“Because I’m so charming.”
She sighed. “Hold on.” I could hear her moving around her apartment. “Okay.”
“Look up a Carver 404 Cockpit Motor Yacht built in 1999.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“At the moment I’m standing on the bank of the Sacramento River freezing my ass off, holding a flashlight, a camera, and a cell phone. Adding a web search might be a bit challenging. Oh, and if you can find it send a shot of the boat looking at the front end.”
“I’d ask why you’re standing out there in the middle of the night, but I don’t really care.”
“Thank you.”
She said she’d text me the photo as soon as she could. I waited for a few minutes, shivering. When my phone dinged announcing the message’s arrival, I opened it. She’d come through, sending a front-on view of a Carver 404 that looked straight from a boat broker’s website. I compared the photo to the boats at the dock. Not the same. Not even close.
Disappointed, I managed, after a few missteps, to make it back up the bank and to my car. I was wet and muddy from the fall. I cranked up the heater to stave off the chills and clear the windows fogging from my breath. The next stop was the Riverbank Marina a mile away. Riverbank was larger with a dozen different docking areas, most of which were covered. I repeated the same process as I had at Riverview with the same results, though I did manage to avoid falling into the river this time.
I questioned the wisdom of my search. My hope was the boat would be located as near as possible to Sand Cove, the simplest scenario for the extortionist to execute. When I thought about it more, however, I realized he could have kept the boat docked anywhere and still navigated to the drop site.
It was after one in the morning. I was wet, tired, cold, and cranky. I wanted a shower, a drink, and a warm bed. After a long, frustrating day, this needle in a haystack search seemed futile at best.
“You’re an idiot, Ray,” I said to myself.
At least Sacramento Marina was on the way home. The city-run facility was the area’s largest, with more than four hundred slips. It wasn’t located in the ritziest part of town but was at the end of Broadway that had given way to federal housing projects, petroleum processing facilities, and homeless encampments. A light rain started to fall, the front end of the new storm predicted to hit Sacramento before daybreak. I continued west on Broadway as it narrowed and ended with a sweeping left turn onto Marina View Drive, which led to an empty parking lot.
At the west end of the parking lot closest to the river sat the marina’s office building, a handsome white structure stretching across the width of the six rows of parking spaces. There were enough light poles to ensure no one else was in the area, but to be sure, I took a lap around the lot before parking on the south side. The view from the parking lot did not hearten me. The five covered docks below ran away from me, blocking clear sightlines to the farthest boats. Across the way at Miller Park, I might be able to get a view of at least some of these, but not all. I zipped up my jacket and brought my camera and flashlight to find, as I had now come to expect, a security gate and razor wire preventing access to the docks.
The vantage point on the other side of the gate did reveal that most of the slips were empty. The remaining boats, even the parts I could glimpse at the farthest dock, were smaller than the one I was looking for.
The north side of the parking lot provided the same visual challenges as those on the south. I did notice a parking lot to my right offering a better view, but for now the only boats I could see were at the first of six docks. I walked towards the office building and observed the boats on this side of the marina were bigger, more on the order of what I was searching for. With my camera, I scanned the sterns of the dozens of boats, reading the names painted on them. At the western end of that first row I saw it: Cardinal Rules.
Now the question was how I would get aboard the damn boat.
thirty-six
The double shot of Knob Creek bourbon after a long hot shower helped me fall asleep about three in the morning. When I awoke at seven I felt rested and clear-headed. It would be a long day, so I made myself a big breakfast of eggs, bacon, a piece of toast, and an apple, washing it down with a glass of water and two cups of coffee.
The second storm front that had started when I was at the marina had come and gone, the street in front of my house glistening under a bright blue sky, a thin trickle of water easing down the gutter to the storm drains the last vestiges of the storm. I checked my cell and confirmed I’d received no new phone, e-mail, or text messages during my short sleep. Next, I punched in the phone number to my neighbors Ron and Carla Phillips.
I’d known Ron and Carla eighteen years now, ever since Pam, Sarah, and I had first moved into the neighborhood. They lived three doors down, both retired from their state jobs. Ron and I shared a passion for baseball and had countless conversations over the years about the merits of the designated hitter, the long ball versus little ball, pitch counts, instant replay for balls and strikes, and myriad other minutiae about the sport.
Ron greeted me enthusiastically. We exchanged small talk about the storm, the upcoming spring training season, and an update on a kitchen remodel they were about to undertake.
“I was calling to ask a favor,” I said after we had exhausted the pleasantries.
“No, problem. What can I do for you?”
“I’ll make it worth your trouble,” I continued. “Box seats for you and Carla opening day, Giants and Dodgers, if I can borrow your boat for the morning. Unless you were planning to use it.” He had a little twelve-foot aluminum fishing boat with an outboard motor on it.
“No, I wasn’t going to go fishing today. Water’s too stirred up from the rain. Hell yes, you can use it. And it’s nice of you to offer, but you don’t have to buy me tickets.”
“I’m going to need to borrow your truck, too. I don’t have a hitch on my car. And I’m getting you the tickets, so don’t argue.”
