by Jenna Rae
“Nooo,” she said, drawing the word out to demonstrate uncertainty.
“Good, good,” he said, loudly jovial. “In an hour?”
“Okay, where?”
“Green Hand.”
“Right.” She was all too familiar with the north end of the docks, the exclusive area named for a jutting rock formation painted by a verdant crop of algae and ice plant. Everyone in the upscale sailing club known as Wharf Rats had a berth in Green Hand Marina, with proximity to the slimy rock a strange status marker.
“Berth 16. Prestige. Blue Skies.”
“Yes, sir. I’m intrigued.”
“Good.” Whatever else he said was swallowed by the flapping of tent fabric near him, and she watched him stuff his phone back in his pocket and hustle toward his Mercedes, parked in one of six blue-painted spots near the entrance to Livingston Plaza. She knew he had no placard, and neither did his wife.
She disconnected and took a deep breath. Only a few more moves and this chess game would be over. Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out two keys on a leather cord. She’d put the keys on a red ribbon in a gift box seven months earlier for Tori’s birthday gift. Earlier that morning she’d taken the keys off the pretty red ribbon and replaced it with a black leather cord. She slipped the aborted gift on her neck and zipped her jacket over the adornment. The keys were cold through her shirt, and she swallowed hard.
“Suck it up, cupcake,” she admonished herself. “Moving on.”
She called Big Henry. “Any joy, sir?”
“I emailed you another file. The fellas are pretty pleased with themselves. We all are. I think we got what you need.”
“How? I mean, thanks. The info from last night was very helpful. I’m going to have to know where it came from at some point.” She put him on speakerphone and opened the email.
“Stan’s little brother is a judge. We ran our methodology past him, to be sure we were clean. It all had to be from verifiable, legal, publicly available sources. We put it in a story, like you said. Just Henry followed the money, like you said. You’re very good at this. Peterson—he always said you were a sharp cookie.”
“Thanks. Let’s hope we can hear him say it in person again soon. I’ll check in when it’s all done. My thanks to the guys.”
When her phone vibrated in her hand as she disconnected, she saw Shay Sheraton had texted her a picture taken from under one of the big tents across the street. The temporary midway was still open, but the photo showed vendors shuttering their trucks and taking down their booths on the banks of a river of attendees fleeing for their cars.
Timing is everything, right?
She smiled wryly and sent a text congratulating Shay on the festival beating the storm. Without letting herself think about it too much, she added an invitation to dinner for the following Friday night.
I’d love to.
She sat staring down at the screen for a good ten seconds before she promised to call Shay later in the day to nail down the details. Would this really all be resolved by then? Would Peterson be back with his friends for daily breakfast at the diner? Would Staci Smith be home with her daughter? And Teresa Fortune, would she get back to her life? When her phone rang, she knew it was Tori.
“The fish is nibbling.”
“Already?”
“Greed is impatient, I guess.”
Tori snorted. “True enough. Anything I should know?”
“Go to your office and be near the phone.”
“Really? Shall I bake you a cake while I’m waiting for you to do the heavy lifting?”
“You should be the one to take the call.”
“Where will you be?”
“Green Hand. You know it, I assume. Don’t come here unless I tell you, and don’t send anyone here. This will only work if everything goes perfectly.”
“You always hated the idea of getting a boat and joining Wharf Rats. Now here you are, traipsing off to Green Hand like the fancy folk.”
“Just do it, okay? Stay in your office. Don’t even go to the restroom. Trust me, you’ll be glad.”
“Okay. I promise.” Tori laughed. “I need specifics if I’m going to help you.”
She thought about that. “You’ll need to testify that you didn’t know anything. You were humoring me, out of consideration for the many years of good service I have given Briarwood. Anyway, thanks for your help. I’ve really leaned on you, and you’ve been incredible.”
“I don’t like that you won’t let me—”
“I need you in your office. I can handle what I need to, but I need you to keep that Crisis Response Team at least a block or two away until I say it’s time. Please.”
