"Oh? I know from Quinn that they were partners in some sort of e-commerce company, something to do with money transactions."
"Yep. Were is the operative word."
"They aren't partners any more?"
Alex, who rested his long-stemmed wine glass on his lap, took a sip. The sunlight glinted off the glass and cast a tiny rainbow on his shirt. "The name of the company is eTransWorld. It's a low-cost financial transaction company—you know, credit card processing, that sort of thing. I'd even heard of them. When I was thinking of switching processors last year, they're one of the outfits I looked into. They had by far the lowest fees."
"You didn't go with them, though?"
"No. Something about them didn't seem quite right. My FBI intuition still acting up now and then, maybe. Kind of like the itch a guy gets in his amputated leg."
"Nice image," Gage said.
"Anyway, I was right to be hesitant. You know about Bitcoin?"
"Sure," Gage said. "That digital currency that's got both Wall Street and the Justice Department all nervous. Wall Street because it's mostly outside their bubble of influence. And the Justice Department because the money can't be tracked ... which makes it a magnet for criminal activity."
"Righty-o," Alex said. "It's totally decentralized."
"Was eTransWorld mixed up with Bitcoin?"
"No, not Bitcoin. Something like it, though, a new kind of financial transaction that is just as dark and just as secure, but supposedly their encryption coding is so good that it makes Bitcoin look like an open cash register on a lemonade stand."
"Lemonade stands have cash registers?" Gage said.
"You get the idea," Alex said, taking another sip of wine. "They started opening it up on a limited basis last year, about the same time that our missing friend, Marcus Koura, decided to sell his shares and get out of the company."
"Do you know why he wanted out?"
"That's where it gets interesting. The official story is that Marcus wanted to do something else with his life. The scuttlebutt is that he and his brother had a falling out, because Marcus wanted to sell the company to Facebook or Amazon, both of which were interested, but Omar wanted to hold on and build it up on their own, go public in a few years."
"Interesting," Gage said.
"Yeah, but that's not even the most interesting part. You see, both Omar and Marcus are second-generation Egyptians. Omar is still a devout Muslim, but I guess Marcus lost his religion along the way at some point. Used to be Mohamed Koura, but changed his name to Marcus. What I learned from the FBI is there was an investigation that eTransWorld was channeling funds for certain Middle Eastern organizations that are ... how shall we say it, unfriendly toward the United States."
"They were laundering money for terrorists?"
Alex downed the rest of his wine. "That's what the FBI was trying to prove. Apparently, they haven't had much luck, which tells you how good eTransWorld is. They were also working on Marcus, trying to get to him through his conscience, hoping he'd turn on his brother. But he didn't crack. Apparently family still comes before country."
"Did you check to see if there were any female FBI agents who were working undercover? If Miranda was—"
"Yeah, I thought of that, but they said all of their undercover operatives who were working on the case are accounted for. Really, though, does Miranda strike you as the FBI type? Wait a minute, I don't know why I'm asking you. You washed out of the FBI Academy."
"Kicked out, more like," Gage said.
"Details, details."
"And I distinctly remember you playing a part in that."
Alex chuckled. "Best thing that ever happened to you. You were the smartest student I ever had. Too smart, really. The FBI would have ruined you."
"Or I would have ruined the FBI."
"That's probably equally likely, knowing how stubborn you are. When an immovable object meets an unstoppable force …"
"Back to the Koura brothers," Gage said.
"That's it on the Koura brothers, alas. Wish I had more for you. You learn anything else since I last talked to you?"
Gage caught Alex up on what little information he had—first, that Omar was supposedly coming to Barnacle Bluffs on Friday, and second, about Miranda's reaction to the businessman they'd passed at the outlet mall. He added that he didn't think Miranda knew the man himself, just that she'd reacted to his general appearance.
"Did he look Egyptian?" Alex asked.
"Not in the slightest," Gage said. "Square-jawed Caucasian, kind of a taller version of Tom Cruise."
