A Dangerous Harbor (22 page)

"Now, I shall go below and see if I can find more."

"Good luck with that, it'll mostly be my family," Katy called and then thought,
Oh, no. He'll find Gabe's prints down there too. Soon, very soon, I'm going to have to come clean about Gabe helping me.

He balanced one foot on the top rung of the ladder and said, "I will need the name of your fiancé."

She hesitated. David? Her ex-fiancé might be messy with his relationships but he was a hardnosed attorney when it came to anything that smelled like a crime. "I'll have everyone's prints faxed to your office." She intended to leave David out of it for as long as possible. "It might get a little rough below. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"I worked my way through college in my brother's fishing boats. I will be fine, thank you," he said, and disappeared into the cabin.

Katy resisted the temptation to worry over Raul
Vignaroli's
crime scene techniques. He was after all, American trained and employed by his federal government, so she stayed where she was and admired the clear cerulean sky as it arched overhead and sank into the deeper blue of the Pacific.

A ten-degree heel and not a wrinkle in her sails. Even the colorful tell-tales flew with military precision. It was almost perfect, that is if she didn't look down into the cabin where Raul
Vignaroli
was carefully going over her slashed cushions and walls with an eye for identifying a killer.

Raul ducked through the small hallway and into her small stateroom, thinking,
I can't imagine a more difficult scenario… though it could have been worse. It could have been Katrina lying dead on her cabin floor.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, surveying the damage: everything was as she had found it, the slashed cushions pushed over on each other, the pictures pulled out of their frames and tossed to the floor
.
He was grateful that she had resisted the temptation to tidy up.

Her drawers had been pulled out of their cabinets, the contents spilled onto the bed. Utilitarian white and colorful lace bras and panties scrambled into a messy pile as if discounted and discarded. He swallowed hard, closing off the image of someone tearing through Katy's personal life on a single-minded hunt for a simple list. The list he'd given her was not so very important, so why this kind of antipathy, this furious destruction? She was right, of course, the list was secondary to leaving her a message. She was a professional, but she was also vulnerable here on the boat in a Mexican marina where she had no friends. He winced at the immediate and visceral need to be the one to protect her.
Well, Raul, you know what you feel, but….
 
And that depressed him as much as anything. He could put a man on the dock to watch her boat, but he couldn't really protect her any more than he could make love to her. Shaking off the depressing thought, he went back to his task and in fifteen minutes he was finished, closing up his case and putting away his brushes.

At the top of the ladder he took a moment to admire the woman leaning out of the cockpit, her mouth stretched into a broad smile as she drank in the warm sun.

Reluctant as he was to break the spell, he cleared his throat. "May I trouble you for a soft drink?"

Katy ducked back into the cockpit, unleashed the tiller from its
bungy
and said, "You might as well make yourself at home, Raul.
And there should be beer in the icebox,"
she called after him.
That is if Gabe hasn't drunk them all by now.

He came topside, handed her one of the beers and stumbled over to the downwind side and sat.

Katy patted the seat next to her. "With the boat heeled, you'll be more comfortable on the upside. Brace your feet and you won't slip off."

He pivoted around and backed into a spot next to her.

His fragrance, that personal male aroma that either attracts or repels a woman, was definitely winding up her hormones again.
Don't give in to dangerous fantasies, Katy, the man is married, for
cryin
' out loud.

To force herself away from uncomfortable thoughts, she said, "So, do you think you like sailboats?"

He lifted his large Roman nose and sniffed the air. "I love to be on the water. I even like to be on my brother's boat, unless the hold is filled with fish. But this is different, so quiet, so, ah—that's it, of course. You have turned off the engine and we are powered only by the wind."

Only the memory of having her boat cushions ripped apart and her personal life invaded kept her from completely enjoying the moment. It was time to admit defeat.

"It was easy enough to find the list tucked behind one of the photos I keep on my wall. So I guess the cushions were simply for fun."

"We arrested Spencer Bobbitt this morning."

"You have the evidence you need then?"

"Another anonymous tip and this time we found Spencer's gun jammed into an old tire in the arroyo below the RV park." His eyes were watchful as he said, "You know the place on the cliff above Marina Mar where the Americans live?"

"You mean where Gabe lives."

He didn't deny it, only nodded, watching her reaction.

"Do you suspect Gabe of being the tipster or the shooter?"

"I haven't decided."

"You're waiting for me to tell you? I don't know Gabe that well, not anymore, I don't. But you have someone watching him—to make sure he doesn't run?"

Raul nodded, apparently still wary.

As if reading his mind, she said, "If you're thinking that I would protect Gabe Alexander at all costs, you're wrong, Raul. I won't. I don't want anything bad to happen to him, but if he's guilty, I won't protect him, either."

He nodded again, waiting. "Then perhaps you have pricked a nerve somewhere. Other secrets someone does not want you to know."

