CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I sat in the Captain’s chair on the Kehau’s afterdeck, a steaming mug of Mango Ceylon in my hands, and watched the arrival of a new day. I wanted to sit there for the whole program, watch the sun creep over the mountains and illuminate the moisture that hung in the air until it edged all the way into the morning sky.

But I had to reach my brother in New York before Townsend started his day in LA.

“Someone from LAPD is going to be calling you, Valden. Probably today. It’ll likely be a detective named John Townsend. Take his call.”

“Me? What for?”

“To back up a story I told them about why Hans and I were at the house where the security guard and his friend were murdered.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time,” I said. “You can’t put these guys off, or it’ll get worse. Much worse.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Stick close to the truth, don’t get too detailed.”

I told him the story I’d given Townsend.

When I’d finished, he said, “That’s it?”

“And one other thing. Hans Yamaguchi.”

“What about him?”

“It’s looking like Hans could lose his job because of this.”

“Because of me? Because of the Mandalay thing?”

“It didn’t help. And if he does, you owe him, Valden. He would never have been involved if you hadn’t called me.”

“And now I owe him?”

“I’m family, Valden. It’s one thing to put me at risk, but I would have never gotten to the guys in time if it hadn’t been for Hans. And you’d be out $3 million.”

“Three million dollars,” he repeated.

“Versus the cost of a divorce. What’s that? Half of everything you own? Maybe more? And lose your kids in the bargain. I’m thinking that might have been unpleasant for you.”

“I’ll think about it.” His tone said he thought I was full of shit.

“While you do, remember this: Hans has a family, too. If he gets fired, he’ll lose his pension, health benefits, the whole ball of wax, Valden. He’s been in for more than twenty-two years.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“Do that,” I said. “And don’t fuck up with Detective Townsend. You tell it exactly as I told it to you.”

The conversation hadn’t taken long, but it was enough to defile my enjoyment of the sunrise, so I went below to throw some breakfast together. I opened the sliding windows, invited some clean morning air into the galley, and began slicing some fresh papaya, mango and guava. I cracked a couple of eggs, whipped them in a bowl, and a few minutes later, the smell of sizzling bacon brought Snyder up from his bunk.

He took a seat and watched me cook, working the sleep out of his system.

“I was thinking we’d run the Chingadera up to Keehi Lagoon. Blow out the exhaust. What do you say?”

“I could use a change of scenery.”

“Up for diving yet?”

I ran my fingers across the lump on my head. “I don’t think so.”

He looked past me to the stove. “Let’s get this thing on the road, then, Travis. You’ve been indoors too long.”

Chingadera was in the water, Snyder dragging her to stern, careful to keep her from banging the yacht’s hull as I swung the davits back in place and stowed the canvas in the deck locker. The morning air had grown still and hot, with only a breath of the trades to cool it. The few clouds in the pale sky were diaphanous and frail, like pulled cotton.

The ice chest rattled as I hefted it over the rail to Snyder, who was standing at the bow of the skiff.

“I don’t think I fully appreciated how thoroughly they kicked your ass,” Snyder said. I was wearing a tank shirt, the lumps and bruises on my face, arms and chest showing green and black and angry red.

Down below, Snyder’s cell phone rang. For a second, I debated not going down to get it, but this wasn’t a morning for that. I was still waiting to hear back from Thel Mishow and Hans. But when I picked it up, it was about the last person I would have expected.

“Mike, this is J.R.” He sounded agitated, distracted.

“J.R. Lennox?” I said.

“Yes, sorry, I should have . . .” There was a long pause as he composed himself. “You gave me your card when we met in California, told me to call. The number wasn’t working, so I got this one from your brother.”

“Sure, J.R.,” I said, wondering what the hell he was getting at. “I saw the news about the fires. I’m sorry.”

“This isn’t about the fires.”

“I’m not following you, J.R.”

“Mike, they’ve taken my son.”