"Interesting. What's your thoughts on how she acted?"
Mulling the question, Gage turned to the ocean. It was the perfect time to look at it. Early afternoon, the sun was not yet low enough in the western sky that it would dip beneath the top of the window and blind him, but it was already well past its zenith and casting distinct shadows on the waves. The water was more silver than blue, but full of hard edges, like rows of knives facing upward. A few seagulls rode the thermals, far enough away that he knew them not by their color but by the shape of their wings. The wind, sometimes a roar up high in the turret, was only a faint whistle against the glass.
"Like an abused woman," he said finally.
"I thought you might say that," Alex said.
"I could be wrong, but it's just the sense I got. It fits some of her other behaviors, too. The jumpiness. She seems desperate to please me."
"You think Marcus was the abuser?"
"Probably not," Gage said. "I don't think she knew him long enough. Unless things change, my hunch is that she didn't meet him in San Jose. She met him somewhere along the way in his sailboat journey."
"And if you find out where …"
"I figure out who she is," Gage said.
"Maybe it won't matter. Maybe she'll remember."
"That's what I'm hoping."
"And you don't think … " Alex began, then trailed off.
"That she's pretending? I don't think so, but I can't be sure. But it doesn't really matter, does it? If she's playing some sort of game, I still have to act like she has no memory anyway. I've got to figure out where Marcus stopped after San Jose."
"You know," Alex said, "there is another more obvious move you can make."
"The press?"
"You've already decided against it?"
"I don't know if I can decide against it. It's too good a story. And once that boat washed up on the beach—well, it's not like we could keep it under wraps even if we wanted. The Bugle already had that bit up on their website. As soon as people figure out she's staying here, the reporters will start nosing around. Somebody will take a picture of her. And once that picture is out …"
"Ah," Alex said, "you're afraid that if she really was abused—"
"Exactly. The guy sees her picture, he heads straight here. We might have to make that play eventually, but I'm just trying to delay it as long as possible. Get some more information. Maybe Omar was lying, too, and he really does know who she is. Just too many unknowns right now. No, I'll start by contacting all the marinas up and down the coast, see where it leads."
"Fortunately," Alex said, "you now have a phone."
"Is that what that thing was?"
Alex took his glass back to the liquor cabinet, started to pour himself more wine, then changed his mind and put a cork on the bottle. "So ... tell me about this doctor."
"What?"
"Zoe said you were flirting with a doctor at the hospital. She sounded promising. You can get yourself a nice Russian woman without having to order one from the mother country as so many men seem to be doing these days."
Gage sighed. "She's Ukrainian, actually."
"Does she have issues?" Alex asked.
"You never quit, do you?"
"It's my goal in life to marry you off again, my friend."
Gage was trying to think of something to say when someone called his name from the stairwell. It was Zoe. Alex opened the door and the two
of them peered over the railing at the landing a floor down, where Zoe stood next to Officer Gilbert, the young cop who was a detective in training. Zachary. That was his name. Zoe and Zachary. Gage didn't like the sound of that. Alliteration was never a good sign.
They stood far enough away from each other that Gage should have been pleased, but it was too far apart, as if they were hyper-conscious of each other's presence. The kid, decked out in a standard blue police uniform, had ditched his trench coat.
"Yes?" Gage said.
"Zachary has information for you."
Alex said, "You know, you guys can come up. It's not like you need an exclusive membership or anything. I mean, I let Garrison in. That should tell you something."
"Thank you, sir," Zachary said. "I appreciate it. I just—I've got to get going. I just thought you should know. The techs ran her fingerprints. I just told, um, Miranda, nothing came up. It was just the main database, but—"
"Nothing?" Gage said.
"No, sir."
"Where did they get the fingerprints? Never mind, I don't want to put you on the spot. I'm going to guess that you weren't told to give us this news, were you?"
