The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  Puo steps in first and then motions it's okay for me to follow.

  I stay where I am. "Yes," I say. "My name is Sapphire Sanders." I hold the "a" in Sanders a touch long like I have something stuck to the roof of my mouth. "I was told one could house a yacht here."

  "I see," Rodrigo says, sizing us up.

  Before he can continue I command, "Show me the marina." I step away from his office toward the door in the back of the building that leads out to the docks.

  Rodrigo doesn't move to stop me, but says, "It's not that simple, Ms. Sanders." He pronounces it smoothly and fluently just as I said it—definitely one used to dealing with the wealthy. "This is a private marina. Unless you are escorted by one of our members I cannot simply let you walk in off the street and into restricted areas."

  I stare at him. Then pointedly look at Puo. "And how exactly would you plan stop Sebastian—"

  Puo's cheek quirks at the name Sebastian, and I have to suppress a smile that would grow into a laughing fit. Perhaps we should have worked out names beforehand.

  "Ma'am," Rodrigo says. "Who exactly recommend you to us?"

  I make a split-second decision, and smile warmly. "About time," I say. "This is the first bit of security I've seen." The door to the office is still open. Without looking back I step in.

  Puo takes up a position in front of the door.

  Rodrigo closes the door softly behind us.

  As soon as it clicks shut, I say, "James Colvin."

  * * *

  Rodrigo guides me over the rosewood slatted floating wood docks of the marina; water gently laps up against the concrete pilings. The afternoon sun shines down on us through a mix of clouds and blue sky.

  Certain names carry power. Colvin's is one of them. Only a suicidal airhead would invoke Colvin's name without his backing. The moment I said it, Rodrigo changed his posture and regarded me much more carefully. After making some calls that finally reached Colvin, he indeed verified I wasn't a suicidal airhead, and now I'm being shown around with the proper amount of respect.

  Puo follows several paces behind, enough to be close by, but still provide us privacy. There is quite a bit of activity in several of the boats and on the docks—mostly staff stocking the boats and performing maintenance.

  "We have a variety of slip sizes," Rodrigo says. "What kind of boat are you thinking of mooring here?"

  "An EB10 ninety footer," I say. It's an open motor luxury yacht and very similar in size to what Valle houses here.

  Whereas before it was the attitude that mattered, now it's the details that matter. If you can't speak their language (and boating is a language) then suspicions are aroused—well more than they already are.

  It was a gamble to possibly tip our hands by bringing up Colvin's name. But based on what I'd seen, a smart gamble. Getting past Rodrigo would have taken quite a bit of extra finesse, and I wasn't convinced it would have worked—he was starting to dig in his heels. We could have left and come back later after they were closed, but that would have given them several hours to tidy anything up that needed tidying. Now that we’re here, I want to catch them off guard, see if there is anything we could use to rid ourselves of the drive.

  "We house a number of similarly sized yachts." Rodrigo gestures to an EB3 in front of him: Valle's.

  Fancy that.

  Valle's yacht has a white hull with a black running stripe down the middle. There are circular hull windows near the waterline and much larger tinted glass windows wrapping the second level. A wooden dive deck hangs off the back end—perfect for getting in and out of the water. It looks empty, no staff.

  "I do have an open slip available," Rodrigo says. "Would you like to see it?"

  I look around like a prairie dog, sticking my head up and surveying the marina. The choicest slips are the ones closest to land—more protection, less of a walk, and closer to amenities.

  "What would it take to have that one there?" I gesture toward Valle's. Bumping boats for more wealthy ones is a common pastime in marinas.

  "I can't give you that one," Rodrigo says, "But I do have something just a little farther down."

  "Sewage?" I ask, not moving.

  "There's an easily accessible pump on the underside of every slip."

  I walk over the edge and get down on my hands and knees. The water is clear, hints of green from the algae underneath. Small fish dart in and out of the rocks at the bottom, more fish school under the dock itself in the shade. I see the sewage pump and piping. I linger for a few seconds more before getting back up.

