fourteen
I didn’t feel the Noble Lady tip when Raven stepped aboard. He knocked on the pilothouse door. I sat up, blinked my eyes, and shook my head, trying to wake up. Raven stood on deck, looking through the window. I opened the door. His hair shone as though he’d washed it. He’d threaded his ponytail through a hand-tooled silver ring, which I guessed he’d made.
“Thought you might have slept up in the pilothouse last night.”
“The women slept down in the stateroom,” I said.
I crawled downstairs and opened the cabin door. Raven stepped inside. I got some coffee going. I yawned.
“You’re up bright and early after a late night,” I said.
“Thought Alex might need a chaperone,” Raven said.
“Eliana. Her real name’s Eliana Morales.”
“Still might need a chaperone.”
The steps leading to the stateroom creaked. Maria walked into the galley. I poured three cups of coffee, handed one to her and the other to Raven. She took a sip, then set the cup down on the table. “If I’m going to locate her parents, I need to leave now.” She nodded toward the stateroom. “My poquito is still sleeping. Can I trust you both to keep her safe?”
Raven reached into his pocket, pulled out his Glock, and slapped it down on the table next to Maria’s coffee cup.
“Call me the moment you find them,” I said.
When Maria left, I tiptoed into the stateroom and grabbed some clean clothes without disturbing Eliana. Raven stopped me as I walked out the cabin door.
“I have one too,” he said.
“One what?”
“A daughter. Nineteen years old. She lives with her mother in Port Hardy.”
“Do you get to see her much?”
“I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”
“How long ago?”
“Seven years.”
“That long? Port Hardy’s not that far away. Why haven’t you gone to see her?”
Raven stared off into space. When he didn’t respond, I gathered my clothes and my toiletry bag. I pulled the cabin door open.
“Noble,” Raven said.
I turned around.
Raven sighed. “I don’t know why.”
I nodded.
“If Eliana wants to take a shower have her use the one on the boat,” I said. “It’ll be safer.”
Raven nodded.
I took a shower and dressed in the washrooms near the harbor office at the top of Gate Nine. I thought about riding my bicycle to the police station. I needed the exercise. But it was already nine o’clock, and a thick layer of clouds still hovered over the bay. The wind blew in from the south. I slipped behind the wheel of my car just as a few raindrops pattered the windshield.
Three young Mexican women were at the bottom of Eagle Harbor. Someone shot at Raven and me after we found two of the bodies. The women were probably illegal immigrants brought into this country by coyotes, and forced to work as prostitutes. I found a spent rifle shell on Cypress, as well as a religious charm that Mexican girls are given at First Communion. We found a native crabber’s traps at Eagle Harbor. The crabber later showed up at a strip club where the owner pimps Mexican women. All coincidence? Human trafficking gone awry? Or rich boys on big boats partying with what they regarded as throwaway women, and then actually throwing them away?
I tapped on the steering wheel. After asking Ben about the bullet that Raven had retrieved from the bottom of Eagle Harbor, I also needed to have a talk with Bellingham playboy Bud Kincaid.
I sat in the parking lot and called the Bellingham Police Department. The receptionist informed me that Ben was out on patrol. I left my callback number. A couple of minutes later, Ben called me back.
“Don’t want to hear anything about the three women found in Eagle Harbor.”
“Why?”
“Chief is trying to unload the case on the Coast Guard.”
“Why?”
“Chief hates marine investigations. Says our boats just sit at the dock and eat up maintenance funds.”
I laughed. “He doesn’t know what the letters B-O-A-T stand for.”
“Bring On Another Thousand.”
“Have you seen a ballistics report on the slug that Raven pulled from the water?”
“I have.”
“Would it happen to be a 30-06?”
“Damn, Noble are you psychic? . . . Yeah, it’s a 30-06.”
“Could you also pull up what you have on Ray Bob again?”
“Can’t right now, but if you tell me what you want maybe I can get it for you later.”
“That domestic abuse charge. I want to know more about the woman involved.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Thanks. How’s Janet?”
