Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C (9 page)

Chapter
Twelve

I
listened to the rings of the telephone and counted. 
Twelve.
  Clancy still didn’t pick up
—
not even an answering machine.  I began to worry about him.  He’d been so anxious to pursue the salvage contract on the
Gigabyte
.  M
aybe he’d been too persistent.  I hung up the phone and stared out the window.

Spencer walked through the door and dropped a wad of crisp twenty-dollar bills on the coffee table.  “
Here.
 
Two hundred bucks.
 
That get
you by?”

“Thanks, Spence.  You’re a life
saver.”

“Get throug
h to your friend
yet?”

“No.  I’m really worried.  I
oughta
get back to San Diego to see if I can find him.  Maybe there’s just a problem with his phone.”

“Think it’s safe to go back? 
T
hey’re
still
looking for you,” he warned.

“I know.  I won’t go back to the boat.  I imagine they’ve been to my uncle’s place, so that’s not an option
—
besides, he’s on vacation in Europe right now.  I’ll find someplace to hole up.  There’s over a million people living in San Diego. 
Shouldn’t be too hard to get lost in the crowd.”

“Be careful just the same.  I’ll get everything I can off this backup tape.  How will I get in touch with you?”

“I’ll call you,” I promised.

Three rows of worry lines creased in Spencer’s forehead.  I’d never seen him this concerned, even when he was being investigated for criminal computer-record tampering.  I gave him a big smile and draped my arm over his shoulders.

“Don’t you worry about
me.
  I’ve been through worse than this,” I assured him.

“It’s not that.  I just want to make sure I get my two hundred dollars back.”  He grinned as he squeezed my hand.

I punched him in the arm.

“Ouch!”

“Ouch?  I barely touched you
—
wimp.”

“I’m no w
imp. 
Just sensitive
.”

“I know.  Sorry.  Hey, thanks for all your help.  I’d really be in deep you-know-what without a shovel if it weren’t for you.”

“No problem.  Just get out of here and let me get busy on this tape.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

I parked the Jeep in a public lot near Clancy’s place.  It looked a little out of place between the
bondo
-gray Volkswagen bus and the empty boat trailer with two flat tires, but for free parking, it would do.

I expected to se
e Tex, the happy-go-lucky golden r
etriever, gallop up the dock to greet me, but he didn’t.  The only sign that Tex ever existed was the fuzzy yellow tennis ball sitting in an otherwise empty bucket next to the front entrance.  The door to the sa
lvage office was locked
—
no sign of life anywhere.  I peered through the dirty window.  It was dark inside.  Olive’s computer monitor sat dark and lifeless on her desk.  A dozen little yellow sticky notes were plastered all around the frame of the screen. 
Tex’s
dog blanket was piled next to the desk.  I could see the steady red glow of a light on the coffee maker with a nearly-empty pot on the burner.

I walked around and checked all the windows.  Everything was sealed up tight.  No way to get in without breaking something.  I peered down the dock.  Clancy’s boat was gone, but the
Little Maria
was still tied up.

I walked down the dock.  There was no one around to stop me from climbing onboard.  The buoyant key chain dangled from the ignition.  I checked the fuel level, started the engine, and untied the lines.

I’d watched Clancy operate the GPS, and with a few presses of the buttons, I’d managed to get on course for the
Gigabyte
wreck site.

The seas were a little choppy and I was glad I hadn’t eaten.  I wanted to make the cash Spencer g
ave me last as long as possible,
otherwise I’d be forced to turn to Jason’s culinary adventures.

As I neared the wreck site, I saw the outline of a boat on the horizon.  I searched all the drawers and cabinets for binoculars but couldn’t find any.  As I got closer, I slowed down and squinted to get a better look.  I could
see some activity on the boat—
people moving about.  It looked like two, maybe three
,
I couldn
’t be sure.  I advanced closer—
close enough, I’d decided.

The outline of a rifle was unmistakable.  A man perched at the stern
rested the gun
on his shoulder as he kept watch of the area.  These people were serious.  The presence of armed guards confirmed my suspicions that there may be more than a big fancy yacht sitting down there.  No unauthorized persons would be venturing down to get a closer look at the
Gigabyte
. 

One thing was sure
—
if I could see them with the naked eye, they could certainly see me.  And they’d be watching me closely to see what I was up to.  I dropped the anchor and went below.  I found a fishing pole, carried it up to the deck and cast out the line.  I secured it to the railing and glanced over at the other boat.  They had to be watching me.  Hopefully, I looked innocent enough.

I went below again and grabbed a full scuba tank, then returned to the deck.  I’d positioned the boat so I could gear up on the opposite side of the
flybridge
—
where they couldn’t see me.  I inserted the mouthpiece, eased myself into the water, and began my descent to about twenty feet.  I continued in the
direction of the other boat, then
surfaced directly under the bow and listened.

“You sure she’s still fishing?” I heard one of the guards ask.

“Yeah.
  The line’s still out.  Don’t get your shorts in a knot,” the other replied.

I slipped back under the surface and found their anchor line.  I hoped they’d dropped anchor close to the wreck site, but there was no way to be sure.  I followed the line down to the bottom.  The powerful beam from my flashlight was lost in the murky water.  I made gradually larger circles around the anchor as I searched for the boat.  Keenly aware of my time limit, I checked my watch every couple of minutes.

