The Girl on the Yacht (23 page)

Minutes later, Marin swung John’s Maserati into the Sheriff’s parking lot. “The range is in the back. Let’s do this fast,” Marin said.

“I’m ready,” John said.

Before they exited the car, Marin took the magazine from her pocket and set it in her lap. She went over the Beretta Tomcat’s operation with an attentive John. Her fingers pointed to the different parts of the gun while she spoke. “Safety lever––sight––the hole in the bottom of the grip where the magazine feeds in––trigger pressure––got it?”

He nodded.

“And don’t point it at anyone—loaded or unloaded—or you might get shot by another officer at the range. They don’t screw around with guns. Got it?”

He nodded. “Got it.”

After passing through the main office and getting the range master’s approval, they each grabbed safety glasses and ear protectors from the rack. Marin strolled up to the first empty counter overlooking the 100-foot distance. She pulled a large page off a pad of torso diagrams with a red circle slightly to the side of the chest, and attached it to the target holder overhead. “Aim for the center of the body––forget about the red circle.” She pushed the toggle in the away position, and the target shot down the range. “Let me check the sight. We’ll start at thirty feet.”

Marin slid the magazine into the bottom of the grip and chambered the round. She held the piece in two steady hands and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Pop
. The first recoil forced her hands up.
Pop.
The second round hit the top of the large circle around the target image.

“I thought you were supposed to hit the center of the circle.” John was not impressed with the shooting.

Marin looked at him. “You need to shoot really slow with this gun. It can get away from you.”

“I can shoot better than that,” John announced. “Stand aside.”

While Marin put the target back out, she explained the principle of balance and strong stance, shoulders over toes, the importance of rhythmic breathing to prevent movement, proper two-hand grip for control and steadiness, and trigger control for consistency. Her final instruction, “Hold on tight––this tiny pistol wants to jump out of your hands.”

John took the gun in one hand, raised it at the target, and pulled the trigger three times.
Pop. Pop, Pop.
“I hit it right in the middle,” John suggested.

“Show me,” Marin said.

He glanced downrange at the target––it did not have the new holes he expected. “It must have gone through one of your bullet holes.”

“John, you weren’t holding the gun tight enough, and the first round went two feet high of the target. The second round—no telling how high it was. You’ve got to get it––the recoil forces this lightweight gun up so fast that you have to be on top of it.”

At that moment, the range master walked over. “Cameron asked me to help you in any way I can—she seemed serious. What can I do?”

“I have to put a few on the target,” Marin said. “Would you give him a little time and advice—mainly to be careful.”

He nodded and gently put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I got him. Do your thing.”

Marin took her stance in the next lane. She picked up her Springfield 1911 from the counter, worked the slide, and
Pop. . .Pop. . . Pop . . . Pop . . . Pop . . . Pop
. Now she was thinking. While she practiced, John had fired off his three rounds to her right, and she stuck her head around while both targets came nearer. “How’d you do?” Marin asked as she reloaded the magazine.

“Three more misses. What about you?” The range master glanced over at the cluster of six shots inside the red circle. “Nice shooting.”

She looked at John. “We’ll give you a few more minutes, but I don’t think you’re going to be holding on to that gun for a while. Here, try my Springfield––there are two rounds left.”

John watched the target move out to thirty feet. He took aim and fired the remaining two rounds. “This one feels much better.”

The Range Master shook his head. “How could you miss from that distance?”

“I wasn’t ready,” John pleaded.

“We don’t have enough time to teach you.” Marin picked up the Beretta from the counter, popped out the magazine, checked the chamber, and clicked on the safety before putting it in her pocket. She removed her Springfield from John’s tight grip and popped out the magazine. In less than a minute, she had the mag full and back in the gun. “Let’s get back to the boat.” She glanced over at the range master.

He was giving her a subtle head shake. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

On the 405 freeway headed south, Michael felt relief, a huge relief, for an odd reason—no more admiral. No more father. The man who had caused him so much pain over the years, was gone forever. His thoughts drifted back in time to his mother’s face. The man had always terrorized her, too. Her face gave away everything. Those wrinkles at her eyes became more pronounced the instant she found out the admiral was returning home after one of his many deployments.

