“None of the above. I’m a private investigator.” I flashed my license. “Any of those big party boats anchor in Eagle Harbor recently?”
CJ lowered her head, closed her eyes and rubbed them, then snapped her head back up. “About two weeks ago, a big boat, maybe eighty feet or so, pulled into Eagle Harbor. They partied through the night. I could hear them clear up here.”
“Did you notice anything else about the boat, anything at all?”
“White. Sleek, modern design—I hate the way they look. Give me a boat with classic lines any day.”
I smiled.
“The name,” she said. “Something about the name seemed odd.” CJ looked down again and pushed the gravel around with her foot. “I was on my way over to Anacortes for groceries in the park’s boat, Sea Shell. I remember thinking. . . .” Her head popped up. “Big. . . . Long. . . . That’s it. Long . . . Longhorn. The boat’s name was Longhorn. It sounded so out of place here in the Pacific Northwest. It had the image of a steer with huge horns underneath the name. Do you think that the Longhorn may have had something to do with these women?”
“I don’t know, but thanks for your help.”
“Say, I really need to get back to work. I’ve got an intern coming in early July, but until then it’s just me. Big windfall over the winter on the trail up to the airfield and Bradberry Lake. I’ve been clearing a little each day. You should take the hike up to the airfield.”
“I’ve been up there,” I said. “The view is great.”
CJ nodded, then smiled knowingly. Raven walked up to us.
“What do you think of our interpretive signs?” CJ asked.
Raven shook his head. “Sad. People have to be told what to look for in nature.”
“I know,” CJ said. “But it’s life in the modern world, where people are so removed from nature.”
CJ turned to leave, revealing the back of her T-shirt, which read, “Adventure Without Limits.” Now that gave a new meaning to AWOL.
six
Raven and I hiked back down the steep road. He rowed the dinghy out to his boat. We’d just pulled the inflatable up on the roof when Ben Conrad zoomed into Eagle Harbor at the helm of a black and green police boat. He tied up alongside us. Another man on Ben’s boat already had his wetsuit on. Raven leaned over to chat with the other diver. Then Raven slipped on his wetsuit again.
Both boats bobbed in the water, swinging close, then bouncing off the fenders tied between them. The other diver stepped onto Raven’s swim step and they helped each other saddle air tanks onto their backs.
Ben stood next to me on his boat. He nodded. “I’m glad Raven’s here, or I’d have to go down with Oscar. I hate diving, especially on bodies. Those two know exactly what they’re doing anyway.”
I swung my legs over the rails of both boats to join Ben. We stood on the rear deck and watched Raven and Oscar slip under the water. Two black body bags attached to a yellow buoy bobbed in the ripples from their descent.
“Do you know anything about the boat that pulled up to the visitor’s dock the other day, the Longhorn?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Park ranger says she saw it in here about two weeks ago with a big party going.”
“Shit,” Ben said.
“I take it that means you know something about the Longhorn.”
“At least about the owner. This protest I just came from was against the development of Chuckanut Ridge. The man who owns the ridge property is a Texan named Dennis Kincaid.”
“Let me guess. Mr. Kincaid owns an eighty-foot pleasure craft named Longhorn.”
“Yep. And he’s up here wining and dining politicians, bankers, and local business people on the boat so they’ll throw their support behind his development plans. That’s why Janet and her group staged their protest.”
“And the protest was large enough to cause a traffic jam in Bellingham?”
Ben grimaced. “The protest was a traffic jam.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Kincaid wants to put 800-plus homes on Chuckanut Ridge. The antidevelopment group estimates that would mean about 4,000 automobiles passing through Fairhaven and downtown Bellingham each day, from six in the morning to six at night. What’s that, roughly 300 more cars an hour? So they got together a group of 150 drivers and had them drive a circuit between Fairhaven and downtown, keeping right at the speed limit.”
“Smart folks.”
“Damn effective. Janet’s on the street corner next to her gallery in Fairhaven with a sign that reads, ‘Is This the City You Want?’”
I chuckled. “Kinda drives the point home.”
