by Jenna Rae
“You and I haven’t ever gotten close,” he said. “I regret that. I’m afraid recent events may have driven a wedge between us.”
She shook her head. “All you and I have ever done is our duty. We try to serve the people of this town as well as we can. Sometimes well-intentioned people see things differently, that’s all. As I said before, I don’t take it personally.”
He nodded. “Good, that’s the attitude. I’m glad to hear you feel that way.”
She waited, sipping the smooth whiskey. The boat dipped starboard as a huge wave rocked it.
“Well, I’ll get to it before we end up in San Diego.” He laughed. “The world is changing, Captain Borelli.”
“Brenda, please.”
“Brenda. Personally I like the old way. I prefer the police department continue to serve the community, just like you were saying, and we maintain the high standard we’ve been setting all along. But that’s not the way things are going. So we can lie back and get left behind, or we can get in on the ground floor of the changes and try to make things as good as possible for the civilians.”
She tilted her head in a pantomime of curiosity.
He frowned at her. “You know Dan Miller, right?”
“Yes, in fact, I had dinner with him last night.”
He nodded. “He likes you. I like you. We all do. And we’d like you to be Briarwood’s next chief.”
“He said, I’m sorry, but—he said you didn’t work with him.”
“Dan’s cautious, as you might understand.”
“I do.” She swirled the whiskey in her glass and stared down at it. “What about Chief Walton?”
He stepped over to the bar tray, pouring himself another triple shot. He was surprisingly steady on his feet for a drunken man on a rocking boat.
“Walton is a politician. He was never real police. Not one of us. You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? He knows how to say the right thing, how to play both sides against the middle. But he’s not one of us.”
She nodded in concession and waited him out.
“He also has some, ah, personal issues.”
She frowned to hide any involuntary humor in her eyes at the irony of this man talking about someone else’s personal issues. Walton was having an affair with a woman in her twenties, but otherwise appeared to be unblemished. In comparison to Banks and a startling number of his fellows, Walton was a choirboy.
“They may come to light or he might decide to retire. Either way, he’ll be gone in the next year or two. I want you to take his place.”
“Why me? Why not you or Tori or any of the other commanders?”
He waved his glass, spilling several drops of whiskey on the sofa and on Brenda. He loomed over her again, and she fought the impulse to back away when he leaned down to stare into her eyes. He was sweaty and flushed and glassy-eyed.
“You don’t have to worry about that. All you have to do is your job. Look out for your friends. That’s all. Can you do that?”
She nodded slowly, and he fell heavily onto the bench next to her when the boat tipped to starboard again. It was a smooth move, one that almost looked like an accident. When his hot hand landed on her knee, he left it there for several seconds before lifting it with a mischievous look.
“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything illegal or immoral, of course.” He laughed, the grimmest sound she had ever heard. She felt a stab of pity for the corrupt fool pressed against her side.
“I’m not making some kind of Faustian deal, right?”
“No, no, no, no!” He released his terrible laugh again, and she swallowed hard. It wasn’t warm in the cabin of the boat, but she was uncomfortably hot anyway. He radiated heat and was pushed up against her and panting into her ear. “Of course not.”
She grew tired of dancing around with the man whose hand had found its way back to her knee and whose spittle dotted her ear and check and neck.
“I’d feel more comfortable with more information, Commander, but I don’t—”
“That’s the thing, Captain. Brenda. Dan told you I don’t work with him. But that’s not strictly true. He’s a cautious man. Like I said. As am I.” His hand rubbed her thigh as if of its own accord.
She nodded and pretended she didn’t want to punch him in the throat.
“Was that why Peterson had to get out of the way?”
For the first time, Banks looked worried. “I know he’s important to you.”
“Loyalty is very important, as I’m sure you’d agree. Still, I’m a realist,” she said slowly. “Is he part of the team? Is he alive?”
