The Girl on the Yacht (24 page)

Cameron knew that if Michael were in the house, he would be coming out––in cuffs or in a bag. Along Newport Boulevard, she came to the corner and jerked hard on the wheel. A block down, she spotted the Newport Beach patrol cars blocking off the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Lieutenant Tommy Bail stood in the street and directed his people. She pulled up and put down the window.

“Which house is it?”

“The one at the end––right side—on the water.”

“Damn.” She picked up her radio mike and switched to the Harbor Patrol police frequency. “This is Cameron West. Let me speak to the watch commander.”

“Cam, this is Sergeant Teller. What do we have?”

“We’re tracking a murder suspect. About to raid a house on the peninsula off of Newport Boulevard.” She gave him the address. “We need a boat over here to cover the water.” In the background, she heard him dispatch his officers.

“Boat Six––ETA three minutes, Boat Four––ETA four minutes,” the Sergeant said.

“This guy is extremely dangerous––Navy SEAL dangerous. Tell your people to play it safe. But, no one leaves by the water.” She heard loud sirens in the distance. “Sergeant, cut the sirens,” she barked into the microphone. The faraway wailing faded.

Behind her on the street, a beautiful, sleek, polished black vehicle rolled up to the corner. The size of a large UPS truck, it had the appearance of an armed military transport––way too expensive looking for municipal budgets, but not in Newport Beach. The gold-leaf lettering on its side identified it as the SWAT Command Post. It was pristine and had probably been out of its garage once in the past year, if that. From its interior, six black-clad professionals quietly exited the vehicle. Cameron imagined they had left behind their lattes and cappuccinos for the moment.

Before making his way over to Lieutenant Bail, the leader hand-signaled his people to take up positions.

“Sir, what do we have?” the SWAT leader asked.

“It’s her show.” Bail pointed to Cameron.

“Sir?” the young officer asked in astonishment.

“You heard me. Whatever she wants. This is her murder suspect. Are we clear?”

“Sir.” He nodded and turned to Cameron.

“We’re missing the woman who lives in the house. We think our suspect snatched her and is possibly hiding inside.” She became serious. “This guy’s a former Navy SEAL.”

He got the message and relayed the information to his team. He turned back to Cameron.

“When do you want us to go in?”

“Can you get the garage door to go up?”

“We can do that. Piece of cake with our new radio frequency scrambler. If you’re thinking we’re going in through that narrow kill zone,” he shook his head, “we’re not doing it.”

“I can get into the house from the garage.”

“You what? Are you nuts? He’ll take you out in a second.”

“Not if he thinks I’m a roommate. I’ll drive my Prius into the garage like I do it every day.”

He glanced over at the lieutenant.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tommy asked Cameron.

“I’m done screwing with this guy. I get into the house––he goes down.” She pushed back her hair, slipped into a suit coat to hide her vest, and signaled for them to open the garage door. “I’ll let you know when to come in. Or . . . you’ll hear the shots.” She grinned to hide her fear.

Moments later, she was in her car driving toward the opening garage door. “What are you doing?” she asked herself as the car pulled in next to the BMW. She got out and looked around. A SWAT sniper had positioned himself in the shrubbery across from the open garage where he had a clear shot at the door leading into the house.
I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Cameron pushed open the door and shouted into the void, “Linda, I’m home. Do you want to go out to dinner?” No response. She gripped her weapon in anticipation of his face coming out from behind anything in the garage. Three steps into the kitchen, she saw the familiar sight of scattered bomb-making material. “Damn, he’s at it again,” she said under her breath. Her vision spilled over to the counter where she saw a notepad. She glanced at the scribbled words and tore the page from the pad.

“Linda, are you home?” Still no sound.

In a short time, she had searched and cleared the entire house. No Michael––no Linda––only the remnants of a bomb with one distinct difference this time. On the table sat three-quarters of a brick of C4 explosive––a nice chunk having been cut off. He had it this time. Her mind raced at the possibilities. He was gone but didn’t take the car.
Another car? No
.
Underwater bomb––he’s taking it underwater to the marina––Navy SEAL––they deliver bombs. They’re scuba divers
. She walked over to the patio door and slid it open.
He’s underwater making his way to the marina––but that’s a couple of miles away. He’s a Navy SEAL––no problem.
She ran outside and saw Little Horse coming toward her. She handed him the message from the pad. “Have someone check that out. Give me your radio.”

He unhooked it from his belt and handed it to her.

She turned the dial at the top. “Sergeant Teller.” She waited.

“This is Teller.”