“Hell, for those opening day box seats against the Dodgers, you can borrow my boat and my truck. Want me to throw Carla in on the deal, too?”
I laughed. “No, the boat and truck are plenty.”
Twenty minutes later, Ron was laughing when I told him I—a boating novice—was going out alone and didn’t have anyone to help me launch it into the water. He offered to help me, but I didn’t want to get him involved with what I was about to do. Instead, he walked me through the steps on how to accomplish a solo boat launch. Then I headed out for Miller Park.
The rain had dissuaded fishermen and other recreational boaters from going out on the river. I had the boat ramp all to myself. My skills towing trailers had never been a strong suit, so it took me nine or ten attempts to back the damn boat straight into the water. I hopped out of the truck and clipped one end of the nylon line to the bow of the boat and the other to an eye-bolt on the trailer, just as Ron had instructed. Returning to the truck, I backed up a few feet more until the boat was floating in the water, the rear wheels of the truck just touching the water’s edge. Again, I got out of the truck, unclipped the line from the trailer, walked over to the adjacent pier, and tied the line to one of the several cleats running along the length of the pier.
I drove the truck back to the lot and parked it. Walking back to the boat, I boarded it and shoved off from the pier, gathering in the rope and starting the motor. For about five minutes, I practiced maneuvering the boat in the middle of the slow-moving river, gauging the throttle settings needed for docking speed and the sensitivity of the tiller. The river was a good two hundred feet wide, providing plenty of room for practice. Once I was satisfied I’d mastered the basic skills for my task, I navigated into the nearby inlet leading to the Sacramento Marina, passed by the southern set of docks before drawing even with the marina office and parking lot. I eased up on the throttle a bit so I could get a view of the parking lot between the office and a stand of trees. From what I could tell, no one was parked in the lot and no lights shone
through the office window. I cruised into the northern set of docks, where I spotted the Cardinal Rules on the first dock at the end nearest to me.
With the throttle set low, I puttered along at a couple of miles an hour. Three Canadian geese cruised by in the opposite direction, oblivious to my presence. The berths next to the Cardinal Rules were occupied, but I found a vacant one five spots away. I cut the engine and used a paddle to work my way close enough to the pier to grab one of the cleats. I tied the bowline to one cleat, got out of the boat, and tied the stern line to a second cleat.
Reaching into the boat, I pulled out a small plastic garbage bag where I’d placed my camera and cell phone to keep them dry. I stuck the cell phone in the pouch at the front of my UCLA Law hoodie and put the camera’s strap around my neck.
My nerves kicked in as I contemplated for the first time whether somebody might be living on the Cardinal Rules. I dismissed the idea, for right or wrong, because no cars were parked in the nearby lot.
Toting the plastic bag, I moved down the dock to the Cardinal Rules. The boat’s gunwale was too narrow to climb aboard from the pier. The stern looked more promising, where a wide foot ledge provided access to a cabin door. I tried the brass door handle and found it locked. When I reached into my rear pants pocket for the lock pick set, I cursed silently. I’d set the damn thing on the floor of Ron’s boat because it was too uncomfortable to sit on.
I went back to Ron’s boat to retrieve the pick set. Unable to reach it from the pier, I stepped on the middle bench seat and reached over to grab it. As I did, the boat rocked, pitching me forward, and I grabbed the gunwale to steady myself. The sudden movement caused my cell phone to tumble out of my sweatshirt. I watched as it clanged off the side of the boat and fell into the water.
“Great. Just great.”
There was nothing I could do about the phone. I went back to the big boat, picked the lock, and opened the cabin door. A bell jangled. I shut the door behind me and found an alarm keypad mounted on the wall next to the door. There was no off switch, only a numerical keypad. I would have to work fast before the police or security arrived.
The interior was a page out of Better Homes & Gardens. Light bounced in from the horizontal blinds angled upward but not fully closed. The motif was beige trimmings and black granite, a plush couch and sofa chair on either side of the cabin separated by a throw rug edged in a floral design. Beyond the living area, a granite-top dining table offered seating for four and led towards a well-appointed galley and pantry. At the end of the space was a second door.
I searched the pantry and a closet, even though I knew both areas were too small. The door at the front of the cabin was locked, which I was able to pick in a few seconds. Lacking the windows of the main cabin, the room was pitch dark. I felt along the wall for a switch and flicked on the light to reveal I had found the head.
Piled on the floor, toilet, sink, and vanity were the mailbags. I counted all twenty-four of them stuffed into the space, rising to my chest. I opened one of the bags and pulled out a stack of fifties.
I reached for my phone to call Trujillo and remembered I’d lost the damn thing. The alarm bell continued to clang. After setting several stacks of money atop one of the mail bags, I snapped off three quick shots with my camera.
The original plan was to find the money, call Trujillo, and meet him here. My lost cell phone eliminated that plan. But thinking about it, the alarm would serve the same purpose as a cell phone call. I’d have some explaining to do to the beat cops or the hired security guys, but in the end it would all work out. I also wondered if maybe the alarm just went to a monitoring center, which in turn notified the boat’s owner about the intrusion rather than calling the police. I could see the thieves not wanting their stash spotted by snooping cops.