“Happy. Thinks they’ve got a deal with Kincaid to buy that property he wants to develop. I hope they do, so she can stop being a tree hugger for a while.”
“Yeah, but you love it.”
“Don’t know about that. Maybe I love her.”
“What’d I hear you just say?”
“Gotta go. I’m on the department’s time. Talk to you later.”
Ben hung up. I smiled. I called Janet’s art gallery next. A young man named Kenneth answered.
“Ms. Paulsen’s busy at the moment.”
“Tell Ms. Paulsen that Mr. Noble’s on the line.”
“Sir, I’ll have her get back to you.”
“Son, I’ll hold until I hear directly from her that she can’t take my call.”
Kenneth huffed. A moment later Janet picked up.
“Did I interrupt you?”
“No,” Janet said. “What makes you say that?”
“Kenneth.”
“Oh, he thinks it’s cool to project an image that we’re always busy.”
“You need a new receptionist,” I said.
“Are you kidding? Kenneth’s an art student at the university. He brings a younger generation into the gallery. It’s good for business.”
“Yeah, but he puts off an older generation with money . . . bad for business.”
“I thought you were a private eye, not a business consultant. A ‘fish-eye,’ if I remember.”
Janet laughed. I joined her.
“Do you know where Bud Kincaid lives?” I asked.
Janet stopped laughing. “What the hell do you want with him?”
“Fish-eye business.”
“Has to do with the three young women?”
“Confidential.”
“Did Maria talk with you?”
“She did.”
“So you’re helping her?”
I paused. Janet jumped in. “Also confidential?”
“Yes.”
“Good. She’s a capable woman and now I know she’s in capable hands.”
“She’s also feisty. Now how about Bud Kincaid?”
Janet sighed. “I remember the house only too well. He lives at 2500 Chuckanut Crest Drive. A house at the top of the mountain. Misty-fjord-green color with a great view of the bay.”
“Misty-fjord-green?”
“What do you expect? I’m an art gallery owner.”
“Misty Fjord sounds more like a place I should go with the Noble Lady.”
SOUTH OF FAIRHAVEN, Chuckanut Drive twisted and turned past home after home where red-and-white yard signs read, “No Development of Chuckanut Ridge.” Just before the drive opened up into an expansive view of Chuckanut Bay, I took a small road veering off to the left. Chuckanut Crest Drive wove—hairpin after hairpin—past exclusive luxury homes. Even these yards had signs against development—ironic, since these homeowners had reaped the benefits of developing these lush green hills. What’s that called? I snapped my fingers. NIMBY. Not In My Back Yard.
The higher the drive went, the further I climbed into the clouds. Fog blanketed the roadway ahead. I slowed to a crawl to avoid driving off the mountain, and I wished my car had radar like the Noble Lady.
Suddenly, a wrought-iro
n gate spanned my side of the road ahead. I slammed on the brakes. No gate crossed the other side of the road, leading down from the mountain, but a line of tire spikes like the metal teeth of an asphalt monster dared any driver to venture the wrong way on that side. I pulled up to the kiosk beside the gate and pressed the button marked 2500. A rapid-fire succession of touch-tones sounded through the speaker grille beneath the keypad. A moment later, someone picked up a telephone on the other end.
“Hello,” the male voice said.
“Mr. Kincaid,” I said. “George Campbell, private investigator. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about that matter at Eagle Harbor.”
“My father sent you?” the man said.
“He didn’t give me the gate code.”
“It’s 5-2-3-9-2,” the man said.
“I’ll be right up.”
I chuckled to myself, then punched in the code. The wrought-iron gate rumbled back, and I drove through.
Chuckanut Crest Drive continued to wind its way upward through switchbacks and through fog. I held my breath and swallowed hard to clear one ear that had filled from the elevation gain.
Finally, the asphalt road became a dirt and gravel road, which after one more switchback dead-ended at a house that looked, well, on a day like today, misty-fjord-green. I must have risen above the layer of clouds. The fog now hovered close to the ground, and above me treetops reached into a clear blue sky.