All he ever cared about was your money, and his power—I did it for you, too, Mom
.

His thoughts of his warm and protective mother changed to his boys and their future. What could he offer them? A life on the run––the constant possibility that he might be taken from them at any second?
Then what would they do?
With their mother gone, they would be alone in a barbaric world. At least I had Mom, but the boys would be alone.

He couldn’t do it. They loved their mother as much as he loved his––maybe more. He couldn’t take them away from her forever. Nancy was right. He screwed up—he let them all down.

A pleasant thought entered his mind––the inheritance from the admiral.
I’m out of the will.
That leaves the boys. They would inherit everything. It’s got to be several million with the property and investments. They were going to do all right. Unless—if the bank fraud is brought to the surface by that professor, the estate would be sued for every penny. I can’t let that happen. The professor has to be neutralized––maybe even the boyfriend, if he gets in the way.

Michael guided the BMW off the freeway at Harbor Boulevard and continued a few blocks to a storage facility tucked in behind a row of commercial buildings. He drove down the long isle to the end unit he had rented under one of his many aliases—always anticipating this moment. Plan for the worst—hope for the best. It seemed pretty close to the worst scenario he could think of—he’d rather be on a plane headed to some non-extradition country of his choosing.

After unlocking and opening up one of the steel roll-up garage doors, he backed the car into the half empty stall that contained racks and cabinets filled with new identities, go items of necessity, cash, and the requisite arsenal.

He exited the vehicle and scanned for onlookers. All was quiet. He went to the back and opened one of the grey metal cabinets. On the bottom shelf was one of his oversized SEAL duffel bags. He quickly checked his dive gear. While holding the open bag against the middle shelf, he scraped stacks of cellophane-wrapped hundred dollar bills, passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards, and other phony ID’s into the container. From the third shelf, he dropped in the three pistols, holsters, extra magazines, and boxes of ammunition.

He popped the trunk and tossed the bag to the side. From the open rack, he grabbed his seventy-pound black Sentinel Rebreather and checked volume of the various gas canisters on the computer’s display––
perfect
. He set the bubble-free, fully enclosed unit on the concrete next to the rear of the car.

Michael glanced around to check for prying eyes again before lifting her lifeless body out of the trunk. In an instant, he folded her into the empty bottom shelf of the cabinet and closed the sturdy metal door. “I’ll leave a note in the house with the address so they can find you later,” he whispered to the dead woman.

After gently setting the rebreather in the trunk next to his dive bag, Michael moved over to the heavier cabinet ten feet away and worked the combination lock until it opened. Inside were the ingredients for his concoction. There were enough explosives, RDX––C4––TNT, to blow up the whole marina, if he wanted. Not his plan, for he needed to get close and personal––see the fear in their eyes––make no mistakes. Now it was for his kids. It would take a special charge to make it work. He grabbed the pieces he needed––wires, detonators, electronic parts, and a brick of C4. While he placed the items in a gym bag, his eyes fell on the long black canvas case. “I might need you, too.” He grabbed his McMillan sniper rifle with suppressor and gently wedged everything into the trunk.

Twenty minutes later, Michael followed Newport Boulevard over the bridge and on to the peninsula. Six blocks in, the GPS ordered him to turn left. “Your destination is straight ahead on the right.” He realized that the last two-story townhouse was the dead woman’s home—at water’s edge. He hit the garage door opener and up it went.
Empty––good so far.
He pulled in and hit the opener again before leaving the car.
How can you afford this place––must be Daddy’s?
After opening the trunk, he reached in and took out his favorite piece from the bag––his Smith & Wesson 1911.

Michael entered the house and worked his way through the rooms. There was no sign of another occupant in the place––no pictures, no toothbrushes, no clothes. She lived alone.

He pulled open the curtains over the sliding glass doors and looked out at the busy harbor. Off the patio, a dock extended out thirty feet into the water. At the end of the pier, a forty-two-foot Regal was tied at the bow and stern.
Nice boat.
On its rear swim platform, a carbon grey WaveRunner rested in its cradle––eagerly waiting to do its water dance. He recognized the lines of the same model as the one used in his Coronado SEAL training––the maxed-out high performance racing version.
Very nice
.
Maybe, if I have a chance, I’ll take it out later for a quick spin
. He turned from the window and headed back to the garage to begin his work.