Either way, it made sense for me to remain on the boat. If the cops came, I’d explain the situation and have them summon Trujillo. If they didn’t come, and the bad guys did, then I’d use their cell phone to call Sac PD and hold them at gunpoint until they arrived.
I plopped onto the sofa chair, my gun in hand. About five minutes later, the alarm stopped ringing, which I took as a sign a visit from somebody would be imminent.
thirty-seven
With my index finger, I eased down a slat in the aluminum blinds to get a view of the parking lot. The parts of the lot I could see remained empty, though much of it was obscured by the business office and a swath of trees.
I sat back down and pondered the implications of what I’d found. People would be going to jail. I went back to the head to take a second look at the bags of money. Just to be sure, I checked the contents of five different bags. It all seemed to be there. Outside on the dock I could hear the loud, swift advance of footsteps. Less than a minute later, the cabin door swung open.
“You should see the look on your face,” I said. “I thought ‘jaw dropped open’ was only an expression. But yours really did.”
“What are you…how did you…you have no…” Candace Symingtom was having a hard time finding the right words.
“Take a second, Candace. Collect your thoughts.” Aiming my gun at her probably didn’t help her composure. “I want you to take off your jacket and toss it over in the corner. Then I want you to turn around so I can see you don’t have a weapon stuck in your jeans. Toss your purse over onto the chair.” I pointed at the sofa chair with my gun. She did as I asked.
“You made pretty good time,” I said. “It’s about twenty miles from Rosetown to here. Will the police be joining us?”
She shook her head. “No, the alarm company notified me.”
“Too bad. They’d get a kick out of seeing all that money. Sit down on the couch.” I kept a close eye on her as I went through her purse, confirming she didn’t have a gun hidden inside. I moved back to keep a good six to eight feet between us.
“I can explain,” she said.
“I’m sure you can.”
“How did you find the money?”
I pointed at her shoes. “Top Siders are boating shoes. And your keys there in your purse. You have a floating keychain. I noticed it the first day we met. People who spend a lot of time in and around boats tend to have those. If you accidentally drop your keys in the water, they’ll float so you can retrieve them. It got me to thinking.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“From there it was easy to do an online search about the registered boat owners in California. This one is registered to a Dr. Arthur Symington. Your father, I take it?”
She gave a slight nod.
“I like the name, Cardinal Rules. Named after your alma mater, Stanford. Nice of your dad to do that.”
She nodded again. She looked sick, her face pale.
“It was a good idea to use a boat to haul away the money. Security here is pretty good. Though, I was able to get in, not to pat myself on the back.” I gave her an exaggerated smile. “When were you planning to move the money somewhere else?”
“Eventually.”
“It was pretty stupid for you to come barging in here unarmed when you got the call from the alarm company.”
“I figured the storm set off the alarm.” Her voice was a soft monotone, as if she was still processing the situation. “I’ll give you some of the money if you’ll go away and drop the whole thing.”
“It’s funny. When I first started on this assignment, I thought it might be an inside job. You know, someone on Monarch. Then everything hit the fan. Chan gets killed. Forrester and Seeger blow up that damn building. But you went one step too far when you killed Adam Benzer. All of a sudden, the Golden Dragons are in jail. The SCS are in jail. And the only ones left standing are the Monarch project team members. I knew one or more of you had to be behind it all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anybody.”
“It made perfect sense to me,” I said, ignoring her. “You were the one who told me on day one that maybe S-SOP stole the project, knowin
g S-SOP’s ties would lead me to the Stone Creek Saviors.”
She made no effort to argue the point, looking at me with a mixture of hatred and fear, her dark eyes narrowed and fixed on me.
“Was it just luck the Golden Dragons happened to be in the mix, or did you know Chan and Benzer were into them for a half-million?”
She continued to pierce me with her eyes.
“Then you added the bloody SCS letters at Chan’s house. Something was wrong about that. I mean, I could see the Golden Dragons or the SCS as suspects, but not both. Framing them both was overkill. Excuse the pun.”
“Are you going to let me talk, or are you going to keep making things up?”
“One more question, and then it’s your turn. Are Wiggin and Cassidy both in on it?”
She laughed and shook her head. “You have no idea about anything. No, they had nothing to do with this, nothing at all. They still think SCS got the money.”
“You did it all by yourself? The extortion plot? The murders?”
“I didn’t kill anybody. Stop saying that!” She looked about the cabin, at the door, the blinds behind me, and then the money.
“How did you hatch this little plan of yours?”
“It was Thomas’s idea. I was venting to him one night…about how hard I worked on Monarch…about how little I was going to get out of it.” She seemed in shock, her words coming in disjointed bursts, her eyes studying the floor at her feet. “The university…they had all the rights…to the profits…the patents…everything else. They pay me two grand a month…that’s it…and I developed something worth several billion dollars. That wasn’t fair. Thomas proposed doing something about that.”
“He came up with the idea of ransoming it to Sunrise and NAFC?”
“No.” Her eyes regained some focus, and she looked at me. “He said he could find a buyer for it in China. He said he could get five or ten million for it. He brought Adam in on it, too.”
“What happened to that deal?”
Courage Stolen Page 20
