A DANGEROUS HARBOR

by RP Dahlke

  She stepped out of the overcrowded salon and into the sweeter night air. Feeling better, she headed for the stern exit, but at the last moment decided to do a little reconnaissance, walk off the liquor she never touched and skirt the perimeter for an unlocked door. With no one to say she couldn't, she took the steps to the lower level. This level would be the bedrooms. Maybe she could find where Chief Inspector Vignaroli and his police found Spencer Bobbitt stretched out and unconscious with blood on his hands.

  She ambled along the deck, glancing into each dark window until a porthole illuminated the night like an attractive spotlight. Naturally she leaned forward to peer inside.

  The room was mostly unfurnished, lit with overhead fluorescents; lockers sprouted along one wall and diving equipment hung off another. A semi-circle of men, most of them sleekly well-fed and middle-aged, lounged in arm chairs with drinks and cigars filling their hands. The group had the look of pigeons about to be given the ubiquitous condo sales pitch as they puffed and drank and waited the plucking. A drumbeat pulsed against the glass of the porthole and a short blonde, her back to the window, slid into the room wearing white heels and a childish ruffled pink gingham dress. The dress may have been childish, but there was no mistaking her curtsy. To their roar of delight the dress came off her shoulders in one pull and was kicked out of range and she turned around to wriggle her bare ass at the men. Without the red dress, Myne was a rounded, pink confection right out of a Donatello masterpiece.

  Seeing enough to know what came next, Katy backed away and bumped into something solid, and from the boozy breath on her neck, a drunk. Heavy hands landed on her shoulders and then a voice said, "You mush be the new girl."

  Katy froze. She didn't recognize the voice but she wasn't looking forward to fighting off a drunk when she might have to face him in the next couple of days.

  The hands slid around to grope at her breasts as his mouth slobbered wet kisses down her neck. "Whad'ya shay we take it to my cabin?"

  Without turning around she jammed her elbows down to break his hold. Then redistributing her weight, lifted a heel and came down hard on his instep. The drunk reeled back, grunting and swearing.

  Damn, she thought, too drunk to get the message, but let's see if he gets this. She turned, grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed her knee into his groin. Satisfied to see him jackknife to his knees, she backed into the shadows and hurried along the passage only to bump into another male body. This one was shorter, sober, and put up his hands to keep her from colliding into him.

  Booth.

  He nodded at the lighted porthole behind her. "Enjoy the peep show?"

  The question was obviously rhetorical, since she was getting the picture that Booth made it his business to keep tabs on her. But did he know she was a cop, one who was here to see if she could get the goods on his friend Spencer Bobbitt?

  She sighed. Might as well see what I can do to fix the damage.

  "Can we talk someplace else?"

  "Sure. Foredeck should have cleared out some by now." He indicated they were to head back the way she came.

  She stiffened, remembering the drunk she'd left heaving his guts out on the deck. "I'd rather not go that way, if you don't mind."

  Booth laughed. "I didn't take you for the prudish kind, but okay, top-deck is nice and quiet this time of night." Doing an about-face, he took a staircase to the next level up.

  He pointed her to some deck chairs set out for daytime sunbathing. "Take a chair and I'll get us a coupla Cokes."

  Katy enjoyed the few minutes of quiet to admire the inky darkness of the Mexican night and the brilliant stars in the Baja sky.

  Booth came back and handed her a cold can. "Noticed you don't drink. Gets in the way, don't it? So, where were we? Oh yeah, guess you got an eyeful down there, huh?"

  "The magician in the salon keeps the women entertained while the men go downstairs for a strip show. What're they signing up for…Nigerian blood diamonds, shares of nonexistent gold mines in Canada?"

  "Want to know how Spencer got his start?"

  She waited. He was going to tell her anyway.

  "He had a secret formula for copying French couture and sold it to gullible housewives."

  "This is a far cry from gullible housewives," she said, waving a hand at the expansive yacht.

  "It's a fun story, if you wanna hear it."

