The Girl on the Yacht (22 page)

In surfer shorts, flip-flops, and dark green Ray Ban sunglasses, the midday summer rays felt good on John’s face while he sprayed down the upper deck of
The Hunter
. The tight jet from the nozzle swept back and forth in rhythmic patterns across the smoked glass windows and brilliant-white fiberglass, loosening the light sheen of dust and salt mist. Every so often, he would jerk the spray toward Bailey, and she would jump up, tail gyrating, and prance around in hopes of more attention and cool water. He laughed. The dog took on the water in pure happiness. It was one of those good days, and John was lost in its warmth.

Marin called up from the salon below. “I’m worried about Cameron––she hasn’t called.”

At that moment, he spotted the homicide investigator walking on the dock toward his boat. She was not her usual energetic self. Instead, she advanced in a slow, deliberate gait that suggested disappointment. He studied her and wondered if one of her people may have been injured in the encounter with Michael White. The more he watched, the more he sensed that it didn’t have that feel––she didn’t find the guy. “She’s back,” he called down to Marin. He turned off the water and waved to Cameron. The homicide investigator indicated that she needed to talk to him––she waved him down to the main deck.

Marin stepped from inside the cabin and walked over to the railing. Bailey darted down the stairs to greet her friend.

“Hey, how’d it go?” she asked.

Cameron let out a defeated laugh. “In the wind. We almost had him, but I let him get away.”

“Come on.” John climbed down the stairs to the lower deck. “You didn’t let him go––he just got away. You’ll get him.”

“That’s the thing. He knows we’re after him, and now he has a head start. The guy’s smart. He made us––me––look like an idiot.”

“Come on inside. Have you had lunch?” John asked.

“I haven’t even had breakfast.”

“I’ll make you something.” John stood at the door waiting for Marin and Cameron to enter.

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll get something later,” Cameron said.

“I have a rule. I make sure to feed any of my friends who stare down murderers. How about eggs Benedict?”

Cameron perked up.

“Make that two.” Marin put in her order.

“Three it is.” John slid in behind the galley counter and indicated that they sit and keep him company.

Cameron sat down on one of the two stools at the countertop while Marin poured coffee.

Within a few minutes, John had slipped the English muffins into the toaster and whisked egg yolks, butter, and lemon into a Hollandaise sauce over a low heat. On the other burner, he boiled the water and added the eggs to poach. He retrieved some already cut fresh fruit from the refrigerator.

“That smells so good.” Cameron’s eyes closed as she took in the aroma.

“It’s simple––mix, heat, and serve.” He stacked the elements on three plates and slid two across the counter. “
Bon appétit
.”

Cameron attacked the meal like she hadn’t eaten in a week. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was––thanks.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“So, can we help with finding the guy?” Marin asked.

“I’m hoping John might have something else for me from that search he did.” She directed her question at him, “Anything you can think of?”

“You have everything I know.” John covertly slipped a piece of Canadian Bacon down to his knee, and it was quickly devoured, followed by a lick of thank you to his fingers—or perhaps it was a lick to get every little bit of the ham.

Cameron’s cell phone played a ringtone. She held up her finger. “It’s Little Horse.” She tapped the screen. “Yeah?” She listened. “You and I both know it’s nonsense. Have the SFPD check it out and make sure they know how dangerous this guy is––just in case.” She paused. “What about the computer?” Again she listened. “Okay, I may be at a dead end here, too. I’ll let you know.” She clicked off.

“What’s the word?” John asked.

“Ten minutes ago, we got a hit on one of his credit cards. He bought a ticket for a flight to Saudi Arabia, departing San Francisco in the morning.”

“Under his own name?” John asked in disbelief.

“He’ll be a ‘no show,’” Cameron said.

“Saudi has no extradition,” the criminology professor added. “Maybe he’s throwing you off so you watch San Francisco while he goes out another international airport under one of his aliases.”

“He wouldn’t be hard to spot––he’s big enough to take up two seats,” John said.

“Have TSA put eyes on every overseas passenger,” Marin said.

“We’ve got to use local PDs––TSA won’t give us the time of day.” Cameron dialed Little Horse back. “Contact all the police departments for International Airports within five-hundred miles. Send them White’s picture and description. He might be trying to sneak out under another name.”

“That’s a needle in a haystack.” John put the dishes into the dishwasher. “I have my notes downstairs. Maybe something will pop out. I’ll be right back.”

John climbed the stairs to the main salon with his iPad in hand. Inside the salon, he sat at the dining table and read the first page. His attention to the details never wavered as he flipped the pages—eyes searching for a tiny bit of information.

“The only thing I can think of is talking to the father and mother. Maybe they have an idea where their son is––or maybe he’s at their house.”

“Or, houses. Teddy said they had money. They probably have houses all over the world––maybe one of them is where he’s headed,” Marin said.

“Great.” Cameron looked disappointed.