  "Do you have a dry dock for repairs?" I ask.

  "No," he answers. "There's a dry dock around the north side of the island if you need it. But we do have a boat lift and boat repair shop here."

  I don't ask if using the lift is extra. It's gauche at this point to talk about money. I'm a rich diva. Money isn't an issue. I simply must know what's available for convenience's sake. "I'd like to see it."

  "The lift?"

  "The repair shop." There was something in the way Rodrigo mentioned it that piqued my interest.

  Rodrigo hesitates for a brief second before saying, "As you wish. Follow me." He walks back toward the marina with his arms crossed in front him, preoccupied.

  At the main dock, instead of turning left to go back into the building we came from, he turns right. The back corner of the marina building is open to the water and serves as a waterway entry for both the boat lift and repair shop.

  Rodrigo points out both the shiny red fire alarm and emergency gas cut off button on the outside of the building as safety features, but neglects to mention any security. That will come later during the discussion of actual dollar figures in a more private setting.

  We duck inside. The smell of exhaust is stronger here, but the shelter of the roof from the glare of the sun feels nice, although I wish for some air conditioning to cut through the humidity.

  Most of the building is taken up with the lift and maintenance shop. It's a large, cavernous space, four stories tall with a blue metal roof. There are rows of boats on huge dry stacks, which are half full—either in need of repair, or the owners are already storing them away for the fall and winter. The waterway entrance is all the way to the right (when entering from the back) of the building.

  "We have full-service mechanics available," Rodrigo says, "if you need them. Your own people can use the facilities as needed."

  There's a larger-than-Valle's luxury motor yacht tied to the pier, similar in appearance to Valle's. That, and a swarm of mechanics have the back deck lifted up and are working on the engines.

  One of the mechanics straightens up on seeing Rodrigo. He's an older gentleman with a scruffy beard and leathery sun-kissed skin. "Mr. Ramírez. We've located the problem. It's a broken link in the shifter, sheared off cleanly—"

  "Not now, Edward," Rodrigo quickly cuts him off.

  "It'll be ready tomorrow," the mechanic says, his voice trailing off, and he turns back to his work.

  "Mmm," Rodrigo says. His dark eyes turn even more thoughtful. After several seconds he turns and asks me, "Perhaps you would like to be the bearer of good news?"

  "What?" I say, remembering to add my diva snottiness.

  "You can tell Mr. Colvin when you see him next that his boat will finally be ready to sail tomorrow. It's been having problems over the past few months."

  This is Colvin's boat?

  To Rodrigo I smile and say, "Yes, I'd like that."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "I'M CONFUSED," Puo says.

  "And I like coffee," I reply dryly.

  We're driving back from the marina over the west sky corridor between the Center and Queen Anne islands.

  "Why are you worried about Colvin keeping a boat there?" Puo asks.

  Rodrigo's admission that that was Colvin's boat rattled me. I wasn't expecting it—I should've been, but I wasn't.

  Something about it just felt off—like that pang in your gut when you realize you've been caught in a li
e, or you realize that the solid-state drive you reappropriated belongs to a Boss.

  The fact that Colvin keeps a boat there isn't that surprising upon any reflection—I did use his name to get access. He's wealthy and there aren't that many marinas that cater to the ultra-wealthy that have increased security and less-questions-asked kind of attitudes. All of which is why Puo doesn't get why I bugged out of there.

  "What was wrong with his boat?" I ask—that's what's bothering me.

  "Coincidence?" Puo asks.

  I shake my head "no" in thought. It could be, but it doesn't feel like it.

  Puo continues, "Valle is the one that's been going out to the site."

  "Rodrigo said the boat's been having problems for the past few months. How long have we been in town?"

  Puo raises his eyebrows.

  Two months—that's too much of a damn coincidence. We shouldn't have rushed this job.

  "We're going back," I say.

  "When?" Puo asks.

  "Tonight."

  Puo doesn't look happy about it, but doesn't say anything.