  He was too smart by half, in spite of his folksy speech pattern. What was Booth to Spencer? Sycophant? Surely not just a gofer. It reminded her of a cheap parody of The Godfather with Booth as consigliere to Spencer Bobbitt's Don.

  "As Spencer tells it to his friends," said Booth, "of which I count myself one, he'd roll into some Midwest burg, get himself on the local radio station and with a heavy French accent proclaim that he was sick of France, hated the French." Booth stopped for a moment to hack out a wet cough that he tried to disguise as a laugh. "Midwesterners hate the French, so they were ready to listen." The cough caught him again and he reached in a pocket, pulled out a couple of tissues and spat. Putting it back into his pocket, he continued. "He's stolen the secret of French couture, see, and if the fine women of Bum-fuck Missouri wanted it he'd meet them at such and such time at a local auditorium or high school gym, whatever, and reveal the secret that every French woman knew; how to make beautiful couture with only a simple pattern and a sewing machine."

  "Did it work?"

  "Boy, howdy, did it. He would fill up a high-school auditorium and then pretend to measure off his assistant, consult his secret book, cut a pattern and in minutes he'd have haute couture. But that last town went wrong on him. He'd misjudged his target in that last town and climbing outta bathroom windows to escape the law taught him a good lesson. See, women are not as proud as men when it comes to admitting they've been had. That's when he decided to switch his game for the weaker sex—primarily married, wealthy, retired men with a taste for very young flesh. Eventually the men wise up to the con. Land or condo or whatever deal he has them hooked up to is all smoke and mirrors. Some try to cut their losses and back out of the deal but the few who do get an envelope with some photos delivered to their homes. Then it becomes a write-off for a Lolita fantasy."

  "Well, as my daddy used to say, 'A fool and his money are soon parted.'"

  "Your daddy said that, huh? Then he was a wise man. Spencer's had a run of bad luck lately though."

  She thoughtfully rolled the can between her hands. "I saw some kind of message pass between you and Spencer tonight. What's he hoping to accomplish, Booth?"

  Booth's jolly expression slipped into a complacent smile and he sat back in the chair, hands clasped over his belly.

  "You were also conveniently there to help me tie up my boat. Very anxious that I come meet all these swell people; the Howards and Myne and pointing out what a generous fellow Spencer Bobbitt is, considering he might be guilty of murder."

  He held up both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. We thought you should meet him, see what a swell guy he is, though I guess that didn't go so well. You wanna talk to him, right?"

  "How do you know who I want to talk to?"

  "Oh," he said, squashing the aluminum can between his hands, "I know what's going on around here, who comes into the marina and why." He stood up. "Don't be sore, honey, it's my job. I'll set it up for tomorrow."

  "What exactly is it that you do for Spencer Bobbitt?" she said, getting out of the deck chair.

  "I didn't remove a dead girl's body if that's what yer thinkin'." Then with a quick nod, said, "Tomorrow afternoon I'll come get you for that interview with Spencer. G'night, Katrina."

  He left her then, leaving her to wonder what was next and how safe she really was here in this dangerous harbor.

  Chapter Eight:

  Tucking a pillow up against the coaming of her cockpit, Katy sat where the early morning sun could warm her as she studied the list from the inspector. Handwritten—was that because he didn't trust any of his staff to see what he was up to? A leak in the pol
ice department would explain how someone like Booth might know who she was and why she was there. But it didn't answer why his name wasn't on the list. So far, at least three people knew who she was and why she was here. Tapping her pencil on her lip, she pulled her notepad from under her thigh and started to make notes

  Spencer Bobbitt: Swindler, con artist according to Booth. Rap sheet?

  Myne: Young, impressionable, susceptible to Hollywood types. How attached was she to Spencer Bobbitt? Get her real name and/or rap sheet.

  Booth: Was Booth the man the chief inspector put on the dock to watch her? Could that be Booth?

  Wally and Ida: Find out how long here, why? What's Wally's relationship to Spencer, if any?

  Fred McGee the magician: If he also knew who she was did he see her as some kind of threat? Might he be a suspect?