“He’s not in the house. Send boats over to the Blue Water Marina and have the divers search under the boats and piers for explosives. I think he’s underwater on his way over. Start with John Hunter’s boat and then Marin Ryan’s. I’ll be there in five minutes. Teller, how long would it take a scuba diver to go two miles in the harbor?”

“With the tides coming in right now, at least a couple of hours. You’d have to be a superman.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two patrol boats kick it into gear and charge away down the harbor. She handed the radio back to her partner.

“You handle the neighborhood canvas,” she said while climbing into her Prius.

Lieutenant Bail came up to her window.

“Sorry, Tommy, he’s after my friends,” she said.

“Go do what you’ve got to do. I’ll deal with this.”

“I think he may have killed the girl. I gave a note to Sergeant Little Horse––it doesn’t look good.”

“We’ve got it here. Go make sure your friends are okay.”

Minutes earlier, Michael loaded all of his things on to the Regal boat at the dock and then had the ingenious idea to take the boat out and sleep on it a couple of miles offshore to enjoy the gentle rolling of the open sea. As it made its way down the channel en route to the jetties, he pulled the cruiser closer to the right side of the wide main runway of the harbor.

Ahead of Michael, two Harbor Patrol boats took dead aim at him with their lights on and sirens blaring. He focused in on the driver of the lead boat, but then it started to veer slightly right. The pilot wasn’t looking at him––he was focused beyond the Regal. The boats screamed by, and a minute later, the deafening sounds of sirens stopped.

Michael gave a slight glance back over his shoulder. The vessels were still making full speed––going away.
Maybe a practice run.
The sleek Regal responded quickly when he angled it back toward the middle channel, crossing over the imaginary line created by the Balboa Ferry in its infinite journey from the Pavilion to the island and back.

While the sleek, black Regal continued at its five-mile-per-hour cruise through the expansive harbor toward the outer jetties, Michael thought about how much he loved the water––it was where he belonged. Maybe when it was all over, he’d get a dive boat and start up a charter on some distant far away archipelago––perhaps Indonesia or French Polynesia.

To his left, he passed the Sheriff’s Department docks with three red fireboats, five empty slots, and two remaining white Harbor Patrol boats. The next dock over was the Coast Guard Station with the eighty-seven-foot Coast Guard Cutter Narwhal securely moored—decks empty of people—one lookout on the bridge. Michael gave a friendly civilian wave to the officer on deck. When he began his turn toward the open sea at the end of the parallel jetties, Michael heard the roar of boat engines from behind. He took a look and watched the remaining Harbor Patrol boats full throttle out of their docks headed away toward the interior of the harbor.
Maybe it’s on again
.

He turned the VHF radio to emergency channel sixteen to find out what had happened. It was eerily silent. He selected the local public channel to see if there was anything being discussed. Like a blog on the Internet, the conversations were pieces of information by many people trying to understand the harbor’s sudden activity. Parts of the conversation got his attention.

One voice came on, “There were two Harbor Patrol boats about fifteen minutes ago outside a house on the peninsula, and the police had blocked off the street. I think SWAT went in.”

Another voice interrupted, “I heard they were looking for a guy who robbed a bank.”

A third added, “They were looking for a guy who took his kids from the wife.”

Michael laughed out loud at the misinformation. He knew who they were after.
Crap, that detective is really close
.
How did she find the house so fast?
Maybe when I gave the finger to the parking garage camera? She’ll pick up that I have a boat.
He reached the end of the jetty and shoved the throttle forward. The Regal leapt from the water and was on plane in fifty feet rocketing toward Catalina Island—thirty-five miles away on the horizon. He glanced at the fuel gauge––quarter tank.
Not enough for Catalina.
He down throttled and examined the GPS screen.
His SEAL training kicked in—hide in plain sight. Put this boat where no one would think twice—a marina––but where?
Not Newport Harbor––that’s where they’ll be looking for this boat. Where?

His eyes studied the GPS map, and he saw it—the narrowest of inlets up the coast fifteen miles. He knew the place—right off the Naval Weapons Station—Seal Beach, Huntington Harbor. It was the perfect place packed with private slips attached to the houses and the public marina. I can cruise through the web of water roadways until I find an empty house––tie it up there and get some rest. I’ll figure out a plan after dark.

He pushed the throttle to full and arched a tight turn west toward the waypoint on the GPS. Twenty minutes later, he had found the house, or better yet, choice of houses. Each of the six houses on the short leg of water was empty––an area hard hit by the recession.
Perfect
.