"Um ... "
"You don't have to answer that one either. Your detective buddies find anything else out about where that boat may have docked along the coast?"
"No. I mean, not that I'm aware of, sir. They just looked into where he bought the boat, but nothing came of that. Just a new Catalina he bought from a dealer. But they don't really—I mean, they don't always share everything with me."
"How shocking," Gage said. "Hey, thanks for your help. It's really appreciated."
"Sure. Um …"
"Yes?"
"Well, I think you should know, sir. I mean, I don't want to make trouble or anything, but Miranda, she gave us the fingerprints herself this morning."
"What?"
"That's why it didn't take long to run them through the main database. It's because we had such good prints."
Processing this news, Gage thanked the kid again and Zoe said she'd see him to the door. The way she said it, the warmth in her voice, she didn't even sound like Zoe. It made Gage want to pull out his Beretta and fire a few shots into the ceiling.
His better judgment prevailing, he and Alex retreated back into the study, Alex closing the door behind them. Gage stepped close enough to the front windows that his own breath fogged on the glass. He saw a family in matching red windbreakers on the beach below, and, farther down, an old man dressed in a green camo jacket who was scanning the sand with a metal detector. He wondered how it would be to spend his day like that, listening for the tell-tale beeps, delighting when he found a lost watch or even a few quarters. Could he lose himself completely in the work? His bum knee would make the beach comber's life a tough one for him, but he doubted he would notice the pain if he loved the work enough. That really was the key, finding something so consuming that all your troubles just disappeared.
"Well," Alex said, "I'm going to wager a guess that Zoe and Officer Friendly there will probably be spending a bit of time together in the near future."
"Just stop," Gage said.
"Aw, you're just sore because the kid is impossible not to like."
"His uniform gives me ample motivation."
"Right. So, can we rule out the possibility of Miranda pretending to have amnesia? If she was pretending, why would she give the cops her fingerprints?"
"Unless she knew she wouldn't come up in the system."
"Hmm."
Gage turned around and looked at his friend. "If she knew she had no criminal record, or had any other reason why her fingerprints would come up ... well, that would be a good way to convince us that she wasn't faking it."
Alex made a tsk tsk sound. "Such a cynic."
"I learned from the best."
"Hmm. I was never as cynical as you, my friend. What made you such a pessimist?"
"I'm not a pessimist. I'm a realist with an attitude problem."
"That's exactly how a pessimist would think of himself."
Gage turned back to the window. The man with the metal detector was digging at the sand underneath a beached log. Gage watched with anticipation as the man retrieved something metal and shiny, shook off the sand, and held it up into the sun. A beer can. Gage would have liked to say he was disappointed, but really, he expected as much. Did that make him a pessimist?
"Well," he said, "I go on doing the work anyway. I don't know how to do anything else, and how I feel about it doesn't seem to matter one way or the other. I just keep digging around until I find something."
Chapter 6
Gage spent most of Friday morning at his kitchen table, calling marinas up and down the coast. Some were friendly, some weren't, and many didn't answer. Nobody knew Marcus Koura's Catalina boat, either based on the license number or on a detailed description. Nobody could remember seeing Marcus or Miranda either, though a few confessed they were so busy and kept such poor records, that even Elvis could have drifted through and they might not have noticed.
After a few dozen calls, Gage snapped the cell phone closed and placed it on the table in front of him. His right ear felt warm, and his fingers actually ached from gripping the plastic for so long. What, exactly, was the appeal of these stupid things? Even looking at it made him want to get a hammer.
Rain tapped on the high arched windows, the light inside the spacious main room of his A-frame gray and diffuse. A storm had blown in overnight, not a big one, but the usual drizzle. It was typical fickle weather for the Oregon coast in April: bright and sunny followed by drab and overcast, often within the same hour. His orange tabby, Carrot, which, like Zoe, he'd also inherited from his one-time housekeeper who'd lost her battle with cancer a few years back, curled up in his recliner. It was the first time Gage could remember seeing Carrot in a week, as Zoe was the one who fed him, and the cat was even less social than Gage; spotting him more than a few times a month was actually a lot.
