A Dangerous Harbor (19 page)

Eschewing pleasantries, he got right to it. "Let's see. First up, Jeff Cook. Quite the pretty boy, isn't he? All that muscle
oughta
be against the law.
 
He doesn't have a rap sheet unless you count the one on the back of this eight by ten glossy I'm holding. I got to his agent who says
Jeffy
can still be engaged for strip parties complete with police uniform. On the other hand, he's got some unpaid parking tickets in LA and his last listed residence was with an aging actress who was wonderfully forthcoming about their short marriage, poor dear. Said she was 'old enough to know better' but she set him free after he forged her name to some checks. Any surprises yet?"

"Anything about his application to a maritime academy?"

"Are we still talking 'bout the pretty boy—Jeff Cook?"

"Nope, guess not. What about the other one, Astrid Del Mar?"

"Not in the system and the name comes up only in reference to some really good tuna. You don't happen to have a driver's license number, do you?"

"You read my mind."

When she gave it to him, he asked, "You going to tell me what's going on? Or do I have to read it in the papers?"

"It
oughta
be the funny papers."

"What kind of characters are you running with down there?"

"
Haha
. Anything else? How about Wallace and Ida Howard?"

There was a bit of static on the line, but that didn't explain Bruce's silence.

"Still there?" she asked.

"You heard it, huh? That great, long expanse of silence is coming to you courtesy of the FBI. You know what that means, don't you—someone is working a case on Wallace Howard. If I tiptoe real quiet, I might be able to get
Fibbie
to tell me what's going on."

"The FBI? What…?"

"
Dunno
yet. Call me in a couple of days and I'll have the scoop on Astrid Del Mar aka Astrid Woods and hopefully the whole story on Wallace Howard."

She groaned. "Can't you just…"

"Can't rush genius, love. Call me on a land line in two—no, make that three days."

He hung up, leaving Katy with more questions than she had answers, except for one: add Jeff to the growing list of pathological liars. He was also a gigolo.

The hotel desk clerk not only gave her a recommendation for a vet, but insisted on chauffeuring her and the kitten in the hotel van. "It is no problem,
Señorita
Hunter, no one needs the hotel van this morning.
 
I can have a man at your dock in ten minutes."

"Do you have any idea what it will cost for the veterinarian?"

"Oh,
señorita
, you will see, it is very inexpensive. Less than half of what you Americans pay in the States."

Sure enough, the vet himself was waiting and cheerfully welcomed her to his clinic.
 
Not only was he the only veterinarian in town, he also kept a spotless kennel for visiting Americans who needed boarding for their animals. And, lucky her, he just happened to keep all the supplies she would need; the grain-free cat food that would ensure the kitty's continued good health, as well as the kitty litter, the covered and vented litter box that would prevent the cat sand from littering her nice interior wood floors, the pretty pink collar (because the kitten was declared to be a
she
)
 
the name tag that goes on the collar, the must-have compact bed perfect for boats, the travel crate for safely transporting the kitten when off the boat, and of course,
 
all the correct shots, a dose of flea meds, because that was the problem with her skin—fleas, not a disease—and the free advice to put garlic in her wet food every day to keep away the fleas.

The kitten was too young to be neutered but if the lovely
señorita
would bring her back in another month, the vet would be happy to neuter her for the low price of twenty American dollars. Before leaving, he tossed a squeaky toy into the kitten's crate. "A little gift for your new baby," he said, handing her up into the hotel van and waving as the van drove away.

By the time she got back to the marina, the hot, orange sun was beyond gone, and in its place a long line of thick gray fog hugged the horizon. Footsteps came and went as boaters wandered in from dinner, all of them accompanied by some form of conversation. Finally, she heard a solo pair of steps; she waited for them to pass, but when they didn't she tensed. It was dark, and she didn't hear anyone call out her name. A guard? Or was it her attacker sent to finish the job?

 
She grabbed the small fire extinguisher latched next to the exit, quietly removed the hatch cover, and armed, leaned out to see who might be standing next to her boat.

Relieved to see her visitor was Gabe, she signaled for him to come aboard and backed down her ladder to the cabin. Closing all the portholes and sliding the hatch cover in behind him, she lit a candle in a hurricane lantern and turned off all the electrical lights.

He handed her a six-pack of
Pacifico
. "It's only fair. I drank the last of yours."

"Thanks," she said, wondering if she should be grateful or wary of the offering. The last one was now lapping up a bowl of milk before climbing into its covered kitty litter box.

"I wouldn't mind having one," he said, eyeing the beer. "That is if you can spare it."

"Let me get you a cold one." She turned and reached into her cold box and handed him one of the
Pacificos
. "Now, what have you got?"

He leaned his blond head back, guzzled the bottle empty and belched. "Sorry. Hot out today. I was fixing the door latch on my trailer and must've got a touch of heat stroke. Felt dizzy for an hour or so." Then he looked around the cabin. "So, how's the kitten working out?"