“Let’s start with the houses here, first.” Marin looked at John. “Can you look them up on the property records for Los Angeles and Orange County—maybe they own a house close by?”

“I don’t have their names.”

They stared at each other for a while.

“What about Teddy?” Marin asked. “He could get the names.”

John grabbed his phone from the counter and dialed. After tapping out his code, he put the speakerphone on.

“Have you found the guy yet?” Teddy asked.

John sensed that his friend knew the answer to that question. “We’re working on it. What are the mother’s and father’s names? Do you have an address in Beverly Hills?”

“The mother’s name was Elizabeth White.”

“Was?” Marin asked.

“About three years ago, she drove her car off Mulholland Drive up in the mountains. Ruled a suicide––but kept from the press. The father inherited everything and still lives in Beverly Hills––I think. I don’t have an address, but I might be able to find one for you.”

“I can find it––just give me his name.”

“Admiral George M. White.”

“Thanks, Teddy.” John disconnected and turned toward Marin. Her face was pale and the expression serious. “What is it?”

“Admiral George White is––”

“You know him?” Cameron asked.

“He’s an important person in my research.”

“What research?” John asked.

“He was the Chair of Crystal Sea Bank when it went under and billions disappeared.”

“I don’t understand. This is one hell of a coincidence.” Cameron studied Marin, obviously trying to get some handle on the information.

“I better get an address.” John took his laptop off the coffee table and typed in a few search commands. “Got it.”

Marin turned to Cameron.

“What was the name of the man murdered in Laguna Beach a couple of days after Laura was killed?” Marin asked.

Cameron turned on her iPad and flicked through her notes. “Kent Sutherland.”

“Former President of Crystal Sea Bank.” Marin searched through her purse and came out with her phone. She used the speed dial to connect.

“Warden, this is Professor Ryan. How is Edward Jones doing?” She bit her lip as she listened. “I see. Was there an autopsy?” She nodded her head. “Inconclusive? Were there any tiny red marks on the body?” Pause. “Thanks.” Marin tossed the disconnected phone into her bag.

“Who’s Edward Jones?” Cameron asked.

“Former Chief Financial Officer of Crystal Sea Bank. Someone’s getting rid of the witnesses. It has to be because of my digging into it.”

“What’s Laura got to do with the bank?”

“Nothing.” Marin had tears in her eyes.

John took only a millisecond to get the connection. “It was meant to be you.” His voice dropped off at the mere mention of the horrid hypothesis.

“It’s got to be the admiral––he’s directing his son to the targets.” Cameron called Little Horse. “Have the Beverly Hills Police Department go to,” she reached for John’s laptop, “9999 Wilshire Boulevard––penthouse. Michael White may be there. At the very least, bring in Admiral White for questioning. Make sure they know how dangerous Michael is, and maybe the father, too.”

“Father?” Little Horse was stunned by the word.

“Admiral White is Michael’s father.”

“Got it.” Little Horse disconnected.

John was still contemplating what Marin had said to the prison warden. “What did you mean by the tiny red marks?”

Cameron gave the answer before Marin could react. “Succinylcholine. Good catch.” She grinned at Marin.

“Untraceable in the blood.”

John felt he was in a group of three that required his best game to compete with their intellects. He heard Little Horse’s ringtone on Cameron’s phone, and that took him out of the thought.

Cameron answered and listened for a good minute before sarcastically responding, “Great.” She hung up and turned back to them. “The BHPD were at the White penthouse––they think he jumped from twenty-eight stories. Guess who was there when the admiral took the dive?”

“Michael.”

“The door attendant talked to him before sending him up to see his father,” Cameron added.

“Now he’s gone, right?” Marin asked.

“Left before the police got there—he’s been on the run for about fifteen minutes.”

“How’d he leave?”

“In a black BMW––he told the attendant it was a friend’s.”

“License number?”

“Nope.”

“Any security cameras in the garage catch the plate number?” Marin asked.

“They’re going to look through the videos––when they get to it.”

“When they get to it?” Marin looked surprised.

“Beverly Hills––they don’t want to show it as a murder––doesn’t look good. They’ll drag it out for days or weeks before they declare it a homicide. By then, the reporters won’t care. If they suggested it now, the town would be overtaken by reporters and paparazzi.”

“It
is
a murder, and that creep is still out there––he’s going to kill again.” John couldn’t take back the scary words and glanced over to see Marin staring out the window at the serene bay. She had a distant look on her face suggesting serious analysis. When her thoughts had completed their journey, she turned back to her two friends.

“John, I need you to disappear for a while. Get on your plane and go far away for a week or so––until we get this guy.” Marin barked out the order, then she got up from the table and marched out the door, closing it behind her. Down the two steps to the dock, she began pacing back and forth in thought.

Bailey moved slowly and quietly from the corner and snuggled tight against John’s leg.

