“You can turn it off, Wayne. I think Erica gets the point,” Fredericks said. She looked at me and said, “He only acts this way around us. In front of Miss Enola he's as dignified as the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Spoil my fun, Freds,” he said. “Now not a word, Erica. I have my orders. Come with me.”
He dragged me to Miss Enola's bathroom, twice the size of mine and containing everything a hairdresser needed, including a barber chair and one of those weird sinks with a curved brim to prevent cricking your neck when you're bent backwards over it.
“Sit!” All the fey posturing was gone.
He talked as he washed my hair, he talked as he snipped my flaxen locks, he talked as he applied highlights, and I don't remember a word except that I learned his last name was Pelletier and he was from Baton Rouge, whereas Miss Enola was from St. Tammany Parish. I don't think he expected me to remember any of it—he just wanted me relaxed, and that was how he made sure I was. It was like listening to your favorite voice on the radio with your eyes closed. I was in heaven as his strong fingers massaged my wet scalp, as he firmly but gently moved my head during the cut, and when he applied the stiff-bristled brush for the blow-dry with the artistry of a van Gogh daubing a canvas.
He said he'd make me presentable. Presentable? Ha. I looked dazzling. I'm not really used to being dazzling, so frankly it made me a little nervous at first, but not for long. Later, when I found out how much Wayne charged, I nearly gagged. Luckily, I wasn't expected to pay.
I wasn't ready to take on the Tesla by myself, so I drove Rhonda instead. Even so, I was in a funny mood when I showed up at MTRG. But that's not why I wound up trashing the reputation of Adrian Tabi, a guy I hadn't even met before getting into the elevator, to his really angry corporate receptionist ex-girlfriend. That was the sultry Adrian's own fault, as far as I was concerned. Too gorgeous for his own good.
* * * *
After making good my escape from Century City, I made it back just in time to wash up for lunch, yum, parmesan-crusted oat bread sandwiches with sliced avocado, red onion, alfalfa sprouts, and homemade mayonnaise.
Miss Enola looked sternly at my new ‘do but said nothing. I'd already noticed that she was pretty miserly when it came to praise, especially regarding appearance, but maybe she thought the new cut was too much. I mean, Wayne hadn't really shown the restraint he said he would.
She avoided discussing business while we ate, just like she'd done over our dinner with Nicki, but after Fredericks cleared the table, we talked and I told her what I'd been up to. The food must have put her in a good mood because she was almost merry, if not being as brusque as a prison matron is merry.
“I hope that in the future, you won't depend on serendipitous encounters in elevators to obtain investigative results,” she said.
“Yeah, I admit it was nothing more than dumb luck running into that guy from Lloyd's, but as they say, audentis fortuna iuvat," I said, exhausting my repertoire of Latin proverbs.
Miss Enola slowly blinked. I could tell I had shocked her to her innermost core.
“'Fortune favors the bold.’ Virgil. Wherever did you hear that, my dear?”
“From my acting teacher at Fresno State,” I replied. “She used it to encourage us to put everything we had into our performances.”
“I believe it was Stanislavsky who observed that a whisper can be as effective as a shout. There is nothing more tedious than a ham actor.”
Whatever.
“Now tell me why you didn't speak to anyone but the insurance man and the unfortunate nymphet.”
“Well, Adrian was there for the same reason I was. I didn't want to tip my hand.”
She pursed her lips. “That shows an unexpected discretion, Erica. Misplaced, perhaps, but nevertheless I approve. What are your plans for the afternoon?”
I was expecting her to give me some more orders, but I guess not. “The only other place to ask about the boat is at the marina. Maybe I should head over there.”
She nodded. “Yes, I think you should. And, Erica—take the Tesla this time.”
What was she, psychic?
* * * *
With a horde of butterflies trying to crawl up inside my chest from my tummy, I drove the Tesla to the Santa Monica Freeway, flew to the San Diego Freeway, headed south, and took the Marina Freeway all the way to where it terminated at Lincoln. Then I slowly cruised into Marina del Rey. I'd driven by there before, but I'd never gone in.
