by Jenna Rae
That was enough to make her take a deep breath and try again. This time her foot found purchase, and she hauled herself up. Both feet on the bottom rung and her sore hands barely gripping the sides of the rope ladder, she was able to talk herself into going up to the next one. That was much easier, and the next rung was even easier. She was up at the edge of the platform in a matter of a couple of minutes, and she eyeballed his peach-colored mansion as she rested for a moment before taking on the task of pulling herself from ladder to deck. Her head was only a couple of inches above the rail’s edge, and she prayed no one noticed her.
What she expected to see, she couldn’t have said. Giant topiary animals bordered wide twin lawns and matching fountains. They weren’t playful giraffes or elephants, though. The greenery had been carved into the shapes of verdant predators. Pouncing tigers, roaring lions and looming bears threatened anyone who looked at his home. She got the giggles then, unable to rid her mind of the picture of him as a belligerent, frightened child who needed the promise of protection the brutally shaped bushes offered.
Fear makes men dangerous, she thought. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she forced her body to make the last great effort to scramble from the ladder to the deck quickly and quietly. It wasn’t graceful, she was sure, but she managed to find herself flat on the wide, flat diving platform that was unusable in relatively shallow Briarwood Bay. She could have kissed its dirt-spattered surface. Instead, she sat up and pulled her revolver out of her ankle holster.
She gave herself twenty seconds to rest. Then she crawled forward and sat up when she was sure no one could see her. Catching her breath for another few seconds, she looked around. As far as she could tell, no one was aboveboard on the luxury yacht. She crouched and snuck along the port side, ensuring she could see no one on the boat and no one could see her.
Finally, crouched low, she entered the saloon. The expansive interior was lavishly appointed but featured a variety of broken glasses and bottles, trash strewn on the floor and benches and a few broken branches and pebbles.
Even given the recent storm, it was a lot of debris for a large, mostly sheltered space. Finally she saw a torn plastic trash bag hooked on a window blind. The back of the main saloon was open to the aft deck, and she could almost picture the gusting wind thrusting a bag of garbage up to where a fixed window blind cut it open.
She examined the trash. Water bottles, browned apple cores, greasy burger wrappers and an empty strawberry-scented pink lip balm tube told the story. At least one woman, at least one or two prisoners kept on the yacht for several days. This made sense if her theory was correct. She again took her phone out of the zippered baggie and ensured the sunlight had strengthened enough that she didn’t need to use her flash. She took several photographs, ensuring at least two included the lip balm. She texted them to Tori in case something happened to her or her phone.
Past the main saloon were a second large stateroom and a good-sized galley. Still crouching, she threaded her way forward. The galley was split in equal halves by a tall, wide hatch adorned with a lock as big as her fist. She eyed it balefully and wondered if she’d have to force it off the door.
She looked in the drawer nearest the hatch and rolled her eyes when she found in it an oversized key. She pocketed the key after removing the heavy lock, wondering if this was all too easy. Had Banks had time to somehow warn Miller? Had her reckless plan spurred him to kill the kidnapped trio? She steadied her breathing. If she might face foes on the other side of the hatch, she’d better be ready. She felt reassured by the solid feel of her reliable old.38 revolver that never misfired and rarely missed.
She eased back and waited, bunched on her aching ankles with her weapon her only friend—and listened. She heard birds singing on Snob Hill and a few truck engines laboring up the frontage road just north of Green Hand Marina. She heard the waves, calmer now and lapping at the yacht and its dock. She heard no movement on the dock and no movement on the luxury watercraft, but she waited an extra thirty seconds anyway.
She took a last look around before finally moving forward and stepping through the hatch. She went down two steps and eased the hatch shut behind her. She crouched to take in the dim view. Again she waited, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom, and tiptoed down to the lower level, her legs bent nearly in half as she led with her weapon as much as she could.
It was oddly silent in the narrow passageway belowdecks, and she listened in vain for movement. The sound of the waves was deafening. Ah, she thought, natural soundproofing. White noise from the water. There was a large stateroom dead ahead, its pocket door open. She passed two doors on each side, each with a locked deadbolt on the outside.
The oversized captain’s quarters extended all the way to the prow. Red, gold, and white furnishings and a quartet of portholes on each side made it bright and cheery. It was also empty. She cleared the head, just in case, and headed aft to check the head under the galley. That, too, was empty, and she eyeballed the cabins on either side of the corridor.
