by Gina Cresse
Chapter Twelve
I listened to the rings of the telephone and counted. Twelve. Clancy still didn’t pick up—not even an answering machine. I began to worry about him. He’d been so anxious to pursue the salvage contract on the Gigabyte. Maybe he’d been too persistent. I hung up the phone and stared out the window.
Spencer walked through the door and dropped a wad of crisp twenty-dollar bills on the coffee table. “Here. Two hundred bucks. That get you by?”
“Thanks, Spence. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Get through to your friend yet?”
“No. I’m really worried. I oughta get back to San Diego to see if I can find him. Maybe there’s just a problem with his phone.”
“Think it’s safe to go back? They’re still looking for you,” he warned.
“I know. I won’t go back to the boat. I imagine they’ve been to my uncle’s place, so that’s not an option—besides, he’s on vacation in Europe right now. I’ll find someplace to hole up. There’s over a million people living in San Diego. Shouldn’t be too hard to get lost in the crowd.”
“Be careful just the same. I’ll get everything I can off this backup tape. How will I get in touch with you?”
“I’ll call you,” I promised.
Three rows of worry lines creased in Spencer’s forehead. I’d never seen him this concerned, even when he was being investigated for criminal computer-record tampering. I gave him a big smile and draped my arm over his shoulders.
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ve been through worse than this,” I assured him.
“It’s not that. I just want to make sure I get my two hundred dollars back.” He grinned as he squeezed my hand.
I punched him in the arm.
“Ouch!”
“Ouch? I barely touched you—wimp.”
“I’m no wimp. Just sensitive.”
“I know. Sorry. Hey, thanks for all your help. I’d really be in deep you-know-what without a shovel if it weren’t for you.”
“No problem. Just get out of here and let me get busy on this tape. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I parked the Jeep in a public lot near Clancy’s place. It looked a little out of place between the bondo-gray Volkswagen bus and the empty boat trailer with two flat tires, but for free parking, it would do.
I expected to see Tex, the happy-go-lucky golden retriever, gallop up the dock to greet me, but he didn’t. The only sign that Tex ever existed was the fuzzy yellow tennis ball sitting in an otherwise empty bucket next to the front entrance. The door to the salvage office was locked—no sign of life anywhere. I peered through the dirty window. It was dark inside. Olive’s computer monitor sat dark and lifeless on her desk. A dozen little yellow sticky notes were plastered all around the frame of the screen. Tex’s dog blanket was piled next to the desk. I could see the steady red glow of a light on the coffee maker with a nearly-empty pot on the burner.
I walked around and checked all the windows. Everything was sealed up tight. No way to get in without breaking something. I peered down the dock. Clancy’s boat was gone, but the Little Maria was still tied up.
I walked down the dock. There was no one around to stop me from climbing onboard. The buoyant key chain dangled from the ignition. I checked the fuel level, started the engine, and untied the lines.
I’d watched Clancy operate the GPS, and with a few presses of the buttons, I’d managed to get on course for the Gigabyte wreck site.
The seas were a little choppy and I was glad I hadn’t eaten. I wanted to make the cash Spencer gave me last as long as possible, otherwise I’d be forced to turn to Jason’s culinary adventures.
As I neared the wreck site, I saw the outline of a boat on the horizon. I searched all the drawers and cabinets for binoculars but couldn’t find any. As I got closer, I slowed down and squinted to get a better look. I could see some activity on the boat—people moving about. It looked like two, maybe three, I couldn’t be sure. I advanced closer—close enough, I’d decided.
The outline of a rifle was unmistakable. A man perched at the stern rested the gun on his shoulder as he kept watch of the area. These people were serious. The presence of armed guards confirmed my suspicions that there may be more than a big fancy yacht sitting down there. No unauthorized persons would be venturing down to get a closer look at the Gigabyte.
One thing was sure—if I could see them with the naked eye, they could certainly see me. And they’d be watching me closely to see what I was up to. I dropped the anchor and went below. I found a fishing pole, carried it up to the deck and cast out the line. I secured it to the railing and glanced over at the other boat. They had to be watching me. Hopefully, I looked innocent enough.
