The Girl on the Yacht (8 page)

Marin walked two steps ahead of Cameron back down the dock. This was exhausting work, and she wondered how her friend kept up the pace. John waved and stepped off
The Hunter.

“What’d you think of Max?” he asked both women.

“As advertised,” Cameron said.

Marin nodded in agreement.

John waved to a man in his late thirties polishing the deck of a beautiful, black over yellow Donzi speedboat in the slip two down from Marin’s.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to Nate,” John said to Marin. He turned toward Cameron. “He hasn’t been here since last weekend.”

“How’s it going, Nate?” John approached the boater.

“Not so good. I heard about Laura. It’s awful. She was such a good person.”

“Yes, she was.” John made a gesture with his hand in the man’s direction. “Nate Fowler, this is Investigator West of the Sheriff’s Department, and this is,” he put his arm over Marin’s shoulder, “Marin Ryan. She owns the Carver.” He pointed to her boat. Turning back to Cameron, he continued, “This boat is easily the fastest in Newport Harbor. That thing’ll move––probably do eighty.”

“Over a hundred,” Nate corrected, “in perfect conditions.”

“That would scare me to death on the water.” Marin lifted her shoulders, like she was contemplating the speed.

Cameron brought the conversation back to the investigation. “Where were you during the past twenty-four hours?”

“Just got back from Vegas about an hour ago.”

“How was your luck?” John asked.

“Dropped a few hundred.”

Cameron moved over to her right, between the two men, in a clear gesture for them to stop their discussion.

“What time did you leave for Vegas?”

“Yesterday afternoon––the one o’clock flight out of John Wayne Airport.”

A man came up on Cameron’s left.

“Are you West?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

He held out two folders. “I have your autopsy report and the results of the two searches.”

“Thanks.” The officer handed her the files. “I have these, too.” He held out a set of keys.

Cameron indicated that he should give the keys to John.

“Can you get those back to Dan?”

“No problem.” He took the keys and stuffed them into his pocket.

Cameron glanced over at Nate. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.” She opened the first folder, labeled
Autopsy––Laura Flynn Douglas
, and she began reading while she continued very slowly walking down the dock. “Give me a minute to go over these.” She stopped and read.

“Let’s go on John’s boat.” Marin stepped on to the swim step and climbed to the main deck.

Cameron slowly followed while examining the second folder. “Definitely professional,” she said to Marin.

“What makes you so certain?”

“It’s not very pleasant. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Marin nodded, anticipating the worst. “For my research.”

“Laura was dead before she hit the water.”

“You already assumed that.”

“The report confirms it. She had a crushed trachea and severe loss of blood to the brain. That’s what killed her, and the trachea damage kept her silent. This is definitely a trained technique. You don’t learn it from the Internet––takes a lot of practice.”

“What an awful way to die.” Marin’s eyes began to well up.

“After a few seconds, you just fade out,” Cameron tried to reduce Marin’s fear.

“Was there anything else in the report?” Marin asked while trying to get away from the picture in her mind.

“There’s a note from my team. I had them check the weight belt. It was new, so I had them call local dive shops. No luck––blue’s the most popular color of the most popular belt sold in every dive shop from here to Timbuktu. Definitely a dead end.” Cameron stared at her friend. “It’s my turn to ask you.”

Marin looked surprised.

“Am I missing something in this case? A professional hit man kills a woman that everyone liked. It doesn’t make sense,” Cameron said.

“The crime statistics favor someone who knew her––often someone close––you know that.” Marin gave it some more thought. “Then again, maybe it has something to do with her work. Perhaps she found out someone’s innermost secrets.”

“Tomorrow, I’m going to shift gears and focus on her work. We took her computer in to have it analyzed, and I’m waiting to hear back on that.” She paused. “I still need to talk to this Mitch guy when he gets back.” Cameron looked out into the bay.

“I’ll call you when I see him,” John said.

“I’m wiped out. Do you mind if I just chill out here for half an hour or so before I go home?”

“Glad to have you. Take as long as you need. Let me get you a drink––would you like some wine?” John asked.

“That would be great.” Cameron stretched out in the chair, and then her phone rang. “Yeah,” she answered. “Great.” She disconnected.

“What was that?” Marin asked.

“Laura’s computer––my tech can’t figure out the password.”

“You really should let John take a look,” Marin suggested.

“That’s all right. Our top tech will look at it in the morning. She’ll get it done.”

Michael drove up and down the aisles in an Orange County shopping mall. He saw the tail lights of a Prius indicating that the vehicle was about to leave, and he pulled to a stop. The driver sat motionless behind the wheel with a phone to his ear. “Come on.” After a few more minutes of waiting, the Prius pulled out of the spot and the black Suburban replaced it. He took his bearings of the location almost dead center of the massive lot.

He studied the entrances and exits carefully for possible evade and escape routes, if necessary. The busy shopping center was the ideal staging location with its massive size––four blocks by four blocks––and its multiple exits on each of the four streets that bordered it. Satisfied with his choice, he climbed out of the vehicle and opened the rear hatch. With one hand, he yanked out the stolen beach cruiser bike from the back.