I parked in front of the detached four-car garage and stepped quickly through the mist to the covered walkway leading to the front door. The large pillars at the front of the massive house reminded me of a modern-day version of a southern plantation. I rang the doorbell and waited, half expecting a maid or manservant to answer. When the door swung open, a blond-haired man with a boyish face and a dimpled chin stood before me.
“Mr. . . . ?”
“Campbell,” I said. “George Campbell.” My father’s first name, my mother’s maiden name. The alias had grown on me.
“William Kincaid.” He extended his hand and we shook. “Please, come in,” Kincaid said. “I wasn’t expecting you. Father didn’t call to say you’d be here.”
“You can never predict where an investigation might lead,” I said.
I stepped into the foyer. Kincaid closed the door behind me. I sucked in a breath and held it as I stared at the view out the window, which took up most of the front room wall. I looked out and down over an infinite expanse of billowy gray and white clouds. Every so often, the deep green summits of an island poked through.
“Lummi. Orcas. Cypress.” I whispered the names.
“You know your islands, Mr. Campbell,” Kincaid said.
Kincaid looked like he’d just gotten out of bed or the shower. He wore a misty-fjord-green terrycloth bathrobe and matching terrycloth slippers.
“It’s a shoes-off house,” Kincaid said.
I slipped off my shoes and walked across the oiled cherrywood floors into the living room. I continued to stare out the window.
“Stunning view,” I said.
“Yes it is,” Kincaid said. “Care for a seat?”
I followed Kincaid into the living room and sank into a plush, white couch. It reminded me of a first-class seat in an airplane high above the clouds. I pulled out a pad and pencil, mostly for the effect. I turned to Kincaid.
“Within the past two weeks, the bodies of three women were pulled up from Eagle Harbor.”
Kincaid sighed and shook his head. “I’d heard about one woman. I didn’t know about the other two. That’s tragic.”
“Longhorn was seen in Eagle Harbor about the same time.”
Kincaid shrugged and raised his hands palms up. “And your point is?”
“No point. Just that the police are investigating the connection between the boat and the women, and—”
“And you’re the private investigator father hired to collect enough information so we can make sure nothing taints the Kincaid name.” His accent crossed a sleepy southern drawl with a patronizing prep-school twang.
“Telling me what you know would certainly help.”
“To the best of my recollection, Eagle Harbor is a small cove on the east side of Cypress Island.”
“It is.”
“Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?”
“Campbell.”
“Yes, Campbell. . . . It’s not the kind of place father or I would take the boat. I don’t know where you heard that Longhorn entered Eagle Harbor, but whoever said that was obviously mistaken.” The sleepy southern drawl won out with this last sentence.
“Well, then, I don’t suppose—”
“Bud, where are you? Are you coming back to bed?”
The dreamy, high-pitched female voice floated down from above. I turned and looked up over my shoulder. A woman clad in a very short, misty-fjord-green terrycloth bathrobe leaned over the tubular railing of the second floor. She held a glass of wine in one hand, and swayed enough to concern me.
Kincaid frowned. “Tiffany, I’m talking to this person.”
“Oops,” Tiffany said. She placed her hand over her mouth, then disappeared from the railing.
“Now where were we, Mr. Campbell?” Kincaid tapped the side of his head as if trying to fix my name in his brain.
“Where’s Longhorn now?”
Kincaid stood up. So did I, but I had about four inches of height over him. He narrowed his eyes.
“When’s the last time you spoke with my father?”
“It’s been a while.”
“And he hired you?”
“I’m investigating the deaths of these women and their connection to Longhorn.”
Kincaid shook his head. “I don’t believe my father hired you. Who are you, a reporter looking for a story?”
I flashed my license. “An investigator. I—”
Kincaid came at me, pushing me back, out of the living room. “Whoever you are, get the hell out of my house.”