“He shouldn’t have been driving,” he said. “He left himself vulnerable and then wanted to play coy. It was just one thing, a little thing, and he wouldn’t do it. He’s a fool.”
His gaze drifted north, toward Miller’s house and yacht, and she pretended not to notice he’d given away Peterson’s location. Whether Miller was still keeping him and the other victims there or not, at some point they’d been in Miller’s house or on his big luxury craft.
“Not everyone can adapt,” she said, adopting a rueful expression.
“Adapt. Yes. Every piece has to be separate. You just have to do your job, and once in a while you’ll be asked to take one position on an issue over another. Nothing big. Nothing ethically questionable, just opinion type of stuff. And you’ll take the position you’re supposed to take. Nothing bad will happen. You’ll never be in a bad position, criminal, any of that. Just play ball, that’s all. That doesn’t sound so terrible, does it?”
“No,” she mumbled. “I guess I’m not entirely clear about what kind of positions, what kind of opinions.” She removed his hand from her hip, placed it on his thigh and patted it. “I imagine you had the same kinds of questions when you were approached.”
“I did.” He struggled to his feet and drained his glass for the second time. He looked at it for a second before shrugging and refilling it.
“I wouldn’t want to kill someone.”
Banks stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“Someone killed Donnelly. I know it. Was it you?”
Banks snorted. “Miller thinks it was the boyfriend. Marvin? Max?”
“Mason Harding.” She sighed. “Did Miller point him at Donnelly?”
“I have no idea. Listen, this isn’t some gangster bullshit. It’s business, that’s all. We’re not criminals, Brenda. It’s a matter of working with allies instead of alone. It just makes you more effective.”
“To do what, exactly? I’m interested in working with friends and of course in being Briarwood’s first female chief. And I definitely want to move with the times, but I need to know the plan before I sign the contact.”
“Fix what’s broken, that’s all. Make things smoother for business. Once we pave the way for the job creators, the jobs will come pouring in. They want to hire people. They want to make money and contribute to this community. Rising tide, and all that. We just need to make it easier for them to pick Briarwood over some nowhere little city in Nevada or Arizona. Compensate for the higher taxes they’ll pay in California. Nobody will get hurt. Nobody loses out except the bums and illegals getting free government money. More for you and me and people like us who’ve paid our dues.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Commander, that’s not good enough. I need an actual answer before I commit to anything. You and Miller give the same speech, but neither of you spelled it out for me. What exactly is the plan? What’s my role, really? What are you really asking me to do?”
His sunny expression soured, and he smacked the edge of the sofa with the flat of his hand. The loud sound startled her, and she frowned up at her host.
“Why do you always make everything harder than it needs to be?”
She stared. He hit the nail on the head, she thought. That is exactly what I do.
“Either you play ball or you’re in the way. Do you know what happens when you’re in the way?”
She shifted in her seat as i
f to face Banks, who’d lurched toward the galley. When he turned to retrieve his Ruger from the first cupboard, she snagged her duty weapon from her waistband where it was hard to see under the lovely red blouse he admired so attentively.
When he turned around with the pistol in his hand, he seemed startled she had her own gun drawn.
“This is why the women should stay out of it,” he said with a sneer. “What are the choices? We get the blond bimbo or the bitchy dyke? You ruin everything!”
He lunged toward her, pulling the trigger once, twice, three times before noticing the clip had been removed. He raised the revolver like a club as if to brain her, and she pointed her own weapon at his groin.
“Stop,” she said in a low, loud voice. “Before I have to blow a hole in your lovely boat through you.”
He tried to stop himself, but a wave tilted the boat starboard. He hollered as he tumbled and was at her knees, gasping, a second later. She kicked the revolver out of his hand and stood over him.
“Now,” she said, her weapon trained on his red, sweaty face. He stared at her, puzzled, and she shook her head. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
She gestured with her other hand, and he gaped, apparently noticing for the first time the small camera and microphone she’d affixed to the bulkhead.
“You don’t—you can’t! I’m a commander!” He sobbed.
