“Well, he’s going to have to get used to it sometime, isn’t he, given his favorite little girl’s somewhat, shall we say, intimate relationship with a certain member of that organization.”
“Oh, boy,” murmured Alix. Worries about Tiny had washed that particular difficulty, which applied to Geoff as much as to Tiny himself, out of her mind, but now it came roaring back. “Honestly, I just don’t know how I’m ever going to deal with it.”
“Coffee,” said Chris. “I am in dire need. There’s that place where Tino said we could get some.”
A few minutes later they were coming out of the Sand Dab with their lidded take-out cups, and Chris was ramming her wallet back into that jammed bag of hers, which was slung over a shoulder, when she suddenly stopped with a scowl on her face. “Now what the heck is this?” she said, pulling out a slim, green and white card, the size of a credit card.
“It’s not a credit card?”
“Not for anything I have credit for.”
“A gift card of some kind?”
“Well, yes, but I’m pretty sure this is one of the few I don’t have. Besides, it feels . . .” She handed it to Alix.
“‘Starbucks, $50,’” Alix read. “‘When you need a lift.’” She hefted it in one hand. “It’s awfully heavy, isn’t it?” She rapped one edge of it on the wharf’s railing. The result was the unmistakable clink of metal on metal. “What in the world—”
Chris grabbed it from her. The reverse side looked normal enough too, with the SKU bars and the space for a signature, but she used a fingernail to scrape at one of its corners. In a few seconds the corner came loose and she was able to pull off the entire rear of the card. Underneath was a metal surface covered with electronic circuitry.
“Damn it!” she cried, skimming the card out over the water as hard as she could. Like a flat pebble it skipped twice, flipped over, and sank some twenty yards offshore.
“What—” Alix began.
“It’s a micro recorder!” Chris cried. “A bug! Absolute state of the art. How did it get into—” They looked at each other for a second, then nodded.
“The gorilla who slammed into you last night,” Alix said, expressing both their thoughts. “The little guy put it in while he was supposedly being a gentleman and picking up all your stuff.”
Chris nodded. “Of course. They were tracking us, hoping we’d lead them to Tiny, just like that dweeb in Frisco.”
“These two aren’t dweebs, though,” Alix observed soberly.
“No, not by a long shot. Those are hard men, Alix. They were Italian, weren’t they? Good God, I bet they were Mafia; they looked like Mafia.” She jerked her head. “And we did lead them to him. They heard us talking to him. They know where the Squiddoo is just as well as we do, down to the last degree, minute, and second, which means they’re probably on their way right now trying to beat us to him. We have to hustle if we want to get to him first. Let’s go!”
“No, wait, there’s no problem; we’ll get there first. They’ll have to find out where you get a boat first, and then go and get it, and sign for it and all, and whatever they get isn’t going to be as fast as ours, which is sitting there waiting for us about twenty feet away. We can wait another minute. I should warn Tiny.”
“Tiny, listen to me,” she said when he came onto the telephone a moment later. “You’re in trouble. I just found out. There are a couple of guys after you. These do not look like nice guys. Both from Italy. They know where you are and they’re going to want to get at you to find out where the loot is. That Cellini pendant is worth millions now. I’m sure you know that.”
“What loot? What Cellini pendant?”
“Oh, please, let’s not . . . well, never mind. Look, Chris and I will be right out to get you; we’ve got a boat that can beat whatever they have. And, listen, Tiny, someone from the FBI art squad just showed up here in Monterey. I know him, um, really well, and he’s a good guy. If it’s all right with you, let me—”
“WHAT? The FBI?”
“Believe me, this is someone you want on your side. And he’s got a carabiniere with him, another good guy, and I know they’ll—”
“The carabinieri? Are you kidding me? You keep those guys away from me, Alix. I don’t want them anywhere near me. I’m telling you—”
“Okay, okay, calm down, it was just an idea. Fifteen miles? Shouldn’t be much more than twenty minutes. We’ll be in a speedboat: black and gray with a blue and red stripe. Keep an eye out for us.”
