Dead to the Last Drop (29 page)

Illumination was provided by a pair of lava lamps—naturally, one was purple, the other pink—positioned between the pillows on purple acrylic nightstands.

In between the lamps was the water bed. A terribly underinflated water bed. And it was circular.

Dropping the towel, I got in.

While oozing bubbles rose and sank beside my head, I felt the sloshy mattress under me, rocking me back and forth like a rudderless lifeboat in a storm-force gale.

“Mike, this bed is crazy!” I called loudly. “I’m getting seasick, and
this yacht’s never left its dock. Why don’t you come in here and throw me a line?”

“Just shut your eyes, sweetheart,” he called from the couch. “You’ll be asleep in no time.”

“What about you?”

“I can’t sleep right now. I’ll be in soon . . .”

Lying there in the pink and purple gloom, I sighed the sigh of a woman ignored.

I’d been down this road before. Anyone involved with a cop knew The Job was always there. In Mike’s case, when the stress of his work wasn’t eating at him, his mind was working overtime on cases—and in
this
case, we were on the hook for our very lives.

Now I was worried. And I knew Danny was, too, which is why she put me on the spot earlier in the galley.

If Mike didn’t get some good rest tonight, he wouldn’t be at his best tomorrow. And a guy packing a Glock, a .45, and a gym bag of extra ammo needed to be at his best.

Drinking was a bad idea. I agreed with Danny on that. And a sleeping pill could put him out for too long. Which meant we were down to two choices:
Hot milk. Or hot MILK.

Peeved at the thought of lukewarm moo juice trumping my “older lady” sex appeal, I rose from the drowning pool, tossed on one of the oversize Orioles T-shirts, and peeked into the yacht’s small living room.

Mike’s big body was folded on the couch, watching cable TV news, one knee bouncing anxiously. I was about to launch my plan when he rose abruptly and crossed to the stocked bar, but not for a glass of warm anything.

He poured himself a few fingers of straight scotch.

Crap.

He sat back down, knee bouncing again. But before he could start sipping the alcohol, I moved into the living room, blocking his view of the big screen.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, but”—I threw up my hands—“I lost an earring!”

“You what?”

Bending at the waist, I began to scan the carpet.

“Darn, no luck . . .”

When I moved to my hands and knees, Mike’s knee stopped bouncing.

“It’s a shame,” I said, moving ever so slowly across the floor. “This
could
go on all night.”

“Clare?”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t wear earrings today.”

“Didn’t I?”

Mike put down his drink. “And I see something else . . .”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“You forgot to put on underwear.”

“Did I?”

That was all it took.

One minute later we were back among the lava lamps, making waves.

S
eventy-nine

A
short time later, Mike was in dreamland, and I followed him there. His strong arms were around me, lovingly possessive, the sweet sensation of his lovemaking lingering in my limbs, making everything good again.

Even this ridiculous water bed felt different.

Gone was the seasick sensation of riding out a rocky gale. With Mike’s warm body next to mine, the undulating mattress sent me to an island paradise where gentle waves lapped pristine sand, until—

Glaring light and a thunderous racket ripped me from my beautiful beach.

I hardly opened my eyes before I was dragged out of floating tranquillity and onto the hard, fuzzy floor. As Mike blanketed me with his own body, I glimpsed a shocking sight through the portholes—beams of white light stabbing the dark.

“Mike! What’s happening?”

My cry was drowned out by the rolling throb of engines overhead. A helicopter was flying so low its downdrafts rocked our boat. Shouted commands and the bark of a dog added to the clamor. Then came the bouncing stomp of running boots along the wooden pier.

Mike pulled me closer, whispered through my hair.

“It’s a raid, Clare. They’re coming for us. Helicopters, boats, SWAT teams, dogs—”

Oh, God
, I thought.
It was my phone call to Tito. They must have traced us!

A motorboat roared by, its wake slamming the yacht against the pier.
Flashing scarlet lights and the scream of a siren added to the kaleidoscope of chaos.

“Mike, what’s going to happen?”