She picked the port side to open first. She crouched low before she opened the deadbolt and swung the door open.
Peterson lay curled on his side on a short bench. He glared at the open door and then saw her. His eyes flew open, and she put a finger to her lips. He’d lost weight, and he looked about a decade older than he had just days before, but he was alive. He wore a stained white undershirt and track pants too short for his long legs. His beard was patchy and nearly white, but the spark in his sunken eyes was bright. She motioned at him to stay put and be quiet, and he nodded his understanding, pressing his thin lips together.
She made a questioning face and he pointed. She nodded and eased back out. A minute later she’d opened both starboard doors and signaled to Staci Smith to stay quiet. Smith had lost weight too and had dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was lank and limp, and her skin was sallow. She wore a black tank top and fuzzy pink pajama pants. She gaped at Brenda and teared up, covering her mouth with both hands.
The third cabin was empty and smelled of vomit and feces and bleach. The fourth was empty save a built-in cot and cupboard. She gestured in the doorway of the occupied cabins and looked up at the hatch. If someone came along, she had no real plan to get out other than shooting at anyone who came down.
By now the two prisoners were behind her, and she whispered to Peterson. “Fortune?”
“Dead,” he said. “Junkie, only lasted three days.”
She handed her cell phone to Smith. “Text Tori. Name’s right there. Tell her two urgent packages. Move on the second warrant.”
“What?”
“She’ll know what it means.”
They had to wait nearly eleven minutes, with Brenda stationed in the narrow hall. She convinced Peterson and Smith to hide inside Teresa Fortune’s former cell, since due to its aft position it was the one hardest to hit with gunfire from the hatch.
By the time the Crisis Response Team sent its first scout onto the yacht, her arm was shaking, and the tip of her Smith and Wesson was dancing. She ascertained the new arrival was a member of the department and that the rest of the team was behind and around him, and then she let her hand slowly drift downward. She handed her revolver over to the next man down the stairs, and for the second time that day she let the Crisis Response Team take over.
Everyone around her was talking, moving, asking her questions, and she just wanted to get Peterson and Smith out of their nightmare.
“Listen, fellas,” she said, “I gotta get off this bucket. I fucking hate boats.”
They laughed as if she’d made a joke, and she smiled to let them pretend.
“You’ll never hear the end of that one,” Peterson said in his low growl. He laughed, and she was startled into giggling. By the time they disembarked they were clinging to each other, howling with laughter. She tried to ignore how gaunt he was, and how even with the nightmare he’d been through he looked better than before, because by now he’d been sober for days.
/> “We need to get you to Joe’s as soon as possible,” she said when she could talk again. “Sop up some of that grease with your buddies.”
He nodded, his mouth screwed up tight because a man doesn’t cry in front of other people. That’s what she knew he thought, and she rubbed his bony back to give him the love he didn’t want to admit he needed.
“It was my fault,” he said. “I got pissed over them dragging you into that damned hearing. The little gal there loved him, but he had to be working for somebody smarter. I talked to Vallejo one night at The Hole, and I said too much. I don’t know if he said something or if somebody overheard me.”
“Peterson,” she started.
“I asked Vallejo who was important to Donnelly, Borelli. I got him to tell me all about the little gal and the other, the junkie. All I got was their names, and I musta been talking too much, I don’t remember. I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head. “Not your fault. I should never have gone out on my own like that. They must’ve panicked.”
“They were going to kill us tomorrow. That little gal talked about her baby all the time.”
She looked up at his expressionless face and realized he’d accepted his own impending death but hadn’t been able to accept Smith’s.
“I should’ve put it together sooner,” she said.
He laughed. “You always were a little slow on the uptake.”
She laughed and hugged him. “When everything settles down, you and I need to talk about Dottie’s boyfriend.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” he said, sputtering with laughter when she flipped him off.
Tori was on the dock, running toward her. She broke off from Peterson and smiled so Tori would know everything was okay. They hugged, and she felt Tori pull Peterson in to join them. When Smith sat on the dock and started crying, Brenda pointed.
“Let her call her daughter. Let the baby hear her voice.”
Tori pulled away and called the social worker, who called the foster mother, and the three of them shamelessly eavesdropped while Smith told Jessica that everything was going to be okay. They’d be together again soon, home again soon.