  Astrid Del Mar: Fake name, good assistant to a lousy magician. Need more.

  Boat Captain: Jeff Cook… didn't meet him last night so…

  What the… ?

  A beam of light smacked her in the eyes. She blinked, and thinking it a reflection off another boat, moved to the right. It hit again, this time flashing across her face, forcing her to close her eyes. "Ugh, that hurt!" she mumbled to no one in particular and closed her eyes to watch round black dots bounce around her retinas. She gave it a moment then opened them again.

  Shaking it off, she went back to work on the list. She would call Bruce Sullivan, her partner in the SFPD, see if he could help with these names.

  When the searing light did another pass across her face, she jerked out of her seat, banging her head on the metal ribs of her canvas bimini.

  Now she was mad.

  Rubbing at the sore spot on her skull, she stumbled off the boat and peered down the quiet length of dock. There it was again, smacking her in the face. If it was the reflection off one of the boat windows, then why did it follow her like this? Curious, she hurried up the ramp to the parking lot. Someone may be opening a door, or moving a car in the early morning light. But all the windows were still opaque from last night's wet marine air.

  A sharp whistle and another flash of light blistered her corneas. When her vision cleared, she looked up to the cliff overlooking the marina. A figure held up a hand, waved, and motioned for her to come up. Who was this Boy Scout signaling her with a mirror?

  Adrenaline propelled her through the quiet parking lot to where a path had been carved into the rock. She took it, scrambling up the rocky path, and in a few more minutes, she was on the top of the bluff. He stood his ground, she had to give him that much, calmly smoking.

  "What the hell you think you're doing, Gabriel Alexander? You could put someone's eye out with that thing."

  He waited until she finished the tirade, then stubbed out the cigarette with the heel of his huaraches. "You're in trouble 'cause of me, aren't you, Whisper?"

  "I told you before, don't call me Whisper!" She hated this reminder of the schoolyard taunt, the result of an overpowering shyness that earned her the hated nickname. That is, until an older boy turned the tables on her tormentors, forever winning her trust and devotion. The rest, as they say, is history.

  "Okay, Katy. Happy now?"

  "I'm here, aren't I? And I'm not in any kind of trouble. I just moved from one marina to another, that's all."

  "Sure you did. I came to check on you over at Baja Naval. Your dock mates said your boat got chained up, but the next day you and your boat are pulling away from the dock bright and early."

  "Then how'd you know I'd be here?"

  "I live in this RV park. Spend most my afternoons sitting out here watching the sport fishermen come into the marina, so when I saw this little sailboat get washed through the estuary, I figured it had to be you. I'd ask what you're doing here, but I guess that's a redundant question. So, are you doing this on account of me?"

  That got her stubborn up. "Why do you think this is about you?"

  Gabe shook his head and walked away. Katy started to follow and then thought better of it. This was Gabe she was dealing with here, and where she used to be like iron to magnet, she wasn't that person anymore.

  She stood where she was and spoke his name. "Gabe."

  He turned. "Did he tell you that my trailer is here? No, of course not. That would make it too easy. You're in dangerous water, sweetheart. You know that, don't you?"

  His comment brought her back to the present. Now if she could only convince him that she had his best interests at heart. "You're the one who should leave. Why don't you take off for Costa Rica, or Brazil?"

  "I'm tired of running, Katy. I thought I could live the rest of my life hiding, but I might as well have stayed and testified against the mob for all the good it's done me. I'm miserable living without a name or a home. I want to get a lawyer, take my chances in the States."

  "Gabe, I'm on a forced sabbatical from my job with the San Francisco police department and if you go back now, the truth will come out and I could still be prosecuted for helping you jump bail. Is that how you want to thank me?"

  "Let's get out of the open and talk about this, okay?" He turned and walked through a row of dilapidated trailers, all of them devoid of wheels and so abysmally rusted on their stands that it was obvious that they were never moving again.

  Gabe opened the door on a tiny old twenty-four footer with a riot of bougainvillea permanently welded to its sides.