She gestured again.
“Warrant,” she said. “You made it easy. You spend money like you’re allergic to it. Your wife cut you off years ago. You can’t even kill her for money. You’ll never pay off your debts, no matter how many dirty deals you make.”
His features crumpled, and he collapsed bawling on the floor of the stateroom, his voice a hoarse, childish bellow of surprise and protest.
It wasn’t until she’d handcuffed his meaty hands behind his back and searched him that she looked up at the second camera, which she’d placed above the captain’s chair. She stood over him and ignored his blubbering and inarticulate arguments for his freedom.
She glanced to her right at the digital clock on the instrument panel. It took nine minutes for the Crisis Response Team to arrive, and by the time the first black-clad, helmeted officer approached aft, she was exhausted.
She relinquished control of the prisoner and let a pair of young officers assist her from the yacht to their large, high-tech vehicle. They asked no questions but handed her a blanket. She wrapped herself in it and only then realized how cold she’d grown. Her muscles were stiff and her limbs heavy, and she shivered uncontrollably as she leaned back against the hard seat in the far end of the tactical van.
She leaned back and let the unit do its work without her for a few minutes. Then she shook her head.
Digging through her dripping purse, she pulled her cell phone out of its zippered baggie and found it dry.
“Tori,” she said, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. “There’s a boat. Snob Hill, at Miller’s place. It’s—”
“I know it,” Tori cut in. “What’s on the boat?”
“Not what, who. Peterson, Smith, Fortune. I’m sure of it.”
There was a pause, and Tori grunted. “If they’re alive.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “If they’re alive, that’s where they are. We need a warrant. Banks—that should help. And Judge Fuller likes you.”
“I’ll let you know.”
And she was gone. She thanked each of the men and looked around. The officers needed her to leave but didn’t know how to ask, so she gathered the itchy blanket and held it aloft as she navigated out.
“Great work, you guys, thanks,” she said over her shoulder. She hustled to what had once been Lauren’s Volvo and sat for a moment staring at the sky. The storm was moving out. The rain had mostly stopped, the lights were back on, and the clouds were thinning. In an hour or two the afternoon would be as bright as if the violent, blinding storm had never come.
She knew what to do and realized she had very little time in which to do it. She snagged her backpack and purse and ran to the dock. An officer stepped in her path as she headed toward the finger piers, and she yanked out her badge to show him.
She cut left and went down the third row of berths to Bernice. She’d bought deck shoes and a captain’s hat for Tori, back when she bought the boat. Thankful she and Tori wore the same shoe size, she kicked off the hobbling heels she’d donned for her excursion onto Banks’s boat, shucked on the Sebagos, and eyed the ignition. She’d never taken the cruiser out, and she muttered an inarticulate prayer as she turned the key. The cold engine turned over, and she let her long-dormant muscle memory take over. The refurbished craft with the new motor was thirty-four feet long and moved smoothly despite the chop. She eased out of the berth and into the channel, the only boat moving for now.
She eyed the sky for what felt like the tenth time that day. The clouds were indeed thinning, and she cursed. Other folks would come out, if only to check on their boats. She’d have to skirt the shoreline instead of cutting across the open water.
She headed north. As she zipped along, she could smell her own fear. She was cold and tired and brittle with adrenaline. What if she failed? What if they were already dead? What if she was wrong, and they weren’t being held on the boat?
“Suck it up, cupcake,” she told herself for the second time that day. She shook off her fears and thought about how she’d get on the yacht without being detected. It took eighteen agonizing minutes to cruise the shoreline and get within sight of the gigantic yacht, and by then she knew what she’d have to do.
Snob Hill, as Briarwood’s northernmost point was called, was an isolated enclave left to forest but for six far-flung mansions, and Dan Miller’s behemoth domicile was the first of these. She dropped anchor just before sailing into his potential line of sight.
