A DANGEROUS HARBOR

by RP Dahlke

  "Good night then," Katy said, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  The next morning, she decided her bad mood might be fixed with a meal out. She should go to town for lunch. Better yet, invite Myne to go with her, have that talk they never finished last night.

  She found Myne tucked in the shade at the yacht, reading a book. She barely let Katy get the invitation out of her mouth before she bounded up off the chaise lounge. "That's a great idea. I'm dyin' to go out. Let me put on some clothes and I'll be right back."

  Wrapping a towel around her bikinied bottom she scampered for the stairs and disappeared. She was back in minutes, wearing a low-cut hot pink sundress, gold bangles on her wrists. She held out her wrist for Katy to inspect. "They're just like the ones your sister, Leila Standiford, wears, 'cept I can only afford the gold over silver version, but they look good, don't they?"

  "They look great to me," Katy said, admiring the bangles.

  "This is just the way she wears them, too," she said, stroking the bangles. "I checked online. Two gold, then two enamel and gold, then two more gold. I'll bet hers cost a fortune, huh?"

  Katy laughed. "I wouldn't know, but if you want, I'll ask the next time I see her."

  Myne dimpled, now happy that she was rubbing elbows with a famous TV soap star's sister.

  In the taxi, Katy directed the driver to stop at the fish market.

  "Oh," said Myne. "I thought we were going someplace nice."

  "You don't want to discount Ensenada's fish tacos. They're the best I've ever had and they have seating for customers."

  Myne shrugged, got out and reluctantly followed Katy, passing Indian women and children selling trinkets. The children, dwarfed in castoff clothing, held up Styrofoam cups and cheerfully begged, "Dinero?"

  Myne started to dig into her purse for money.

  "Wait," Katy said, taking two McDonald's coupons out of her own purse. "It kills me that kids have to beg, but this way I know they will get to eat."

  She gave a handful of coupons to Myne, who bent down and put a couple in each of the kids' cups. The children stared into the cups and then fished out the coupons and handed them over to a woman with a nursing baby. The woman showed her disdain for the coupons by theatrically ripping them into shreds, tossing the now useless paper into the air like so much confetti. Lesson learned, the children scurried back to the streets to make up for their error.

  Myne looked to be about to charge over and give the mother a piece of her mind. "So why ain't these kids in school?"

  Katy took Myne by the arm and pulled her away. "The government pays for the classrooms and books, but uniforms, shoes and transportation have to be paid by the parents. The Indians just don't have the money."

  Myne gave a disgusted snort. "I may have grown up dirt poor, but you wouldn't see my mother making me go out and beg on the streets."

  "Where did you grow up?" Katy asked, dodging another unmarked pothole in the sidewalk.

  "Here and there."

  "Are your parents still alive?"

  "My mom is, don't know about my daddy," she said, and then pointed at another pothole for Katy to avoid.

  "Siblings?"

  "One pissant trouble-maker—and that's all I'm saying about that."

  Katy, distracted by her search for the right taco stall, let Myne's comment pass.

  A hefty Mexican woman in housedress and apron sealed the deal with a gold-capped smile, and loudly welcomed the two Americans into her open front café.

  Myne squinted at the woman and then at Katy. "What's she yellin' at us for?"

  "Actually, she's bragging to her neighbors that she's got American customers with American dollars and they don't. This is Ensenada's answer to McDonald's and let me tell you, it's just as fattening. Do you want fish or shrimp? Coke or orange soda?"

  "Fish and I'd kill for an orange soda. Reminds me of home."

  Katy held up four fingers to the cook standing ready over a boiling pot of hot grease. "Cuatro tacos de pescados y dos sodas de naranja, por favor."

  Katy showed Myne how to load up the taco from the relish dishes: cilantro, radish, onion, salsa and fresh heavy cream.

  When Myne sipped the last of her orange soda she said, "Your Spanish is sure good. I can't speak nothin' but American and Spence says I don't do it no favors, either."

  "How old are you?"