The marina isn't just a place where people keep boats. It's a self-contained neighborhood, like the Malibu Colony or Little Tokyo. Aside from all the boat slips, the place consists of exclusive multistory condos, expensive eateries, and even an upscale shopping mall. The sort of folks I wanted to talk to, though, wouldn't be dressed in cashmere sweaters and Italian shoes. More likely they'd be in coveralls and old tennies.
What's the last thing you do before you take off on a long road trip? You gas up the tank. If you're really conscientious, you'll take the old jalopy in for an oil change and check the tires too. I figured that if somebody was going to abscond in a hundred-foot yacht, they'd want to fill ‘er up first and make sure the boat was in Bristol fashion. If the good ship Chengfeng was off to some faraway destination, there was one place I could probably find out about it—Royal Landing, the only fuel dock in the marina, and which also incidentally operates the facility where the few superyachts are berthed.
Fueling was done at the very end of the pier, where a ramp led down to the floating fuel docks. A man was there pumping diesel into a big sailboat.
There are times when you want to seem something you aren't when you interview someone, and times when you want to be straight upfront. It depends on the circumstances and who you're talking to. One look at Marshall (last name unknown, as it was not stitched on his shirt) down on the dock below told me not to get cute. Late forties; square, muscular carriage; grizzled as only somebody who makes his living in the raw sunlight can be; economical of movement. A tough guy, but not a mean one. I sauntered down.
“Hi.”
He squinted at me. “What can I do for you?”
“I hope you can help me with some information. My name is Erica Wooding. I'm a private detective—” I flashed my license. “—working for a woman whose husband is missing, and I'm trying to find him. He was on the crew of a superyacht that was berthed around here, had a Chinese name—”
"Chengfeng. Means ‘to ride the fair wind,’ to make the most out of an opportunity. Better name for a windjammer than a motor yacht, you ask me. People usually don't. What's his name, this missing crewman?”
“Ray Zielinski.”
He scowled and regarded me with suspicion. “I ask because you're not the first person come around here with questions about that boat.There were two guys in dark suits and sunglasses. I don't know who they were and I didn't like it.”
“I don't know about that, and I don't care, and it probably has nothing to do with me anyway. I heard the company that owns the boat may be having trouble with the government, but that's not my job. Zielinski, the guy I'm looking for, is the steward on the yacht, and before his wife Melita hired us, I didn't even know there was such a job. Frankly, I don't care about the boat or the owners or anybody else, only him. The thing is that I heard it got underway unexpectedly, and I think he's on it.”
He nodded. “Yep. I know Ray. Good guy, ex-Navy snipe like me. Missing, you say?”
“His wife hasn't heard from him for several days, and says it's not like him.”
Marshall nodded again. “He's the reliable kind, all right. I've met Melita. Seems like a nice lady. Wish I could help, but I have no idea where Chengfeng was headed, or exactly what time she got underway, except that it must have been in the wee hours when nobody was around to see it. She's been gone about three days, and she topped off the day before leaving. Cruises at nineteen knots, but if she puts a bone in her teeth she can do twenty-four. She could be anywhere within a thousand miles.”
&
nbsp; “Anything unusual in her preparations for the trip? I mean, she didn't just get up and leave, did she?”
“Just the usual,” he said. Then he paused. “Except for one thing, probably doesn't help much, though. Herb Holloway, he's the engineer, had her LM-200 tanks replenished, which seemed a little odd.”
I had no idea what an LM-200 tank was, but anything a little odd might mean a whole lot. “Did you do that for him?”
He laughed. “Hell, no. The fire suppression company did it at the factory. Anybody else screws with the system and there goes the warranty.”
“Oh, right. I don't suppose you remember which fire suppression company?”
“Sure. Sea-Spark.”
“Maybe they can help me. Thanks, Marshall.” I walked back up the ramp, turned and waved, and Marshall waved back. Then I left.
Only I wasn't alone.
I wasn't sure I was being followed so I got off the Marina Freeway at Centinela to make sure. I cruised up to Washington Boulevard, turned right, and they were still with me. Two guys in a huge, honkin’ maroon Dodge Ram pickup truck with no front plate—that's illegal in California, so it wasn't a good sign.
When I got to Culver City, I got back on the 405 and headed up to the 10. They stayed with me, and now there was no doubt.
Now what?
Then, right before I got downtown, the truck blew past me, missing me by inches, its slipstream violently buffeting my car and nearly making me lose control, then peeled off into the exit lane to the northbound Pasadena Freeway so I couldn't follow. At first I was really pissed off, but then the post-adrenaline jitters set in. What if I'd wrecked the Tesla?
What if I'd been killed?
* * * *
Miss Enola sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled and her eyes closed. I was still a little jangly. I took several deep breaths to calm myself and sat down across from her.
Without opening her eyes, she said, “Well?”
So I filled her in, word for word and event for event. She didn't move the entire time. After I shut up, I waited.
Finally the bird-bright eyes opened, and pinned me to the spot like an insect on a card.
“Do you know what Marshall meant by calling himself a ‘snipe'?”
“I don't know, guttersnipe? Though why anybody'd call himself that is beyond me.”
“I'd say he meant another species of snipe entirely.”
“Okay,” I said, not getting it but afraid to say so.
“About the unknown persons asking questions, the ones Marshall didn't like. Do you think they might have been the SEC? Or perhaps federal marshals?”
“No, I don't. Feds always identify themselves and flash their credentials when they're investigating, unless they're deep undercover. Undercover cops don't get noticed at all. So whoever it was probably wasn't official. I'm thinking they were probably the same cretins who followed me.”
“Hmm. But let's get back to the investigation of the yacht. Is there anything else?”
I shrugged. “I'd like to know exactly when she left her slip, but I don't see how.”
“Have you considered making an inquiry of the Coast Guard?”
Oops. I should have thought of that. They might not know anything, but on the other hand, maybe they did. A boat the size of Chengfeng isn't exactly inconspicuous. “I guess I'd better, huh.”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “I can probably learn more with a single phone call than you can trying to ingratiate yourself with callow sailors.”
“I'm not that kind of a girl, Miss Enola.”
“I didn't mean to suggest that you were.” So much for sarcasm.
I stood up to go back to my room.
“Erica.”
I turned back to face her.
“Your hair is lovely.”
I really hate that, when someone I'm irritated with says something nice. All that perfectly good self-righteous indignation wasted.
* * * *
After dinner, which was risotto with butternut squash, leeks, and basil, followed by poached pears in a Pinot Grigio-cinnamon sauce for dessert, Miss Enola got down to business.
“Have you had any luck with the Sea-Spark lead, Erica?”
Uh-oh. “I'm afraid I haven't quite gotten around to it, Miss Enola.”
“Then don't bother. According to my sources, Sea-Spark went out of business six months ago.”
“But that means they couldn't have replenished the tanks.”
“Quite. Furthermore, my query to the U.S. Coast Guard was not without results. At 3:36 a.m. on the morning she got underway, Chengfeng was heard to advise a southbound merchant vessel in the San Pedro Channel off Santa Monica Bay that she would turn right and pass across its stern. This suggests very strongly that the yacht was heading out into the open ocean. Rather suggestive, I think.”
Suggestive of what? But I wasn't going to admit I wasn't following. “But still no sign of her?”
“None. There's nothing more we can do in that regard for the time being. Our next move, however, is glaringly self evident.”
Luckily, she didn't keep me long in suspense.
“We must confirm that Chengfeng's assistant engineer is a smoker.”
That was so glaringly self-evident, I don't know why I didn't think of it myself, other than the fact that it seemed completely off the wall. “Miss Enola, correct me if I'm wrong, but we haven't heard anything to suggest that there even is an assistant engineer. How can you know if he exists, let alone that he smokes?”
“You gave me the data yourself, Erica, although I could be wrong. I hope I am. If not, I may have good reason to ring CUS in Little Creek, Virginia, something I'd prefer to avoid—but that will have to wait. We'll know more presently.”
I guess I'd gotten a little used to her being cryptic, because I let that last part slide, but not the first part.
“Cus? Who's that?”
“The United States Navy, child. Don't forget to look into the Chengfeng's assistant engineer's filthy habits tomorrow. It's important. I eagerly await whatever unconventional stratagem you devise for finding out.”
* * * *
My stratagem was about as unconventional as ordering a side of fries and a Coke with a Big Mac. Marshall might know if Holloway had an assistant, so after breakfast, off I toodled to Marina del Rey again in the Tesla. There wasn't anybody at the fueling dock this time, so I went into the Royal Landing shop, which was pretty much the maritime equivalent of the convenience store at some small interstate truck stop, except that it also sold bait.
The clerk on duty was the kind of Hollywood Peter Pan—more pretty than handsome, with the requisite three days’ stubble on his chin. If he'd been a waiter in a Melrose restaurant, I would have pegged for a struggling young actor. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a white polo shirt with a Royal Landing logo on the left breast, above which was stitched “Brent.” Sometimes I think they're all named Brent. Or Cody.
“Hi,” I said. “Have you seen Marshall around?”
“Lucky Marshall.” He grinned, cocking his head to one side. I guess he thought that must be adorable. “He's got the day off. But maybe I can help.”
“I was told to ask for Marshall, but all right. Do you sell cigarettes here?”
The smile faltered a little. “Sure.”
“Oh my God, not for me! Remember that big motor yacht that left four or five days ago? The Chengfeng?"
“Oh, yeah. Hard to miss.”
“Maybe you remember a guy who worked on board who came in here to buy cigarettes. The assistant engineer?”
The smile was replaced by a puzzled frown. The poor dude was trying hard to think, but I don't think he was getting very far. “What's this about?”
Time to pull out the charm. I applied the old giggle-and-wiggle, which is something I really hate to do, but I had to get down to this guy's level if I was going to get anywhere.
“I don't know if I should tell you,” I said. “You're probably going to think it's
really stupid.”
The smile came back in full force. He seemed to like stupid, oversexed girls.
“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, suddenly all sophistication.
I shrugged. “Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. About a week ago this guy hits on me and my girlfriend in the bar at Vu?” This is about the chichiest restaurant in the marina, which I certainly couldn't afford even if I hung out in bars, but Brent wouldn't know that. He was more your imported-beer bistro type. “He's like getting totally hammered and he's all, “I work on this awesome boat, wanna check it out?’ Like we're going to leave with a guy like him. Anyway, he says he's stepping out for a cigarette, and Becca, she's my friend, she bets he's a Marlboro Lights man, but I think he's like more, pretentious? So I go, “He's probably lighting up a Sherman's or something.’ She says no way, and now there's a round of Cosmos on it.”
“What if you're both wrong?”
I giggled again. “Then I guess the bet's off.”
“Sorry. Camels.”
I looked skeptical. “Are you sure we're talking about the same guy?”
“Clint Roland, the assistant engineer on the Chengfeng. Buys ‘em by the carton.”
“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. I shrugged. “She probably won't believe me.”
“Tell you what. Vu's a little out of my league, but I know a great little place in Santa Monica, no cover and they make a killer Cosmopolitan. I could meet you and Becca there and she could hear it from me.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Why don't you give me your number? I can call and give you directions.”
The moron hadn't even asked my name yet and already he was trying to get my phone number.
“Sure.” He gave me a blue Bic and a scratch pad and I scribbled down an alias and the number to a gay escort service I had memorized for just such an occasion.
“Jeri,” he read. “Cute name! I'm Brent.” Like I couldn't read, but then again, most of the girls this guy hit on probably couldn't. He grinned. “Call you tonight?”
“Kewl!” I fluttered my fingers at him in farewell and bounced out. Pinhead.
I didn't worry too much about my humiliation after leaving, though. On my way out of the marina, I was followed again, and this time it wasn't the humongoid truck.
AHMM, July/August 2012 Page 23