"She's fine." Katy wasn't about to admit to buying all the stuff the vet had convinced her she needed.

"I know they're illegal here, but I inherited a gun from the guy who rented me the trailer. You should take it. You got no way to protect yourself otherwise, do you?"

Should she accept the gun, give it to the chief inspector to check for ballistics? But if she was determined that if there were secrets to unearth, she would be doing it, not Raul
Vignaroli
.

"No thanks," she said. "I have a fire extinguisher, a boat hook and a baseball bat." She stood up. "Well, if that's it, we should call it a night."

Gabe sat where he was. "How long were you planning on being here?"

She glanced at the calendar on her bulkhead. She'd been eagerly marking off the days until she could go back to work. Now she was wondering if she had enough time to help solve this case before she had to leave. "A week more and then I have to report to the commissioner."

"Don't you have some inheritance—from your father's estate?"

She sputtered, "That's kind of nosy, even for you, Gabe."

"Well, coincidences aside, and police departments being what they are, I was just thinking; what're the chances Detective Vinegar hasn't already asked your boss about us? I mean, what if, after you do it all like you're supposed to, you go back to San Francisco only to get your walking papers anyway?"

"I… I really hadn't given it a lot of thought, Gabe." There was no getting around it; if Gabe was sent back to the States the court could consider her an accessory to a crime. Even if he had agreed to testify at the trial in exchange for immunity, he'd reneged on the deal, and instead jumped bail and ran for the border, and she helped him. If so, she could kiss her career goodbye.

"Okay, then," Gabe enthused. "Why not live a little? Head south to P.V., take a real Mexican holiday."

The orange-striped kitten stalked her new toy, then leaped on it, causing it to squeak.

She looked from the kitten to Gabe and shook her head. "I'm not taking
you
anywhere."

"Ah, come on, Katy. You got me all wrong."

"If I do, I'll be sure to apologize before I leave. Now, if you don't mind, it's been a long day." She pointed to the ladder.

He stood up and closed in on her. He stood within a few precious inches, the same as Raul had done a few nights back. But this was Gabe, not Raul, and he was searching her face for a hint of the teenage love and devotion she'd had for him so many years ago.

"I've changed. Really I have. If only you'd let me show you."

Didn't David say much the same thing on the phone? If only she'd come home he'd show her how much he
really
loved her?

She turned her face away from the kiss he aimed at her lips and stepped back before she said something she'd regret.

Gabe, seeing she wasn't warming to him, shrugged it off and swung out of the boat.

She sank down on the settee, put her head down and gently pounded it on the table. One knock for believing in Gabe the first time, another for opening her mouth at the police station, and the last one to remind herself never,
never
trust Gabe Alexander again.

Awash in self-pity, she went topside to sit in the cockpit with a cup of hot water. Melancholy hung on her like a thin coat of black paint. Pushing the recalcitrant tea bag that refused to sink to the bottom of her cup only frustrated her more. She put down the cup.

Why was she defending a childhood romance gone bad against the possibility that he'd be extradited back to the States? Because if it happened, he would testify, incriminating her, forever ruining her hard-won stripes in the police department. In the meantime, she was stuck here, scraping up evidence in a foreign country with no help to speak of, in an impossible case she couldn't imagine solving in the amount of time given her.

The kitten padded up the stairs and sat close to her, purring. "Thanking me for your nice bed and good food? At least you don't have any hidden agendas."

Over the sound of the kitten's gentle purring, she heard music wafting across the night air. It was coming from Spencer's yacht, but this time there were no lights and laughter. Jeff said Spencer wasn't staying on his yacht, and since Booth's death, she'd seen no real reason to try to talk to him.

Was
Myne
having a late night party?

She scooped up the sleepy kitten, took it below, slipped the hatch cover in, and quietly got off the boat to follow the music.

But except for the music coming from somewhere below and the unlocked main salon the yacht was dark and no one appeared to be home.

The unlocked door made Katy uncomfortable and, taking the interior stairwell down a level, she followed the sound of Frank Sinatra music until she came to an open cabin door.

Inside the spacious bedroom, she saw a tall, thin man clutching a nearly naked
Myne
to his chest in a slow, shuffling dance. When they turned, she saw Wally Howard's long, sad chin resting on top of the girl's blond head. His eyes were squeezed shut and a loopy grin was plastered to his face as he dreamily hummed along to
"My Way."

For a moment Katy considered tiptoeing out the way she came, but when she saw a cord dangling from one of
Myne's
wrists, she stepped into the room and raised her voice above the music. "What's going on here!"

Myne
turned a damp face to Katy and boosted herself out of Wally's arms.
 
Pointing at his shirtless, concave chest, she said, "See if you can talk some sense into this dumb shit. I meant it when I said I
ain't
goin
' nowhere with you, Wally."

Wally flinched at the hurtful words, then scowled and tried to pull
Myne
back into his arms.

Katy stepped up and wrenched his arm around behind his back. "Get down. On your knees, now!"