Prince Charming Undercover

by Debra Salonen

  “You can tell me where MaryAnn is.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then give me the names of her friends. Family. Anyone she’d turn to for help.”

  “Did you check at the ranch?”

  “Yes. She’s not there.” Nick looked around. He’d been so caught up in finding Grace that he hadn’t noticed the headstone bracketed by two rosebushes. So this was where the patriarch of the Romani was buried.

  The grass was just starting to turn green. Trees were budding. A sanctuary of several acres squeezed between some warehouses and the highway. Except for a smattering of shrubs, some neatly trimmed, some overgrown, the only ornamentation Nick could see was a number of artificially bright plastic flower arrangements.

  “Listen, Nikolai…I mean, Nick. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you where she is because I don’t know, but even if I did, she’s family. And—” Her shoulders rose and fell in a gesture he’d seen many times.

  “And family trumps everything, right? The law comes second. Personal responsibility is a distant third. You can overlook breaking the law because she’s married to your cousin.”

  Her dark eyes flashed with emotion. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Oh, come on, Grace. I overheard your sisters talking before I came looking for you. You’re heir apparent to your mother’s powers. Didn’t you just say you’d had a vision? Something about me getting shot?”

  “I saw MaryAnn. With a gun.”

  “Well, there were no guns drawn during the raid, so maybe what you saw is something that’s going to take place in the future.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her to sit down beside him on one of the pillows. “Try again. Give me some kind of clue. Is it MaryAnn in the conservatory with a lead pipe?”

  Her cheeks turned as red as the silk binding on the blanket. “Why are you being so mean?”

  “Because I’m pissed off. I can’t leave town until this case is wrapped up. Now, I’ve got a fugitive. An armed fugitive according to your vision.”

  Her eyes went wide with distress. “You’re making her sound dangerous. This is MaryAnn we’re talking about.”

  “You’re the one who said you saw a gun.”

  “I thought I did. I heard a sound and I…I…” She blinked back tears. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Nick flopped to his side and stretched out. “Grace, she’s your cousin’s wife. If I post an APB, someone else might find her first. Charles’s goons are looking for her, too, you know. If he hired one hit man, you can be sure he’ll hire another if it serves his purpose. If you want to keep her safe, go into another trance and find out where she’s hiding.”

  She threw out her hands. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Selective sight?”

  “I…I don’t know. It comes and goes. I don’t have any control over it.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try?”

  She swallowed and looked down. “You don’t believe in visions so why are you baiting me?”

  He sat up sharply. “This isn’t about what I believe. MaryAnn is a fugitive. People on the run make impulsive decisions. They get hurt. If you really care about your cousin and his family, you’ll help me find her before something bad happens.”

  Grace knew she was being played. This wasn’t the man she’d fallen in love with. This was the stranger who’d stepped off the plane with the squint of a hit man.

  But he did have a point. She still felt the lingering uneasiness from her vision. MaryAnn could have a gun. Gregor had collected pistols for years before the kids were born. He only had a couple left, but MaryAnn knew how to use them. Not that Grace planned to tell Nikolai that.

  “Okay, I’ll try. But I don’t guarantee anything.”

  She settled back on the cushion and closed her eyes. In her mind, she pictured herself sitting in the cemetery across from Nikolai. She saw her father’s grave site. Kingston was shaking his head at her current conundrum.

  Hi, Daddy. Fine mess I’ve made of things, huh?

  Oh, Princess, you always did worry too much. Things have a way of working out, now, don’t they?

  She imagined her father sitting atop the marble headstone. Relaxed. Legs dangling. The way he looked when they were fishing off the side of their houseboat. He never caught anything, but he loved to “annoy the fish,” as he laughingly called the sport.

  He smiled at her and winked.

  A horn honked from the side street; Kingston disappeared.

  Hot tears clustered behind her lids.

  “Well?” Nikolai demanded.

  Grace shook her head.

  “You saw something. I sensed it.”