“Yeah, I will, I will. But no FBI, no carabinieri!”
“I hear you, Tiny. We’re coming.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready. I just have to get my stuff together.”
“Right, sit tight, we’re on our way.”
“No FBI!”
The moment she ended the call she called Ted, barely giving him time to say hello. “Ted, I think we may have a situation developing, and we can use your help.”
“Situation—?”
“Just listen. We’re going out to get Tiny. He’s on a squid boat. Here are the GPS coordinates.”
“Alix, what—”
“Write them down,” she ordered and gave them to him. “We’re heading out in a Lancia Powerboat and I’m pretty sure we can beat the Mafia there, but if you can make it out too—”
“Well, yeah, I think I can hitch a ride . . . hey, wait. Mafia, did you say? Mafia? Whoa, whoa, whoa, now you just hold on—”
“Just do it, please. ’Bye, Ted.” With a flurry of protestations and questions jostling each other in her ear, she disconnected.
Chris was looking at her with a combination of perplexity and amusement. “‘Just do it’?” she repeated. “Well, I can see who’s wearing the pants in this family. That didn’t take long.”
“No, it’s just that if we got into a real conversation he’d be doing his manly thing and telling us to stay the hell away and let him handle it, that it was dangerous, etc., etc., etc. And then we’d have a hassle and I’d end up either ignoring his . . . his directives, or else following them but resenting it. Seemed better this way. Let’s go.”
“You know,” Chris said, “you just might be better at this marriage business than I was giving you credit for.”
“Thank you.” Alix dropped into the boat and started it idling. “Now how about untying us?”
Chris climbed out to unloop the rope from one of the few mooring cleats along the wharf. “Hey, I just thought of something,” she said. “We’ve been assuming we’d get a head start on those creeps because we already have a boat and they’d have to go find one. But aren’t we forgetting who these guys are? They’re in a hurry to get him, they’re not going to go find some rental agency and mess with signing papers, and IDs and all, they’re just going to take the first boat they can steal. What if they did that the minute they heard those coordinates—just ran down to the nearest dock and mugged somebody and stole his boat? What then?” She climbed cautiously back into the bobbing Lancia.
“Then they have a twenty-minute head start on us, so we’d better get going.” Alix shoved the throttle forward.
“Whup!” Chris was flung backward into her seat, the half-full coffee cup in her hand went flying over her shoulder, and the boat leaped forward.
CHAPTER 30
That’s it, all right!” Chris shouted to be heard over the engine noise. “I can read the lettering now: 23 Squiddoo!”
She was peering through the binoculars she’d found on the Lancia at the clunky-looking aluminum boat, whose giant winch had finally come into sight a minute ago, and was now a little less than a mile off, according to the chart plotter on the console.
“Great.” Alix, eager to get Tiny safely off the squid boat and onto theirs, itched to push the double throttle even farther forward, but their bow was already a good four feet in the air, the sea had gotten choppy, and she was afraid of capsizing.
“Can you see Tiny?” Alix herself could now see activity on the deck but couldn’t make out whom she was
looking at or what they were doing.
“No,” Chris said. She was leaning forward, holding tightly to the top of the framework that surrounded the open-topped cockpit with glass. “No . . . yes! I see him! I see him, there he is! He’s just . . . there’s something going on . . . Now what? You’re kidding me! I think . . . Alix, I think he just jumped overboard! He did, he jumped overboard!” She stared at Alix, who stared uncomprehendingly back.
“Overboard?”
Chris brought the binoculars back up to her eyes. “Yes, he’s in the water, he’s swimming toward . . . I don’t know what he’s . . . oh, I see, there’s a buoy or something not far from the boat, out in front. Christ, Alix, I hope he can make it, he swims like a . . . Go, Tiny, go!”