Stunned by Marin’s intensity, he asked no one in particular, “What’s that about?”

“She doesn’t want you to get hurt.” Cameron shook her head.

“What’s she going to do?” He tossed down his cloth napkin. “I’m not leaving her.” John jumped up from the table and hurried to the doorway. “Marin,” he shouted as he opened it.

She had already disappeared into her boat.

John took a step over the threshold, and she reappeared on the back deck of her Carver with her hand at her side––fingers wrapped around something black. She climbed aboard
The Hunter
and John saw what it was.

“You have a gun.” He was confused and shocked. “Where’d you get that?”

She lifted it, pushed the barrel forward and then back into its original position. “Let’s get you to the airport. Take your plane far away.” Marin stood at the open doorway as if she were his own personal body guard. “If he’s coming here, we have an hour and a half—give or take. She quickly scanned the docks.

“Why do you have a gun?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the pistol that looked huge in her small hand.

“It’s my FBI-issued weapon.”

Cameron had unsnapped her holster––her hand rested on the butt of her own weapon.

John was without words. He stared at Marin and then the gun. “FBI? What do you mean, FBI?”

“We can talk about that later.”

John turned to Cameron and saw in her face that those two had a secret—probably from Marin’s consulting gig. “What’s going on?”

“Laura was a mistake. He’s coming after me.” Marin glared at John. “And you can’t be around.”

“Then we both leave,” he said.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Cameron added.

“Let’s look at this realistically.” Marin slipped past them into the salon. “He’s a professional killer––won’t stop. He has resources—money
and
skills. He’s totally insane––just murdered his father. I started this thing with my book. There’s no where I can go. He’s going to want revenge, and he’ll hunt me down until it’s finished—no witnesses or trails that lead to him.” Marin suddenly had a thought. “The woman at Sutherland’s—you need to get her safe somewhere.”

“Already done—right after the murder,” Cameron said.

John was still caught on Marin’s first comment. “You don’t know he’ll come after you.” He boisterously flung his arms over his head. “You’ve got a little gun against a tank of a man. You could probably shoot him with every bullet in that thing, and hell, he’ll just keep coming. I’m for getting out of here. Let’s go––you and me. We get somewhere, and I hire an army of security people to watch over us.”

“I can’t live like that––always looking over my shoulder.” She stared at John. “Listen to me.” She grabbed his arm. “You’re leaving, and I’m staying. He’ll come to me. It’s our best chance.” She glanced at Cameron and nodded.

The detective did not respond physically. “I’m for both of you leaving.”

“Look, he’s rushing to complete his mission, and that’s when he’ll make a mistake.”

“I’m not leaving.” John sat down and put out his hand. “I need a gun, too.”

Cameron reached into her bag and pulled out her spare piece. She extended it to John.

Marin grabbed the miniature pistol before he got his hands on it. She examined the tiny gun.

“Beretta Tomcat––I’ve never held one of these pocket pistols before––it’s so small and light.” Marin sighted the gun at the refrigerator. “Any stopping power?”

“The mag holds seven .32 calibre rounds, but you better be close to hit anything. It has a wicked recoil. I just have it because it’s light, and I can keep it hidden out of the way.” Cameron turned to John. “Have you ever fired a gun?”

“No, how hard could it be?” He held his hand out.

Marin rolled her eyes. “I’m not giving you a chance to shoot me while I’m dealing with this creep.” She handed the gun back to Cameron.

“I don’t like any of this.” Cameron’s eyes were intense. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’m a little frazzled—my mind’s going in a million different directions. I need to think—focus—but I can handle myself.”

“You can’t stay on the boat––it’s not defendable.” Cameron was thinking out loud.

“He doesn’t know I’m on to him. I think the boat’s perfect to draw him in.”

“I’m putting officers all over the marina.”

“That would give it away. We’ve got to make it look natural––no warning signs to alert him.”

John had remained silent while he listened to their plan. “I don’t like it. He’s a trained SEAL. By itself, it’s totally messed up, but those guys are experts at hiding and evading––damn, he could be here right now and we probably wouldn’t know it. We’re no match for this guy. Did I say we? I don’t even have a gun.”

“Is that really bothering you?” Marin reached toward Cameron.

The investigator understood the gesture. “Are you sure?” She handed the gun to her.

Marin pulled out the short magazine, stuck it in her pocket, and then tossed the empty gun to John.

“You have to walk before you can run.” She grinned. “Now you have a weapon.”

“Nice try.” John reached for the bulging pocket.

Marin turned to Cameron. “My consulting credentials give me access to the Sheriff’s Department shooting range—it’s just ten minutes or so away? Let’s see if he can shoot the thing.”

“You don’t plan on teaching him how to shoot in a half hour at the range?”

“I need to focus on what’s coming.”

“No better place than the range to work it out. I’ll call and set it up.” Cameron picked up her phone. “I’ll hang out here and get my people prepped.”