Driving along the Maas River, Officer Wim Lenaerts checked himself in the rearview mirror and frowned. Once again, his comb-over had flopped over like the flue flap on his chimney. And his Rogaine? Forget it! Guacamole could grow more hair!
His police radio clicked on.
“Wim… ?” It was Daan, his captain.
“Yes, sir?”
“Stahl might be back here in Holland.”
“But they tracked him to Germany!”
“Yeah, but we think he doubled back. Watch for him and the woman. And don’t mess with this psycho! Call for backup!”
“Count on it, sir.”
They hung up.
Moments later, Lenaerts drove by the stolen Volvo on Polderweg Road and nodded to his fellow officers and some CSI techie pals. He continued driving north. Everything looked like it looked an hour ago, normal.
A kilometer later, it didn’t. The Serraris Jachthaven Yacht Marina was lit up like a Hollywood film premier. Thirty minutes earlier only the small guardhouse light was on. And weeknight parties were rare at the marina. What was going on? He better check it out.
He parked, got out and walked toward the guardhouse. He saw two old men in their pajamas hurrying down the dock toward him, waving their arms.
“Is there a problem?” Lenaerts shouted.
“Big problem, officer!” said an elderly guy with stalks of grey sleep hair sticking up like a punk rocker. Beside him stood an old bald guy in red wool pajamas.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, I was sleepin’,” Sleep Hair said.
“Me, too,” Red Pajamas said.
“Yep, we was sleepin’ when you wouldn’t believe it!”
“What?”
“Old Henri Dumon’s yacht cranks up and pulls right out.”
“Henri like night cruises?”
“Henri’s in Paris.”
“Musta drove up.”
“Drove up? Henri can’t sit up. Man’s in a coma. Celeste, that’s his wife, she says it doesn’t look good.”
“Maybe he let someone use it.”
“No damn way. Nobody goes on Henri’s boat, less’n he’s with ‘em. He’d sooner drink rat piss, right Jan?”
“That’s right,” Jan said, buttoning his red pajamas.
“I’m tellin’ you, officer, that yacht was just stolen! And old Dirk’s missing, too!”
“Dirk, the security guard?”
“Yep.”
Officer Lenearts grew more concerned. Dirk was always patrolling the dock, or watching sports on his small television in the guardhouse.
“Think Dirk took it?”
“No way. Dirk’s afraid of the river. Doesn’t even like boats, right Jan?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you see anything strange before the yacht took off?”
“Nope, but I heard something strange.”
“What?”
“Clicks.”
“Clicks?”
“Yeah. You know, like a woman’s high heels hitting the dock clicks. High heels ain’t too normal on docks or boats.”
Lenearts agreed, growing more interested.
“After I heard that, the yacht engine cranks right up and cruises into the river.”
Gotta be Stahl and the woman! Lenearts realized, his pulse pounding. “Which way did the yacht go?”
“Toward Nijmegen.”
“Can you describe the yacht?”
“Hatteras. A beauty, right Jan?”
“That’s right!” Jan said.
“Cuts water like silk. Double cabin. Fifty-four footer.” Van Zant’s love of boats turned his parchment cheeks pink. “Twin V8 diesel engines. All the fancy electronics.”
“White?”
“Yep.”
“Does it have a… you know, a top… ?”
“A bridge. Yep, and a good size rear deck.”
“Any other distinguishing features?”
“Its name - L’étoile d’Uzes - in big black letters right across the back. French flag right above ‘em.”
Lenearts wrote down the name.
“How long ago did it leave?”
The old man looked at his watch. “Maybe… thirty-five minutes ago.”
“Have Dirk call me the second he gets back.” He handed the old man his card.
“I will, but… ”
“But what?
“Well, it just ain’t like old Dirk to go off and disappear, right Jan?”
“That’s right.”
Lenearts checked around the guardhouse and saw the key storage box had been pried open. He started walking back toward his car radio, then stopped cold. He saw something on the dock.
Spots.
Make that drops, wet dark drops… the color of blood.
Using his flashlight, he followed them down to the riverbank… where the beam hit a hand-sized television.
And then a human hand… and arm floating beneath the dock.