I went below again and grabbed a full scuba tank, then returned to the deck. I’d positioned the boat so I could gear up on the opposite side of the flybridge—where they couldn’t see me. I inserted the mouthpiece, eased myself into the water, and began my descent to about twenty feet. I continued in the direction of the other boat, then surfaced directly under the bow and listened.
“You sure she’s still fishing?” I heard one of the guards ask.
“Yeah. The line’s still out. Don’t get your shorts in a knot,” the other replied.
I slipped back under the surface and found their anchor line. I hoped they’d dropped anchor close to the wreck site, but there was no way to be sure. I followed the line down to the bottom. The powerful beam from my flashlight was lost in the murky water. I made gradually larger circles around the anchor as I searched for the boat. Keenly aware of my time limit, I checked my watch every couple of minutes.
The bright white light bounced back at me as it found its mark. I advanced on the wreck and quickly made my way around its perimeter. I shone the light on the entire surface, looking for the structural damage that, supposedly, sent it to the bottom. After two passes around it, I was convinced there was no damage. Not a hole, not a break, not even a hair-line crack was evident. I checked my watch. My time was up. I found the anchor line and slowly made my way back to the surface.
I listened, again, to the crew on the guard boat. They’d grown suspicious.
“When was the last time you actually saw her on deck?” one of them demanded.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago. I think you’re worried about nothing,” the other answered. His voice sounded as if he was eating.
“I want to check it out. Pull up the anchor.”
“Can I finish my sandwich first?” the other whined.
I slipped under the surface and raced for the Little Maria. It felt like the dream I have where I’m trying to run away from danger, but I can only move in slow-motion. My heart raced as I frantically kicked my flippers through the water. Though only minutes passed, it seemed like it took hours to reach the Little Maria. I struggled to get myself hoisted up the ladder and over the rail, but all the scuba gear was just too heavy for me. My hands were shaking and I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up. All I could think to do was to drop the tank and weight belt and let them sink to the bottom. I threw the flippers over the rail and climbed up the ladder. I could hear the engine of the approaching boat. I crawled on my belly to the cabin and slithered inside, then unzipped the wet suit and frantically struggled to get out of it.
“Anyone onboard?” I heard someone call as their boat pulled up next to mine. I shook the water out of my hair and walked out on deck.
“I’m here,” I announced. “What can I do for you?”
The two men were young, probably in their mid-twenties. The man at the wheel was tall and muscular. He wore a blue-and-white striped T-shirt with an embroidered anchor on the breast pocket. His long, stringy blond hair was windblown and hung in his eyes. It reminded me of an Old English sheepdog, and I wished he would comb it back so I could see his eyes. The other man, a head shorter than his partner and about twenty pounds heavier, wore a bright-yellow windbreaker. He was busy stuffing his mouth with marshmal
lows that he pulled from a bag sitting on one of the passenger seats. To my relief, I didn’t see any rifles.
“You been swimming out here?” the taller one asked.
“Yeah. I just took a quick dip to cool off. The water’s great,” I answered.
“You alone out here?” he continued.
“Yeah. Why?”
The marshmallow eater jammed the last of the puffy white blobs into his already-full mouth. He reminded me of a chipmunk. He chewed and talked at the same time. I tried not to focus on the little bits of sugary white paste that flew out of his mouth as he spoke. “How’s the fishing? Catch anything?”
I glanced over at the pole propped against the railing. It was motionless. “No. Nothing biting today.”
“What’re you using?” he asked, after finally swallowing the mass of confection stuffed in his mouth.
“Using?” I echoed.
“Bait. What are you using for bait?” he asked as he wadded up his empty marshmallow bag and tossed it over the side into the water.
I wanted to jump across the rail and wrap my fingers around his big, thoughtless, ocean-polluting throat, but I remembered the rifle and kept my environmentally-responsible-citizen-speech to myself. I turned my head and ignored the marshmallow bag floating next to my boat. “I picked up a bucket of sardines this morning. Gotta use ‘em before they go belly-up on me.”