Maybe he should take a cue from the cat. Why was he so intent on going out all the time? Just look at that recliner. Why should Carrot get first dibs on it?
He was summoning the willpower to call more marinas when the phone suddenly rang, startling him.
It was a high-pitched chirp, one of the most annoying sounds he'd ever heard, and it was made worse by the physical vibrating that accompanied it—like a little black mouse, trembling in terror, the rattle on his walnut table like the clicking of the mouse's claws. Somehow he'd forgotten that people could also call him. How depressing.
He flipped open the cell and held it to his ear, unsure if that was all he needed to do to answer it.
"Yes?" he said.
"Garrison." It was Zoe. "You better get over here. There's a guy parked outside."
"What?"
"Some reporter dude. He's ... weird. He came in and wanted to know where to find Miranda, but we told him she's out right now. I don't think he believed us."
"Who's he working for?"
"He didn't say."
"Weird, how? Dangerous?"
"No. I don't think so. He's ... well, you just gotta see it."
"Where's Miranda?"
"Sleeping. I checked on her a while ago. She's so dead to the world I had to check to make sure she was really breathing. Must have been totally exhausted." She paused, and Gage heard a violin concerto playing faintly in the background, the kind of music Eve usually had playing in the living room after they finished breakfast. "Miranda's so nice, if this guy manages to talk to her, I'm afraid—"
"I know," Gage said. "I'll be right over. Try not to let her near him if you can."
"Uh oh."
"What?"
"He's getting out of his car again."
"Oh geez. I'm on my way."
Even with the extra Friday traffic, Gage made it over to the Turret House in under five minutes. The highway glistened like the back of an eel. The rain, which had already started to ease, still speckled the windshield
enough that he had to turn on the wipers.
When he rounded the corner onto Turret House's street, he spotted the strange person he could easily assume Zoe called about pacing along the road in front of the B&B, a short, barrel-shaped man in a purple trench coat and matching purple fedora. It was the kind of bright purple that belonged on a woman's fingernails, not a man's clothes. Or a woman's clothes, really. A Pontiac Safari, a big '80s station wagon that had been painted almost exactly the same color as the man's attire, was parked at the curb across the street. Gage, pulling in behind the Pontiac, took a wild guess that the two belonged together.
If the man was trying to look inconspicuous, as if he was just out for a stroll, he wasn't doing a very good job. Gage donned his own fedora—which, alas, was plain brown felt and not purple—and got out of van. His hat may not have been as pretty, but it kept his face dry. He'd brought his cane, too. Maybe he would get to bop someone on the head with it yet this week.
"Points for functionality, at least," Gage said.
When the man turned, Gage realized he had completely underestimated how outrageous his appearance was. The purple color was the tamest thing about him. He sported a massive handlebar mustache, dark and thick and curled, the kind of thing that would have won competitions. It looked so obviously fake that it must have been real. The way it hung firmly in place, and the smoothness of it shining in the damp afternoon air, made it seem more ceramic than hair.
"Sorry?" the man said. "Were you addressing me, dear chap?"
He spoke in a high-pitched twang, with an accent that was probably meant to sound British but came off as a first-year acting student's feeble attempt. Or maybe it wasn't meant to be British. It wasn't really British at all, just snobbish and affected, with too much lilt and enunciation. The man's head reminded Gage of an inverted traffic cone, with a tiny pointed chin under a massive sloping forehead, the hue of his face a similar orange. Or perhaps it was just the purple, bringing out the orange in the man's skin. His eyes, so tiny they were all pupil, a shiny, unblinking black that made Gage think of buttons used for stuffed animals.
"My fedora," Gage said. "It's not nearly as nice as yours, but I at least get points for functionality, right?"
A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4) Page 6