by Lee Killough
Zane stood taking deep breaths, letting the heat of her kiss subside, then jammed the handcuffs back over his belt and walked to the mirror over the fireplace to examine his neck. At least she did not appear to have bitten deep. The punctures bled lightly. He dabbed at them with his handkerchief.
Belatedly it occurred to him that he could have ended up like Hilst, and he sighed. If that family did not kill him outright, the emotional wringer they put him though would drive him crazy.
Working on Julie ought to be closer to something normal. Then, as he started to leave, one of the photographs on the mantle caught his eye...Julie leaning on the stern railing of a red tugboat named Little Narcissus. He knew that boat! Its presence among the masts of the sloops dominating the pleasure boat docks at the Basin had caught his eye while patrolling in the West Bay. Hilst employees outside the offices smoking had explained that the 32-foot tug, actually built as a pleasure boat, belonged to Julie Hilst. She and Charlie considered it just what a Hilst should play in...and enjoyed watching reactions when they told people she skippered a tugboat. After the novelty of the tug wore off, of course, Zane had stopped noticing it. Until reminded now.
Zane reached for his cell phone and punched in Allison’s number.
7.
Allison pulled into the Basin parking lot as she hung up from Kerr’s call. The fact that Julie had a personal boat there and said nothing about it did not mean Julie was deliberately shielding Deirdre. Deirdre, as Diana, could be using it without Julie’s knowledge. But either way, Allison intended to check it out.
She parked at the end of a row of shrimper’s vehicles and those she recognized as belonging to clan members, and called Drew. “I’m here at the Basin. Where are you?”
“Dock D of the pleasure craft docks.”
Now she saw them...tall, pale-haired figures about two-thirds of the way down the pleasure crafts’ arm of the Basin’s quay.
Heading to join them, a gust of wind caught her attention...coming from the north rather than the Gulf. It smelled faintly of rain, and while the eastern sky lightened, that to the north remained dark. Weather coming in...maybe heavy.
Down the quay, Drew had five of the clan contingent from Watch Three who remained in town. They gathered around her, faces tense, eyes grim. Especially Gina Lovejoy’s... understandable since Gary had been her mate for five years and fathered her son.
“Any whiff of her yet?” Allison asked.
Drew shook his head. “Maybe this is a dead end. Hilst’s security guard spotted us on his monitors and came around on his golf cart to check us out. He told us he didn’t see anyone over here during the night.”
And there was no one on the boats to ask, Allison knew. None of these owners lived aboard, just sailed weekends. “Kerr says Julie Hilst has a tugboat here.”
A collective intake of breath turned into a surge of energy. Drew grimaced. “I should have remembered that.”
Rick Bliss pointed down the quay. “The Narcissus is moored on dock A, the first slip...red hull, white pilot house, red stripe around the stack.”
She saw it, the only stack amid a host of masts.
Power surged around Gina.
“Don’t!” Allison said. “We aren’t certain she’s aboard. In case she is, you’d better stay back here. Keep checking the other boats...just in case.”
The current intensified. Gina said bitterly, “You’re going to bring her in, aren’t you...even after what she must have done to Gary!”
Allison put an arm around her. “She doesn’t know better. She’s suffered abuse and never known clan life. We have to see if she can be salvaged. Tom...Mike, you work back here, too.”
Tom Sweet and Mike Fairchild scowled unhappily but she turned away. Motioning Rick Bliss and Evan Silver to follow Drew and her, Allison ran hunched down the quay toward dock A. Before reaching it she signaled a halt and dropped flat. Too bad the tug was not moored toward the end of the dock, so they could approach using the intervening boats for cover.
Around her swirled the basin’s signature mixture of brine, fish, and diesel, edged with that of the coming rain. They had better find Blondie before it arrived or it might wash away her scent and let her escape. Then scents from the concrete jerked her attention downward...the hunter’s, and more faintly, Surrette’s.