  "My birth certificate says eighteen, but I oughta be thirty for all the living I've done. I been on my own since I was fifteen."

  Or, abused and abandoned might be part of a ready-made repertoire of lies meant to elicit the most sympathy. "How'd you meet Spencer?"

  "Might as well hear it from me; I was dancing in a strip joint in LA 'cause all my dreams of gettin' into anything but porn had done been shot to hell."

  "Leila saved her money and took acting lessons."

  "Last boyfriend spent all that on fixin' up his motorcycle and then he run out on me. No forwarding address, either. Then Spencer came into the place and offered me a job."

  "But if things go bad for Spencer, will you go home? You could still go home, couldn't you?"

  "Not an option. Mom's got a revolving door on boyfriends and I'm likely to shoot the next one."

  "What's the problem with you and Astrid? Jeff?"

  "Oh, that. We been spittin' at each other like two alley cats long before Jeff ever showed up. Nothin' you can do anything about it."

  Myne wiped her hands on her paper napkin and took the trash to a can, signaling the conversation was over.

  The ride back to the marina was quiet, both of them deep into their own thoughts.

  Katy fingered the lock hanging open on her hatch-boards. Hadn't she snapped the combination lock when she left? Was Gabe crawling in and out at will again? There was no sound coming from below, but knowing Gabe….

  Her hand went to her hip for the Glock she would normally wear on her uniform belt, then remembered she wasn't in uniform now, she was in Mexico, where it was illegal for anyone but the police and the criminals to carry sidearms. Instead, she selected a heavy winch handle and pushed back the hatch on her companionway, then stepped down the stairs into her cabin.

  The place was wrecked, her lovely new ultra-suede cushions slashed, their stuffing pulled out from the gaping tears in the fabric. The ultra-suede had the feel of real leather and was a luxurious expense she'd dithered over for months before she'd finally committed to it—now destroyed. All of it.

  Heartsick, she felt the deed as clearly as if it were a knife between her ribs. She turned the lock over in her hand. The backside had been carefully pried open, leaving the innards exposed and vulnerable. Someone had seen her leave with Myne, waited until she was gone to get aboard, took apart the lock, then hung the empty shell back in place. To the casual observer, her boat would appear locked.

  She knew, even without looking, that the list she'd tucked between the backing of a picture of her and her dad was now gone. And gone with it any hope that she'd be keeping any secrets from the suspects in this marina.

  Though her possessions were tossed around, the only thing missing was the list. Obviously, the damage to the cushions was just for spite.

  And where was the kitty? She called softly, opening cupboards, pulling up pillows, until at last, she found the wide-eyed little fur-ball. Kitty had wedged herself into a corner behind the books on a shelf and hissed when Katy reached a hand in to her, then relaxed the moment she felt the soft stroking.

  "Poor kitty. It's all right now." And lifting her out of the safe lair, Katy poured a cup of warm milk for the kitten and a beer for herself.

  With the beer in hand she checked her engine compartment, just to make sure the intruder hadn't decided to sabotage her engine. The door bolts were as she left them, the engine appeared fine and all hoses were still connected.

  Katy knew thieves; most of them went about their B&E work with methodical care, picking up, putting down again exactly as found. This kind of damage said rage, fury and a bitter act
of revenge. This was a warning. Go away, stay away, stop what you're doing.

  She got out again and with her expression neutral, walked up to the hotel where she placed a call to Raul Vignaroli.

  After he listened, he asked, "Do you think they damaged anything else?"

  "Like what?" Drained of her tantrum, she weakly blew on a tissue. "My self-esteem? My cabin was tossed and the cushions were a statement, a warning."

  "They were very beautiful cushions. Perhaps it's time for you to go sailing. Do you know Bandido's Marina?"

  "Yes," she said, remembering that Astrid's boat was berthed at Bandido's next to Baja Naval. Astrid had admired her family's photos on the bulkhead. The girl could have done this, but then so could have any number of people. This marina was populated almost entirely by thieves, liars, and at least one killer.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Slipping through the opening of the breakwater at the Ensenada harbor, she threaded through dilapidated boats, anchor chains festooned in sea-grass, decks covered with the smelly guano left behind by seagulls and pelicans; all evidence of the owners' permanent membership in Ensenada's Derelict Yacht Club.

