanned the parking lot, then rushed across the gangway and down the dock. She hopped into a cab and sped away.
32
I turned on the TV in the salon while I made breakfast, even though it was well after noon. The television seemed to keep Buddy entertained. Emma Steele came on the screen with a breaking news alert. "Ed Carrero, candidate for sheriff, is claiming a midnight raid on a local philanthropist’s home, Fernando Gallo, is nothing more than a political attack."
There was a quick cut to footage of Ed Carrero speaking to a horde of reporters. Cameras flashed, microphones hovered in his face. "This is a cheap and dirty trick by the current sheriff, Wayne Daniels, to smear my campaign. Fernando Gallo has been a major donor to my campaign, and he has proven himself to be a generous philanthropist. The warrant was based on a flimsy statement from a confidential informant of questionable integrity. Who, I might add, is currently under investigation for the murder of his own wife. Nothing incriminating was found in Fernando Gallo's residence. There is no evidence to connect him to these alleged offenses. Sheriff Daniels should be ashamed of himself, and I hope you all will send a message at the voting booth."
The reporter shouted questions, and the clip cut back to Emma Steele. We’ll have more on this story as the situation develops."
The regularly scheduled programming resumed. My jaw tensed, and my cell phone rang almost immediately.
"Did you see that bullshit," JD said.
"Makes you wonder how involved Ed Carrero is in this whole thing," I said.
"You know, we could take care of this the old-fashioned way," JD suggested. "Do a little snatch and grab. Beat Sarah's location out of Fernando Gallo."
I'm not going to say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. "That might get us in more hot water than we need right now. And he may not talk."
"If I start smashing his fingernails with a ball peen hammer, that bastard will sing, I guarantee it," JD muttered.
"Last resort."
"I know. A guy can dream, can't he?"
I told him about Karina's revelation. "It seems we may have an informant on the inside."
"But can you trust her? You need to keep in mind the distinct possibility that she's setting you up."
"I'm aware of that."
"Just making sure. I know your judgment gets a little cloudy around hot women."
"Okay, pot."
"Hey, I'm not saying I'm immune,” JD said. “Even Superman has his kryptonite."
"Speaking of kryptonite, I'm pretty sure Dita won't be coming back to the boat anytime soon."
"I don't think her friend will either," Jack said. "That's okay. We can commiserate together. We're only a few hours away from happy hour. Maybe we can find something to boost your spirits? "
"Finding Sarah Carson and bringing Fernando Gallo down will boost my spirits. I guarantee it."
I told Jack we’d touch base later, then I dished up breakfast and sat at the dining table, shoveling scrambled eggs and crispy bacon into my mouth. I racked my brain, thinking of where Gallo might be holding Sarah Carson. There were too many places to consider.
I took a shower, got dressed, then ambled down the dock to the parking lot to talk to Deputy McMorris. He sat in a patrol car, listening to the radio, looking bored out of his mind. He was a tall skinny guy, with angular features. Brown hair. Early 40s.
"Can I get you anything from inside?" I asked.
"I'm good," he said, lifting up a soft drink. "Madison's been taking care of me."
"I appreciate you doing this."
He smiled. "I do what Daniels tells me to do."
"How long are you on shift?"
He looked at his watch. "Another five hours, then I think Mendoza is taking over. I get out and stroll the premises every 30 or 40 minutes. Then I stop inside and check on things. I'm afraid if I sit at the bar all day, I'd watch television and lose focus," he said with a chuckle. "Plus, out here I can see them coming. She's in good hands. Don't worry."
I thanked McMorris, then hopped on my bike, pulled on my helmet and gloves, and cranked up the engine. I revved it a few times, and the beast roared. I let out the clutch and launched out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to get out and blow off some steam. Racing down the highway at triple digits was a good way to burn off excess adrenaline.
With a few gear shifts, I was at 120 MPH, zipping around cars. The wind whipped around my helmet. I hugged the tank, making my aerodynamic profile as low as possible.
This was pure insanity.
I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt.
No race leathers. Nothing between my skin and the asphalt if things went wrong. If a car changed lanes at the wrong time, or failed to look in the rearview mirror, I’d be a grease spot.
The sport bike was like riding lightning.
Lightning that could turn around and strike you.
But damn, it was a charge!
There was nothing else like it, except maybe a firefight to get your adrenaline pumping. The bike commanded your full attention. It was like a needy, insecure, high maintenance relationship. Perfect, as long as you lavished attention and affection. But let your attention drift, and things would go south quickly.
You couldn't think about anything else but the road and your connection to it. You couldn't think about the groceries you needed from the store, the shirt you needed to pick up from the cleaners, a nasty lawsuit hanging over your head, an unsolved crime haunting you. Even a minor distraction could cause a judgment error. And judgment errors were paid for with flesh and bone.
Lord knows I was prone to judgment errors.
I always felt invigorated after a ride. It cleared my head in a way that few other things could. It was like meditation. The drone of the engine, the vibration of the road, the smooth effortless delivery of power. All lulling you into a false sense of control.