Tori said something more, but a series of monstrous gusts ripped through the air, and the call was lost. She grimaced and glanced at Livingston Plaza. Though it had only been a few minutes, the crowd had dispersed and flooded the parking lots. The food trucks were already closed and forming a line near the south exit. Vendors and volunteers worked frantically to tear down the remaining tents and booths.
As she watched, a williwaw tore one of the large tents free of its moorings and yanked it. The huge bundle of vinyl and about half of its poles flew over Wave Street toward the boardwalk. There were a few screams, and several drivers skidded to a panicked stop. The kiting vinyl had already changed direction. It dove toward one of the departing food trucks and then puffed up and drifted almost gently to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Workers scrambled to disassemble the wayward tent and bundle it up. As she watched, she debated jogging around the boardwalk to check on Andi. The impulse tugged at her, but she knew the steel storm shutters Lauren had installed would protect her better than Brenda could. She ducked back into the Volvo, straightened her wig and zipped past the impending traffic snarl.
Shay would be one of the last to leave Livingston Plaza, but that wasn’t something she could worry about. Shay had been driving on her own for many years without Brenda to check up on her. The woman had sailed around Australia or something like that and could surely handle a little storm in Briarwood without her help. She had to get to Green Hand before Banks.
After a slow, lurching ramble up Wave Street, she parked in the elevated employee lot of the Wharf Rats country club, which was an inconvenient distance from the docks but which was sheltered by several overgrown oaks and had, she noticed as she pushed her way out of the wind-rocked Volvo for the second time in minutes, one of the best views in Briarwood.
She grinned to herself as she looked down in wonder at the vista enjoyed by the dishwashers, servers, janitors, bartenders, gift-shop cashiers, and office personnel who catered to the sailing-club snobs whose luxury vehicles were parked down behind the upscale sailing club near the Dumpsters. She eyed the lower, closer, more crowded lot. Midday on Saturday was a busy time at the sailing club, and that would help her.
Evading the customer lot, she ducked down the sandy trail on the other side of the Dumpsters. The trail was used by the workers and ran between overgrown oleanders and utility sheds. She grinned at a hopping sparrow that cocked its head at her before disappearing into the hedge.
She hurried down the damp hill, sliding here and there. As the sand yielded to a rough concrete walkway, she jogged toward the service entrance of the club’s bar, Rats’ Nest, whose cedar shingles rattled and screamed in the wind as the first real raindrops swatted everything in sight.
Hurrying toward the humble service corridor in a black-hooded raincoat, she was rendered invisible by both perceived station and by her head-to-thigh waterproof. She paused to see no one was watching before she scurried surreptitiously under the pier that held aloft The Nest, as the highbrow members called it. The surf was higher here, where the shoreline started curving west toward the mouth of the bay, and she crossed under the pier with waves knocking into her legs.
She was soaked from spray, even under her rain jacket, by the time she reached the underside of the pier. She crept, dripping and shivering, down
the sandy slope away from the surf and toward open sky, where fat drops plopped loudly on the beach and her slicker.
She stuffed her dripping, ruined wig in her jacket pocket and pushed her self-examination aside. She snaked along under the porch of The Nest, her back to the exterior of the clubhouse, and slowed her breathing. She would have to be quick and invisible now.
She could hear music above and behind her and hoped the privileged patrons were following their tippling tradition. An inebriated crowd listening to loud music was unlikely to notice her. She was just starting to feel confident of her inconspicuousness when a man in a dark green rain suit came around the corner she’d just turned herself. She gaped up at him as he trudged toward her. His features were hidden by his anorak’s hood and by a bushy gray-brown beard.
She felt her nostrils flare and her muscles tense, and she turned slightly to a more advantageous angle, shifting her weight and easing up her jacket so she could reach her weapon more easily. Then she relaxed and grinned.
“Jorge?”
“Miss Borelli, are you okay?’ Maggie’s husband gaped at her. “I saw you go around, and I didn’t know who you were. I thought you might need help.”