  Passing close to Baja Naval she felt a breath of longing for that first day when she actually had a chance to leave before she so willingly went to the police station and the noose was tightened. But broken promises and slashed cushions seemed to be the path she was on and now there was no turning back.

  Aiming for the end dock, she cut her engine and glided up to where Raul Vignaroli waited dressed in a collared dress shirt over a pair of faded and paint spattered khakis, a pair of dock-siders and a captain's cap over his dark curls.

  She threw him a line. "What's with the scrambled eggs on your cap?"

  "Baseball player?" He let a small but playful smile tell her he was joking.

  "No. You look like a policeman on your day off. Why the briefcase?"

  "I have everything I need in here," he said, patting the hard-sided case. "I think it would be best if we leave the dock. Fewer people out on the water to overhear our conversation." He slid over into the cockpit, and with a roll of his hand, indicated that she turn around. "While you take us out of the harbor I will consider the damage done below."

  Nodding, she put the wheel hard over, gunned her engine and they motored out of the harbor and onto the open bay.

  He came up the stairs to sit next to her on the starboard side.

  "You seem to have cast off your earlier unhappiness. Is it being on the water?"

  She glanced at him, his arms crossed over his chest, his feet propped up against the cushions on the port side.

  "That's a sailor's expression, you know," she said. "To 'cast off' refers to releasing the lines from boat and dock, but it has also come to mean letting go of life's cares. And, yes, I am more relaxed when I'm sailing. The sea relaxes me, it releases all my anxieties."

  "Even when the weather is bad?"

  "Unless I want to stay in a safe harbor, weather is an unavoidable part of sailing."

  He nodded. "Ah, but Señorita Hunter, it's an experience you'll never forget if you have to make a living and it's blowing forty knots." A smile came and went and she noticed again the long dimples bracketing either side of his mouth. He was back to calling her señorita, but his manner seemed more teasing than anything. Then the wedding band on his left hand winked at her.

  Well, she thought, at least he isn't one of those jerks who takes off his wedding ring when he's out with another girl—oh, God, what am I saying? This isn't a date.

  They passed sunburned sport fishermen and Mexican fishing pangas returning from a long successful day. No one gave the little sailboat and its two occupants a second look.

  Raul watched as her glance slid across each passing boat and its passengers without ever shifting her head. Why do I find it so hard to believe that this small, compact, curly-haired and dimpled dulce would be a policewoman? He knew the answer to that; because she was sweet and cute and every time he got close to her he wanted to reach out and…. He sighed a little too deeply, catching her attention.

  "What is it?"

  To cover his gaffe, he said, "Perhaps we could put up the sails?"

  "She does handle the water better under sail and there's a nice afternoon breeze picking up," she said, nodding at the white caps skipping across the bay. "You don't get seasick, do you?" she asked, her tone hinting at a challenge.

  "No," he said, matching her implied question. "Do you?"

  She laughed. "Everyone gets seasick. Some sooner rather than later. If it's rough, I pack a lunch and stay topside."

  She showed him how to hold the helm so that the bow stayed dead-on into the wind and went forward to raise the main. Securing the main halyard, she crab-walked back to the cockpit. Nodding her satisfaction at his ability with her boat, she tightened the mainsail and grinned. "Bear off to starboard, Cap'n, and let's get us some wind in our sails."

  Raul bore off ten degrees and smiled when the mainsail greedily captured the wind. Katy unfurled the jib, and the small triangular sail soon filled and took its position next to the larger mainsail.

  He did a little circle with a forefinger. "One minute, it's all wound up in a tight roll and the next, it becomes a sail."

  "Never been on a sailboat before?"

  He didn't want to explain that until this moment he had always preferred the hefty muscle of powerful twin engines to anything that poked along with only the wind. "No, I haven't and I like it better than I thought I would."