I cruised up Highway 1 with no particular agenda in mind. Part of me just wanted to keep going. If I never let off the throttle, maybe I could out run my troubles?
It was wishful thinking.
33
The call came from Daniels while I was eating a cheeseburger at a roadside café. The news wasn't good.
I instantly felt responsible.
I should never have left town—even for a short day trip.
"I don't know how to say this," Daniels said. "But you need to get to the hospital ASAP."
My stomach twisted. "What happened?"
"Madison was in an accident."
"What do you mean, accident?" My appetite vanished. A cold chill washed over me.
"Not really sure. Looks like somebody ran her off the road. Her Jeep rolled over, hit a tree."
My throat tightened. My voice trembled. "Is she okay?"
"It's not good. Broken arm. Fractured rib which punctured a lung. She's in emergency surgery now."
“What about the…?”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t know, or he wasn’t saying.
"I'm an hour north of town,” I said. “I'll be there as soon as I can."
I was hesitant to ask for any more details. I didn't want to know.
I threw a wad of cash on the counter and sprinted out of the diner. My heart pounded in my chest, and a lump filled my throat and made it hard to swallow. I pulled on my helmet, put on my gloves, and cranked up the engine. I launched onto the highway and tucked in behind the windscreen. I had flown like a bat out of hell coming up here. Now I raced back to Coconut Key like a demon possessed.
My nerves were frazzled by the time I reached the emergency room. I st
ormed in like a crazy person. Sheriff Daniels was in the waiting room with JD.
"How is she?" I asked, my face pale.
"She's in recovery in PACU," Daniels said. "They'll let us know when she's moved to an intermediate care unit. The doctor came out a few minutes ago. He said the surgery went fine. She's doing well and is stable."
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"How did this happen? Where was McMorris?”
Daniels grimaced. "I guess she hopped into the Jeep to run an errand. McMorris followed behind her. But he couldn't get onto the highway fast enough. He was several cars behind. He said a black SUV ran her off the road. He stopped and gave assistance rather than chase the vehicle. He didn't get a license plate."
My fingers balled into fists. "This was an attack. Fernando Gallo is behind this!"
"Don't do anything stupid,” Daniels cautioned.
"Who, me? I never do anything stupid,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.
Thirty minutes later, a nurse greeted us and said we could see Madison in the ICU. We made our way back through the double doors and followed the nurse to Madison's room. Her arm was in a cast, and a bag of IV fluids hung from a stand beside the bed, administering a drip of saline.
Madison’s face was purple and bruised. A monitor beside the bed displayed vitals signs, and her heartbeat blipped with craggy peaks. I moved beside the bed and took her hand. She squeezed back, lightly.
"She's still a little groggy from the anesthesia," the nurse said. “She, and the baby, are going to be just fine.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"How are you doing, kiddo?" I asked in a soft voice.
Madison looked at me with dazed eyes.
"You know I am always here for you," I said. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
She nodded.
This was all my fault. Anger swelled within me. I didn't care about the rules. I didn’t care what happened to me, how much trouble I would get into. Fernando was going to pay.
Madison had chosen to go without opioid pain medicine. She just toughed out the pain with paracetamol. It made for a grueling evening.
JD and I stayed by her side for a long while, well into the night.
Then I got a text message from Karina: [I heard something about a derelict ship. That's all I know.]
I showed JD the text. "Do you know what she might be talking about?"
JD thought for a moment. "That's gotta be the MV Dauntless. That eyesore has been sitting over at Salt Point for years, rusting out. Last I heard, the county wanted to take possession of her and sell her for scrap. I can't think of the guy’s name that owns it. He was trying to restore it, but I think he ran out of money. I don't even know if that guy is still alive. It hasn't been touched in years."
"I think that's where Fernando is holding Sarah Carson."
Jack perked up. "Well, let's go find out."
I shook my head. "You stay here. Watch Madison."
Jack's eyes narrowed at me "You're not seriously thinking about going by yourself, are you? At least get Daniels on board and put a tactical team together."
"Daniels can't board that boat without a warrant,” I said.
"But the Coast Guard can,” Jack said with a grin. "I'll call my buddy."
Jack slid his phone from his pocket and made a call.
34
It was a miracle that the old rusty cruise ship wasn't at the bottom of the harbor. The paint had faded, and most everything valuable had been stripped. It was moored to a concrete dock and was home to rats, birds, and cockroaches.
At 290 feet long, and 42 feet wide, the sleek ocean liner was a relic of a time long since passed. It had been many things in its 70-year history—a cruise ship, a merchant vessel, now a private trash heap. The owner, Mark Pirro, had grandiose restoration plans. It was a project that was potentially within reach for someone who had ambition and the wherewithal to complete it. But there is no such thing as a cheap boat. The fixer-uppers can become bottomless money pits.
JD's buddy was a commander in the Coast Guard and had sent a patrol unit to investigate. It didn’t take long for a 25-foot Defender class patrol boat to arrive in Salt Point Harbor. The shiny aluminum boat had an orange bumper and a crew of four. I waited on the dock for them to arrive. An officer shouted from the foredeck. "Are you Deputy Wild?"
I nodded.
“Got a call from my Commander. Said Coconut County needed some assistance.”
He threw me the lines, and I tied them off at the dock.
"This is the boat you want to search?" Lieutenant Madigan asked.
“Yep. Potential hostage situation.”
He climbed ashore with two petty officers carrying assault rifles.
"Who are we looking for?" Lieutenant Madigan asked.
I described Sarah to him.
He glanced up at the Dauntless. "And you think she's in there?"
I nodded.
"Have there been any ransom demands?"
"Nothing like that. They're trying to intimidate a witness."
"What are we up against?"
"Organized crime types. I don't know how many. Probably carrying small caliber arms. Maybe even assault rifles."
The lieutenant exchanged a glance with two eager petty officers. Then he looked back to me. "We'll check it out. You stay on shore. We’ve got a legal right to board the vessel. You don't."
I raised my hands innocently and forced a smile. I didn't want to sit on the sidelines, but I had no choice in the matter.
I watched them ascend the gangway onto the derelict ship. They fanned out and began searching the dim corridors. The beams from their tactical flashlights, attached to their rifles, slashed the night. As they disappeared into the belly of the Dauntless, I would occasionally see flashes of light when they entered exterior facing compartments. The portholes would flicker and glow.
I honestly didn't know what they’d find. Part of me was concerned Sarah was already dead. Part of me expected to hear gunshots, followed by a firefight.
It was a nervous 30 minutes.
Madigan appeared on the foredeck and leaned over the gunwale. He shouted down to me, "There's nothing here."
His voice echoed across the water.
"Are you sure?"
"We've been through every inch of this ship twice. No girl. No bad guys."
I sighed, deflated.
The squad exited the ship and returned to the dock.
I thanked them for their time.
"Sorry it didn't pan out," Lieutenant Madigan said. "If you need us again, don't hesitate to ask. This kind of thing breaks up the monotony for us."
We shook hands, and the officers climbed back aboard the Defender. I cast off the lines, and they disappeared into the night, leaving a trail of frothy white water.
I racked my brain, thinking of any other derelict ships on the island. There were dozens that had been abandoned after the hurricane. But those were mostly smaller sailboats, speedboats, and personal yachts. Most of them had been cleaned up by now, though there were a few stragglers. Was Sarah Carson tied up aboard a fixer-upper docked in a marina somewhere?
I made my way down the dock and banged on the door to the office. There were no lights on inside. It was well past business hours. The panes of glass rattled as I kept banging. After 15 minutes, Buck staggered toward the door. His eyes were still welded shut, and his gray hair disheveled. I had clearly woken him from his slumber. He wore blue pajamas covered by a red flannel robe.
"What the hell do you want?" he shouted through the door.
"It's me, Tyson. Remember?"
He squinted at me through the dirty pains of glass. "No."
"Deputy Wild. I was here a while back about Erik."
Buck scratched his head. "Erik who?"
I sighed and my shoulders slumped. "You know…"
He thought about it for a moment. "Oh, yeah, right.” His face twisted. “Do you know what time it is?"
I looked at my
watch. "9:45 PM."
"Decent people are asleep at this hour."
"Sorry. It's important."
He unlocked the door and pulled it open. "What do you want?"
"I'm looking for derelict ships in the area. Can you think of any that might be in this harbor, or any other marinas around the island?"
"If you're looking for an eye-sore, I can point you to that tug right there. That's been sitting here for six months. The owner disappeared. Hasn't paid rent. And I'm in the process of trying to take ownership so I can sell it."
I looked over my shoulder across the harbor. There was a dilapidated old tug, roughly 200 feet in length. "Does it run?"
"Nope. The engines are seized up. The hull is rusting out. It needs a lot of work," Buck grumbled. "This isn’t a graveyard for rust buckets."
“Do you know who owns it?”
“A deadbeat.”
I thanked him and apologized again for disturbing his slumber. He closed and locked the door and shuffled back to bed. I trotted down the dock toward the rusty tugboat. The condition was almost as bad as the Dauntless.
I drew my pistol and crossed the gangway. I didn't care about a warrant anymore. I just wanted to find Sarah Carson.
35
The night was still, and the boat creaked and groaned as I advanced across the deck. The hull used to be painted black. Now it was a faded gray, overgrown with rust spots. The gray textured deck had seen better days. I had a small tactical flashlight attached to my keychain. I used that to illuminate my path as I pushed into the crew mess below the wheelhouse.
My flashlight beam swept from side to side as I scanned the area. The stove had been stripped out. The vinyl seat cushions on the settee were cracked and torn. The disintegrating yellow foam poked through.
I advanced past the galley, and cleared the crew cabins, then spiraled down the staircase and searched two more compartments. The boat was dirty and disheveled. Everything of value had been stolen.
The beam slashed the darkness as I continued down the passageway. I felt like I was in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. I moved past a storage compartment, a machine room, and a rope storage room.