Kim thought about his logic while enjoying the fresh, perfectly done shrimp. Ken had a point, she mused reluctantly. “You think the money ended up in my bank? It could be in cash, or it could be in some other bank. You are doing that thing they call grasping at straws.”
“Just look.”
“I hate you for making me do this.”
He took a large bite from his steak and managed to reply in between bites. “And I love you for complying with your local law enforcement officer.”
*
The wedding was small but pretty. They decided to have it at Chuck’s country club out on Long Island with no opposition from Claire. The only sticky point was a conversation that got mildly tense when she brought up the inevitable money issue.
Her words were pretty straightforward to the effect of “If I’m going to have kids with you, then I need to know that we will be safe in case anything unfortunate.”
“What do you mean?” was Chuck’s response.
“My parents told me that when I get married, I must be sure that there will be money for the children and me if something bad happens. I remember those exact words.”
“You’ll get assets if I die. If that is what you are worried about, I’m not going to leave you without security. I own 11% of the shares of Rangolenk. They’ll go to you and any children we have, plus other assets, like the houses, and so on.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no, Claire? That will give you a big position in the company. You’ll be just fine.”
“No, Charles. I saw things like that happen to clients that my father dealt with. The shares go to the widow, and the board goes insane. The big fights erupt, and everyone trashes the woman because the share price drops like a rock. No. Put the shares in a blind trust for the children.”
“Then what about you?”
“The easy way that won’t become relevant until we’re both very old and gray—take out an insurance policy that will protect me.”
“I already have a policy. It’s $3 million.”
“$3 million? You’re kidding. When we are in our 80’s, $3 million will only be enough to buy a used car.”
“You have a good point considering that my shares in the company are worth 50 times that. So what about $30 million? Do you think that if I make it to 85 or 90 and then leave you thirty, that that will be enough?”
“Let’s meet with the insurance guy and buy it and then put it away and forget about it. I’d rather concentrate on making babies with you.”
Three days later, an insurance agent friend signed Chuck to a policy with the sole beneficiary listed as Claire German. A milestone was reached, and simultaneously, Claire made a very secret trip to an out-of-state pharmacy to buy birth control pills. Mrs. Clemp would not be getting pregnant in this lifetime.
*
Detective Manshu was a classic snooper. The handful of investigators in the San Pedro P.D. moved on to solvable crimes like break-ins and occasionally crimes on the mainland. Not Ken. The enigma-like case of Doctor Fioret gnawed at him. That murder was a burning stick up his rear end. Other than being gagged and taped, the coroner had concluded that the only fatal wound was a penetration directly into his heart. No murder weapon found—no witnesses near the tiny bungalow. The only reports of anyone close mentioned a handful of local teens making a bonfire on the beach.
“This case sucks.” Kenny slammed the folder shut, reclined back in his chair, and put his brown boots up on the desk.
“Go home, Manshu.”
“I’m going.”
“I see that you are going. Yes, you are moving quickly now. Look at Manshu running like a cheetah.”
Ken smirked.
“Good night, Mr. Sherlock.” The chief slithered out the door. It was eight p.m.
Fifteen minutes later, Ken decided to head over to the hotel area where Fioret died. It was a Friday night, just like when the doctor was murdered. No one in the department made an effort to track down the teens on the beach. It was based on a report that earlier in the evening, some adolescents were piling up sticks. Maybe it was habitual.
The drive over to the shoreline was dotted with tourists waving him down to ask for directions—quite typical for cops and something they all expected and lived with. The mayor lectured them annually about how the police were the best public relations people in the whole government—blah, blah, blah.
He parked on an access road above the beach. Sure enough, a small bonfire was visible roughly a hundred meters from the little cabin where his victim bought it.
Detective Manshu tossed his jacket into the backseat and tried to look casual. As he approached the group, they gave him a minor glance and went back to listening to their hip-hop.
Ken walked closer, but they didn’t view him as a threat and continued the process of lighting up a bong. Since 2017, maybe even before that, cops began to ignore cannabis; it just wasn’t worth the time and effort compared to meth and cocaine.
“Is that some weed you got there?”
“Are you buying or selling?” asked one of the girls. She looked to be about fourteen, maybe fifteen.
“Neither. I’m a cop.” He loved to drop that on kids just to see their reaction. This bunch yawned, almost.
“Whatchu want, man?”
“I’m not here to make problems. But can I ask you a question?”
The non-threatening manner in which he spoke to them worked to mitigate their automatic dislike. A teen of about seventeen shrugged, “Yeah, whatever.”
“Do you guys know about the murder in that hotel over there?” Manshu pointed up the beach as he sat down on the sand a couple of meters away.
“Everybody knows. We were here that night, too.”
That was easy, Ken thought.
“Some cops put up signs asking for information, but we don’t know anything,” said another girl.
“What happened that night?” Manshu asked. “You just sat here all night and didn’t see anyone?”
“Yes. But not all night. We are good citizens. We put the fire out at midnight and then left.”