  He watched as she tilted back her head to admire the salute of the colored tell-tales of her jib and main. Raul chose to admire the strong tan column of her throat as it met her shoulders in the sleeveless shirt. There was only a bit of air between his mouth her throat, those lips.

  Still watching the sails, she explained, "Roller furling is the second best thing for a sailor as far as I'm concerned. I've never had to crawl forward in a blow to take down the jib and I don't ever want to have to."

  "And I thought you a dare-devil, sailing alone."

  She huffed out a laugh. "Whatever makes you think that? Bad weather pipes up I'm the first sissy to call for shortening the sail. No, no, I love sailing, hate the thought of drowning. I intend to be ninety, taking my leisure in a beachfront condo in Hawaii, and stressing over whether I should miss my tango lessons for a chance to crew aboard a racing yacht."

  "And the first thing?"

  "What?"

  "You said that roller furling is the second best thing… so what's the first?"

  She blushed again. She'd been caught unawares, and her blush sent the message that regardless of any quick response she came up with, he already knew the answer… She likes me. In spite of everything I've done to her, she likes me.

  "GPS, of course," she blurted. "So, what's next?"

  "Give me your hand."

  "Wha…?"

  "So that your prints will be accounted for," he said, holding up ink pad case.

  Oh… yes… of course." She stuck out her hand to him and he carefully rolled her thumb and digits onto the pad and over to a waiting pad of paper. And then, for good measure pressed her palm onto the pad and finally all of it onto the white paper pad. Finished, he handed her a sealed alcohol wipe.

  "Now, I shall go below and see if I can find more."

  "Good luck with that, it'll mostly be my family," Katy called and then thought, Oh, no. He'll find Gabe's prints down there too. Soon, very soon, I'm going to have to come clean about Gabe helping me.

  He balanced one foot on the top rung of the ladder and said, "I will need the name of your fiancé."

  She hesitated. David? Her ex-fiancé might be messy with his relationships but he was a hardnosed attorney when it came to anything that smelled like a crime. "I'll have everyone's prints faxed to your office." She intended to leave David out of it for as long as possible. "It might get a little rough below. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

  "I worked my way through college in my broth
er's fishing boats. I will be fine, thank you," he said, and disappeared into the cabin.

  Katy resisted the temptation to worry over Raul Vignaroli's crime scene techniques. He was after all, American trained and employed by his federal government, so she stayed where she was and admired the clear cerulean sky as it arched overhead and sank into the deeper blue of the Pacific.

  A ten-degree heel and not a wrinkle in her sails. Even the colorful tell-tales flew with military precision. It was almost perfect, that is if she didn't look down into the cabin where Raul Vignaroli was carefully going over her slashed cushions and walls with an eye for identifying a killer.

  Raul ducked through the small hallway and into her small stateroom, thinking, I can't imagine a more difficult scenario… though it could have been worse. It could have been Katrina lying dead on her cabin floor.

  He rubbed a hand across his jaw, surveying the damage: everything was as she had found it, the slashed cushions pushed over on each other, the pictures pulled out of their frames and tossed to the floor. He was grateful that she had resisted the temptation to tidy up.

  Her drawers had been pulled out of their cabinets, the contents spilled onto the bed. Utilitarian white and colorful lace bras and panties scrambled into a messy pile as if discounted and discarded. He swallowed hard, closing off the image of someone tearing through Katy's personal life on a single-minded hunt for a simple list. The list he'd given her was not so very important, so why this kind of antipathy, this furious destruction? She was right, of course, the list was secondary to leaving her a message. She was a professional, but she was also vulnerable here on the boat in a Mexican marina where she had no friends. He winced at the immediate and visceral need to be the one to protect her. Well, Raul, you know what you feel, but…. And that depressed him as much as anything. He could put a man on the dock to watch her boat, but he couldn't really protect her any more than he could make love to her. Shaking off the depressing thought, he went back to his task and in fifteen minutes he was finished, closing up his case and putting away his brushes.