Ben winced.
Oscar spit out water as he surfaced. Ben lowered a hook attached to a thin steel cable over the side. Oscar grabbed the hook and swam back toward the body bags. The cable made a high-pitched wailing sound as it unwound from its spool.
After untying a body bag from the float, Oscar disappeared beneath the surface of the water with it. A moment later, he resurfaced without the bag. He swam toward us, and pushed himself onto the swim step of the police boat. Then Raven popped up, but he stayed in the water near the marker flag.
Oscar swung a stainless-steel arm out over one side of the police boat. He pushed a green button, and a winch whirred, slowly reeling in the steel cable and the body bag. Raven swam alongside the bag until it reached the boat. His lips moved as though talking to the bag.
Once Oscar had the body bag alongside the boat and out of the water, he let the sea drain from it before hoisting it onto the rear deck. Then he unhooked the cable, slipped on his face mask, and put his mouthpiece in. He jumped into the water. He and Raven swam with the cable toward the second marker flag, then disappeared beneath the water with another body bag.
“It’ll probably take the medical examiner a couple of days to get to these women,” Ben said. “You gonna wait to see what he says, or go after Kincaid right away?”
“Why wait?”
“How did I know you’d say that? That’s what I love about you PI guys. Come and go as you please. Don’t worry about probable cause or the chain of command. You’re going up against power. If what Janet says is true, Kincaid’s connected up the yin-yang. He may be from Texas, but he’s got politicians in his pocket from Washington, D.C., to Washington state and all points in between.”
“Connections can’t place you beyond the law,” I said.
“But they sure as hell can help you bend it.”
Raven and Oscar brought up and drained the second body bag.
“Should we drag the harbor for more?” Ben asked.
I pointed to the body bags. “You’ve got probable cause that more are down there.”
“Yeah. Let’s see what the chief says. Now what about the shooter?”
“Somewhere along the shore, but the fog made it impossible to see him.”
“And all the bullets are under the water.”
“Not all of them,” I said.
I dropped a spent bullet in Ben’s outstretched hand. “Raven found it on the bottom.”
“Damn. He found it on the sea floor?”
“Uh huh.”
Ben shook his head in disbelief. “It’s like the guy lives in an alternate universe and occasionally drops in to see how the rest of us are doing.” Ben pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the bullet in. “I’ll get ballistics to analyze it. Might match something in one of the databases.”
RAVEN STOOD SILENTLY AT THE HELM, piloting us across the bay. The late afternoon sun painted the dome of Mount Baker a golden yellow. A thin line of dried salt just below his hairline painted the bronze skin of Raven’s forehead white.
“The police are paying you for your help, aren’t they?” I asked.
He nodded.
“What do I owe you?”
He kept his gaze fixed out the windshield. “Nothing.”
“You said you’d let me know after you saw what needed to be done.”
“I ju
st did.”
“Nothing. Are you sure?”
“The police will pay me because I helped them raise the bodies of those women. I came with you because their souls needed to be set free. Even if you didn’t know that when we left. That’s a transaction of the spirit, for which there is no fee.”
“Well, then at least accept my thanks.”
Raven closed his eyes and nodded, then he went back to staring straight ahead. Halfway across the bay, he asked, “What happened?”
“With what?”
“The Coast Guard and you.”
“I refused to obey an order I thought was illegal.”
“Military doesn’t like people who think for themselves.”
“You know something about that?”
Raven nodded slowly, then resumed staring straight ahead.
After we rounded the breakwater at Squalicum Harbor, I had him take me to the Noble Lady. I shook my head as we passed the visitor’s dock. Longhorn had already left.
I threw some fenders over the side and Raven pulled up next to the Noble Lady. I tied his boat off to mine so it wouldn’t move while I transferred my gear.
Raven eyed the Noble Lady. “Your boat, Noble?”
“Uh huh. Designed by Bill Garden.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “You live aboard?”
“Uh huh.”
“Doesn’t go fast, does it?”
“Maybe eight knots flat out.”