Manshu pressed them. “You didn’t see anyone at all? The whole night until midnight, nobody?”
This time, the younger girl answered. “No one asked us, but some blond tourist lady walked past here.”
Her answer created a stew of butterflies in his gut. “What did she do? Did she talk to you?”
“No, man,” said the older boy. “She just walked by. That’s it.”
The girl contradicted him. “No. Not just walked by; she threw some stuff on our fire. It looked like wood.”
Ken finally got something to chew on. “Then what happened?”
“She walked away. Do you want to know what she looked like?”
“Sure. Yes.”
“She was a bit shorter than you, and she had long blond hair. She was thin, and she was wearing tight jeans and a shirt with a few buttons. Like a polo shirt. It was white or yellow. Her hair was fake.”
“Are you saying it was a wig?” asked Manshu
“No doubt, man. I work in a salon sometimes. I know fake hair. And she was pretty. Maybe in her 30’s trying to look like she was 20. Her sneakers were white with blue stripes.”
The detective was floored by all the details. He smiled at the girl. “You must do well in school. Maybe you want to be a police officer when you get older?”
The whole group laughed hard as the older girl blurted out, “Zahidah is the chief’s daughter!” The laughter continued as he walked back to his car. He now knew where to find his star witness.
Chapter 11
“I asked Augustino. Those guys haven’t been seen anywhere up and down the coast for a month.”
Cassie rolled over to face him. They were warm, close, and completely naked on Mike’s bed underneath a thin blanket. Their months together created a bond that was solid and undeniable. She kissed him. “So that means we’re safe. No need to run away to a remote island?”
&nb
sp; “Wrong, Cass. They will always be hunting me. The tension will come in spurts, and maybe in ten or twenty years, I will stop looking behind me every time I hear car tires squealing on the pavement.”
“That’s a little ambiguous. Should we stay, or should we go?”
He ran his hand along the curve of her hip. “For now, we stay and count our blessings that the guy who owns this junkyard is also ridiculously connected to everyone. My landlord is like his own news network. I wonder if he has mafia connections.”
She ignored his comment. “Maybe you can start staying at my apartment? Isn’t it safe now?”
His reaction was quick. “No. I don’t want people to associate me with you. Your place is in the middle of a bunch of nosey neighbors. If something happens and I need to run, there’s a chance you can be off the radar.”
She accepted his explanation, but Cassie also knew that she was fast approaching thirty. She wanted a normal life and maybe even a family. Being with Mr. Mike Casper was complicated. Falling in love with him was even more confusing. She sighed. He noticed her angst but said nothing.
“Let’s take a trip. We can cruise your boat up to Messina and run around Sicily for a week. This town can manage without your fish for that long and I’ll get the cook to hold down the pub.”
“Too soon,” Mike answered flatly.
“You think they’re looking for you in Sicily?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he replied. “There is big money on my head. They might even have a picture of me.”
“Let’s dye your hair. We’ll make you into a blond hunk.”
“I thought that I already had the hunk part.”
“Fine. Mr. Muscle, but we can change your appearance. They’ll be looking for some dark-haired American.”
Mike stretched. “I’ll think about that. It’s a little weird.”
“Better weird than seen,” she pointed out.
“Yeah. Better weird than dead.”
The following morning, she split to the pub early—right after another round of passionate sex. They both knew that their physicality wasn’t the glue that held them together; their love took care of that. Instead, the physicality was a bonus that just sealed their relationship. Casper never expected that.
After she left, he reminded himself to do a little research on the drift he noticed in the fishing results. Week by week, the schools of tuna and others seemed to move west and south, drawing him further from shore. But he was still the lone boat out there at midday. The solitude was helpful but lonely. Especially when thoughts of his British girlfriend invariably entered his mind. He joked with her that she made great fish and chips, but his life was now “fish n’ chick.” Cassie wasn’t amused.
“Hey, American,” called Alfredo. “I’m no school today. I be here waiting for you with the catch.”
The Italian kid was quite a go-getter. He kind of reminded Mike of himself before the drug business sucked him in and messed up his life. “Okay. Be here at four.”
He waded into the water and worked quickly to get the Sylia Cantonni moving. Perhaps today would be a good haul. Perhaps it would be possible to live a simple life with Cass. Money didn’t mean much now. He’d grown up a lot, and his values were so different from being the drug bean counter, street observer, and math boy that he’d been for Alan. He had hope—real dreams and optimism.
“Don’t blow it, Casper.” He focused on running out to the new fishing grounds, all the while thinking, don’t blow it. Mike sat in the cockpit, pushed the throttle to 2500 rpm’s, and enjoyed the sunshine raining down on him from high above the horizon.
*
“I can’t believe we are here! Oh, Charles, thank you for making me so happy!”
Clemp looked out over the sea from the balcony of their Portorosa, Sicily hotel. It was bright, beautiful, sunny weather. Everything was perfect. From the blue tile on the floor, the grounds, the food, and especially the bed. “I’m the one who should be doing the thanking. You’ve taken a middle-aged donkey and turned him into a stud.”