  She blinked. “You did?”

  “Your face changed. Your smile turned soft and indulgent like when…never mind.”

  “When what?”

  “Sometimes you use that smile when you look at me. Like when we were gambling and I called your bluff. I felt a connection.”

  His perception surprised her. “I saw my dad. He was fishing. On our houseboat.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “What houseboat?”

  “Well, it’s nothing elaborate. More like an RV on pontoons. The main deck has a couple of bedrooms, a kitchen and living area. The top deck is open. The kids sleep there on air mattresses. It’s moored at Lake Mojave. Nobody’s used it in a long time, but Mom won’t hear of selling it. Dad loved the place.”

  “Lake Mojave? Where’s that? The only lake I’ve ever heard of is Mead.”

  She explained about the less well-known reservoir produced by Davis Dam, also on the Colorado River but seventy miles south of Hoover. “Lake Mead is closer and more popular. The marina is also more expensive. Cottonwood Cove, where we keep our boat, is directly east of Searchlight.”

  Nikolai stood up and took his cell phone from his belt. “Give me the specifics. How do I find the boat?”

  “Now, that’s a little tricky,” she said truthfully. “The last time I talked to the marina people they said they were going to move all the boats in our section to do some repairs. I could show you.”

  “Or I could call the marina and ask.”

  Grace shrugged. “You can try. But this is the off-season. And midweek. The owners are probably working in the dry-dock shop. When I need to communicate with them, I leave a message and they call me back. Eventually.”

  He gave her a look that said he didn’t believe her, but after a few minutes of placing calls and waiting, he lowered his phone. “Damn.”

  She could tell he didn’t want to spend any more time with her than absolutely necessary. Which was fine with her. She wasn’t all that keen to spend time with him, either. She glared at him…and her heart softened, remembering the afternoon they’d made love.

  Dammit, they had feelings for each other. Sure, their problems were huge. Their differences enormous. So was their passion. Doesn’t that count for anything? “I have the key,” she said, pulling her key ring from her pocket. She was pretty sure the small silver key opened the boat door.

  “Damn,” he repeated. He punched in another number on his cell phone and started walking toward his car. Grace scooped up her blanket and pillows and followed. She could only hear bits and pieces of his one-sided conversation.

  “…a long shot.”

  “She didn’t actually see…it’s more like a hunch.”

  “Fine.”

  “I will.”

  “What about backup? Fine. Got it.”

  She was breathing hard by the time she caught up with him. “Well?”

  “You can come, but only to show me where the boat is. Zeke’s sending a couple of Nevada State Troopers to meet us there. You will have no interaction with the suspect if she’s present. Do you understand?”

  Grace nodded. But beneath the blanket, her fingers were crossed. There was still the matter of the gun. If what she’d seen was a vision, then MaryAnn was armed. And very, very upset. Grace wasn’t going to lose Nick to a bullet, even if she lost him eventually to
his other life in Detroit.

  Yetta had been waiting in Zeke’s office for what felt like hours. His small courtesy of allowing her some privacy had done little to appease her anger. Jurek had assured her that if family members were involved in Charles’s scams, the police would treat them compassionately until the truth could be sorted out. Too bad nobody had told Zeke and his henchmen.

  “I must demand that you stop interrogating my nephew and brother-in-law until our attorney has a chance to talk to them,” she said, the moment Zeke opened the door.

  He’d left to get her a cup of coffee, which she didn’t want, but the space had given her a few moments to collect herself. The man’s no-nonsense manner bothered her, as did his occasional display of humor. She hated to be teased, although Kingston had loved to get her all riled up then kiss away her ire.

  “He’s with them, now. Kate brought him in. Your other daughter volunteered to talk to the two women we removed from Charles’s suite. Apparently, she speaks a little Hungarian or some Slavic language.”

