Fragmented (14 page)

23

Wednesday –
3:16 p.m.

United Express
flight 328 touched down at John Wayne International in
Orange
County
right on time. Before the wheels chirped on the tarmac, Jack’s cell phone registered seven missed calls. The exit door was pushed open and passengers began shoving their way forward like a cattle round-up. Jack cycled through the calls as he shuffled in the middle of a tight pack, clearing the crowd at the terminal gate, hustling to the Hertz counter. He considered calling the Santa Ana Resident Agency for help but didn’t want to wait for an agent to come out this late, never mind the time he’d lose having to brief them. By the time Jack explained everything, he could be back on the plane and on his way home. He knew this was not the proper protocol; he’d deal with the fallout later.

He handed the Hertz representative his Bureau credit card and she handed over the keys to a bronze-colored Pontiac Grand Prix. The shuttle shipped him to the Hertz lot and a
sea
of
Grand Prixs
—all bronze. He pointed his clicker, pressed the unlock button, and scanned the parking lot for blinking lights. It was the seventh car down.

The outside temperature was a comfortable 79 degrees and the smell of the ocean air gave Jack a moment of pause. He transferred out of the FBI office in
Los Angeles
for several reasons, one being the death of a partner, the other to salvage a trashed home life. Jack’s world had taken a left turn when it should have taken a right. Three months ago, he’d moved out of the house, his wife Emily being the one who made the request—okay, more like a demand. Even though things were getting better, his work kept creeping in and taking control. Like an infectious disease. Aside from the prodding he got from Dools the day before, Jack hadn’t thought of the separation, too preoccupied with the kidnapping, with work. Between the job and his train wreck of a personal life, Jack started to believe his existence was nothing but two choices: bad marriage and bad people. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head, twisted the key in the ignition and the Grand Prix fired up with a low growl, idling like a racecar. He punched the gas pedal, quickly accelerating out of the lot, heading north onto PCH toward Blackie’s.

The sky over the
Pacific Ocean
was crystal blue straight to the horizon line, what a true Californian would refer to as “SoCal blue.”

Jack drove north along the
Coast Highway
. Traffic was light but he found himself darting through pockets of cars moving barely above a crawl. He pulled out the Post-it note from his breast coat pocket and glanced at the directions.

Fifteen minutes later, he was off the PCH and onto the 55 South, heading toward the beach. As he crossed the bridge that took him into the heart of
Newport
, Jack stared at the rows of sail boats, yachts and coastline cruisers whose values totaled more than a small country’s GNP. Small shops neatly stacked along the main thoroughfare. Surf shops, trinket boutiques, and art studios were the primary attractions for the tourists. He entered the heart of the business center, nosed the Grand Prix to a stop at a four-way intersection, before pulling into a half-filled parking lot lined with rows of coin meters. In the nearest stall, Jack removed a small placard from his briefcase and tossed it on the dashboard: Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Official Business. He started toward a strip of old wooden buildings with large glass windows facing the ocean.

It was a short walk before Jack saw a hand-painted wooden sign hung high above one building that simply read, “Blackie’s.” As Jack approached the bar, the music grew louder, the noise of clinking glasses and falling beer bottles becoming more prevalent. It all came rushing back to him, the evenings spent with his squad mates, draining more than a couple of tall beers at the counter, blending in with the SoCal crowd. Back when it felt good to be something other than a cop, back when he felt normal.

Entering, he was greeted by curious eyes. Blurry stares and glances by the patrons, before they turned back to the bartender, signaling for more to drink. Jack ordered an Amber on draft, pulled the photo from his jacket nonchalantly and glanced at the picture of Cooper with the unknown friend before placing it face down on the counter. The bartender brought over his beer and Jack tossed him a twenty. As the bartender reached for the bill, Jack pointed down at the photo. The bartender stopped, eyes drifting down toward the counter. Jack leaned forward, trying not to attract attention. He slid his creds from his coat pocket. “Listen, I don’t want to disrupt your business but I was wondering if you know these individuals.” Jack curled the end of the photo so only the bartender was able to see.

He studied it for a beat before shaking his head. “Nah, don’t know them. Sorry.” He wiped the counter in a quick swirling motion with a wet towel before walking away. Not a good start.

Jack turned around on his barstool and studied the customers, seeing if he could spot the regulars. Someone here had to be a frequent flyer. Maybe Jack would get lucky and find someone who knew Cooper, tell him who the other person in the photo was. The bartender returned with Jack’s change. Jack gave it one more shot. “Keep it. Just tell me who here’s a regular.”

The bartender remained still, hesitant to respond.

“Look,” Jack said, “I got a sixteen-year-old girl that’s been kidnapped. I’m just trying to find her before something bad happens.”

The bartender paused, giving him a hard once-over, then held up a finger and walked away, disappearing into a sea of bodies. Jack grabbed the photo and turned back around to watch the crowd. He caught sight of a woman bending over a jukebox, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a top resembling a small napkin.

“I hear you’re looking for a man.”