She eyed the tender she’d protested having to buy when she berthed at Green Hand Marina. The harbormaster had insisted, stating the regulations dictated every craft at Green Hand have a working lifeboat of some kind. She’d grumbled about it but had bought the cheapest aluminum dinghy available through the harbormaster’s cousin.
She’d never even checked its seaworthiness, so when she dropped it in the water she held her breath. The small boat sat low in the water and barely had room for her and the attached oars, but it floated.
She eased down off the port side, backpack on and feet pressed against the far end of the tender. She hadn’t rowed a boat in ten years or more, and her body was already sore from her earlier exertions. Nonetheless, she grabbed an oar in each hand and blew out air to clear her head.
“Slow and easy, now.” She started gently, drawing the lightweight paddles through the water. The waves she’d sliced through on Bernice were hurdles the dinghy had to scramble over one by one. She fixed her gaze on Miller’s long, tall yacht, too big and too fancy for this small city. Then she worked one paddle to turn a one-eighty. She eyeballed a cell-phone tower that had been made to look like a conifer and checked over her shoulder to make sure of her geometry.
Then came the hard part. She rowed back toward his floating obscenity with her eyes focused on the ugly signal tower. It reminded her of the fake roses on his plastic signs. She focused on that ugly fake tree and how it reminded her of his ugly fake flowers and let her disgust fuel her. Her shoulders were screaming within the first minute, and her entire torso joined the chorus only seconds later.
“Oh, I’m outta shape,” she muttered as she made her snail’s progress to the yacht. The clouds thinned more as the minutes ticked by, and she saw a few persistent rays of sunlight break through as the storm moved east. Soon, she had no idea how far she’d gone or how long she’d been rowing. She squinted at the cell tower and adjusted slightly.
“Well, if I see his house in front of me, then I’ve gone too far.”
She laughed, a low sound that to her ears seemed more hysterical than ironic. But she was committed now. She would row until she reached that damned yacht if it killed
her. She couldn’t live with the alternative of leaving three innocent people to die, especially when one of them was her former partner and one had a little girl depending on her. She started counting up all of the time she’d taken to figure things out, all of the time she’d wasted because she was distracted by Tori, by Shay, by her own emotions. Every minute of sleep, of driving, of losing focus was a blot on her soul. What if she was too late? What if Miller had them all killed yesterday, this morning, ten minutes ago? She shook her head and focused on the work.
She couldn’t feel her hands anymore, but the rowing took over. She pictured herself as part of a toy boat, a robot woman whose movement was driven by motor rather than muscle. That helped. She felt the pain, the cold, the exhaustion, the despair. But it didn’t matter.
When she backed into the tall, wide stern of Miller’s huge yacht, she was startled out of her nearly somnolent state. She drew around to the port side, away from the house, and looked up. The Biggest was so tall she couldn’t see at first how to board her. But a rope ladder hung only feet from her, and she blinked at it for a moment as if trying to remember how to climb such a thing.
Finally she managed to break out of her reverie and shift. She tied the tender to the bottom of the rope ladder and pulled out her phone. Tori had texted a brief message: Warrant signed. Boat only.
She took out her old Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, the one she’d had since her first years in Briarwood. Her duty weapon was in the hands of the Crisis Response Team, and she hadn’t brought anything bigger. She couldn’t have it in hand while going up the ladder, so she stuck it in the ankle holster she’d slipped on just in case.
After taking a moment to catch her breath, she pulled herself up to hang off the ladder’s bottom rung. Her arms were shaking and her legs leaden. It was several seconds before she could compel herself to reach higher. Overtired and shaky with adrenaline, she missed with her first attempt at swinging up her right foot and almost fell into the water. She cursed softly and shook her head to clear it.
Peterson would find you and save you, she told herself. He would never give up on you. Don’t you dare give up on him. And don’t forget little Jessica, stuck in foster care until she gets her mommy back. She thought about Teresa Fortune and her dreary life and blinked hard. It might not be much of a life, she thought, but Fortune has a right to live it.