She put her finger to her lips and winked at Jorge, and he raised his bushy eyebrows. She grinned at him until he shrugged and strode past her as if she weren’t there. Say what you will, she thought, the man can take a hint.
After Jorge went on his way, she saw no one. Boats scraped and banged against the docks as they danced on the surging, dipping, frothy waters. Buffeted by sea and gale, the pier creaked and groaned. To reassure herself, she placed a hand numb with cold against one of the thick, weathered pilings. It felt solid, but she wasn’t thrilled with what she now had to do.
North of the pier was Green Hand Marina, where Banks moored his fifty-foot yacht, Blue Skies, a mere twenty yards from where her more humble cruiser, Bernice, had sat ignored for the last seven months.
Between her and Banks’s luxury craft was a universe of crashing waves, blowing debris, bouncing boats and seesawing shrubbery. The denizens of the clubhouse were no doubt watching the churning surf and keeping an eye on their pricey watercraft, and she would have to get past all of them unnoticed.
She eyeballed the route, adjusting and refining until she could see the best way to go unnoticed. The four finger slips were several yards apart, ranged along the gently curving shoreline north of the clubhouse. She took a deep breath, glanced around at the darkened recesses of the pier’s bottom and darted across the beach, almost immediately falling when a williwaw knocked her over as easily as if she were made of paper. Cursing softly, she crouched down and staggered along the wet, firm sand nearer the waterline.
The storm buffeted her as she pushed along on the churning shoreline, past the deserted finger piers to the last one. At the locked gate she fumbled to unzip her jacket with her cold, wet, unfeeling hands. Then it took painfully long seconds to grasp the gate key and force her shaking fingers to find the lock and jam the rarely used key into it. The gate, once unlocked, swung wide when caught by the next gust of wind, and she glanced toward the clubhouse.
The power was out, she realized, not only at The Nest but all along the coast. In the gloom of the storm, with mist and low clouds and falling rain obscuring the world, an electrical outage would slow down the whole city. People would look outside, left and right and up and down. It was a natural impulse, and it put her plan at risk. She yanked at the tall iron gate and forced it shut it behind her. Crouching low despite the protests of her knees and hips, she raced as quickly as she could on wet, frozen feet toward her goal.
Seven minutes later she was done with her preparations and back at the gate. She locked it behind her and scrambled over the pebbled patch that led to the shortcut she’d discovered earlier. Between the oleanders and the storage sheds, back to her car she went, struggling up the hill against streaming rivulets that threatened her footing. Finally she was back at Lauren’s old car, stripping down there in the windblown parking lot and tossing her sodden clothes into a trash bag she pitched toward the backseat.
She crawled in, pulling the hatchback down as she kneeled in the back of the car. She toweled off and threw on her next costume, including an expensive purse she’d never used. She texted Tori and said a prayer her plan would work. If it didn’t, she would end up in a pretty bad spot and would fail to save Peterson and the two women who’d been kidnapped.
She was four minutes late for her meeting with Banks when she parked next to his Mercedes in the customer parking lot of The Nest. He was in his car, obviously waiting for her. She slipped from the Volvo into the passenger seat of his Mercedes, turning to smile at him.
Her hair was wet and her cheeks flushed, but she was dressed better and smiling more broadly than he’d likely ever seen. She saw his attraction to her and was glad she’d taken the time to dig out her priciest red blouse and tailored trousers. Her bra had been too wet to wear, so she’d taken it off, and she saw him notice that too. She needed every advantage.
“Commander Banks,” she said in a warm tone, extending a frozen hand.
Florid and bright-eyed, Banks crushed her hand and leaned forward to buss her icy cheek. She hid her shock and tilted her head to smile again.
“I’m late,” she said, pulling away and making a rueful face. “Please forgive me?”
“I’m amazed you’re here at all.” His breath was hot with whiskey. “This storm is a nightmare. The traffic must have been terrible!”