  That was news to Yetta, but Elizabeth had always been the most private child. The one with the hidden diary, friends she didn’t bring home to meet the family, problems she wasn’t willing to share. “Good,” Yetta said, staring at the watery brown liquid in the disposable cup that he’d handed her.

  The moment she’d received Zeke’s call, Yetta had understood the gravity of the situation. In taking Jurek’s advice to contact his son, she’d expected only Charles to be arrested. She hadn’t thought about needing a lawyer to act on the family’s behalf. Thank heavens Jo’s son was licensed to practice law in Nevada, as well as California.

  “I should be with Claude and Gregor. I’ve never met this attorney. Katherine said he’s very young.”

  “Sorry. No family allowed. There will be an arraignment. It doesn’t take Perry Mason to ask for bail.”

  “What are they being charged with?”

  “That’s up to the D.A. If your family members cooperate with our investigation, their lawyer might be able to cut a deal. Probation. Fine. Maybe a little jail time with community service.”

  Yetta couldn’t tell if he was being patronizing or not. “Are you married?” Married men spoke to women differently than single men did, she’d noticed.

  He looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. “I was. A hundred years ago. She decided being a cop’s wife wasn’t her cup of tea.”

  Yetta could see why. Bad hours. Risky profession. An inability to trust people. She sensed that about him, even though they’d had very little direct contact. He was like a desert tortoise Elizabeth once brought home from school. Cautious and intensely focused, it took care of business but closed up shop when people got too close. Its hard shell was strangely beautiful and broke Yetta’s heart, even though she knew that solid barrier was the only thing that had kept the animal safe for so many years.

  “By the way,” Zeke said, “just so you don’t think I’m withholding anything, I got a call from Nick. He and Grace are on their way to Lake Mojave.”

  Yetta’s fingers went numb. “Why?” Her voice echoed slightly in her ears, as if coming from a far-off place.

  “Something about a vision and a houseboat.”

  The still-full cup tumbled to the floor. She looked at the stain on the floor. Instead of brown coffee, it looked red. Like blood.

  Nick had strict rules about involving civilians in police business. Particularly when he cared about the civilian in question. He wasn’t happy that Grace was standing at his side as they surveyed the horseshoe-shaped cove where the Lake Mojave Marina was located.

  As Grace had predicted, the place was relatively quiet. Nick could tell that most of the people scattered about were fishermen. The motel to his right seemed pretty empty. The parking lot contained mostly pickup trucks and a few RVs. MaryAnn’s car was not there.

  Only one artery led to the floating marina. At the shoreline, a father and three youngsters were tossing bread to a gaggle of geese. Competing for food was a school of carp just below the surface. The huge fish churned up the water like a boat propeller.

  Nick stopped Grace before they reached the floating plywood dock. “Point out your boat, then go back and wait.”

  She kept walking. Her sandals made a shush-shush sound against the weathered decking that was wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Nick was glad he’d worn soft-soled shoes. He was even happier that Zeke had given him back his gun.

  “It’s either the second or third from the last in this row. I can’t be sure from this angle. The Petersons’ boat looks identical to ours, except for the name above the door.” She looked at him. “Ours is called the Gypsy Moon.”

  Nick turned to see where she was pointing. A wide variety of vessels bobbed in slips evenly spaced along a shared dock, twenty or so berths on each side. The loud drone of a compressor came from a tin-roofed shed two rows over. The dry dock Grace had mentioned, Nick figured.

  “How come your boat is moored in a slip while most of the ones like it are tied to anchors in the harbor?”

  “Convenience.” Her tone was put out. They hadn’t talked much on the drive from Vegas. His one-word answers to her questions had had the desired effect. Nick wasn’t deluding himself. He’d crossed the line professionally when he’d slept with her. He was involved emotionally and the only way he could get back on solid ground was to cut his ties with her, do his job and get the hell out of Vegas. Anything else would be disastrous.

  At the end of the gangway, he got his first clear view of the two-story houseboats. They did resemble floating recreational vehicles. White aluminum siding. Skeletal frames on the second story where some kind of awning might go. They were bigger than he’d pictured, each filling its entire allotted space.