He unloaded the trunk and spread the contents on to the dining-room table and kitchen counter. After organizing his items, he meticulously assembled––for the second time that day––a device. During its construction, he noticed a notepad sitting next to the refrigerator. He reached over and grabbed the frilly pen with its orange plastic flower sticking out of the top. He wrote down the address of his storage locker and set the pad back on the counter.
They should be able to figure out that lead,
he told himself.
What if they don’t?
He leaned over and added to it––
collateral damage and explosives, you idiots
.
That should get their attention
. He went back to his task of attaching the detonator and remote trigger.

Michael glanced at his dive watch––1600 hours––four o’clock in the afternoon.
I need to get some sleep for tonight––maybe till midnight
. Then he had a thought.
Why not use the boat tonight?
He could pull into the Blue Water Marina and tie up in one of the empty slips as if he were a new dock mate––perhaps a few legs over from E, maybe A or B dock––that would be far enough away, and still get him close to the marina exit and even closer to his target.
Good plan—need to think it through
. He tossed all of his things into the duffel bag. I’ll load everything on the boat now.

Homicide Investigator Cameron West anxiously paced in the salon of John’s yacht. “I know he hasn’t left town. There’s got to be a way to find him.” She took three more steps and turned back.

“Save your energy.” Marin patted the leather next to her. “Sit down—let’s talk about it. Bailey, move over,” she ordered the sleeping beagle.

“How are you planning to do this?” John directed his question to Marin.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this guy’s on the loose. It seems to me that at least one of us has to be awake all night. And yet, we’re all here. Somebody needs to go to bed now.”

“You’re right. I should,” Marin said. “If he comes in the night, then I need to be sharp.”

“I could put a couple of officers on the boat. It’s big enough––they could stay out of sight,” Cameron suggested.

“Might spook him.”

“We’d be safer,” John added.

The cell phone screen on the galley counter lit up and started its ringtone.

“That’s Purdy. Maybe he’s got something.” Cameron picked up and connected the call. “Purdy, what do you have?”

“Boss, I may have something. I’m at a business office in one of the high rises across from the mall. They told me the receptionist, who happens to be the owner’s daughter, went out for a smoke this morning and didn’t come back. They didn’t think anything of it because she has a way of disappearing to the beach on nice days. One of the family perks, I guess. Anyway, her name is Linda Rains. She’s twenty, with brown hair, five-foot seven, last seen wearing a black dress with a yellow silk scarf.”

“What time did she go missing?”

“Between ten-thirty and eleven.”

Cameron remembered the last car Michael was seen in at his father’s building in Beverly Hills. She asked, “Does she drive a black BMW?”

“Just a second.”

Cameron heard Purdy ask someone about the car.

He came back on the line. “Yep.”

“Do they know the license number?”

Purdy again asked questions to the unknown person.

“Hang on––it’s a company vehicle––they have it all.” He paused. “Here it is––SUN five, five, five.”

“Good. Get an address.”

A minute later, he was on the line again reeling off the address to a townhouse on the peninsula.

“Purdy, I’ll call Newport Beach PD, and you call Little Horse. Get over there––the guy may be at the house. Also, put out the description of the car.” Cameron made for the door of John’s boat.

“What do you have?” Marin asked eagerly anticipating good things.

“Our first lead. He might be at a house in Newport.” Cameron picked up her pace as she went outside. Within seconds, she was at full speed down the dock. Before she reached the top of the ramp, she stopped and autodialed her friend at the Newport Beach Police Department.

“Cam, what’s up?” Lieutenant Bail asked.

“Tommy, I’ve got a situation, and it’s in your jurisdiction. My killer might be holed up in a house on the harbor.” She told him the address.

“I’m a block away––meet me there,” Bail said. “We’ll play it however you want.”

“Call SWAT. This guy’s bad news. He’s a former SEAL—armed and dangerous.