chapter twenty-five

Lou Belize didn’t even try to keep his voice calm as he talked to the obviously nervous accountant. “You said you were making progress. Mr. Kelley doesn’t tolerate liars.”

“I was making progress,” Michael Caldwell responded. “The fire scared her off. You didn’t warn me about that.”

“It should have sent her into your arms.”

“I need more time. I told you that. I couldn’t force myself on her.”

“You must have some idea where she’s going.”

“We were to get together tonight … The fire …”

“Talk to her friends. Talk to the old lady. Find out where she went. Get what I want, or your services will terminated.”

“She’s not going to say anything. She’s made that clear.” Fear was in Caldwell’s voice. And desperation. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do.”

“Not everything. Someone knows where she is. Find that person.”

“Her sisters …”

“They are none of your business.” Belize slammed the phone down. He wasn’t going to admit to Caldwell that he’d lost the sisters as well. He hadn’t thought they could move that fast, not with one sister caught in a court battle, and the other near delivery time. An error on his part. He didn’t like errors.

He particularly didn’t like a damn reporter getting the best of him. Mr. Kelley would like it even less.

He should have stopped her days ago. He’d thought the attack in Meredith would get him the name Mr. Kelley needed. Then a quick disposal. When the two bumblers came along, he’d hoped threats would prevail.

Not that he was adverse to violence, but her informer would still be out there, a ticking time bomb.

And if she went to jail she would tell the grand jury everything she knew. The feds would find her source and make him talk. Which could be very bad for Belize, as well as his boss.

Another failure, Belize knew, and he would have his own explanations to make.

Or he would have to leave town hastily. That idea did not sit well. He and Kelley had spent years setting up this network, and the protection they needed to survive. No bitch was going to ruin it for him.

He picked up the cell phone and made another call. He would make as many calls as necessary. He wanted Robin Stuart’s sisters found. He wanted the woman herself found. And he was going to get the name of the rat who’d talked to her.

Robin picked up her business cards and decided to junk her first thought of visiting the smallest ones first. Instead, she would check the closest marinas first and move outward. She wanted to see as many as possible before their offices closed.

She found the first on her list and wandered down the docks looking for a luxury fishing boat similar to the one in the photo.

The first marina she visited was small and obviously catered to small pleasure boats. The office was closed, as were the gas pumps. A quick glance told her there were no boats that resembled the one in the photo.

The second was a larger marina. A young man—a college student wearing a University of Florida T-shirt—tried to be helpful but said he didn’t recognize the boat. He suggested it might run out of one of the two largest marinas, both of which advertised fishing charters.

It was nearing dusk when she stopped at the third on her list. The marina advertised showers, a restaurant, and fishing gear. She went into the office, grateful for her newly minted business cards. Strange the way everyone accepted them as they would accept, say, a badge.

She asked for the manager, and an older, bronze-faced man came from another room. She handed him a business card. “Mary Murphy,” she said. “I really hope you can help me.”

Deep-set green eyes twinkled. “Well, I hope so, too, miss. What can I do for you?”

“I’m doing a story on marinas in Georgia,” she said.

“For who?”

“I’m a freelancer. Yachting World is interested.”

New interest came into the manager’s face. “In our part of the world?”

“It’s a look at yachting on the Southeast coast. Off-the-beaten-track destinations. Number of slips, amenities, area attractions,” she said. “Who sails here now. Vignettes on people who come here on a regular basis and why.”

“We get business from all over the world,” he said. “Our fishing’s some of the best.”

She took the notebook from her purse. “So you get foreign-registered boats as well as U.S. ones?”

“Not a lot. Maybe ten percent. We would like more. Maybe your article will help.”

“How do they hear about you?”

“Word of mouth, mostly.”

“Any of those have permanent leases?”

He shook his head. “Most belong to local residents.”

“What about charter boats? Do any of them lease slips from you?”

He shook his head.

Was the boat in the photograph a charter boat someone rented for those trips? If so, she probably wasn’t going to discover much. Someone could use a foreign corporation to pay the lease costs.

She took the photo from her purse. “This is what got me interested,” she said. “One of the men on this trip raved about it. Said the boat was the best he’d sailed. He fell in love with Brunswick and the Golden Isles.”

He took it. “A fine-looking boat. Looks like a sixty-four-footer.”

“Do you know it?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know if I’ve seen that exact one. That’s some expensive equipment. There’s several charter boats that size around here.”

“Where would I find them?”

“Probably the Jekyll Island Marina. Or the St. Simons Marina. Most of the charters run from those two marinas.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“I’ll contact a couple of owners who might talk to you.”

“I’d be grateful. Call me when you do.” She gave him her card and scribbled down the temporary cell number. She didn’t want him to phone Chicago and find out there was no Mary Murphy. Not until she discovered what she wanted to know. She vowed silently that once back she would write a story for the travel section. That way it wouldn’t be a total lie.

She left that marina and stopped for a bite while she analyzed her performance. She wished she knew more about boats.

She had no more luck at the next two marinas, both rather small with little or no security. She walked down the docks. Most of the boats were small. There were several small cabin cruisers, but nothing the size of the boat in the photo.

Enough for now. The last few days were catching up with her. She was tired. She wanted to call the hospital and ask about Mrs. Jeffers, but she feared the FBI could track the call. Instead, she called Jack Ross from her temporary cell phone.

“Make your getaway, kid?”

“I think so. Has anyone contacted you?”

“Nope. Not yet, anyway. I hear the FBI is questioning the news staff, though. But as long as you’re not wanted, they can’t do much.”

“Can you do another favor for me? Call Eastside Hospital and ask about Mrs. Maude Jeffers.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I’ll call back in a couple of hours.”

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.” She paused, then added, “Maybe not quite perfectly. Haven’t found what I need. Not yet. But I will.”

“Go to it. Let me know if you need any info on anyone. I’ll use some of my old sources.”

“I don’t want you involved.”

“I already am. Sorta good to have my fingers in a good story again. By the way, I ran into someone named Michael Caldwell at Charlie’s. