Diamond Reef

by Douglas Pratt

"Is this about the necklace?" Missy asked.

  I shook my head with some doubt. "I really don't know," I admitted. "I can't see how anyone would have known we got the necklace from its hidey-hole in the Keys, but I am also pretty certain it wasn't Moreno's guys either."

  "Maybe," Missy suggested, "it's time to let Tristan go. Talk to the wife."

  I considered it while I was waiting to be stitched up. Tristan put himself into a rather deep hole. He dug multiple ones simultaneously, and there is no way to know which one has swallowed him up. Kayla and Abbie should stay with her family and let this whole thing blow over. If Tristan came back, then things would need to be sorted out. If he didn't ever show up, then it was likely that he was dead.

  On the other hand, things were happening. There was still the possibility that the guy in the Trailblazer was working with Gilliam in blackmailing Peterson. My gut said that wasn't the case. Gilliam and Leah hatched that plan, and if I dug at them, I'd very likely find a concrete connection to Peterson. At this point, I wasn't willing to do that.

  "I have a couple of things I'm looking into," I told her, "but if that doesn't pan out, I think I'll have run out of roads to look down."

  "What are you doing next?" she asked.

  "Tonight's agenda is going to involve collapsing in my berth and sleeping till morning. Then I'll figure out what to do next."

  29

  "I'm going to grab a drink at the Manta," I told Missy when we pulled into the lot. "Want one?"

  She shook her head. "No, we're supposed to have dinner at the in-laws."

  I couldn't contain the cringe on my face.

  "They aren't that bad," she lied, mostly to herself. "Besides, Paige is going so that will be a nice buffer."

  The marina's complimentary car sat in its regular parking space. Clear plastic covered the broken window. Randy had covered the edge of the plastic with several strips of silver duct tape.

  "I'll pay for the window," I told her. "I'm sorry about that."

  "We have insurance. You just cover the deductible," she replied as I opened the door.

  She put her hand on my leg and leaned over and kissed my cheek before I got out. "Please be careful," she pleaded.

  "I'll try. I'm just going to wash down these antibiotics with some rum before I call it a night."

  She pulled away and left me in the parking lot, watching the red taillights turn north and blend into the traffic. When the lights were indistinguishable from the others on the road, I gave up my preposterous vigilance and ventured into the bar. I felt like I needed to call Peterson too. This bag of money was something of an albatross around my neck. I wanted to get clear of the whole Peterson debacle without compromising any moral choices I might be forced to make.

  The Manta Club was busy. The din of laughter and conversations drowned out the overhead music that, if I strained to listen to sounded like John Mellencamp. Kristy whizzed past me with a tray of drinks. She broke character and gave me a coy smile. I dodged a pair of gentlemen talking with wide sweeps of their hands and stepped behind the bar. Hunter glanced up at me while pulling a draft.

  Picking up the phone, I dialed Peterson's number. He didn't answer. His voice mail message told me that he was unavailable, and I left a brief message that I needed to talk to him.

  The albatross was still there, and I had to decide what to do with it until I got it back to the mayor. Taking the bag to my boat seemed like a poor idea. There were already too many people interested in my comings and goings to be sure that it would be safe there. After some careful thought, I went to the public bathroom downstairs and found it empty. It was usually vacant. For some reason, it seemed out of the way enough that guests never used it; instead, they opted to cross the lobby to the one by the front desk. Stepping up on the toilet, I lifted the ceiling tile above the stall. The stitches in my side pulled. I ignored them and slipped the bag into the hole before replacing the tile.

  When I finished, I returned to the Manta for that drink that I deserved after a hard day of being shot. I sidled up and sat at the bar, waiting on Hunter to make his way to me for my order.

  "Hey," Hunter remarked when he got around to me. "I heard you got shot today. Is that true?" He studied me, looking confused that I was sitting upright.

  "Word gets around."

  "Really," he was shocked. "I can't believe you got shot."

  "It was a graze. Barely broke the skin."

