CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Saturday, January 15

4:05 p.m.

Palm Beach

The fundraiser aboard The Beachy Babe had been in full swing for more than four hours. The perfect Palm Beach weather had no doubt encouraged the crowd.

Security staff for The Beachy Babe’s owners roamed the decks stopping potential trouble before it got out of hand. They were big, bulky men dressed in the same casual clothing brands as the guests.

Pauling seemed to know several of them, and one had made a point of checking on her throughout the day. Or maybe he just wanted a date.

Otto had met four of the yacht’s security team earlier in the day. She’d seen at least four more from a distance. She hoped there were more.

She’d noticed the satisfying bulges under their arms where their shoulder holsters rested, weapons within easy reach. They were using a wireless communications system similar to the one Otto, Gaspar, and Pauling employed.

The system was voice activated, which was okay because it left their hands free. But for crowded conditions like these, voice activation wasn’t ideal. A couple of times, her earpiece had intercepted the security staff chatter, which was a common problem with wireless systems. Another problem was weak or interrupted signals.

Unfortunately, this was the best they could do under the circumstances.

Maximum passenger capacity was 380, according to the posted signs Otto saw when they boarded, but all three spacious decks were teeming with partiers of all ages. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the maximum capacity was viewed as a mere suggestion when a major fundraiser like this one chartered the yacht.

Tourist yachts could sink when overloaded, Otto knew. She kept her fingers crossed that The Beachy Babe would not go down today.

Across The Beachy Babe’s stern was a large swim platform. From there, guests could dive into the Atlantic or jump onto the complimentary jet skis or dash around the vicinity in motorized Zodiac inflatable boats.

Otto’s attention was drawn to the platform over and over again. She loved water sports. She’d been swimming her whole life. She’d learned to swim before she’d learned to walk. Too bad she couldn’t participate this time.

The Beachy Babe’s lowest deck was the largest. An art deco dining room complete with chandeliers and a full bar attracted an older, moneyed crowd. Casino style games had been running all day, with all proceeds going to the cancer center.

The middle deck was divided into three sections. The largest area was a club room with a DJ spinning pulse-pounding music and a dance floor packed tighter than a can of sardines.

The center section of deck two was an enclosed lounge with wraparound windows and a full bar.

In the third area, an open-air bow, young people slathered with oil and wearing the tiniest bikinis lounged as party-colored cocktails were replenished before their glasses emptied.

The noise on decks one and two was the most overwhelming because they were enclosed with wraparound windows that held the noise inside. OSHA couldn’t possibly approve.

Deck three, the cabana deck, boasted a high canopy to shield passengers from too much sun. The open-air setup allowed the incessant noise to dissipate slightly.

The cabana deck was the only place where Otto could hear herself think or reply to Gaspar’s conversations or catch occasional snippets of Pauling’s voice through her earpiece.

Once they’d found a good observation point, where they could watch Pauling at her post near the bar, they’d perched. One of them stayed nearby at all times, while once an hour, the other took a brief lap around the second deck, scanning for threats.

Moving through the throngs was like swimming against the tide, which made threat assessment difficult, at best. But sitting all day in one position wasn’t a good idea, either.

Either Otto or Gaspar stayed within sight and easy shooting distance of Pauling. And where the earpieces allowed them to hear occasional comments amid the noise, in case Pauling had the chance to shout for help, should the need arise.

It was Pauling that Parnell wanted. If he came, he’d come for her. Otto and Gaspar were prepared to deal with him on-board. The Boss promised reinforcements when they returned to port at the end of the cruise.

Otto could see guests coming and going on the stairs to the lower decks from her perch. The cabana deck was the smallest of the super-yacht’s three levels, which limited the number of people milling around at any one time. Another advantage.

There was one flaw in their stakeout location. Two crews from two local television stations had also established observation points on the cabana deck.

Both crews were flying commercial drones around The Beachy Babe and the frolicking guests enjoying water sports in the ocean.

The event was broadcasting live. Every guest, every couple, every swimmer or gambler or drinker, was captured on video. The video was shared instantly with the less fortunate who remained stuck on shore.

Every thirty minutes or so, Otto checked the Boss’s phone for messages. The last time he’d contacted her was well before noon. “Nothing yet.” Meaning Parnell had not been apprehended or located.

“Sunset is five forty-six, right?” Gaspar asked for the tenth time, kneading the folds between his eyebrows with his knuckles. “Less than two more hours of this, thank God. How do they stand it?”

Otto nodded. They’d covered the topic extensively already. What more could she say?

Pauling heard his lament through her earpiece. Her trilling laughter rang in Otto’s ear. “Lighten up, Gaspar. Have some fun.”

“I can get this level of chaos at home,” was Gaspar’s snarly reply.

Otto watched the drones flying overhead. They were not the kind she and her young cousins played with in the back yard on holidays.

These were huge spiders of carbon fiber and aluminum that made them lighter than their size might suggest, yet incredibly strong. They were held in the air by multiple propellers, and underneath they had high-quality steerable digital cameras.

Both operators were expert at maneuvering the surprisingly nimble drones remotely. The drones darted around The Beachy Babe’s decks, peeking into windows, zooming and retreating. Throughout the day, the huge drones rose to dizzying heights and showed breathtaking aerial views of The Beachy Babe in her full glory on televisions mounted everywhere.

Two screens were running in the corners of the cabana deck, displaying the broadcast as it happened, one tuned to each of the local stations. From her vantage point, Otto had a clear view of both.

If any disturbance broke out anywhere on the super-yacht, she’d see it quickly enough to hustle Pauling away from the trouble.

At least, in theory.

The Beachy Babe sailed north to south along the coast of Palm Beach and back again. The entire round trip took about two hours. They’d sailed the loop twice and already made the wide turn for the last leg of the trip.

The Beachy Babe’s captain planned to offer passengers a spectacular sunset view to send everyone home happy about spending thousands of dollars to support a worthy cause.

On the swim platform, the water sports deck crew was rounding up the revelers as they returned. Collecting and stowing the water toys for the night.

Finish the final leg and the day would be over.

Almost done.

Otto’s tension eased a bit.

The cruise was coming to an end.

No sign of General Nitro Mack Parnell.

Pauling remained unmolested.

Gaspar was grumpy, but none the worse for wear.

All in all, this had been a better day than she’d feared. Pauling had been right. The Beachy Babe was the perfect place to avoid the homicidal General Parnell.

The only troubling issue now was why the Boss hadn’t found Parnell. They’d be disembarking soon. The manhunt should have been completed. Parnell should be in custody.

But he wasn’t.

Where was he?