He slipped on his backpack and threw his right leg over the bicycle’s bar and sat down on the seat. The bicycle began to roll forward, and he power pedaled southwest toward the ocean. When he crossed over the top of the crest leading into Laguna Beach, the late afternoon onshore breeze quickly cooled his face and arms.

The small artist village along the seaside had maintained its quaint appearance since a group of bohemians inhabited it in the first decade of the 1900s. Nestled into a canyon that extended from the beach up into the hills, it appeared like one of those European villages that are so distant in the minds of Americans. Small streets bisected the series of small businesses, mostly art galleries and restaurants, that occupied the lower level at water’s edge. Farther up on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean were the multimillion dollar homes with their spectacular views of the sea and coastline.

The hilly twelve-mile bike ride to Laguna proved to be a good workout and gave Michael time to think about Kent Sutherland. “So you couldn’t keep the secret,” he said into the wind. The gun tucked into the small of his back felt a little uncomfortable, and he readjusted its position under his windbreaker. “Let’s get this done.”

When he reached the quaint main street at the bottom of the hill, a dozen miles south of Newport Beach, he stuffed the bike into the overused rack in front of the police station. “They’d never look here for a stolen bike.” He laughed while he headed down the street in search of the Sutherland’s Laguna Tides Art Gallery. His tentative plan was to walk into the gallery, take the art dealer into the backroom, and finish the job.

He strolled by the shop that specialized in the unique sculptures and carvings of Pre-Columbian art. He spotted a Scandinavian bakery across the street, so he headed for one of its sidewalk tables.
Perfect for surveillance.
He ordered a Danish and coffee from the white-aproned waiter and settled in.

Over the course of an hour, looking into the huge storefront windows without any sign of Sutherland, he decided to take action before the shop closed. His mind contemplated what to do. He paid his bill in cash and walked across the street.
Μight be risky.
He strolled up to the open door and stuck his head in. No Sutherland. The young woman at the back of the store, dusting a particular piece, turned around.

“Come on in,” she said.

“I was just wondering if Sutherland’s around. I haven’t seen him lately.” He adjusted his Dodgers cap in an attempt to hide his face.

“He’s in Bogotá picking up some new pieces––be back tomorrow late in the afternoon.”

“Let him know that Dave said hello.” Michael gave her a friendly wave and headed away toward the police station.
Dry run. There are too many people downtown, anyway.

Twenty-minutes later, he was pedaling up a steep road above the village. On the ocean side of the street, he spotted the light blue stucco one-story house with its elaborately carved oak door imported from somewhere in South America.
How could he miss it? It hadn’t changed in two years since his last visit.
Without stopping, he continued up the hill past the house next door that had a for sale sign in the yard. He studied the building while he rode by and saw through a window that it was vacant.
Perfect. Tomorrow night at the cliff house
.

Marin stirred from a restful sleep, felt the gentle swaying, and noticed the early morning light seeping in through the heavy window coverings. The cell phone on the nightstand rang and she answered it. “Hello?”

“Marin?” the woman’s voice inquired.

Marin looked at the iPhone in her hand. It was John’s. She nudged him in the ribs and handed the phone over. “It’s for you.”

Raising it to his ear, he answered, “Yeah?” He listened for a second. “Hi, Beth, what’s up?” He glanced at the clock and spun around into a sitting position while she talked. “No, I didn’t want to tell you.” He pushed his wavy hair back. “I know.” He handed the phone back. “She wants to talk to you.”

Marin stared at the iPhone as if it would go away and then glanced up at John who had the biggest grin she had ever seen on him. His eyes portrayed the moment, like they were kids.
We’re busted.

“Morning, Beth.”

“Morning, Marin.”

Silence followed for an awkward few seconds.

“It’s about time.” Beth’s words came over the line with happiness.

Marin attempted to change the subject. “How was your day, yesterday?”

“How was your night?” Beth softly laughed.

Marin watched John dart naked into the bathroom.

“It was pretty good. Can we talk about something else?”

“What else could we talk about? Murder, maybe?” Beth asked. “It’s all over the news.”

“Hold that thought.” Marin got up from the bed, walked over to the head, and slipped the phone in on the counter in front of John. “It’s for you.” She distanced herself from it quickly. “I need to take Bailey up to the park.” She grinned at him, turned, and made herself disappear into the stateroom. “Come on, Bay, let’s go for our walk.”

His face lathered with shaving cream, he wiped his hands, and hit the speaker icon. “Hi, Beth.”

Marin could make out the gist of the conversation while she slipped on her jogging pants and one of John’s T-shirts. She stuck her head into the bathroom. “Beth, gotta go—nice talking to you.”

John frowned.

“After our walk, I’m going to my boat to shower and get dressed.” She tugged the leash. “It’s going to be rough for everyone on the dock. Let’s do as much as we can to help.”

Saturday night had seen virtually all the boaters head for their nearby homes and now, for a summer Sunday, it felt eerie strolling up the deserted dock. Well, not exactly deserted. There were several dozen folding chairs set at equal intervals down the walkway. She raced with Bailey up the ramp, and after a few productive tours around the oak trees in the picnic area, they hurried back to her boat.