Turning around to the others, she pointed to her nose, then down. They sniffed...lifted their heads, smiling grimly. She pointed from herself to the tug. When Drew nodded, Allison came up into a crouch and moved silently forward on hands and feet. Anyone aboard would hear only the cry of gulls and slap of water against the hull and the steel drums under the dock.
When she reached the bow, she reached out to catch the railing, then stepping across to the tires hanging along the side for a fender, slid under it. Flat on her stomach on the deck, she wiggled back to the portholes of the forward cabin and cautiously peered in.
While she could not see the head, the cabin itself, a double bunk stateroom, was empty.
She crooked her finger at the others and coming up on all fours, edged around the cabin to the pilot house door. One peek through the lower pane of glass in it told her the pilot house, too, was empty. Cautiously, she tried the door. Locked. The salon aft of the pilot house had large windows coming all the way down to the deck. She worked her way to the closest and peered in.
The salon also appeared unoccupied.
Quickly, she slid on past the windows and down onto the rear deck. It, too, smelled of the hunter and Surrette. But not blood.
Like the pilot house, the salon door was locked.
When the others joined her, swinging silently over the gunwale from the quay, she whispered, “Anyone bring a lockpick set?”
Both Rick Bliss and Evan Silver produced them. Shortly, Evan had the door open.
Inside, the confined space made the scents stronger than those on deck, but one source strengthened Surrette’s even more...clothing kicked under the settee running along one side of the salon. His scent saturated them, and if they needed any more proof of the owner, the billfold in one hip pocket of the slacks contained a driver’s license and credit cards for John Surrette. Had he undressed anticipating sex?
If so, it never happened. She caught no odor of sex in the salon and Surrette had not been forward in the stateroom. Allison smelled only the hunter there, and old traces of Julie. Several pairs of slacks and some blouses hung in the locker, but not Blondie’s little black number. If she had come back here tonight, she did not do so to change clothes. A soft sided suitcase lay on the bottom of the locker. Allison rolled it out for examination. The airline tag on the handle identified the bag as being checked from PBI--Palm Beach International?--to Houston, and a tag glued inside the bag had a Palm Beach address on it. The hunter’s scent dominated, but Allison also detected those of Deirdre and Leonard Hilst, and a mixture of other scents...probably airline personnel who had handled the bag.
Allison stood, brushing off the knees of her slacks, and pushed the bag into the closet again.
As she came back into salon, Drew said, “Look what we found in the galley.”
Inside a lower cabinet sat a carton with bottles of wine, scotch, and gin. That closely matched Surrette’s purchases at Rick’s...except for the most expensive, the Grand Marnier. No Grand Marnier turned up in any other cupboard, either...nor as an empty bottle in the trash. The trash, though, did yield copies of the Sentinel for Tuesday through yesterday...with only the first section appearing to be read. The remaining sections and advertising inserts had been dumped still folded together.
“Following her publicity, you think?” Evan said.
“More likely our progress on the case.” Though crinkled from being handled, the first section had been thrown away, too... intact. Allison glanced around. “Put everything back the way we found it and lock up, in case it’s necessary to come back with a warrant and search legally. Then check the rest of these docks. I’m going to see if Hilst’s security tapes can give us a
ny help.”
If the question ever came up, the tapes would also show them entering and leaving the tug before they ever obtained a warrant, but she did not expect anyone except a defense attorney to be interested in this section of the tapes, and there would be no defense attorney involved.
As she walked back to the car, her phone warbled.
Voice bleak, Del said, “The visibility down there is poor today but we found the car. Gary was in it, handcuffed to the steering wheel. His neck’s broken.”
Though Allison had felt sure Gary was dead, proof of it still struck like a physical blow. Anger blazed up around a cold knot of loss. Maybe Deirdre did not deserve reclamation after all. “You’ve removed his body, haven’t you?” Preventing the required autopsy on unattended deaths and homicides. As far as the human population was concerned, Gary’s body would never be found.