“Live bait? What’re you after?” the taller one chimed in.
“Bass, maybe tuna or a yellowtail. Don’t know if albacore are running yet, but I wouldn’t mind snagging one of those. I heard marshmallow makes good bait, but it looks like you guys are all out,” I commented, nodding toward the floating plastic bag that had, by now, drifted twenty feet from my stern.
They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“You sure you’re out here alone?” the taller one asked, ignoring my observation of his partner’s litter.
“Just me and my boat. What’re you guys doing out here?”
“You been watching the news?” marshmallow man asked.
“News? No. Too depressing. Did something happen? Did I miss a war?” I laughed a nervous laugh.
They both returned phony chuckles. The taller one matched my lie with one of his own. “Nah. We’re just fishing, too. Wondered if you caught anything. You better be careful swimming out here, especially if you’re gonna have live bait on the end of your line. Sharks won’t think twice about stealing your catch, and if you’re splashing around out there—who knows what they might take.” His plastic smile turned to a serious frown.
I studied his face to determine if it was a friendly warning or a threat he had just given me. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” I called back.
They started their engine and retreated to their original position. I waved a couple times and they waved back.
I reeled in my unbaited line and snagged the empty marshmallow bag with the tip of my pole so I could dispose of it properly.
I shaded my eyes and peered up at the sun, almost directly overhead. It would take over two hours to get back to Long Beach, but I estimated I could be in Catalina in just a little over an hour. Roy Hastings hailed from Avalon, on the east side of the island. I figured it couldn’t hurt to snoop around a little, and besides, I was starving.
Chapter Thirteen
As I approached the marina at Avalon, I could see there were no docks to tie up to, only buoys. A fellow sailor directed me to a buoy and offered me dinghy service to the dock. I studied the boats berthed in the marina. The diversity of class was painfully evident. A beautiful eighty-foot yacht was tethered directly next to a tiny, paint-peeling, wood-rotting, barely-afloat scow.
I turned around on the bench seat in the dinghy and addressed my chauffeur. “You know Roy Hastings?” I asked.
“Roy who?”
“Hastings. He lives in Avalon.”
“I’m new to the island. Don’t know too many folks yet. You say his name’s Roy Hastings?”
“Yes. He ran a charter service. Just wondered if you knew him.”
“Sorry. Maybe some other folks’ll know him.” He cut the engine to his tiny boat and we drifted to a small platform built out from the shore for tying the dinghies to. “Well, here we are. Watch your step.”
I thanked him and climbed out of the little craft onto the dock.
I felt the weight of a man staring from the pier. His gaze made me uneasy, and I tried to avoid it, but there was no escape. He paralleled me on the pier as I rushed up the dock. The quicker I walked, the more he picked up his pace. He was an older man, maybe in his early sixties. He wore a pair of khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. His hair was mostly gray, and he wore it in a ponytail. He was tall and slender and in good condition—maybe a swimmer, from the looks of him. He intersected my path and stood squarely in front of me.
“What’re you doin’ with that boat?” he demanded.
I didn’t know what to say. I shrugged my shoulders. “Boat?”
“Yeah! What are you doin’ with Roy’s boat?” he repeated.
“Oh, Roy’s boat. You know him?”
“Just answer the question. Roy’s been missing for six months, and now you show up with his boat. Where’d you get it?” he persisted.
“Well, a marine salvor over in Long Beach found it, abandoned, and claimed it. I borrowed it for the day. Thinking of buying it.”
“Buying it? Roy’s boat?” he asked.
“That’s right. You know Roy?”
“I do. I did. Like I say, haven’t seen him for six months. What’s the name of the salvage outfit?”
“Tex and Clancy’s. My name’s Devonie Lace. And you are…?”
“Huh? Oh, Sherman. Name’s Sherman.”
“Good to meet you, Sherman. You know Roy well?”
“One of my best friends. Really miss the old crab. Where’d they find his boat?”