Jack turned to see a young woman with a drink tray shoved under her right arm. Thirties with long blonde hair and a look that would make any man hand over his wallet. Her breasts filled the low-cut white T-shirt she was wearing, the words, “Blackie’s, Order by the Pair,” stenciled across her bumpy parts.

“Yeah, that would be me. A couple as a matter of fact.” He took the photo from his jacket.

She took the photo from Jack’s hand and scanned the picture from all angles, before handing it back to him. “This one,” she said pointing at the UNSUB. “I’ve seen this one.”

“When was the last time?”

She shrugged. “Maybe six months, less than a year.”

“You got a good memory.”

“Only when I need it,” she replied.

“What’s your name?”

“My friends call me Whisper.”

Figures.

“Well, Whisper, do you know his name?”

Whisper shook her head. “I did, but can’t remember now. Nice guy. Was a regular, then kind of vanished.”

“Got any idea where I might find him?”

Whisper pointed eastward, toward the
Peninsula
. “
Lido
Piers. He worked for a guy who owns one of those coastal cruisers. One of those really big-ass yachts.”

“Got a name of the owner or the yacht?”

Whisper tilted her head and smiled. “Maybe.”

Jack reached into his wallet and pulled out a fifty.

Whisper plucked it from his hands. “The guy’s name is Peter Thibault, but his friends call him Skip. He owns a yacht called the Emerald Eyes.”

“Thanks, Whisper.”

“Why you looking for him anyway, detective?”

“That’s Special Agent.” Like it mattered. “And I’m looking for him because I’m trying to find a girl who was kidnapped. She’s sixteen.”

Whisper’s eyes sharpened and her glossy red lips gaped slightly opened. Her teeth were model-perfect.

“Thanks for the help,” he added. Jack stood from the barstool and started to walk away when Whisper placed a hand on his chest. He saw her take in a slight breath and her gaze fell toward the ground.

“Here,” she said, placing her soft hand in Jack’s, gently sliding the fifty into his palm. With her other, she gently patted him on the chest, grinned at no one in particular and walked away.

Jack stepped outside and immediately took in the smell and feel of the salt air. His gait was slow as he meandered his way though the lot to his car. Jack unlocked the rental and slid behind the wheel. A parking ticket was stuffed under a wiper blade.

Really?

He opened the door and reached around, grabbing the ticket by the corner, folded it in half and tossed it on the floorboard.

He entered back onto the 55 North over to the
Lido
Peninsula
, along the coastline on
Lido Park Drive
until he saw the road sign that read
Channel Place
.

Million dollar yachts lined the harbor. Jack scanned the names looking for Emerald Eyes. He arrived at a dead end, flipped around and retraced his path, bending north from the southeast end. Then he spotted it, a large, majestic yacht, easily a hundred feet long. Large letters along the stern prominently displayed her name: Emerald Eyes. Emerald, Jack thought. Like the color of money.

Jack tapped his foot pedal hard looking for a place to pull off. He heard a chirp from squealing brakes. The car following closely behind Jack bounced in his rearview mirror, the driver slamming on his breaks to avoid a collision. The car pulled to the left and sped by, laying down a hard palm on his horn while flipping the finger to Jack, who simply waved back as he pulled to the side onto a patch of dirt.

The yacht was docked, sandwiched between two other large vessels, their masts raised high above the roofline of the adjacent buildings. A man stood on the deck of the ship wearing khaki shorts, Sperry Top-Siders shoes and an untucked shirt. He was coiling yellow nylon rope on the ship’s deck. Fifty feet in front, Jack spotted a narrow road that led to the dock’s entrance. He crept the rental past a black metal gate into a large parking area, and found a slot fifty yards from where the Emerald Eyes was moored.

The man was still working the rope when Jack approached. The worker caught sight of Jack and tipped his ball cap. Jack looked up and the brilliance of the sun backlighting the man caused him to shade his eyes.

“I’m Special Agent Jack Paris with the FBI,” Jack called out, pulling out his creds and holding them up into the sunlight. “May I come aboard? I have a few questions. Won’t take much of your time.”

The man nodded and waved him up. Jack climbed the stairs, onto the deck.

The yacht was nothing short of pure elegance. Hardwood deck, slick fiberglass and chrome. Glass windows lined the entire length, smoked for privacy. A stairwell led to an upper deck where Jack could see two jet skis secured on a platform at the stern. He peered into the cabin as he walked past an open doorway. The interior walls were lined in deep burgundy wood and glass. A leather sectional spanned in front of a bar, flanked by velvet, covered winged chairs. Further inside a black lacquered table with a glass top adorned with a large decorative vase filled with brightly colored flowers. Real flowers. Jack estimated the furniture alone was more than his annual salary. He made his way to the stern of the ship.

The owner was about fifty, sporting a healthy tan with dark hair slightly graying at the temples under his ball cap. He was wearing a gray polo shirt with an embroidered emblem of a stallion. Ferrari Stallion. Go figure. He smiled and leaned against the port side railing
.