The digital display below the radio showed the outside temperature as 92, and inside as 74. Cameron’s stress level had just about maxed out, and it felt hotter inside the air-conditioned Prius than out. She used siren and lights down Coast Highway toward the Blue Water Marina and hadn’t noticed anything all day but the case and its evolution. The adrenaline was fading.
Stay focused
.

When she turned the corner, her foot hit the brake pedal hard. The car came to a sliding stop at the marina parking lot entrance—its yellow metal arm across the driveway. She buzzed the office over the call box––no response. A small sign on the guard shack window displayed the office hours—8 to 5. She glanced at the dash display––5:15. They’re closed.
Think––call Marin
. In the rearview mirror, two bicycle riders were approaching. Without hesitation, she jumped from the vehicle and waved her badge at them to stop. “I’ve got to get down to the boats. I need one of your bikes.”

The long-haired one cruised up to the arm blocking the driveway and stopped without dismounting. He stood with feet firmly planted on either side of the bike balancing the frame, reached for the heavy yellow bar, and gave it a shove up. “How’s that?”

“Thanks.” Cameron slid back into the carseat and raced under the slowly falling metal appendage. The Prius twisted through the parked cars and squeezed into the first open space nearest E-dock. Out of the car, she shot toward the iron gate leading to the boats. She pulled at it––locked. “Damn.”

“Take—” a voice said.

Cameron flinched at the sudden sound.

“Take it easy, you’re going to have a heart attack,” Marin said.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Taking Bailey for a walk.” She pointed to her feet where the beagle sat patiently. “Did you get the guy?”

“No, and he’s coming here.”

Marin’s hand went into her pocket and reached around the outline of her gun. Her eyes darted across the marina. “Now?”

“Soon.”

The women instinctively examined places of possible concealment within a thousand yards; every bush, wall, tree; every car, building, and boat. Without a word, they each understood––they were exposed.

“Come on, Bailey, hurry up.” Marin ran the beagle over to a small patch of grass.

“I’m not going to play with this guy. I’m calling in the entire force. This place is going to be swarming with Sheriff’s Deputies in an hour.”

“Don’t do it.”

Cameron felt the fatigue and stress of the day, and it must have shown on her face.

“Don’t do it,” Marin repeated. “It’s the only way.”

“He made another bomb––this one he finished. It was made for underwater.” Along with the fatigue and stress, Cameron’s eyes radiated concern for her friend. “I don’t think you should stay on the boat.”

“Let’s go, Bay.” Marin gave a gentle tug on the leash.

The dog sensed the urgency in her voice and pulled toward the locked gate.

Marin swiped the card, and they made their way down the ramp, cognizant of every movement around the facility.

“Let’s get on the boat.” Marin’s hand was still in her pocket. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

Cameron’s noticed the Harbor Patrol boats blocking the water entrance to the marina and signaled one of the pilots.

Upon recognizing her, he spun the wheel and slipped the craft into gear. It slowly crept toward a tiny open spot between boats in the dock leg where she stood. He nudged the stern against the piling and manipulated the controls to hold the boat in position.

“Hey, West, we’re going slow––don’t want to miss anything.” He pointed to the bubbles near F-dock that indicated one of his divers.

“Good, Sarge. His target is one of these two boats.” Cameron referred to the Carver and the Ocean Alexander. “I’m going to get John and Marin to leave the area. I think the guy is on his way over, but I want your team to keep eyes on the boats all night, if necessary––covertly. Can you do that?”

He winced, gritted his teeth, then shook his head. “I don’t like putting divers in the water for surveillance––especially at night. First, we don’t have enough divers in the department, and we could easily lose one in some of the abandoned stuff that’s down there––wire lobster cages, lines, electric cables, water pipes, fishing lines––not to mention the propeller blades on the boats. There’s about four-foot visibility in daylight. You can get the picture of what it would be like at night.”

Cameron imagined the maze of hazards.

“Tell you what I can do.” He scanned the area near the target boats. “We can set up some observers,” he pointed to the farthest end of the marina entrance, “over there.” His hand changed direction to the boat three to John’s left, “And over there.” He next indicated the head of F-dock, the dock adjacent to E. “My people could get on the boats tied up at each of those spots and keep a lookout for bubbles and for an underwater light––no one would dive it at night without a light. We’d see him.”

“Good, make it happen.”

“I’ll also keep my patrol boats buried away in open slips around the marina with divers ready to go in if we spot the creep.”

“That’ll work. We don’t want to spook the guy. We need to get him, so keep it low profile.”

He nodded and then moved the throttle forward and crept away toward one of the divers who had surfaced forty feet away.