  Katy took the stepstool up and entered a pockmarked and rusted door. The interior was about the same space as her sailboat and just as tidy. Gabe motioned for her to take a seat at one of the two bench seats between a bolted-down dinette scrubbed clean of most of its original color.

  "I rent it from a guy who's in the hospital up in the States," he said, lighting a burner on his small stove and setting a kettle on it. "Had a heart attack so he's probably not coming back any time soon."

  Leaning against the sink, he said, "You look good. You've grown into all that wild-child hair you had when we were kids. "

  "Hair products, flat iron—when I can find a place to plug one in. You know Mexico may be mañana land but that doesn't mean the inspector can't get your records, if he chooses."

  "You don't have to worry about that, Katy. I can take care of myself."

  "Oh, Gabe, don't be naïve. There's no statute of limitation on jumping bail and skipping out of the country so you can avoid federal prosecution."

  He shook his head and gave her a lopsided grin. "Mathematical genius only works when you're savvy about how things roll and I've learned a thing or two about surviving on my own, but I'm sorry I didn't give you a lot of thought in this equation. When did you decide to become a cop instead of a lawyer?"

  "Disbarred or dismissed, either way I'm out of a job, if not in jail, for what I did back then. I was over eighteen and you were a rat. If it weren't for my dad…."

  "Roy still hate me?"

  "He died last year, Gabe. He never said boo about you to anyone who wasn't part of his inner circle and I think it's safe to say none of them have any reason to talk about it. He promised me he could make it all go away and he did, swept up all the loose ends so it looked like I was never there. But I understand that your conscience says you need to stand up to a federal judge and tell him the truth. Good luck with that, but hey, you do what you gotta do."

  "Sorry about your dad. I liked him. Wasn't mutual, but I know he cared about you and your family."

  "Thanks."

  "So… just one question?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If you're not staying because of me, then why are you in a marina with a murder suspect from hell instead of on your way home?"

  "I… I…"

  He looked at her with such poignant longing that she almost reached across the table to take his hand in hers, but stopped herself when she saw that his expression wasn't what she thought. It was disappointment. Gabe was disappointed in her. She almost laughed. Instead, she hid behind her cup of tea and let him talk.

  "Katy, I messed up, but
please believe me, I'm not a killer. I never touched that girl and I hate it that someone did kill her."

  "Then the best thing you can do for the both of us is get on another freighter and head south."

  He grimaced, as if swallowing a very bad pill, and said, "Let me think about that."

  She sat at the table inside her boat and traced a finger along the eight names and thought about her conversation with Gabe and how her life had changed.

  She was in her second year of college and Gabe was already working as a stockbroker. They were in love then, with plans to marry. Then he was arraigned on charges of money laundering for the mob. He explained it all to her; that he'd been foolish and duped into it, thinking he could make some quick money and get out. "I did it for us, Katy. So we could get married."

  He could testify against the mobsters and get off with a slap on the hand.

  She'd encouraged him to take the deal, but Gabe was terrified. "They'll kill me if I testify, Katy. What should I do?"

  And because she loved him, and didn't want him dead, she told him to run, go to Canada.

  He held her to his chest and wept. "That wouldn't be right. How could I live with myself?"

  And then there was the heartache of being apart and they were so young. When would they ever see each other again?

  "Katy, I couldn't think of living in Canada without you. No, I'd rather take my chances, do the time in prison, that is if you'll wait for me." They stood looking at each other, trying to imagine what the other would look like in ten or twenty years, if Gabe took a jail sentence instead of testifying against the mob.

  They'd argued about it, her trying to get him to leave, him arguing that he didn't want to ruin her life either, that she shouldn't wait for him. She finally convinced him that they should both go to Canada.

  "Yes," he said, hugging her again. "We'll get married there, change our names. Start over. It'll be great."

  Katy withdrew all her savings, and taking her little Miata sports car, they ran for the Canadian border. They got as far as the Washington Bridge when a police car pulled up close enough to read the dirty California license plate. Then as they exited the bridge, the cruiser lit up and a siren signaled them to pull over.