Alix had quickly recovered her senses, and while Chris was talking she’d surveyed their surroundings. “It’s that boat,” she declared. “The white one out in front of us and off to the right, moving fast, heading straight for the Squiddoo . . . no, for Tiny, I think. Oh, my God, it must be—”
“It is!” Chris cried, having swung the binoculars around. “The two goons, the Mafia! They must have seen him jump too. What are they doing? Do they plan to run him down? Are they—”
Choppy sea or no choppy sea, Alix didn’t see much choice. She jammed the throttle forward. The bow lifted up even higher and the Lancia bounded forward through the air, hitting the water so hard, stern down, that when it landed Alix had to struggle to regain control over the bouncing, careening craft. It took all of four, five seconds for her to get it plowing straight ahead toward Tiny and the Squiddoo again.
Eyes wide, Chris looked at Alix. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Alix yelled back, leaning forward in an instinctive effort to get even more out of the Lancia.
“I mean, when we get there, what are you going to—”
“I know what you mean,” Alix shouted back, teeth clenched and eyes slitted against the salt spray and the whipping of her hair against her face.
“Alix, they’re practically on top of him now,” Chris screamed. “My God, what are we going to do? We can’t possibly get there in time to fish him out of the water!” She was frantic.
She was also right, Alix knew. The other boat, a yellow, fifteen-foot Wahoo, flimsy but fast, was already almost even with the Squiddoo, less than a hundred yards from the desperately flailing Tiny, and already slowing down. Chris and Alix were only fifty yards behind them, but with no possibility of reaching Tiny before the Wahoo did.
Their slowing down told Alix that they weren’t trying to kill him. What they wanted was information from him; that was the point of this whole bizarre misadventure. But once they had the information—or if Tiny didn’t have it to give—and he was no longer of use to them, then what?
No, she had to come up with something, do something to keep them from getting their hands on him. Once they had him, who knew what could happen?
Alix was as frantic and irresolute as Chris was, yet at the same time, in some small, quiet compartment of her mind, the situation and the possible alternatives were being calmly, logically analyzed, but at warp speed. It was a strange, split state of mind that she’d encountered only a few times before, always in crises (but nothing like this!), and she had learned that, with an effort, she could shut off the frenzied howling from the one part, and listen to the composed, unruffled advice from the other. And what it advised was to apply an elementary theory of boat propulsion, but one that had rarely—if ever—been employed to the degree that would be required here.
Alix waited another millisecond, hoping for something better, a plan B, but there wasn’t one. It was plan A or nothing. She swung the Lancia around and aimed its bow straight at the Wahoo. “In for a penny . . .” she mouthed and shoved the twin throttles forward.
“Alix! You’re not going to ram them? You’ll kill—”
“Grab something and hold on tight,” Alix commanded through clenched teeth.
“But . . . but . . .” Words failed Chris at that point, and she obeyed, dropping the binoculars and clutching the rim at the top of the console with both hands. Her face was white, drained of blood. Alix suspected her own didn’t look any different.
The two men in the Wahoo now became aware of them, of these two crazy women bearing down on them. They had to realize there was no hope of getting entirely out of the way, but the little one, at the wheel, spun it away from them as hard as he could, trying to avoid a full broadside collision. Meanwhile big Beppe angrily jabbed his finger at them, then did it again.
No, not his finger. “Chris, he’s shooting at us, get your head down!” Alix too hunched down and to one side, although there was something unreal about being shot at. Nothing seemed to hit the boat, and the roar of the engines blotted out the pop of the gun.
They were only thirty yards or so from the Wahoo now, and still moving at near top speed, and the little guy suddenly leaped from his seat, threw up his hands, and jumped over the side. But Beppe stood his ground and kept shooting, and now a round, ragged hole appeared almost magically in the windshield between the two of them. There was no sound, but the little glass chips were clearly visible as they flew into the cockpit. They both jerked away from them. Things suddenly seemed very, very real. Nevertheless, despite Alix’s insistent, pushing panic, that logical little compartment of her mind was still in control (barely), and it was time to just hope for the best and put the plan into play . . . now!