“Then you have to read the water.”
“Wind. Weather. Currents. Tides. At eight knots, you always have to take them into account. You can’t outrun a storm or plow through saltwater rapids at that speed.”
“Good thing you don’t need lettered signs to tell you what to look for on the water.”
Raven scanned the length of the Noble Lady, then smiled. I think that meant he approved. After getting all my gear from his boat, I leaned out from the Noble Lady’s rear deck.
“You want to come aboard and have a beer?”
Raven looked straight at me, but his eyes suggested that he was gazing into a world far away. “I’ve been close to death and trapped souls today,” he said. “I need to cleanse myself now.” He reached up and untied his boat. He pushed off the Noble Lady and drifted a few feet away with his engine off.
“Hey, Noble,” Raven said. “What’s that number?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. I opened them and I pointed to Raven. “3-4-7-4-2-8.”
Raven laughed. Then he started his engine. He made a sweeping turn and sped away.
I laid my wetsuit on the dock and rinsed it off with a hose. Then I walked over to the visitor’s dock. All the slips on the shoreline side of the visitor’s dock belonged to permanently moored boats. Vince Marcellis, a retired engineer, lived aboard Misty Isle, a thirty-six-foot Nonsuch sailboat, with his yellow Lab, Quark. I’d heard less than flattering talk about Vince’s boat from crusty traditional sailors. Now, I’m not an experienced sailor, but I liked the Nonsuch. One sail, one sheet, and one halyard made it an extremely simple boat to handle. Its odd-looking “wishbone” mast reminded me of a bent hula hoop fitted over a pole. But with it, all you do is raise and lower the sail without much fuss.
Quark barked as I approached. Vince stuck his head from the cabin door. He wore a full beard and skullcap. I pointed to the other side of the dock.
“Eighty-foot boat, Longhorn, was moored here earlier today. Did you notice when she left?”
“More like eighty-four feet,” Vince said. He pointed to the dock. “Each concrete dock slab is eight feet long. Longhorn took up ten and a half slabs. That makes eighty-four feet, give or take a few inches.”
About what I’d expect from an engineer. “Did you talk to the owner or the crew?” I asked.
“Some. Kinda snooty folks. Never did meet the owner, only the captain and the first mate. Boat left at 1113 today. Headed into the San Juans, the captain said.” Vince shook his head. “Not many anchorages for a big boat like that.”
“Whaddya think? Sucia? Maybe Stuart?”
“Looked more like marina types to me.”
“Friday Harbor? Roche?”
“Roche,” Vince said.
“So they can cozy up next to all the other big boats with so few places to go,” I said. Vince nodded.
I walked back to the Noble Lady, peeled my wetsuit from the dock, and stepped aboard. Roche Harbor is on San Juan Island. Standing in the galley, I flipped open my cell phone and called my friend Ed Sykes, the San Juan County sheriff. I caught Ed in a meeting. He said he’d call back. A few minutes later, my cell phone rang.
“You’re quick.”
“No, I’m Conrad. You expecting someone else?”
“Ed Sykes.”
“Say hi to him for me. Listen, Janet wants to know if you and Kate want to have dinner with us tonight.”
“Love to,” I said. “Too bad that Kate can’t join us. She’s on a coast guard training cruise 24/7 for the next week or so. Where’re we eating?”
“Janet said let’s try that tapas bar.”
“Topless bar?”
“Tapas bar. Tapas.”
“Ah, you mean Flats, the restaurant in Fairhaven?”
“Yeah, she made reservations for us at seven.”
“Good. I haven’t eaten at Flats before.”
I heard Ben mutter “topless” a few times then chuckle as he hung up.
A BLAZE OF ORANGE from the setting sun reflected off the large front windows of Flats. I walked into the restaurant early. The small space had tables packed tightly together on upper and lower floors. Outside, waiting diners lined the street. Inside, they crammed around the bar. Both good signs for a first-time patron.
Exposed brick walls gave Flats a cozy feeling. I made my way through the maze of tables and people to the bar. The bartender, a short man with dark hair and a bushy mustache, leaned over. “What’ll ya have?”