Then it was a trip to the hospital and hours of debriefing and Peterson’s friends showing up with their big smiles and back-slapping and teasing, once they saw Peterson was all right. They all stood around to watch Smith’s tearful reunion with her daughter, and at one point Tori joked there better not be any crime in Briarwood because half the department was at the hospital. Then it was back to the station and more debriefing. By the time everything was done, she was giddy with weariness. She let Tori drive her home and slumped in the Mustang’s passenger seat with her eyelids half-closed.
“Hey, we’re here.” Tori’s voice was soft. “Want me to help you in?”
“I’m okay.” She couldn’t make herself move. “Thank you. Will it all stand?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely. Banks is singing like a little bird. They can’t get him to shut up. Miller’s done. The whole network is unraveling. Walton’s already given a press conference. You could have been the hero of the story, but he’s respecting your wishes. You’re just an unnamed officer, for now. When it all goes to court, it’ll be different. Shay called to ask if we needed help, if you were okay, if everyone made it.”
“Mason Harding?”
“Arrested without incident. Shay hired him a bigshot lawyer. She’s going to help him negotiate a plea deal.”
“I don’t think he’s a bad guy. I think he was a little crazy with grief, and Miller played on that.”
“I assume the lawyer will say something like that. And Harding had access to a lot of Miller’s information. He built the server it was all stored on. I get the impression he has a lot to offer the DA, which will help.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Tori nodded in acknowledgment. “You did a great job. How did you get—I saw a little rowboat. How did you get that?”
“I bought you a boat. For your birthday.”
“What? Where have you—Jesus, Brenda, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Green Hand Marina. The boat is Bernice.” The other question she ignored.
“For Bernice Bing, of course. And you took the boat as far as you could and then rowed the little one over so he couldn’t see you.”
“Uh-huh.” She sat up and looked Tori in the eye.
“You knew they’d been taken. I didn’t believe it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You had no reason to believe it.”
“They took them because you talked to them, just like you said.”
“Peterson mouthed off about Donnelly not being smart enough to organize this whole thing. He doesn’t know who overheard him or if Vallejo told Banks or what.”
“Miller panicked, from what I heard. He got some of his less-scrupulous guards to kidnap these people, and then he didn’t know what to do with them. There’s a crowd of his employees begging to flip on him. Bren, you did it.”
“Thanks for being a lifeline. You really came through with the warrants, with the teams. This wouldn’t have been possible without your help. I don’t think I ever realized how good you are at your job. You’re a good cop. I’m sorry I never really recognized that before.”
Tori looked stricken. She screwed up her face, looked away and swallowed hard, and finally looked back at her with damp eyes.
It was just dawn, and the first rays of the new day were poking over the horizon. They lit Tori with the golden light of hope and renewal, and she thought for a moment of just leaning forward and kissing her longtime lover, her would-be wife.
They could rekindle the love they’d shared. Tori could move back in, or they could buy a new house. They could take all those trips they talked about. They could get married at long last. They could adopt a child. They could get a dog. They could live the dream. Part of her yearned for the life they’d once imagined living together. Once upon a time, they were good together and could have built that life they both wanted. And now they were both wiser. They were both more grateful and more accepting. It would be easy to start over. They would do a better job this time, both of them.
But she didn’t do it. She couldn’t have explained why, but just like in Tori’s office there was a wall between them. She smiled and thanked her again. She dug in her backpack for the leather string with the keys to the Green Hand slip row gate and the Bernice.
“She was a gift to you. You should have her. Berth Twenty is her home. She’s anchored just east of Snob Hill, just about in line with Tremont Parkway.”
Tori shook her head even as she took the key. “But—”
“I’ll get the paperwork to you next week sometime. You can take over the berthing fees next month. They’re monstrous.”
“You’re getting rid of me,” Tori said, frowning. “This is your way of getting rid of me.”
She laughed. “You know what? I don’t know where we stand. I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t care, I just don’t have the energy to think about it right now.”
“Of course not. You’re exhausted.” Tori’s bright blue eyes searched her face. “And maybe Shay has something to do with it.”
She blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah.” Tori laughed. “If you say so, Bren.”
“I love you. I always will. If you need me, I’ll be there, no questions asked. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
Tori turned to face the steering wheel again. “Okay.”
“I do know one thing.”
“What?”
“I really do hate boats.”
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