After her shower, Marin felt like a new woman. When she stepped off her boat, the place had transformed into a growing crowd. Bailey followed her to a section of folding chairs where John, in sandals, khaki shorts, and green Chieftains T-shirt, sat waiting. Her gaze never left his cool blue eyes. She smiled, thinking how lucky she was to have him back in her life.

He glanced toward the clubhouse. She turned to see Cameron West and Jackie Irwin walking toward them. At the upper rail near the clubhouse, Dan Douglas was speaking with an interestingly short-stature group of four men in their mid fifties. He pointed toward the boats, and the men made their way down the ramp. The tallest, maybe five-foot-seven, of what one would guess to be brothers, approached.

“Hey, Sean.”

“Johnny, me boy,” the leader replied in a heavy Irish brogue. “Where do you want us?”

“It’s probably going to be crowded on the dock, so why don’t you set up there.” John pointed to the upper deck of Marin’s Carver.

Marin looked at John.

“I know the boys from Murphy’s Pub up on the hill,” he explained.

Still not sure what he was saying, she asked, “Who are
the boys
, and what’s my boat have to do with it?”

The shortest elf walked up to Marin and took her hand. “Padraic Finnegan at yur service.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “These are me brothers, Sean, Liam, and Tommy. We’re Finnegans Wake––the Irish band.” He glanced over at the new Carver Mariner. “Ah, such a beautiful craft for such a beautiful lass.”

She blushed and smiled.

“Paddy fancies himself a ladies’ man,” Sean said.

Paddy Finnegan peered up into Marin’s eyes from his five-foot-one frame. “You’re a heavenly goddess with those golden locks.” He reached up and stroked her blonde hair back over her shoulder. “Oh, Lassie, what pleasant memories we could have together.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” John said.

“Only the blondes,” Tommy added, and the four brothers laughed in unison.

On the promenade, at the foot of the dock, camera crews and commentators were setting up to record the sad Newport Beach event. With the tide extremely low and the boats well below the embankment, the media observers had a perfect view.

“Murderers sometimes attend the funerals and memorial service of their victims,” Marin said to John.

Cameron strolled up.

John asked, “Marin was just telling me the murderer might be here. What do you think?”

She pointed to her concealed earpiece.

“It looks like you’re working today,” John said.

“We have deputies posing as a local camera crew up on the walkway. They’re videoing for suspects.” She turned to John. “I’d like to wire you up. You can identify people you know and introduce yourself to strangers. I’ll have our camera guys concentrate on you while you do it––then we’ll have pictures of them.” She scanned the massive crowd on the dock. “I don’t think we’ll have any viable leads in this group.”

“What are you thinking?” Marin asked.

“A pro’s not coming back. He’s probably out of California by now, maybe even out of the country. It’s possible we’ll spot the person who hired him. It’s a long shot.”

The Irish seafarer’s wake continued throughout the afternoon with music, hugging, drinking, singing, and tears. From high on the upper deck of Marin’s Carver, Sean and his brothers played a combination of Irish tunes, with the sweet sadness typical of Irish music.

For more than an hour, John and Marin strolled among the hundreds of guests. When someone looked interesting, they went over to start a conversation. “Where are you from? How did you know Laura? When did you last see her? I didn’t catch your name.”

Dan held his glass high in the air, and the dock went silent.

“I want to thank everyone for coming.” His voice cracked. “I know Laura’s loving it,” he said in almost a whisper.

John saw Dan hurting and picked up his friend’s thoughts.

“Laura was the social director for E-dock. She made sure everyone was happy. We miss you, Laura,” John raised up his drink.

The mariners raised their glasses in a solemn gesture to their fallen friend.

Dan forced a smile.

By 6:00 p.m., most of the mourners had left the memorial service, and Cameron was finished with her official duties. She went over to John and Marin.

“Was there anything of value on Laura’s computer?” he asked.

“I don’t know. My computer forensic’s team said they’ve never seen a password encryption like the one on her laptop. They’re hoping they can crack it in a few more days. If they can’t, we’ll ship it over to the FBI lab.”

“If you have to send it to them, it could take weeks,” Marin said.

“Or months. I told them to get their ass in gear and figure it out.” Cameron reached up and pressed the sides of her temples. “Every time we hire and train good computer people, they end up going to the big metropolitan police departments with the larger budgets.”

“I got into the computer security business to solve problems like this. I’m sure I can help,” John said.

Cameron shook her head. “It’s evidence.”

“You should let him take a look,” Marin said. “He has skills.”

“I won’t tamper with any evidence.” He stood in front of her exuding confidence.

“I don’t know why you think you could do any better? My people told me they couldn’t figure it out,” Cameron said with skepticism. “I’ll think about it and call you tomorrow.”

“Maybe we could run over right now. I’ll use another operating system to get around her password,” John said. “It should only take me about five minutes. Then you can see what’s on her computer.”

Cameron cocked her head and formed an expression of serious doubt.

“What can it hurt?” Marin asked.

Outnumbered, Cameron relented. “Okay, you can try––but only for a little while.”

“Let’s go.” John had a bounce in his step. “I’ll take my car so you won’t have to come back.”