“The stud part is right. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here instead of sailing? We can eat, drink, and be merry.”
“Mrs. Clemp. We figured out how to get the company to function for a few weeks without me, so let’s get out to sea and enjoy that. You’ve never been sailing. The Med looks flat, which is a good thing for a rookie. Pop a Dramamine, and with any luck, you’ll take to the water like a porpoise.”
“And if not?”
“The cup is half-full, dear!”
She grabbed her backpack. “All right. Let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit I’m looking for!”
A few minutes later, they were walking to the marina. It cost Chuck a whopping $2500 a month just to tie up and keep the Won Again shipshape. It was a damn good thing he was rich. The boat was a 45-footer—not overly luxurious by C.E.O. standards, but manageable by one experienced skipper (which he was), and the bow thrusters gave him an edge when trying to maneuver into position. Traditional sailors considered that an unnecessary luxury, but heading out with Claire was essentially going solo.
“Do you hear that, honey?”
“Hear what?” she asked as they walked down the finger pier towards the boat.
“The incessant ‘bang bang’ of the lines knocking against the masts of all these boats.”
“It’s kind of charming.”
“Not. It makes me insane, Claire. From the time I was a kid, the sound of those halyard lines running up from the mainsail to the top of the mast—banging away on the aluminum—makes me nuts.”
She grinned and squeezed his hand. “Half the words in that sentence meant nothing to me.”
Chuck laughed. “Sorry. It’s just the nit-picky sailor in me. We’re almost at the Won Again. I’ll show you how I tie the line so that it can’t whack up against the mast repeatedly. Do I sound a little obsessive?”
“Um. Yes.”
He pointed off to the right about four boats ahead. “And there she is!”
“How come it’s a she?”
“That’s a classic question. Why do you think?”
Claire seemed to ponder that for a second. “Because men love their boats almost as much as their wives?”
“Actually, no.”
“What? You love the boat more than me?”
“No, of course not. What I meant was that an admiral in the navy was asked that question once. He answered that they called ships ‘she’ because it cost so much to keep them in ‘paint and powder.’”
“Funny,” she smirked. “Well, it’s a good thing that I’m not a money-hungry she-demon.”
“One of the reasons I married you.” Chuck waved his hand to the right. “And, here we are!”
He looked at his boat from the waterline to the radio antenna perched atop the mast. The marina must have taken the warning that he was coming seriously. His sloop looked pristine.
The two of them stepped onto the gangplank and then stood on the deck. There were two wheels on Chuck’s sport-cruising boat. A bank of electronics gave the helmsman the ability to use the autopilot to lock the boat onto a course, something convenient if the skipper was short-handed and had to run the show without help. The cockpit area had bench seating, and the fiberglass deck was molded with tiny plastic diamond shapes to keep the crew from slipping around.
“Well. What do you think?”
“I think I would be completely lost without you here to tell me what to do. This looks extremely complicated.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got thousands of miles behind me. I’ll keep you safe. First, let’s get that hatch open and take a look down below. There are three cabins, which we call ‘berths,’ and I think that over the next few days, we should have a little fun in all of them.”
Claire touched his thigh. “Ready when you are, Popeye.”
“That was delightful, but I’m a little bit queasy.”
“Alright,” Chuck replied. “You need to be
back up on deck. C’mon.”
He helped her up the ladder. She looked relieved. “Is it always so tough down there?”
“Sometimes. Your body should get used to it. You took your pill, right?”
“Definitely.”
“Fine. Let’s go out for a nice, short, and flat cruise. We’ll just use the motor. There’s not much wind now anyway.”
“Aye, aye, skipper,” she said.
The Won Again glided out of her slip. Chuck managed to get going without looking sloppy, although getting back in was almost always messier. His wife sat on the port side. Behind her, the breakwater ran another two hundred meters. Once they got past the navigation light at the end, he would turn to port and head out under engine power.
“Charles, what do you call those things?”
“What things?”
“Those big concrete star-shaped things that are piled up to our left?”
“They’re called dolosse. They are stacked up all along here to block the waves from coming into the marina. They form this whole giant breakwater.”
“Huh. Clever,” she replied.
The turn out into the Mediterranean Sea was simple enough, and it was a calm day with almost no wind. To Chuck, his wife seemed to be doing her best to adapt, but her body language said she was feeling sick. He was hoping that she would settle down and get her sea legs.
“I have an idea. Come sit behind that other wheel. There are no boats near us, so you take that portside wheel and steer. It’ll help you get used to the motion.”
Reluctantly, Claire shuffled her way to the wheel and stood up behind it.
“Just grab it. I’m going to let go.”
“No, don’t!”
“Mrs. Clemp, nothing will happen. Just hold the wheel. Take a peek at the compass right in front of you. What does it say?”
“It don’t say nothin’ I gotta read it!”
He laughed. “Very funny. Tell me the numbers where the red line is.”
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 8