"Why don't you help me out here, Raul? Tell me what
you
have on these particular people."

He said, "Other than her passport, Astrid Del Mar is a blank page, and Fred McGee is from LA, and he works for your Internal Revenue Service."

She thought of Bruce's comment that the FBI was looking at Wally Howard. If the IRS was also investigating Wally Howard they would want to make sure they got any and all monies owed to them before the feds put him away for good. That would explain his sour disposition towards her interest in the case and his cover as a lousy magician.

Raul said, "If there are details that link Fred McGee and Spencer, I would be glad to know of it. Perhaps Jeff Cook might be willing to share with you."

His comment burst her earlier happy mood. "What, pillow talk? Not with me, Inspector. Besides, Astrid gets first dibs right after
Myne
is through with him."

Raul knew a mistake when he saw one, but what else could he do? Better this way than to allow his growing admiration for her to bloom into a flirtation that could go nowhere.
 
"Dibs…? I see that you have learned important things already. Anything else?"

She hesitated, then said, "We both know Booth didn't walk off that dock; he was murdered for that tape I gave you the other day. Who he was blackmailing—Spencer? Wallace? Fred?"

He gazed pensively at the bug-sized cars hurtling along the
malecon
. "I don't believe it was Spencer."

"And my cushions? That could have been the work of a woman." She thought again of Astrid, and then of Ida Howard in tears, crying that it was "already too late." Why was it too late?

Raul interrupted, "You know, it may not have anything to do with Spencer. It could be that you have scratched at some secret by one of the witnesses."

Katy stiffened, her drifting thoughts knocked back into high alert by his words. Frightened suspects, she knew, can be as deadly as any killer.
She licked dry lips and tasted the bitter truth. Her attempts to save her career or Gabe from prison may now be the least of her worries.

By the time Katrina and Raul motored though the rock barrier, a cooling fog had blotted out the stars, dimming the city lights until everything—buildings, boats, people—was cast in a dull visceral rusty red. Katrina shuddered against the depressing sight and her own thoughts. She'd been lulled by the warmth of the blue sky and the Mexican waters until her lethargy had been slammed back into reality.

Unaware of Katrina's apprehensions, Raul jumped onto the dock, cleated the lines, then sat on the coaming of the cockpit. "If you will pass up your cushions, I will take them with me."

"Evidence?"

"Tomorrow, I will have a very reputable upholstery shop re-cover them for you. He will use only the finest materials and you will never know they were damaged."

"Great. How much do you think it will cost?"

"
Nada
," he said, curling his fingers in a manner to indicate she should start passing them up. He waited, expecting no objection.

"You don't have to do this, Raul."

 
"I want to—please." He smiled warmly, the light in his amber eyes directed at her with compassion and something else she didn't want to admit.

This was an unexpected surprise. His behavior, swimming between gruff disinterest and back to warm intimacy, left her constantly off balance.

His offer certainly appeared genuine and if she didn't accept it, she would go without until she got home to San Francisco. Besides, she had to admit, he did owe her, so she went below and passed them up to him.

 
"I can help you carry them to your car," she said, looking at the pile.

"Not necessary," he said, and turned to whistle lightly. A young man pushed off from where he was leaning against the corner of
Bandido's
building and trotted over, picked up the cushions and disappeared into the dark.

Raul turned back to Katrina. "One more thing, I am putting another man on the dock at Marina Mar to watch your boat."

"You mean watch me."

He nodded. "That too. I will put another one at the entrance. So they don't stand out too much, they will both wear the hotel uniform. You have my number. If you need help, my man on the dock will come immediately."

She didn't bother to argue that a man watching her boat or her would do no good to someone intent on getting to her and without thinking, she asked, "But what if I want
you
?"

"I will always come—if you want me."

He gave her boat a pat, and then hefting his briefcase, vanished into the night, whistling a melodious tune.

Chapter Sixteen:

Katrina steered her boat past the green and red entry lights to Marina Mar. Even with her foul-weather coat buttoned up against the cool night air, she shivered at the mounting dread spreading from her scalp down to her toes.

Cutting the motor, she drifted soundlessly into her slip, secured the lines and after feeding the kitten she then went topside with a cup of hot tea to watch the RV park's nightly bonfire. The fire crackled and spiraled high into the rust-colored fog until the flames punched holes into the night.

When the fire died down and the sounds of laughter quieted she took Gabe's flashlight and her boat knife for security and scrambled up the rocky path next to the marina and pounded on his door.

"Go away," the truculent voice called back.

"Gabe, open up, it's me."

The door jerked open and Gabe poked his head out the door. When he saw who it was, he growled, "What're you doing here?"

"I came to see you," she said, thinking it might not have been a good idea after all. His eyes were bleary from drink and she thought, rather belatedly, he might not be alone. But when she started to back away, he reached out and pulled her inside.