  * * *

  Puo holds his tongue all the way back to the house, and all the way through briefing Winn on what had happened. Turns out the big turd was just waiting for an ally before speaking his mind.

  We all sit at the round dark wooden kitchen table, where Winn was sitting when we arrived, eating a ham and swiss cheese sandwich, the crumbs of which lie on a white porcelain plate before him, and are making my stomach rumble.

  "Is going back really necessary?" Puo asks in the rushed tone of a rehearsed speech. "Is it really worth the risk? We're not really investigating, we kinda already know what happened to the drive."

  "Yes," I say.

  "We should be focusing on the drive," Puo says. "Specifically, on how to safely get rid of it."

  "I have news on that front," Winn says. He looks between Puo and the pearl necklace around my neck. Normally I'd think he's checking out the girls but the vacant expression in his eyes and set of his jaw say otherwise.

  I wait for two heartbeats before having to prompt him, "Well?"

  "Seattle University," Winn says, coming out of whatever reverie he was in, "has an electromagnetic anechoic chamber we can use."

  Puo points toward Winn while staring at me. "That's what we should be doing tonight." He stops there when I don't retort right away.

  The afternoon sunlight filters in through the slatted double-hung windows. The kitchen is starting to feel warm with all three of us in it. Puo may be right. We need to know what's on that external drive and whether or not it has the ability to phone home.

  "We'll do both," I say.

  "You want to go cross-town?" Puo asks in a are-you-kidding-me voice.

  I start to answer when Winn cuts in, "Cross-town?" There's a darkness that flits over his face, an annoyance at not knowing everything.

  "A double job," I answer Winn, and then promptly ignore him. To Puo, I say, "Yes. We'll hit the university first, and then the marina."

  "That's not necessary—" Winn starts.

  "See!" Puo says, gesturing toward to Winn again. "At least someone else has some sense."

  "No," Winn says louder. "I mean, we don't have to pull a double job. But we can still do both."

  "What do you mean do both?" Puo asks, exasperated that he almost had me but his one-time ally has turned against him. To me, Puo says, "Why do we even need to go back to the marina?"

  "This whole this is starting to stink," I say. Colvin knew way too quick the drive was gone, and why has Colvin's boat been having issues for just as long as we've been in town monitoring the bay? I need a closer look. To Puo I say, "I couldn't exactly go traipsing onto Valle's boat with Rodrigo right there staring at me, could I?"

  "I thought you were interested in Colvin's boat?" Puo's eyes narrow in annoyance.

  "I am," I answer. "We'll need to split up."

  "What about the external drive?" Puo asks.

  Winn is the one that answers, "I've made you an appointment to use the electromagnetic anechoic chamber."

  "What?" both Puo and I ask at the same time.

  "Look," Winn says, "I know your style is all subterfuge and cloak-and-daggers. But students can use the chamber with an appointment. It's pretty wide open for availability."

  Puo just stares at Winn. "So I'm a student?"

  "Yup," Winn answers. And then, almost as if against his will, a ghost of a grin flits across his face. "Blade Désirée."

  "What!" Puo jerks forward in his chair.

  I bark a laugh.

  "I sound like a porn star," Puo complains.

  "Yeah," Winn says. "I even invented you a whole back story if you're interested."

  "No," Puo says at the same time I say, "Yes."

  "No," Puo repeats. "Not interested. You didn't upload a picture of me did you?"

  "No," Winn says. "Of course not. You're just a name on a form right now."

  Puo exhales heavily. "When's the appointment?"

  "Tomorrow morning," Winn says. "Bright and early at eight a.m. You're the first one and have the whole day blocked off."

  Puo gets up from the table tensely and heads out of the kitchen.

  "Where are you going?" Winn asks.

  I was content to let Puo's leaving slide without comment, give him some breathing space. Puo doesn't care for fieldwork, but he really hates doing it alone.

  Puo answers without looking back, "To go hack some temporary identifications for—" He raises his hands up and twiddles his fingers. "—Blade Désirée."