“Got a local microbrew? Something dark?”
“Stout from Boundary Bay Brewery okay?”
I nodded. A black guy next to me swiveled around on his stool. He pointed to his glass. “I used to be a Guinness man until I tried one of these microbrews,” he said.
Beneath an open-collar black shirt, he wore a gray T-shirt. The colors matched his mustache and beard. Looking at him, especially in his black Greek fisherman’s hat, brought on a flash of recognition, followed by a flash of “What if I’m wrong?” I took a chance. “You’re the author who lives aboard on Gate Six, aren’t you?”
He had a great smile, and we shook hands. “Eugene Wendell,” he said. “But most people call me Gene.”
“Charles Noble,” I said. “But most people call me Charlie. I’m a liveaboard on Gate Nine.”
My beer arrived and I took a sip.
“I’m aboard a Shannon,” Gene said.
“Nice boat. Tough boat. Forty-three-foot ketch?”
Gene’s smile lit up the bar. “You know boats.”
“I love them. All kinds. Mine’s a deep-draft trawler. A 1969 thirty-six-foot Willard Aft Pilothouse.”
Gene nodded. “In the late eighties, a Willard APH made a Pacific crossing from San Diego to Hawaii. Strapped fifty-five-gallon drums on the rear deck for more fuel if I remember.”
“You’re right,” I said. “The owner was sixty-five years old, a former sailor who confessed to ‘a serious love affair’ with his Willard.”
Gene laughed.
“Seems I’m not the only one who knows boats,” I said.
I looked up from my next sip of beer to see Ben and Janet walking through the restaurant door. Janet wore a wraparound turquoise skirt and a sleeveless white blouse. A waitress ushered the pair to an empty window table.
I turned to Gene. “My friends just arrived. But stop by Gate Nine sometime. My boat’s name is the Noble Lady.”
“Likewise, next time you’re over at Gate Six, you’re welcome aboard Wings of Freedom.”
“I never did ask what you write.”
“Detective mysteries,” Gene said.
“Do they have copies at Village Books?”
“Always. And they’re usually signed.”
“My girlfriend and I are leaving for a three-week cruise soon. I’ll have to bring one of your books with us.”
I grabbed my microbrew and headed toward Janet and Ben.
“Hi, Charles,” Janet said.
I winced. Her face reddened. I took the seat facing the window and Janet leaned my way.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know how much you hate that name. . . . But it sounds so regal, so . . .” She hesitated. I knew exactly where she was headed.
“Noble?” I said.
“Yes. Prince Charles. King Charles. But Prince Charlie? King Charlie?”
I held up a finger. “That’s what I like about Charlie,” I said. “It sounds like a guy who’d pop the hatch on his engine room and be happy as a clam getting dirty working on his boat all day. Can you imagine a prince or a king doing that?”
“You have a point there,” Janet said.
Ben grumbled. “Let’s order.”
I started for the menu, which rested on the table, but the setting sun caught my attention and held it. A few clouds had moved in over the western horizon. The dying rays of the sun turned the cloud bottoms salmon pink. Above the clouds, a thick band of violet faded to midnight blue, squeezing sunlight from the sky.
Finally, I turned away from the sunset to a young woman hovering over the table with a green pad and pencil. Since tapas are basically appetizers, I quickly scanned the menu and ordered three: grilled asparagus with mushrooms; scallops with cannellini beans; and a salad of grilled eggplant, roasted tomatoes, fava beans, and goat cheese. Ben and Janet also ordered.
“Was that nice?” Janet asked. “When we came in, I saw you talking with that black man at the bar. Isn’t he the mystery author who lives aboard near Big Ben?”
“Gene Wendell,” I said. “And it is nice seeing another black man who loves boats as much as I do.”
Our waitress arrived with a basket of bread. Then Janet looked down at her wrist as though checking her watch, but she didn’t have one on. “God, I’m so damned white. I need a tan. I just adore darker skinned people.”
Precious Cargo Page 6