  Grace pointed. “The third from the end. That’s ours. The last one is new. I’ve never seen it before.”

  He stopped her when she would have kept walking. “Go back.”

  She paused but didn’t turn around as he’d ordered. Instead, she appeared to be studying her family’s vessel. “Everything looks just like we left it. I don’t think she’s here. Nobody’s seen her. Can’t we just leave?”

  A woman from the boat-rental place had returned Nick’s call just as they’d turned south on Highway 95 toward Searchlight. She’d told him she hadn’t noticed any activity on the Parlier boat, but she’d been away on vacation and had just returned that morning.

  “I don’t expect to find her here,” he said shortly. “She’s probably in Mexico by now, but I plan to check this out since we’re here. Go back to the shore and wait.”

  Their face-off only lasted a few seconds. Grace gave in. She blew out a huffing sound and stormed off. Nick’s satisfaction was cut short, however, when she stopped about halfway down the gangway and turned, hands on her hips, as if daring him to make her take another step.

  He sighed and shifted his focus to the boat. White with blue-and-teal trim, it bobbed innocently on the calm water. Withdrawing his gun from the holster at his side, he approached cautiously, stepping over the thick chain that had been painted nautical white but was beginning to rust.

  A covered patio took up the back quarter of the boat. Bristly green artificial turf made a squeaky sound as he walked to the sliding patio doors. Although his view into the living room was blocked by white vinyl vertical blinds, he could make out a built-in couch and table to his right. Counters and shelves—the kitchen area, he presumed—were to the left.

  He tried the door. Locked. The key Grace had given him was for the swinging door at the prow of the boat, which was facing toward the open water. He strained to listen for any kind of noise from inside, but the sound of a revving motor coming from the dry-dock area made it difficult to hear.

  Adrenaline kicked in as he moved toward the starboard side of the vessel. A walkway about a foot wide allowed passage to the rear of the boat, where Nick had spotted a circular staircase. The boat bobbed slightly. He thought he detected a movement somewh
ere else on the vessel, but then decided the rocking was caused by his own shifting weight.

  He gripped his gun a little tighter. There wasn’t room between the boat and the dock for him to fall into the water, but the same couldn’t be said for his gun.

  At the first window, he bent down to look beneath the curtain. The sun-bleached oilcloth fluttered slightly. Nick thought he spotted something. A figure crouching or a pile of towels heaped on a bench? He couldn’t be sure.

  With his back to the wall, he inched to the next window. Its curtain was pinned shut as if something was leaning up against it.

  The next two windows were stacked, one a foot and a half above the other. They were ten-by-twelve-inch rectangles that could be opened to allow ventilation. They were considerably lower than the other windows, directly below a patio area that was encircled by a blue-and-teal-striped canvas strung between metal railings.

  Sleeping bunks?

  He bent over to peer into the lower of the two. His heart rate spiked when he spotted a body sprawled on the unmade bunk, but a second later, he realized the form was a neoprene body suit draped over a couple of pillows.

  Letting out a sigh mixed with relief and disappointment, he stood up.

  As he did, his head connected with something hard. Pain erupted under his skull. Silver spots danced across his vision. Reeling backward, his foot slipped over the edge of the boat and he went down heavily on one knee. He grabbed the railing to keep from falling face forward, but in doing so, his gun clattered to the Fiberglas deck.

  Fighting nausea and very close to blacking out, Nick pressed his free hand to his head, trying to figure out what he’d hit. The loud thumping of shoes on the deck made him understand that what had happened wasn’t an accident. He’d been attacked.

  Acting instinctively, he lunged for his gun but was too late. A hand snatched it up. Nick closed his eyes and waited for a shot to follow.

  “MaryAnn?”

  The question came from behind him. Grace.

  No, Nick tried to shout but the only sound that came was a low, desperate-sounding groan.