“Matt is swimming him around to Marais Park.”
Good choice. With the sun rising, almost anywhere else they would be seen bringing the body ashore. Farther along the marsh shore early birders and fishermen were probably already out and about...though the weather might drive them inside soon.
“I’ll meet Matt with my car and we’ll put Gary in the cooler at my house until his family comes home.”
Later when she was certain Honora’s Aircoupe had reached the ranch, she would call her grandmother and let her break the news to the Golds and everyone. Right now she called Drew. It would give Gina time to take control of herself before, hopefully, they located Blondie.
In the security office, Allison caught McKay, the graveyard officer, just before he went off duty. He still remembered no activity around the pleasure boats during the night. “Just like I told Sergeant Makepeace.”
At fast forward they quickly ran through the security tape for the hours between 2:00 and 6:00, and it backed up McKay’s claim. Nothing moved on the quay or dock near the tugboat.
Allison frowned at the monitor. “What about during your shift Tuesday? Did you see Julie Hilst’s boat go out?”
“Art Rosario was on that night,” McKay said. “My first night back on was Wednesday, when that guy died in the candy factory. But Julie hasn’t ever taken her boat out at night before.”
“Let’s run the security tape from Tuesday.”
McKay stayed past the end of his shift to run it for her. The thirty seconds of the camera’s 180 degree pan turned into a dizzying snap on fast forward, but at just past 2:00 am she caught a blur on the quay. They backed up and resumed viewing at normal speed. The blur turned into an approaching muscular male and blonde female.
“Hey,” McKay said, “that looks like the babe I saw in the parking lot Wednesday night!”
“It could be.” Allison peered at the hunter’s face, trying to confirm she was Deirdre, but the foreshortening from the high angle of the shot made a good look impossible.
He stared at the monitor with an expression mixing horror and fascination. “Did this guy end up dead, too? Did she have anything to do with it?”
The day man, Fayly according to his name badge, lifted eyebrows that reminded Allison of a Schnauzer’s.
She gave them both a shrug. “The gentleman’s wife reported him missing. We’re hoping to determine what happened to him.” True, as far as it went.
Now both guards watched the monitor with her.
At first the couple appeared to have their arms around each other. However, as they passed the camera and neared dock A, presenting their backs to the camera, the illusion disappeared. The male held both hands behind him, palms turned backward, and something flashed at one wrist. She had him handcuffed just as Fiona Church said. He started to halt. But the female spread a hand on his back and he stumbled forward again.
“Son of a bitch,” McKay said. “Did she just shove him?”
“Yes,” Allison said.
Quite a different tactic than seduction, but faster. She ran some risk of attracting attention or a real officer stopping to offer backup, but minimal risk at that time of night. And Surrette, knowing himself not guilty of whatever charge the hunter claimed, would have protested but cooperated, confident this mistake would be quickly rectified. By the time they arrived here, however, he had clearly begun questioning what was going on.
A step farther on Surrette halted and turned halfway back toward the hunter. Keeping a hold on his arm, she dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out what looked like a badge case, except without a badge, and held it up in front of his eyes.
Fayly said, “She’s a cop?”
“Just impersonating one.” To carry it off, she must not have given Surrette more than a flash of the ID in front of Rick’s.
The anger flashing across Surrette’s face said now he had a good enough look to realize he had been conned. He jerked at her grip on his arm, mouth moving. Then suddenly Surrette’s face froze in an expression of terror. When the hunter shoved him on down the quay, he stumbled on with all resistance gone while the camera panned away.
“Jesus. What did she say to him?” McKay asked.
Not said...did. The camera could not record it, of course, but Blondie must have showed him a flash of Shift halo. To which he reacted just as Kerr had.
When the camera panned back, the pair had disappeared.
“Where’d they go?” McKay asked.
“The tugboat.”
“Julie’s boat? What’s she doing on it?”
Fayly said. “She has permission to use it.”
Allison hit Pause. “You know that? Who is she?”