The bright white light bounced back at me as it found its mark.  I advanced on the wreck and quickly made my way around its perimeter.  I shone the light on the entire surface, looking for the structural damage that, supposedly, sent it to the bottom.  After two passes around it, I was convinced there was no damage.  Not a
hole
, not a break, not even a hair-line crack was evident.  I check
ed
my watch.  My time was up.  I found the anchor line and slowly made my way back to the surface.

I listened, again, to the crew on the guard boat.  They’d grown suspicious.

“When was the last time you actually saw her on deck?” one of them demanded.

“I don’t know. 
Maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago.
  I think you’re worried about nothing,” the other answered.  His voice sounded as if he
was
eating.

“I want to check it out.  Pull up the anchor.”

“Can I finish my sandwich first?” the other whined.

I slipped under the surface and raced for the
Little Maria
.  It felt like the dream I have where I’m trying to run away from danger, but I can only move in slow-motion.  My heart raced as I frantically kicked my flippers through the water.  Though only minutes passed, it seemed like it took hours to reach the
Little Maria
.  I struggled to get myself hoisted up the ladder and over the rail, but all the scuba gear was just too heavy for me.  My hands were shaking and I didn’t have the strength to pull myself up.  All I could think to do was to drop the tank and weight belt and let them sink to the bottom.  I threw the flippers
over the rail and climbed up the ladder.  I could hear the engine of the approaching boat.  I crawled on my belly to th
e cabin and slithered inside, then
unzipped the wet suit and frantic
ally struggled to get out of it. 

“Anyon
e onboard?”
I heard someone call
as their boat pulled up next to mine.  I shook the water out of my hair and walked out on deck.

“I’m here,” I announced.  “What can I do for you?”

The two men were young, probably in their mid-twenties.  The man at the wheel was tall and muscular.  He wore a blue-and-white striped T-shirt with an embroidered anchor on the breast pocket.  His long, stringy blond hair was windblown and hung in his eyes.  It reminded me of an Old English sheepdog, and I wished he would comb it back so I could see his eyes.  The other man, a head shorter than his partner and about twenty pounds heavier, wore a bright-yellow windbreaker.  He was busy stuffing his mouth with marshmallows that he pulled from a bag sitting on one of the passenger seats.  To my relief, I didn’t see any rifles.

“You been swimming out here?” the taller one asked.

“Yeah.
  I just took a quick dip to cool off.  The water’s great,” I answered.

“You alone out here?” he continued.

“Yeah.
  Why?”

The marshmallow eater jammed the last of the puffy white blobs into his already-full mouth.  He reminded me of a chipmunk.  He chewed and talked at the same time.  I tried not to focus on the little bits of sugary white paste that flew out of his mouth as he spoke.  “How’s the fishing?  Catch anything?”

I glanced over at the pole propped against the railing.  It was motionless.  “No. 
Nothing biting today.”

“What’re you using?” he asked, after finally swallowing the mass of confection stuffed in his mouth.

“Using?” I echoed. 

“Bait.
What are you using for bait?” he aske
d
as he wadded up his empty marshmallow bag and tossed it over the side into the water. 

I wanted to jump across the rail and wrap my fingers around his big, thoughtless, ocean-polluting throat, but I remembered the rifle and kept my environmentally-responsible-citizen-speech to myself.  I turned my head and ignored the marshmallow bag floating next to my boat.  “I picked up a bucket of sardines this morning. 
Gotta
use ‘
em
before they go belly-up on me.”

“Live bait?  What’re you after?” the taller on
e
chimed in.

“Bass, maybe tuna or a yellowtail.
  Don’t know if albacore are running yet, but I wouldn’t mind snagging one of those.  I heard marshmallow makes good bait, but it looks like you guys are all out,” I commented, nodding toward the floating plastic bag that had, by now, drifted twenty feet from my stern.

They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

“You sure you’re out here alone?” the taller one asked, ignoring my observation of his partner’s litter.

“Just me and my boat.
  What’re you guys doing out here?”

“You been watching the news?” marshmallow man asked.

“News?
  No. 
Too depressing.
  Did something happen?  Did I miss a war?”  I laughed a nervous laugh.

They both returned phony chuckles.  The taller one matched my lie with one of his own. 
“Na
h
.
  We’re just fishing, too. 
Wondered if you caught anything.
  You better be careful swimming out here, especially if you’re
gonna
have live bait on the end of your line.  Sharks won’t think twice about stealing your catch, and if yo
u’re splashing around out there
—who knows what they might take.”  His plastic smile turned to a serious frown.

I studied his face to determine if it was a friendly warning or a threat he had just given me.  “Thanks.  I’ll keep that in mind,” I called back
.

They started their engine and retreated to their original position.  I waved a couple times and they waved back. 

I reeled in my
unbaited
line and snagged the empty marshmallow bag with the tip of my pole so I could dispose of it properly.

I shaded my eyes and peered up at the sun, almost directly overhead.  It would take over two hours to get back to Long Beach, but I estimated I could be in Catalina in just a little over an hour.  Roy Hastings hailed from Avalon, on the east side of the island.  I figured it couldn’t hurt to snoop around a little, and besides, I was starving.