“Don’t know for sure. Somewhere south of here—just adrift. Clancy figures he was diving alone—maybe ran into sharks.”
Sherman digested what I’d said. He stared out at the Little Maria tied to her buoy. “He wasn’t alone,” he stated.
When relying on pure chance, I estimate that ninety-nine percent of the time, I don’t get what I hope for. When I started out for Catalina, I hoped to find some answers about Roy Hastings, but I really only expected to get lunch. I stared at Sherman and realized this may be one of those one-percent moments. I shook the flood of a thousand questions out of my head and moved a little closer to make sure I heard him correctly. “What?”
“I said he wasn’t alone.”
I glanced up the sidewalk to a row of waterside restaurants. “Mr. Sherman, have you had lunch yet?”
The sun warmed my shoulders as we sat at a small table overlooking the marina. I peered over the railing and watched a garibaldi fish swim in the shallow water under the deck of the restaurant. At first sight, I thought it was the only fish down there. As I strained to focus, I discovered dozens of fish swimming around, they were just more camouflaged than the bright-orange one that caught my attention. I was reminded of how easy is it to disappear into the scenery as long as you’re not so wildly different that you draw attention to yourself. I made a mental note to keep this observation fresh in my mind—I needed to blend into the background.
I offered to buy Sherman’s lunch and hoped he’d go for something inexpensive since I was on a tight budget. Amy, our waitress, patiently waited while Sherman studied the menu.
“Fish and chips, Amy,” he ordered.
My eyes quickly scanned down the menu selections. “I’ll have a small salad.”
Amy took our menus and walked away.
“Tell me what you know about the day Roy disappeared,” I began.
“I know he wasn’t alone. Remember it like it was yesterday. Had a heck of a storm that night. Crazy Roy set out to open sea to keep his boat from gettin’ beat against the rocks. Came back all excited about some wreck he’d found. Went on and on
about it. I run a dive shop in town. Handled a lot of Roy’s charters. Sure do miss him.”
Sherman gulped down the glass of water Amy brought. He set it back down, then played with an ice cube at the bottom of the glass with his spoon. I watched him for a full minute and wondered what was so fascinating about the ice.
“What about this wreck?” I pressed.
“Oh, yeah. Said it was a real fancy yacht—rich fellow must’ve owned it. He knew it went down in the storm, ‘cause he’d seen it during the night, still afloat.”
“How did he know it sank?” I asked.
“Found stuff floating—deck chairs and…” Sherman glanced up at the sky and tapped his finger on the side of his face. “…something…weird. What was it? Oh yeah, computer mouse pads. He used his sonar equipment to locate the wreck. Came in all excited about pictures he took. Had a customer in the shop real interested. Hired Roy to take him out the next day to check it out. I filled his tanks and left ‘em for him out back. That was the last I ever saw of Roy.”
The sound of Paddy’s carbon-monoxide-detector alarm flashed through my mind. Could Sherman have contaminated his friend’s tanks my mistake? Or, on purpose? “You filled his tanks?” I asked, then studied his face carefully as he answered.
“Yeah. Filled ‘em the night before ‘cause they were leavin’ real early in the morning,” Sherman explained.
He seemed sincere, but I’ve been known to be wrong about people. I decided to ask the question. “You ever have a problem with carbon monoxide contamination in the tanks you fill?”
Sherman shook his head. “Nope. Never. Too smart to do somethin’ that dumb.”
I nodded and took a sip from my water glass. “You don’t happen to remember the man’s name, do you?”
“Heck no. Didn’t think much of it at the time. You know how it is. If I’d known I’d never see Roy again, I’d have paid more attention.”
“How about what he looked like? Or if he was with someone? Anything stand out?” I pressed.
Sherman stared into the sky, searching his memory. “Don’t recall too much of what he looked like. Just a regular fellow—no grotesque scars or tattoos to make him stand out. Don’t think he was on the island alone. Remember I’d seen him at the marina with four or five other guys that morning. They’d just gotten off a boat. I was out checking the damage. Terrible storm that night.”