“One step at a time, Aimee. Remember, if Kass has enough evidence to show probable cause to law enforcement at this end, they’ll raid that yacht and recover Liliana without my going anywhere near it.”
“If he can’t show probable cause?”
Nick didn't look happy about my question. “Then I'll go in, buy Liliana, and get out.”
“You make it sound so easy. What if they shut you out? Then what do we do?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. And don't be including yourself in this rescue mission. I don't want you going anywhere near that yacht."
I didn't argue, but if it came down to desperate measures, I intended to be part of whatever it took to save that girl.
“I hope we’re right about it taking place on Seashell.”
“There’s not much doubt about that. Buck agrees.”
“If you’re not approved, will you and Buck end up on someone’s hit list?”
“Hope not.” Nick smiled, but his attempt at humor didn’t reassure me.
We had just decided to shut down for the night when Nick got another call. He answered, looked at me. “It’s Harry.” He put the phone on speaker. “Talk to us.”
“We’re in. The last communication between Liliana and Francisco on the secret email account was the night of the party, before the superyacht left Horta. She sent him a photo of the craft and told him the name was Seashell and the destination was San Francisco. You can see the hull number in her photo.”
“That’s fantastic news.” Nick grabbed his camera, compared the hull number to his photo and gave me a thumbs-up. “We’ve already located that yacht,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Not much,” Harry said. “He told her to keep in touch by phone and promised to meet up with her when she arrived.”
“That’s it?” Nick asked. “No more messages between them?”
“Not on this account. I’m guessing they were communicating by text from then on.”
“We just heard from Kass about a Francisco Santos in the Bronx. His DNA matches someone Aimee saw on the dock down here last weekend. Any chance you can verify whether he’s our guy?”
“The Francisco we have shows a residence address in Mill Valley, California.”
“That’s in Marin County,” Nick said, “only a few miles north of the harbor where we’re staying. Nothing to do with the Bronx.”
“Must be some explanation. I’ll dig around a little and let you know if I find anything to account for it.” Harry read off the Mill Valley address and I wrote it down. He wished us luck before ending the call.
“Did you get that?” Nick asked.
“Yes." I pulled up a Mill Valley map on my laptop.
Nick scooted next to me and looked. “That’ll be easy to find. Want to do a drive-by first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Definitely, but right now we need to get some sleep. It’s almost midnight.”
We locked the hatch and snuggled into our berth. Sleep had almost come when my phone rang. I groped, knocking it off the night table and onto the bed before I finally got a grip on it. Cleo was calling just after one o’clock in the morning. Galvanized, I sat straight up. A call at this hour didn’t bode well for Paulo.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is it Paulo?”
“It’s okay, Aimee. It’s good news.” Nick was awake now, leaning toward my ear.
“Wait until you hear this,” Cleo said. “It was Carver who discovered what’s been going on.”
“Carver? What do you mean?”
“You know he’s been back on Paulo’s case since Prine left town this afternoon … I mean, not this afternoon …. It’s Sunday now. I’m talking about yesterday, Saturday.”
“I understand,” I said. “Go on.”
“Here’s the thing,” Cleo said. “As soon as Prine was gone, Carver ordered blood tests. Paulo’s tests showed a drug in his system that can induce coma.”
“Was it something Prine prescribed?”
“No. There was no order in the chart.”
“That’s why Paulo relapsed—medication error?”
“That’s the mystery,” Cleo said. “Paulo’s ICU nurses swear they were giving only the appropriate drugs. They all know better than to administer the one that was in Paulo’s system. They’re all backing each other up, and Edna Roda is supporting them. She knows her ICU nurses, and she believes them.”
Edna, TMC’s chief nursing officer, was highly respected. If she vouched for her nurses, there was little chance one of them had been responsible.
“What does Quinn think?” I asked.
“He’s leaning toward foul play, but he’s having a hard time accepting the idea.”
“Even after what you’ve told him about Prine and Carver?”
“I think he’s almost convinced,” Cleo said. “He’s arranging for a third opinion. Strange as it seems, it’s Carver who’s insisting on it.”
“That is strange. How soon will you be able to get someone in from out of town?”
“Dr. Sally Goldman is flying up from Sacramento Monday morning. We’ll have her temporary privileges approved by the time she arrives. Meanwhile, Carver has asked that no one be allowed near Paulo—including himself—except for the ICU nurses and Dr. Poole. She’s going to monitor Paulo’s status until Goldman arrives.”
“Good choice. I’d trust Poole with my own life.”
“Kinda fitting,” Cleo said, “since we already enlisted her help when Carver’s CME credits came up short. He was a lot more cooperative getting that straightened out after she had a heart-to-heart with him.” She paused for a moment. “I’m almost afraid to ask what’s going on down there. Any new developments?”
