Fred shook his head as he added, “Once in a while a tourist comes by and rents, expecting to land a forty-pound salmon. Hah!”
Noland gave up the idea of fishing. The thought of smelly fish in the boat reinforced his decision. The further thought of Margerie’s reaction to the prospect of cleaning a fish catch was an additional deterrent to the idea.
As it was, Margerie’s reaction to his earlier offer of a boat ride had been greeted with a sniff and a return to a daytime soap. Noland racked his brain to think of someone who might be interested in sailing the ocean blue. No one came to mind. He looked around the marina, but empty boats, with no one in sight, were all that greeted his gaze.
Maybe today would be a good day to touch up the paint on the cabin door. He’d just broken out the paint and brush when he caught sight of a slender female figure standing outside the marina office looking vaguely in his direction. It took only a moment for him to decide. He tapped the lid back on the paint, stored it in the locker, brushed back his hair, and climbed up on the dock. “Serve Margerie right,” he thought. “There are plenty of women who’d be happy to go for a boat ride.”
A smile on his face, he started down the quay when a young male approached the waiting woman. They hugged. She took his hand and they came down the wooden catwalk, passed Noland, and climbed aboard a sleek, twenty-four foot Criss-Craft in its berth next to the ketch. Noland glumly returned to his boat, broke out the painting materials again, and touched up the worn spots while waiting for the Criss-Craft to roar away from the pier.
The job was nearly complete, and the only response from the other boat was a gentle bobbing up and down in the glass-calm water. A half-hour later, the couple, still hand-in-hand, emerged from the cabin and went off to the parking lot.
Noland debated with himself. The day was young, but somehow he still didn’t feel much like going out for a lone sail. And then he looked up and saw a man wearing dark glasses and loaded down with a heavy suitcase approaching.
“You wouldn’t by any chance be going over to Seattle, would you?” The stranger asked.
Noland grinned. “It just so happens that’s exactly where I’m headed. Want a lift?”
“I’d appreciate it. I’ve got a repair job in Ballard, and just missed the ferry. There won’t be another one for a half-hour.”
“Climb aboard,” Noland said.
Noland concentrated on clearing the breakwater before trying to engage his passenger in conversation.
“Name’s Noland Mills.”
“Mine’s Bill Smith—easy name to remember.”
“I spotted you for a repair man, the minute I saw you. No one else would ever carry a case that big. Computers?”
A head shake. “Copiers.”
As they approached mid channel, the wind came up, and Noland was tempted to unfurl a sail, but the way in which his passenger kept checking his watch decided him to stay with the inboard.
The trip was uneventful. As soon as they landed, Bill Smith thanked him, offered payment which Noland waved aside, and then rushed off. The boat captain was only too pleased to have been of service and had told his passenger so. Checking his lines, he decided he had plenty of time for a beer before heading back to home port. It was on his return to the ketch when all hell broke loose.
Four men in business suits closed in on him. One flashed a badge. “FBI,” he announced. Noland didn’t argue, convinced that one or more of them was about to draw a gun. The handcuffs were even more convincing. A fifth man, more casually dressed, and obviously in charge, came down the ramp and took over. The others had now fanned out along the pier next to the ketch.
The newcomer asked, “Mind if we check out your boat? If you don’t want us to, we’ll get a warrant and do it anyway.”
Still stupefied, Noland nodded. Two of the agents piled aboard, while the one in charge guided him none too gently into the rear seat of a black town-car and slid in beside him. One stayed behind to guard the boat, while the fifth agent did the driving. The only answer to his protests and questions was “You’ll find out when we get to the station.” The station, in this instance, was Seattle’s Public Safety Building. On the way, his companion carried on a long conversation over the cell phone, little of which made much sense to Noland.
“It was him, alright. No question about it. Japanese make. Toyota, maybe. Grey or silver. Nothing on the plates. Probably headed south. We missed him by minutes.”
Herded into an interrogation room, Noland didn’t push for explanations. Instead, he decided it was time to call a lawyer. His captors took a dim view of the request, but he was allowed his one call to an attorney friend in Seattle. Forty-five minutes later—and accompanied by someone Noland later learned was a deputy FBI director—the lawyer’s familiar face and figure came through the door.
Herb Thornquist, the attorney, turned to his companion, held up his hand with his fingers spread out and said, “Five minutes.” With considerable reluctance the other shrugged and left, taking along the uniformed policeman who had been standing guard.
“What in hell is going on?” Noland asked.
Herb grinned. “They think you’re an accomplice.”
“Accomplice to what?”
“A kidnapping. Didn’t you hear? One of Bill Gates’ billion-dollar executives was kidnapped this morning. And you’re responsible for the so-far successful escape of the perpetrator with a million-and-half dollars in ransom. The FBI is very unhappy with you, to put it mildly. They had every airport, every highway, every ferry covered, and you just blithely gave the kidnapper a free ride to Seattle. It’s going to be a lot harder for them to find him, now.”
It took more than an hour of explaining and a good deal of effort on Herb’s part, along with permission for the Feds to scour his house and temporarily impound his boat, before the district director of the FBI released him. Margerie was torn between being furious and being amused. A photo of Noland emerging from the Public Security Building, with the caption: “Local Businessman Helping with Investigation,” appeared prominently on the front page of the Post-Intelligencer.
Two weeks after the FBI released the ketch, Noland returned to the marina. He shook hands with the new owner and, as he accepted the check, asked, “Do you know the two happiest days in a man’s life?”
The owner, engrossed with his new possession, shook his head but was obviously only half listening.
END
Mayhem, Mystery and Murder Page 46