“They’ll rip through this cabin like a tornado. When they get to the bedroom door there’ll be no warning. They’ll crash it down.”

Arcs of stark halogen light bathed the night in brightness, piercing the shadows, and bleaching the walls in a colorless white glare.

“They’ll lead with flash grenades,” Mike warned. “They’re meant to stun, not kill, but close your eyes and cover your ears so you won’t get hurt.”

The wake of a second boat battered the yacht. Meanwhile the thundering boots were getting closer.

“When they come through the door, stay on the floor but raise your hands so they can see them.” Mike spoke faster, his tone urgent. “We’ll be separated for interrogation, Clare. I won’t be able to help you. Keep demanding a lawyer and say nothing; eventually they will have to give in.”

Mike shifted his body so I could cover my ears. Before I did, he whispered one more thing.

“If I never see you again, please remember . . . I love you.”

I began to pray while the pounding beat of racing feet got louder and louder as they reached our yacht—and then receded as the men kept right on going.

On the water, the sirens faded as the twin motorboats raced to the far end of Pier K. Finally, the helicopter veered away, too.

“What the hell?”

Mike sounded as bewildered as I felt. And then we got curious.

In seconds, we were on our feet and through the door. We moved through the darkened yacht to an enclosed part of the upper deck and cautiously peeked through the window blinds.

The beam of a hovering helicopter shone down on the fifty-foot yacht that had pulled in when we’d first arrived at the marina. FBI agents in Kevlar vests and helmets surrounded the boat; and, in the middle of the pier, three people in pajamas were on their knees, hands behind their heads, half a dozen guns trained on them.

More boot-stomps approached.

“A drug raid?” Mike whispered.

“No,” I said, recognizing the figures jogging past our yacht, toward the commotion. “Those three are Secret Service . . .”

One was the bald guy in the vest who’d set up the front door checkpoint at my Village Blend. Next to him was Agent Sharpe, an automatic weapon in his hands. The third figure was clad in black from the tips of her boots to the helmet on her blond head.

“That woman is Agent Sharon Cage. They must be looking for Abby.”

Mike still looked confounded. “Could they have gotten the wrong boat?”

I watched as Agent Cage boarded the fifty-footer, and went belowdecks. A few moments later she reappeared, and strolled to the bow of the boat.

Mike studied their actions, trying to fathom why
that
yacht was raided, and not ours. “They’re not making any moves to search the other vessels, so we’re in luck. But I wish I knew what was really going on.”

Me too
, I thought.
But the party isn’t here. It’s four berths away, at that other boat.

Without waiting to consult with Mike, I slipped through the door, to the edge of the boat. Taking a deep breath, I dived over the side and into the dark water.

E
ighty

S
ON
of a bunny! This river is freezing!

No surprise. It was late March, not early July. But did it have to be
this
cold?

There were two ways to warm up, and since I wasn’t getting back aboard
Desperate Measures
until I knew what was going on, I took my own desperate measures and swam toward the chaos.

I soon discovered I wasn’t alone in the water. A pair of U.S. Coast Guard motorboats were cruising around, so I ducked out of sight.

Sucking in a breath, I dived under a section of the floating pier. Visibility was murky to nil, with only the dull glow of the pier’s lights to guide me. But I used the same long strokes I’d used for years at the 14th Street Y, which kept me going in a straight line toward the yacht under siege.

As I approached, someone on the dock waved off the helicopter, and much of the noise pollution and blinding glare was alleviated. Finally, I heard harsh voices, arguing a few feet above my head.

“You have no right to do this—” The speaker was a young woman, on the verge of tears.

“Why were you on the Potomac this morning?” This time it was a man’s voice, deep, authoritative, and used to giving commands.

“No reason! We were just cruising,” a frightened male voice replied. “Testing her out for the summer.”

“You didn’t stop along the Georgetown Waterfront Park, to pick up someone onshore?”

“What? No! I’ve never even heard of—”

A dog snarled, then barked.

“Hold up. Is this about that weed in the galley?” the nervous man continued. “It’s legal in DC but I forgot to dump it when we left, that’s all—”

“I’m asking the questions.”