With only a couple of boat-lengths between them before they collided, Alix snapped the wheel to zero and flew through a set of maneuvers—threw the left throttle lever to idle, then jerked it all the way back to reverse while jamming the right throttle lever forward as far as it would go—that shot the forward power of the starboard engine to its absolute maximum while the port engine roared back against it. Inches before ramming the Wahoo, the Lancia canted almost fully onto its port side (bringing a “Yikes!” from Chris) and wheeled in an astoundingly tight quarter-circle to port.
If they had been in a car, there would have been a terrific screeching of tires. Alix had automatically shut her eyes at the last second, anticipating a horrendous crash, but when she opened them a moment later it hadn’t happened and they were skimming safely away with nothing but wonderful, blue, wide-open water in front of them. Now she looked behind her.
And she was greeted with a welcome sight. The huge wake—a curving, six-foot wave, really—that the Lancia had thrown off to its right when it turned had just plowed over the Wahoo, first jolting Beppe off his feet and then—wonder of wonders—tipping the Wahoo’s bow way up and tilting the boat so much that it stood momentarily on its stern and then flipped completely over, dumping Beppe into the water to flounder alongside his thrashing partner. The plan couldn’t have worked more perfectly. Alix had counted on the mafiosi helping out by trying to steer away from her, making the Wahoo even less stable. They had, and it was.
“Are we dead yet?” Chris said from her crouch.
Alix laughed. “Look.”
Chris came up. “Oh, my,” she said happily. “Did we do that?”
“We most certainly did,” Alix said. “Now let’s go get our man.”
Tiny had somehow made it to the buoy he’d been headed for and he waved weakly at them, but the smile on his face couldn’t have been broader.
Alix waved back and started putt-putting in his direction, hugely elated, but at the same time in a kind of adrenaline-based, blissful stupor, so that—
“THANK YOU, LADIES, WE’LL TAKE IT FROM HERE.”
The booming, ear splitting order, seemingly from heaven itself, practically made her jump out of the boat. She spun around and was astonished to find herself looking up—far up—at the stainless white prow and diagonal red stripe of 87312, the Hawksbill, Monterey’s resident Coast Guard cutter, probably a hundred feet long. When in the world had that gotten there? How could she not have seen it before? But there it was, with a smiling young officer at the rail, apparently h
e who had issued the command.
“We’ll get him out of the water,” he said, and the loudspeaker thundered the words out at her. “We’ll get them all. Promise not to miss any.”
And now, among the other sailors at the railing, she spotted Ted. So this was the ride he had “hitched.” He was shaking his head wonderingly, and laughing to himself, and murmuring something, and she thought she could she could read what it was on his lips:
“I swear, Alix . . .”
She chose to interpret it as a compliment.
CHAPTER 31
Alix and Chris stayed at the scene to watch the goings-on with the cutter. Ted, in the meantime, was able to lean down from the cutter’s deck and tell her what would be happening afterward. The two goons would be handed over to Monterey PD—they had indeed “liberated” the Wahoo without permission, and then, of course, Beppe had been shooting at Alix and Chris, so problems lay ahead for the two of them.
“And Tiny?”
“No trouble as far as the law is concerned, but Gino has a lot of questions he needs to ask him. We’ll get him dried off and cleaned up and then sit down with him and see what he has to say.”
They both paused for a couple of minutes to watch the crew haul the mafiosi up out of the choppy, spuming water in wire rescue baskets. They both looked utterly dejected and miserable, a pair of half-drowned rats. It was a sight that cheered Alix’s heart. As for Tiny, he was already safely aboard and swathed in blue Coast Guard blankets with a steaming mug in his hands.
“Ted,” Alix called up, “I hope you’re not going to take him to the police station. He’s a stubborn guy, and that won’t make him any more cooperative.”
“No, no reason for that. He’s not under arrest. It’s all voluntary on his part. But we thought if we could get a conference room at the Monterey Plaza, that’d be perfect. Neutral, non-threatening . . .”
“Might work,” Alix said, “and I think it might help if I were there. It’d make him feel more like he was among friends, don’t you think?”
The Trouble with Mirrors (An Alix London Mystery Book 4) Page 22