Feeling stiff from sitting cross-legged during our long conversation, I stood in the companionway and did some forward bends to loosen up. “We’ll go crazy hanging around here waiting to hear from Harry or Kass,” I said. “Let’s head out and explore any other potential moorings for superyachts.”
“You’ve covered the possibilities in Marin County, either by visiting them or by viewing their size accommodations online. Maybe we should be looking at San Francisco. I recall a lot of controversy back at the time of the 2013 America’s Cup, about mega-yachts showing up and wanting to hang out with ringside seats for the race. Apparently, it would have been a problem if too many were moored along the San Francisco waterfront at the same time.”
I opened my laptop. “Looks like something the size of the yacht we’re searching for could be accommodated at two or three different piers near the Bay Bridge.” Nick scooted next to me and studied the screen.
“Want to take a drive over there?”
“Might as well. At least we’d be doing something useful.”
“It’ll be time to eat when we get to the city. I’ll buy dinner at the restaurant of your choice.” Nick kissed the hollow of my neck, sending chills racing through my scalp and giving notice to other sensitive body parts.
“I’d love that, but can we have dessert first?”
Nick looked puzzled for a moment, then caught my meaning and smiled. “Oh, you mean right now?”
“The sooner, the better,” I said.
“Happy to oblige.”
He took my hand and led me to the forward berth. The moments we spent in each other’s arms were a welcome antidote to the increasing stress we’d been under since arriving in Marin County.
An hour later, we crossed the Golden Gate, exiting on the San Francisco side. Nick stayed on Highway 101, passing Crissy Field and the Palace of Fine Arts Theatre. He left 101 at Lombard Street in the Russian Hill area, driving us down the hairpin turns that resulted in Lombard being dubbed the “Crookedest Street in the World.” We proceeded from there to the famous Embarcadero, which skirted the many piers along San Francisco’s waterfront. When we reached Fisherman’s Wharf, Nick pulled into a parking lot.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Let’s play tourist for a while. I promised you a nice dinner. How do you feel about dining al fresco on cracked crab and cocktail sauce?” He laughed when my stomach growled loud enough for him to hear. “Is that your answer?”
“Apparently.” I looked up from searching on my phone. “We might as well eat now and then move on. The yacht we’re looking for won’t be at this pier. It accommodates boats up to a maximum of eighty-five feet.”
“Are you finding any more likely locations?”
“Some. After we eat, let’s take the Embarcadero to the piers closer to the Bay Bridge. I see one just south of the Ferry Building that looks promising.”
We checked out the sidewalk food vendors, taking in the mouth-watering aromas wafting from the wharf’s seafood restaurants. At an outdoor crab stand, we ordered generous helpings of fresh crabmeat. With cocktail sauce and crusty French bread to complement the crab, we settled at an outdoor table. There we could watch tourists of every age, gender, and nationality pass by, speaking in myriad languages.
The sense of urgency behind our errand prompted us to finish our food more quickly than I would have liked. We weren’t on a holiday, we were on a mission, and time was running out.
Nick gathered up our trash and walked to the nearest receptacle. I followed along, checking my phone again to confirm the location of the next pier we wanted to scout. We had just pulled out of the parking lot when my phone rang in my hand.
My heart quickened when I realized how many vital calls I was expecting. Was it Harry, saying he’d found Francisco? Cleo, with news about Paulo or an update about Errol Parkington’s medical license? Or Kass, reporting on the DNA from the blood sample I’d collected or the bullet Nick had found?
“Nick, It’s Harry. They’ve identified Liliana’s secret account!” That news took my breath away. At last, we had a glimmer of hope.
“Excellent. What are they seeing?”
“Nothing yet. They’re still working on the password. He says, stay tuned.”
Nick kept his eyes on the broad, busy thoroughfare, slowing the car to avoid a jaywalking middle-aged couple laden with shopping bags. “If he gets into that email account, it won’t be long before we hear more. How is your battery holding up? We don’t want to miss any messages.”
I glanced at my battery icon. “Shoot, it’s low, but I’ll squeeze off a text to Harry and tell him to send everything to both our phones. How’s your battery?”
Sorry, it was low this morning, so I left my cell on the charger back on Buck’s yacht. Didn’t figure I’d need it for this quick recon trip. I did bring my camera, in case we spot the ship we’re looking for.”
We continued south on the Embarcadero, while the lowering sun to the west cast indigo skyscraper shadows across our path. As we passed the landmark Ferry Building, the Roman numerals of its iconic clock told us it was almost seven thirty.
“Nick, the pier we wanted to check first isn’t too far from here. It’s on the south side of the Bay Bridge.”
“Are you back on your phone?” he asked.
“Just long enough to check the location. No new messages.” I turned it off. “You know, if we were to spot Seashell, or another yacht of its size here, that raises a question.”
“What’s that?”
“‘It’s about your invitation to the auction. If the people behind it are waiting until only an hour before it starts to give out the location, we’d be lucky to make it over here from Buck’s yacht harbor in time. I wonder how many other potential bidders are in the same boat.”
“None, would be my guess. I’m a special case because Buck and I are unknown bidders. I wouldn’t be surprised if all the others have been preapproved. There can’t be too many of them.”
“That makes sense.” I shuddered. “Makes sense in the creepiest of ways. I still don’t get how you’re going to pass their vetting process. You and Buck aren’t exactly off the grid when it comes to checking your backgrounds.”
“No, but we’re also on a different grid. The dark web. That’s where the vetting process for this event is going to happen.”
“Fake identities? Is there no end to your surprises?”
“We’ve been using them for years.”
“So who are you and Buck on the dark web?”
“I’m a drug pilot, of course. Buck is an entrepreneur of sorts, trafficking in any and all categories of contraband.”
“Do the feds know about your dark-web identities?”
“Hope so,” Nick laughed.
“That’s not funny. I’m not crazy about associating with a black-market drug pilot, even if it is a ruse.”
“Don’t worry. Buck’s got us covered.”
“So, when Buck met these people in Florida, he gave them your criminal aliases so they could vet you?”
“Dead right. And that’s exactly why we didn’t ask for you to be invited. You have no alias. You wouldn’t be found where they’re looking. Not to mention this seems like a men-only event.”
I broke out in something that felt like a premature hot flash. “Oh, man, this Bond stuff gets me in deeper with every question I ask.”
Nick stopped for a red light. “Are you beginning to understand why I’m dead-set on your carrying a weapon?”
“Definitely, but please stop saying dead.”