  After Puo leaves the kitchen, Winn turns back to me, "What's with him?"

  I stare after Puo a bit, and then answer Winn. "He doesn't like to work alone. He had a job go really, really wrong early on, before we started working together. Scarred him."

  "How am I supposed to know that?" Winn asks, suddenly miffed.

  I turn back to Winn. "I just told you." Why is he miffed?

  Winn looks like he's about to retort, but thinks better of it. He hasn't been with us for six months yet. Maybe Puo was right. He just needs some time to get through his mansies and straighten out his man panties.

  I ask Winn with a faint smile, "Have you ever heard the tale of the horn-spotted cotton-tailed cat?"

  "No," Winn says sullenly—sucking out all the joy and patience I was about to have with him.

  He continues to stare at the center of the table. His blue eyes are vacant. Morose. No doubt getting bogged down in his existentialist crap.

  The slatted afternoon sunlight falls over his black curly hair and two-day-old stubble as he sits there. He looks like I could push him over and he wouldn't resist me. Just slump to the ground as a big bag of meat.

  I should say something. The seconds grow longer. The opportunities for natural conversation slide by. I don't know what to say. What I want to say will just start a fight and piss both of us off. What I should say, I wouldn't be able to say sincerely, and it'd just piss me off.

  What I really want to do is smack him, or shove a gun down his throat. Nothing makes you feel so alive as when you're about to die. Clear that existentialist crap up real quick.

  Winn breaks the silence with, "Kathy stopped by, our neighbor down the street."

  Ugh. Freaking neighbors. I haven't met this Kathy, but I already don't like her. I thought they would have gotten the message already to leave us alone. I'd rather blend in as a recluse, no need to worry about cover stories getting exposed in unexpected ways.

  "She invited us to a party," Winn continues.

  "You tell her we were busy?" I ask.

  And party? Please. It'll just be a bunch of people standing around with drinks in their hands trying to figure out how we fit into their pecking order: financially, politically, fecundity. We'll all try to awkwardly make conversation, grasping at anything we might have in common other than the vicinity in which we live.

  Gag me.

  "I said," Winn answers, "that I thought we were, but that I would
check with you."

  "What?" I ask. "You want to go?"

  Winn gives a noncommittal shrug. "It might be nice."

  "It'll be awful!" I say. "Is this your 'Let's live in the suburbs with a good school district and save prudently for retirement’ crap again from this morning?"

  Winn clenches his jaw before blurting, "We're already in the suburbs! Look, I'm just saying it might be nice to meet our neighbors."

  "Why! So we can have barbecues? Plan Fourth of July parties together? Discuss taxes?"

  Winn crosses his arms and looks away. "Never mind."

  "Never mind?" I spit out before thinking.

  "Yeah, Isa!" Winn gets up out of his chair and clomps out of the kitchen. "Never mind!"

  What the hell is going on with him? It's like he's trying to drag us into an old episode of Leave it to Beaver.

  I never should have bought this house. It's infecting Winn with this faux life. We're reclamation specialists—reclamation specialists that need to lie low right now.

  And he wants us out meeting the freaking neighbors. Start hosting game night, or some other such suburban crap.

  I run my hands through my hair, pulling back the skin on my face, stretching it. Argh!

  And we still haven't even planned for tonight!

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE MOTOR from the yacht Carpe Diem revs in the water as it zooms us toward West Union Marina. Winn and I are back in our dry closed-circuit scuba suits with rebreathers attached to the underside of Carpe Diem's hull like two barnacles. My arms are clenched tight as I cling to the two handles I stuck to the vibrating hull over the engine room. The small vibrations were fun at first, but are now annoying, making it more difficult to maintain my grip.

  If I let go, or get sucked off, the propellers will maim me violently. Well, at least I think they'll horribly maim me and not just kill me—it makes it more dangerous exciting to think of it that way.

  Winn's on the other side of the hull, out of sight. I assume he's okay since I haven't heard any unexpected chomping from the propellers and there's still that awkward, brooding silence on the comm-link.