She nodded. “Thanks for understanding. The lights are out all the way down. And you know people can’t drive in the rain. Anyway, thanks for your call. I’m very curious about what you want to talk about.”
“Are you okay with meeting on my boat? She’s pretty large, so it should be fine. But if you’re nervous—I’d just like to speak privately, and the car isn’t very comfortable for a chat.”
Feigning naiveté, she nodded. “I trust your judgment.”
“Good, then let’s hurry.”
He led the way as they dashed along the protected north-side decking toward the pier. At the steep staircase that led to the beach, Banks hesitated. He turned to look down at her feet.
“Those aren’t too spiky to go on the beach, are they?” His voice sounded small and thin in the roaring wind, and she shook her head rather than answering verbally.
He spun around and lurched down the stairs on what looked like stiff knees. His large body was top-heavy and his long gray coat was too tight across his shoulders and hips. He couldn’t button it, she realized. It flapped around him like the ruffled feathers of a pigeon.
She took her time picking her way down, wanting to give the impression of feminine delicacy. Despite knowing her for two decades, he seemed ready to accept her seeming helplessness and daintiness. She finally reached the creaking bottom and took his arm.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, looking up at him in what she hoped looked like trust.
Whatever he said was lost in the wind, but she tightened her grip on his right arm and let him lead her toward the slip row. They stuck to the stone path, so she repeated the same trip she’d made only minute before with much greater ease. Back to the locked gate, back down the berth pier, all the way back to his luxury yacht.
Blue Skies looked like a toy in a bathtub, despite its length and weight. He nearly fell embarking but steadied himself after a moment’s struggle. Looking apoplectic with effort, he nonetheless held out a gallant hand to escort her on board.
They slid across the wide, slippery aft deck to the cabin door. He yanked on it and hustled inside with Brenda right behind him. They huffed about the brutal weather and hung their coats on hooks.
“Whew!”
“Drink, Captain?”
“Please. Whatever you’re having.” She pushed her dripping hair off her face, thinking she might have skipped the two minutes she spent drying the droplets she’d shed during her solo trip to Banks’s yacht. “Sorry, I’m ma
king a mess of your floor.”
“What can we do?” He laughed. “I did ask you to come out here during a monsoon.”
“You don’t lock this beautiful boat?”
He laughed and gestured toward one of the white leather benches as he pulled down the bar tray. “Usually I do, but I was out here this morning. Who’s going to break in during a storm, anyway?”
“Good point,” she conceded. “Wow, this is gorgeous!”
He beamed with pride and handed her a double whiskey in a beautiful cut-crystal highball glass. He sloshed a triple into his own glass and sipped at it delicately.
“She’s my pride and joy,” he said. “Someday I’ll retire from this rat race and sail her around the world.”
“Good for you,” she said, eyeing the beautifully appointed lounge and galley. Even the second-highest officer in the department shouldn’t have been able to afford such a craft. It had to cost at least ten times what she’d paid for her vessel. No wonder the man was drowning in debt. She let none of her thoughts show on her face and tried to look receptive and pleasant and nothing more.
He bragged about Blue Skies for a good ten minutes, showing off the carved fruitwood counters and tables, the plush cushioning on the benches and chairs, the fancy sonar and GPS and ergonomic instrument panel, the custom captain’s chair and tinted windows. She murmured approvingly and let him ramble on. Finally, looming over her, he looked down at her upturned face and shook his jowls.
“I know what you must be wondering.”
“I don’t want to pry.”
“My wife’s family has some money, and she loves me very much. As I love her,” he rushed to add. “We’ve been married twenty-seven years. Did you know that?”
“Wow, congratulations,” she said, nodding.
“And I’ve always been very good with investments and so forth.”
“Good for you.” She grinned brainlessly. “It’s important to be financially savvy.”
“Indeed, it is.” He drained his glass. “Which brings me to why I asked you here today.”
She nodded and sobered. “Commander, I’m all ears.”