  "Randy came by after he got the car. I wasn't sure if he was shitting me or not. You doing okay?"

  I pointed at the hole in my shirt, caked in dried brown blood. "It was just a flesh wound. The stitches were a bigger pain than the bullet hole."

  "Still, that's crazy," he said. "Were you ever shot when you were in the Marines?"

  "Once in the leg."

  "Damn," he whistled. "Does it hurt?"

  "The leg? Not anymore. The stitches throbs a little right now."

  "Need a drink?" he asked, then he restated it as "You need a drink."

  "Yeah," I agreed. "Give me a rum and Coke."

  He stepped off to make my drink. He returned a minute later with the glass and two slips of paper.

  "You have a couple of messages," he said, handing me the paper.

  I nodded my thanks and read them. The first was a number and the name "Tommy." Perhaps it was the Tommy from Hometown Hardware. I was a little surprised to even hear from him. Maybe Stephen came through.

  The second was from Kayla. I froze as I read the note under her name that said, "Tristan texted to meet at the house."

  "Hunter," I called, "when did this one call?"

  He looked over at the message. "Is that the girl? It was early. Maybe two or so."

  "Shit!" I cursed. "Can you hand me the phone?"

  Hunter tossed the cordless receiver to me as he continued making a margarita. Kayla's number rang twice and went to voice mail.

  "Kayla, it's Chase. I'm on my way to your house. If you haven't gotten there yet, wait until you hear from me."

  I hung up the phone and looked at Hunter. "Did she say anything else?" I asked him.

  Hunter shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. "Just that she was supposed to meet what's-his-name."

  "Tristan," I filled in the blank under my breath.

  Jumping up, I said, "I gotta go."

  "Is everything okay?" he asked with a look of deep concern on his face as if he was at fault for delivering the message so late.

  "It's just a bad feeling I have," I answered.

  My untouched drink sat on the bar as I hurried out the door. The other set of keys for the Toyota was still in my pocket. Randy had most of the broken glass out of the driver's seat.

  Heading toward Loxahatchee, I wondered if it was true that Tristan had reached out to Kayla. That would be a relief, but my gut wasn't convinced. I didn't like the fortuity of the whole thing. The phone call from Kayla was just a few minutes after the kid in the parking lot shot me. The greasy bastard in the Trailblazer might have realized that the bag was a decoy and decided to go a different route. He was just trying for a smash and grab. That meant that he wasn't looking for anything big. Something small enough that it could fit in a backpack. Like a diamond necklace.

  Maybe it was just timing or pure luck. If Tristan heard that I was looking for him, he could have decided to resurface now. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that it was less than an hour after I was shot and robbed.

  As I said, I don't like coincidences. Not because I don't believe in them, but they aren't dependable. They should never be trusted. Better to prove it's good fortune than find out later it wasn't.

  The roads were dark as I headed west along the golf course that lined the northern side of the street. As I got closer to the Locke's house, the few streetlights were becoming even farther apart until I was on their street. The street was dark, and the darkness was only broken by patches of light coming from windows of homes where people were dulling their minds with whatever police procedural or reality sh
ow was beaming in from the satellites far above the earth.

  An older Ford minivan was parked in the driveway of Tristan's house. My headlights illuminated the dark house when I pulled in behind it. The plywood that I used to cover the front door was missing. The door frame was an eerie maw for a house full of shadows.

  Leaving the lights on so I could see, I got out slowly. The sound of crickets and cicadas sang through the dark. Tiny spots of light flashed around the yard as fireflies talked back and forth.

  The air was still and hot. A typical inland Florida night. I swiped away the buzzing of a mosquito near my ear.

  The minivan was empty, but from the booster seat in the back, I guessed it was Kayla's.

  "Kayla," I said aloud. If anyone else was around, they already knew I was here. There was little need for stealth at this point.

  The only answer was the insect cacophony that reverberated through the night.

  I walked through the front door and found the light switch. The house looked the same. The plywood barricade was lying on the floor, but the rest of the house still looked trashed.

  Turning lights on as I passed through the kitchen and hallway, I found an empty house. I stopped suddenly.

  The door to the bathroom was busted as if it had been kicked in. The doorknob was ripped from the cheap hollow door. Two feet stuck out of the doorway.

  I knelt in the darkened bathroom over Kayla's prone figure. Her head was caked in blood, but she was breathing. Someone had hit her on the head, but she was breathing.

  "Kayla," I asked. "Can you hear me?"

  She groaned.

  "Kayla."

  Her eyes fluttered.

  I searched around for her phone in the dark. When I found it, I was dismayed to find the screen smashed.

  Another groan from Kayla.

  "Abbie!" she howled.

  "Kayla," I tried to comfort her. "It's Chase."

  "Chase." Her voice was frantic. "Where's Abbie?"

  "I don't know," I answered.

  "He took her," she cried.

  "Who?" I asked. "Tristan?"

  She shook her head barely, wincing in pain.

  "No, some guy," she whispered. Her hand grabbed mine as she tried to pull herself up.

  "Take it easy," I said. "You got whacked pretty hard."

  She turned her eyes to me. "He's got Abbie."

  "Okay, let's get you up slowly, though."

  She put her arm around me, and I lifted her to the edge of the bathtub so she could rest.

  "Sit for a second," I begged her.

  She nodded slowly.

  "Can you remember what happened?"

  "I got a text from Tristan," she started.

  "Did you talk to him?" I asked. "Or just a text?"

  "Just a text."

  I nodded for her to continue.

  "I drove down right away. The house..." Her words trailed off. "He was in Abbie's room. He told me he wanted to know where Tristan hid the necklace."

  She started to cry as the shock hit her. "I tried to lock us in here," she stammered. "He kicked the door down."

  "It's okay, Kayla," I put my arms around her. "Did he say anything else?"

  "I don't remember," she bawled. "The door broke, and I don't know."

  "We have to get you to the hospital."

  "I have to find Abbie," she demanded.

  "We will," I promised her, "but you have to get checked out."

  "I don't know what he was talking about," she murmured to herself.

  "I think I do." I helped her to her feet. "We'll get her back, I promise. Tell me about the guy."

  "He was skinny. White guy. Maybe around my age."

  "Did he say anything about calling you?"

  She shook her head. "I guess he has my number."

  "Yeah," I sighed as I showed her the broken phone.

  "How are we going to get her back?"

  "I think he and I already met today, so he knows who I am. But if he texted from Tristan's phone, then we can assume he has it."

  I walked her slowly out to the car and got her buckled up.

  "I'll come back and secure the house for you."

  "No," she said flatly. "I just want my daughter back."

  I nodded and shut the door. Kayla's head bobbed a little as if the effort to hold it straight was too much.

  As I pulled out of the driveway, she listed over toward my leg. She was crying as I sped down the road.

  "I hate him," she mumbled through her tears. I assumed she was talking about Tristan.

  "I'll get her back," I promised again because I didn't know what else to say.

  30

  The lights of the Manta Club were still on when I finally made it back to the Tilly. I peered through the closed glass doors to see Hunter closing up the bar. He was cleaning the service area as I came in.

  I spent the last few hours consoling Kayla as we waited in the hospital's waiting room. When the emergency room doctor finally saw her, he insisted that she stay for observation.

  "The police will come by," I told her before I left. "I'd suggest you tell them everything. They might be able to help."

  She nodded silently. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  "I'm going to try to reach out to him on Tristan's phone," I said. "I'll work something out."

  The nurses decided that I had been there long enough and shooed me out. Hoping to still find a drink, I headed back to the inn.

  Hunter saw me standing at the locked door and let me in.

  "You're back late," he commented.

  "Yeah," was all I could muster.

  "Everything alright?" he asked. "You look a little dismayed."

  "It's been a night," I mumbled. I sat at the bar.

  "Is it the girl that called?" he surmised.

  I nodded. "She was attacked, and her daughter kidnapped."

  "Oh shit," he said. "You need anything?"

  I waved off his offer. "I have to make a call," I said. "You going to be a minute?"

  "I'm almost done but take your time."

  On my way through the front door, I grabbed the valet's cell phone. I'd tell Missy I had it in the morning, but right now, I wanted to start the ball rolling.

  "The girl better be safe," I typed. "I have what you want. Let's trade."

  I wanted to be vague but make the appropriate demands. Knowing that Abbie was safe was the most important thing.

  Hunter set a glass of whiskey in front of me.

  "I already dumped the ice," he said, "but you look like you need something."

  "Thanks," I replied before I slugged back the liquor. The slow burn of whiskey coursed through my abdomen. "I'll get out of your way."

  "You need me to cover tomorrow?" he asked.

  "You've been on all week," I said apologetically.

  "Yeah, well," he said sheepishly, "it sounds like you have your hands full."

  "I'll make it up to you," I promised.

  He gave me an agreeing nod.

  Leaving him in the bar, I walked toward the marina. The sky was clear, except a few clouds that drifted in front of the stars. The difference in the air from here versus Tristan's house was astounding. The ocean breeze made the night almost cool and pleasant.

  When I climbed into the cockpit, I sat back on the starboard cushion and called Jay.

  "Delp," he answered sleepily.

  "Sorry I woke you," I said.

  "Chase," he sounded surprised. "What's up?"

  "I think it's time I fill you in completely. Things have escalated out of control."

  "Yeah, hold on," he replied. I could hear him moving around, maybe getting up out of bed. He asked, "What's going on?"

  I began filling him in with all the details that I had purposefully left out for his own sake.

  When I finished, he asked, "Is Kayla alright?"

  "Yeah, it was a bad concussion."

  "I'll book the next flight down," he said. "I'll see what's going out in the morning."

  "I wa
nt to find this guy before I set any meeting with him. He was alone when he shot me earlier, but he might not be working alone."

  "Are you sure it's the same guy?" Jay asked.

  "Not totally positive, but what are the odds?"

  "You think Tristan and this guy were burglarizing houses?"

  "It was just a theory, but he told Kayla he wanted the necklace. That starts to tie it all up."

  Jay said, "I ran through the lists of stolen goods for you. There was one that reported a stolen diamond necklace appraised at $45,000."

  "That has to be it," I said.

  He gave me the address of the house. "The victim is listed as Sharon Goddard. Her husband, Harold, was killed during the burglary. Bludgeoned with a marble statue."

  "Any chance that you have a phone number?" I asked. "I want to talk to her tonight, and I don't think she will be receptive to a stranger at this time of night."

  "Yeah, it's in here." He gave me the phone number.

  "Thanks, Jay," I said.

  "There's a flight at 7:50. I'll be there by noon."

  I hung up with him. Sharon Goddard's number was in my hand. I paused before I began dialing. It was almost midnight. The woman had endured something horrific only a few weeks ago. I was about to dredge it up for her.

  An image of little Abbie Locke eating chicken tenders in the Manta flashed through my head. The girl was the only thing that mattered right now.

  The phone rang three times before a woman answered.

  "Hello," the voice sounded raspy.

  "Mrs. Goddard?"

  "Yes?" Her tone was less groggy and began to veer toward either concern or annoyance.

  "I'm sorry about the late hour," I said. "I'm pressed for time, and I was hoping to talk to you about the burglary."

  "Who is this?"

  "My name is Chase Gordon. I'm going to get to the point. I don't mean to be insensitive or disturb you this late, except that it's very important."

  "Well, get to it, Mr. Gordon," the woman stated matter-of-factly.

  "A little girl was kidnapped today, and I believe that the man that took her was the same one that broke into your house."

  Sharon Goddard was silent for a moment. Eventually, she asked, "Who exactly are you?"

  "The little girl is the daughter of my friend. I am not involved with the police, but I'm sure that they are also looking for the girl."