I grabbed his arm, spun him around, and twisted his arm up and behind his back. “Didn’t they teach you some manners growing up?” I threw Kincaid up against one of the posts supporting the second floor. “What was Longhorn doing in Eagle Harbor?”
He gritted his teeth. I pushed his arm up harder. “None of your damn business.”
“So it has been in Eagle Harbor?”
Kincaid struggled against me. “I didn’t say that, and if you don’t let me go I’ll go to the police and have you arrested for assault and battery.”
I ratcheted his arm higher. “I’m sure the police would love to talk with you about those three women found at the bottom of Eagle Harbor.”
Sweat broke out over Kincaid’s face. “I told you”—his voice sounded strained, breathy—“we don’t take the boat to Eagle Harbor.”
“Well then, maybe you can tell me why someone saw Longhorn at Smuggler’s Cove?”
“Who? I don’t know a Smuggler’s Cove.”
“Other side of the island from Eagle Harbor.”
“Why would Longhorn be there?”
“That’s the question.”
“We go to places with more accommodations than a small bay without any protection from the wind.”
I released Kincaid’s arm and pushed him toward the couch. He stumbled up against it, then turned around and wagged his finger at me.
“I’ll call my father and you’ll be history, Mr. Campbell, or whoever the hell you are.”
“I’ll see myself out,” I said.
I slipped on my shoes and walked through the front door, then under the covered walkway to my car. Small bay. No protection from the wind. Bud Kincaid obviously knew enough to describe the characteristics of Smuggler’s Cove. And as far as calling his father, that’s exactly what I hoped he would do. Then maybe I’d catch Daddy Kincaid in the midst of trying something foolish that would help me understand how and why three young women had ended up at the bottom of Eagle Harbor.
I drove down Chuckanut Crest Drive and passed the right way over the
tire spikes at the gate. I’d almost made it to Chuckanut Drive when my cell phone rang. I reached into the glove compartment and fumbled for the phone, but by the time I flipped it open the caller had hung up. I checked recent messages. Raven had called me seven times. I pressed Send, and my cell phone dialed him back.
“She’s gone,” Raven said. “Eliana’s gone.”
fifteen
I raced back to the marina. When I got to the Noble Lady, Raven stepped from the fantail onto the dock to meet me. He didn’t make eye contact, and I didn’t see the pride I’d seen in his face when he arrived to guard Eliana. My throat tightened. I wanted to yell. But I also don’t believe in kicking someone when they’re down.
“What happened?”
Raven pointed to the large, open hatch on the foredeck. The hatch vented the forward part of the boat, and also provided a means of escape. I already had a good idea what had gone wrong.
“About a half hour ago, Eliana said she needed to shower and to dress,” Raven said. “I hung a blanket over the opening into the stateroom so she’d have some privacy. She turned the shower on, and the boat rocked as she moved around. The shower stayed on too long, and when I checked, the forward hatch was open and she was gone.”
“Did you check the marina restrooms?”
“Men’s and women’s as well as both showers.”
“Check the boats on the dock? She could have jumped aboard one and hidden there.”
“Walked every dock on this gate. . . . Nothing.”
Raven slumped. He spoke to the ground. “I let her down. I let you down. I’m sorry.”
I grabbed Raven’s shoulder. “The only letting down will be if we don’t find her.”
I leaped aboard the Noble Lady and checked inside. Eliana had left behind the clothes she’d worn to the motel, which meant she’d dressed in the jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes that Maria had brought her. I locked up the boat and jumped off onto the dock. Raven hadn’t moved.
“Come on,” I said. “We have a young woman to find.”
Raven murmured. “And too many places to look.”
“We’ll head downtown first,” I said.
Raven jogged over to his car. I pulled out of the parking lot and raced down Roeder Avenue. I turned left on F Street, then right on Holly. I flew past Maritime Heritage Park. But a moment later, I stomped on the brakes and swung into the parking lot of Tamales Mexican Restaurant. Raven pulled into a space next to me and bolted from his car.
Precious Cargo Page 14