I filled her in on everything that had happened since we last spoke: Kass identifying Francisco from the graffiti arrest, Harry pinpointing Francisco’s address in Mill Valley, and Nick and I finding Seashell.
“What’s next?” Cleo asked.
“Not sure. We need to get Kass on board about the auction, and then he’s going to have to convince SFPD that there’s probable cause to raid that yacht. It’s in their jurisdiction.”
“So you and Nick can step back? Stay out of harm’s way?” Cleo sounded solemn.
“That’s our plan.” I had my fingers crossed.
“One last thing,” Cleo said. “I requested info from the state board on Errol Parkington, the yacht club cruise captain you asked about. I won’t have an answer about his medical license until tomorrow.”
Nick and I woke Sunday morning with a heavy sense of purpose. We couldn’t help but acknowledge that this day would result in a new beginning for the Ferrera family or a terrible loss. We made a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, neither of us having much appetite. By eight o’clock we were on the road, heading up Highway 101 to Mill Valley with morning sunshine breaking through the coastal mist.
The GPS in Buck’s car led us right to the address Harry had given. The neighborhood consisted of substantial homes on landscaped lots that spoke of affluence and community pride. Nick cruised past the house we were seeking, continuing until he reached a cross street. Slowing, he turned right, pulled to the curb, and cut the ignition.
“What do you think?”
“An upscale neighborhood,” I said. “Hardly the breeding ground for a graffiti-spreading hoodlum in the Bronx.”
“How about a pervert trying to lure young girls into harm’s way? Let’s try to flush him out.”
I took out my phone. “I’ll let Harry know it’s time. He’ll send Francisco a message from Liliana’s secret email account, asking him to meet her.”
“Go ahead. I’ll pull back onto his street.” Nick maneuvered the car into a spot with a clear view of the house. “This could take a while. Or it could be a waste of time.”
I texted Harry. He responded five minutes later, saying that thanks to the translate function on his word processing program, he’d used a combination of English and Portuguese similar to the wording in Liliana’s email messages. Francisco had taken the bait, sounding frantic because he hadn’t heard from her in weeks and thought she had changed her mind about coming. When he replied, asking where Liliana was, Harry improvised, saying that she had taken a taxi to a motel in Mill Valley. She didn’t have any way to pay for a room, so the desk clerk was letting her use a customer convenience computer in their lobby. I knew Harry was a quick thinker, but I had to admire his ability to morph into a runaway teenage girl at a moment’s notice.
I relayed his comments to Nick.
“Excellent,” he said. “Let’s see who comes out of that house.”
I kept my focus on the front door until a taffy-colored Cocker Spaniel pup distracted me, running up to our car barking.
“There!” Nick said. “He just came out. Is that the guy from the dock?”
I swiveled my head around just in time to catch a glimpse before our subject dropped into the blue Mustang parked in the driveway. “Yes! That’s him.”
Nick let the Mustang go a couple of blocks and then pulled out to follow it. It didn’t take long before Francisco pulled up at the motel Harry had designated. Nick entered the lot, parking several cars away. We watched as Francisco hurried in the lobby entrance. Nick and I followed, keeping our distance.
Inside, we hung back, watching as the young man questioned the clerk, insisting that his girlfriend had just emailed him from a computer in the lobby. The clerk was perplexed, saying that was impossible. There were no computers in the lobby. Francisco stood there, shaking his head as if to clear it. He looked around. Spotting Nick and me, he approached, wild-eyed. A healing lesion on his forehead was partially covered by a thatch of dark hair. No doubt remained. He was the man I’d seen bleeding on the dock the previous weekend. A handsome boy in spite of his agitated state, tall and muscular, with the sort of teen-idol face Liliana might have fallen in love with.
“Did you see a girl in here a little while ago?” he implored. “She’s eighteen, beautiful like a model, with long, shiny hair. She just emailed me from this lobby.”
Eighteen? Liliana must have fudged her age by three years when she hooked up online with Francisco. I waited to see how Nick would handle the situation.
“Are you looking for Liliana?” he said. That took me by surprise, but I was sure Nick had a plan.
“Who are you?” Francisco looked as if he might bolt out of the lobby or start yelling for help. I pulled up the photo of Liliana on my phone and held it out for him to see.
“We’re friends of the Ferreras. We want to help them find their daughter.”
Francisco’s eyes grew wide with fear. “I don’t know where she is. Believe me.” I thought the poor guy was going to break down and cry. I’d have bet big money he was nothing more sinister than a scared, eighteen-year-old kid.
“Let’s go outside,” Nick said. “We need to have a long talk.”