They didn’t raid the wrong boat
, I thought with relief.
And they aren’t asking about me or Mike. They’re simply following a lead on Abby . . .

I circled around to the bow of the yacht, moving toward the lone figure on deck, telephone to her ear. I stuck close enough to the hull so Sharon Cage couldn’t see me, even if she looked down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see her, either, and when I positioned myself below the spot where I thought she was standing, I heard only the lapping of waves.

Finally Agent Cage spoke, her voice a defeated monotone.

“Bottom line, she’s not here. It’s the right yacht. The satellite photos match, and the owner admits they were on the Potomac. But this may be a dead end. I’ll get back to you after a more extensive search is conducted.”

That set off alarms.
A boat-to-boat search will surely ferret us out . . .

A heavy pair of booted feet thumped on the yacht’s wooden deck.

“Agent Cage?” It was the harsh interrogator from the pier.

“What is it, Karpinski?”

“Your package was
never
here.”

His tone was impatient and irritated, and not much different from the one he’d used to intimidate the victims of this misguided raid.

“You don’t know that,” Cage replied. “There are a lot of boats moored at this marina.”

“But this is the only vessel from
this port
that sailed the Potomac in the last twenty-four hours. It’s the only boat we’re legally permitted to search at this location, and the dogs found no scent. Ms. Parker was never aboard. She’s not here.”

A pause, and the man spoke again.

“There’s been another development. The forensic lab at Quantico has finished the rushed analysis on the blood and hair found on that scarf from Georgetown Waterfront Park. The DNA from the hair is definitely Ms. Parker’s, no doubt. And the cane we found beside it was Sergeant McGuire’s.”

I think Agent Cage and I felt the same horror and dread at that moment, and it only got worse.

“There’s concern about the amount of blood.”

“It’s not that much,” Cage insisted. “One splatter on the trail. A thin stream leading along the river steps, down to the Potomac. No more than a nosebleed or a gash would cause—”

“If she went into the water, we don’t know how much she bled out. And if she slashed her own wrist and McGuire went into the river after her—”

“No one is talking suicide, Karpinski. Abigail has a lot to live for. She was glowing at the bridal shower her friend from college threw for her. She was happier than I’d seen her in weeks.”

“If she was taken, let’s hope the kidnappers know first aid. As for the other theory, we’ve had divers in the river already, and we’re going to start dragging the water in the morning.”

“Before we do that, let’s go backward,” Cage pleaded, desperation in her tone. “Let’s return to the park, the spot where her trail went cold, maybe—”

“That’s not going to happen. You lost her, Agent Cage. Now the FBI is going to find her—or her body. And not by chasing our tails in Georgetown.”

“You’re not going to continue this search without me.”

“Yes, we are,” he said. “The word came down from the Oval Office. You are relieved. Go home, Agent Cage. And pray she turns up
alive
by morning.”

The heavy boots stomped off. A moment later, Sharon Cage’s defeated footsteps followed.

A few minutes later, I hauled myself back aboard
Desperate Measures
. I entered the cabin dripping wet, my tears mingling with the river water pooling on the carpet.

“Clare! Where the hell did you go? I turned around and you were gone—”

Shivering, I broke down.

“I should have told Sharon Cage about the park, how Abby was using it to slip away from her security detail.” I gasped. “Now Cage has been relieved. Her career is over and Abby is gone. And that blood trail leading to the river . . . They think she was either kidnapped or slashed her own wrists and went into the water. And, Mike, they found Stan’s Hoover cane—”

“Easy, Clare. You’re shaking, and your lips are blue.”

Mike grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped me in it.

“I heard them talking . . . If Abby went into the water, I know Stan would have gone in after her, tried to save her. But with his bad leg and the river’s current . . .” I shook my head, choking up. Despite the blanket around me, I couldn’t stop quaking.

“They’re going to drag the river in the morning for their bodies. And it’s all my fault! It’s all my fault!”

E
ighty-one

“C
ALM down, Clare. We’re in this together. Take a breath and tell me everything you learned . . .”