Fayly shrugged. “Some relative who came for the funeral. According to Sam Babiak-- that’s the evening guard--Julie called Monday afternoon and said this girl would be staying on the Narcissus for a few days.”
“He’s sure it was Julie calling?”
Fayly shrugged again. “I guess so. Anyway, he passed on the message to Rosario, saying he’d seen the girl and she was a real looker. Rosario told me.”
“He didn’t give Rosario a name?”
“I don’t know. Rosario didn’t give me one, just said she was a relative.”
If this Babiak had seen the hunter, maybe it had been on the boat...in which case she wanted to see Monday’s tape, too. Allison hit Play again.
No lights came on in the salon, nor did any show on the next pan back to the tug. The camera panned over the tug two more times with nothing visible happening, but just as the boat slid out of view the next time, the hunter reappeared on the quay...alone.
What did she do with Surrette? She looked dry, so he must still be alive and aboard. Probably handcuffed to something in the salon. But...where was she going?
Allison let the tape run. Presently the hunter reappeared, carrying a cardboard carton, and climbed onto the rear deck. Ah, yes...that would be the liquor. Three pans later something moved in the pilot house.
Frustration hissed through Allison. If only she could stop the damn camera and keep it focused on the tug. When the boat appeared again the hunter was on the quay casting off the bow line. She tossed the line aboard, ran back casting off the other lines, then scrambled aboard into the pilot house. On the camera’s next sweep, the tug’s running lights were on and it had begun idling back out of the slip. Once clear of the slip, it turned and chugged off down the bay, the white of its pilot house and cabin showing up enough in the moonlight to keep the tug visible even after it moved beyond the Basin lights.
McKay fast forwarded again and they watched the tide go out like a draining bathtub. An hour later the tug reappeared. Approaching the slip, it slowed, water churning at the stern. The tire fender bumped along the quay. When the camera panned back, the tug was nosing against the dock. The hunter raced from the pilot house forward to pick up the bow line and vault over the railing to the quay, now almost even with the deck thanks to low tide, and secured the line. After bounding back and forth between tug and quay until all the lines had been secured, she disappeared into the salon.
“Damn,” McKay said.
“That’s who I want crewing for me my next fishing trip. Bow line, spring lines, and stern line all secured in nothing flat and she’s hot!”
“Except losing your head over her can lose you your head,” Allison said dryly. The Diana personality went beyond not fearing water. She clearly knew and handled boats very well. If Deirdre were as much under her husband’s thumb as Julie believed, how could Diana manage to acquire this kind of expertise...especially without anyone being aware if it?
A few minutes later, after locking the pilot house doors, and presumably the salon door, the hunter left.
“Where’s the guy?” Fayly asked.
McKay said, “Did she kill him?”
Allison gave the men a noncommittal grunt. “Let’s run the tape of the camera on this side of the basin closest to the parking lot and see where she went.”
That camera caught a good portion of the parking lot, albeit distantly, on the end of its pan...and it showed the hunter climbing into a silver Mercedes. Heading off to run it into the bay.
“Let’s look at Monday from, say, sixteen hundred on.”
They did not have to run it far. A little before six in the evening, a female in a red suit with a very short skirt stalked down the quay to the tugboat. Clearly volke. Every furious line of her threatening bodily harm to anyone coming near. A little after eight she left again...this time strolling and wearing Blondie’s little black number. Her hair, brushed into a voluminous silver mane, hid much of her face...though not the Mona Lisa smile.
Allison frowned. It worked for Deirdre to slip away from the house after Len was asleep...either worn out by sex or helped along by sleeping pills, but...could she have been gone all evening? Was that what Julie held back? Since Kerr’s male charms had apparently failed to make Julie talk, alpha bitch needed to take over.
“Thank you for your help, gentlemen,” she told McKay and Fayly. “I think I have everything necessary for the time being. Will you set these tapes aside in case we need them for evidence?”
