part0018

EVAN WAS ACUTELY AWARE of the fishy stain on the front of his pants when he walked into the offices of Conch Yacht Sales in Key West just over two hours later. He’d been skulking around outside for the past hour until he’d seen a man wearing a yellow polo shirt over tan linen trousers with a gold Rolex wristwatch worth more than his car on his well-tanned wrist—Mr Conch presumably—escort another, similarly-attired man to his Mercedes and hold open the passenger door for him. A real customer.

Not that the stain bothered Evan unduly. It was more the knowledge that he’d have gotten a similar reception even without it. He half expected to be told that people who cleaned the boats should use the back entrance. If he was ever offered a ride in the Mercedes, it’d be in the trunk.

‘Can I help you?’ the young woman on the front desk said in the tone that a certain type of receptionist reserves for those whom she has no intention of helping at all. A little name sign on her desk said Amanda in a curly girly script.

‘Are you the broker selling the Dead or Alive that’s moored in the Marathon marina?’ He’d almost said parked which would’ve given him away.

‘I was talking to one of the owners, George Winter, about it. He’s a friend of my father. But now that . . .’ He made a meaningless gesture with his hand, meant to imply a whole host of emotions—embarrassment, frustration, irritation.

Amanda’s mouth opened into a perfect circle. He felt like saying, don’t let your boss catch you with your mouth hanging open like that in front of the paying customers.

The relief on the girl’s face was plain to see. Thank God . Drowned. No damage to the boat, no blood to clean up. Not like somebody blowing his brains out in the master stateroom.

He saw a second emotion cross Amanda’s face as the implication of his words sank in. Righteous indignation. Old George Winter got what he damn well deserved. The cheek of it, trying to make a private sale under their noses.

Evan twisted an annoyed frown onto his face, this is all getting too complicated. All I want to do is buy the damn boat.

He leaned towards her as he said it to stop himself from being blown back outside by the weary exhalation.

Amanda looked at him as if he’d just put his hand up her skirt. A hand with a Timex on the wrist it was attached to.

‘Good heavens, no.’ Then her eyes narrowed as she realized what he’d been trying to do. ‘And if you think that you’re going to trick me into revealing the other owner’s name, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that. All’—she tapped the desk top with a bright red fingernail to reinforce her point—‘negotiations are handled by Mr Romano. Mr Winter should have known that too.’

He had to admire her for the amount of disapproval she got into those few words, hoped Guillory never ran across her and picked up some tips. Just for the fun of it, he glanced around the reception area, asked if he should wait. She looked horrified. Her eyes dropped to the suspicious stain on his pants—what if another client were to come in?

‘Taking one of the boats out for a test drive, eh? Good idea. Try before you buy. Book me in for one this afternoon, will you. Maybe you’d like to take me out instead of Mr Conch.’

He tried a lascivious wink, one that would have Guillory poking him in the eye with a cocktail stick. Amanda was looking exactly like he’d felt when he first woke up that morning after all the beer and oysters.

‘I’m off to the Half Shell Raw Bar now. Get a few drinks inside me, loosen up the old muscles.’ He grabbed an imaginary ship’s wheel with his hands in front of him, wrestled with it from side to side. ‘In case it’s rough out there. See you later.’

The sound of the door bolt sliding firmly home behind him was the last he ever heard from Amanda. Or anybody else at Conch Yacht Sales. Not that it really mattered. Crow would be able to dig up Winter’s partner’s name without much difficulty.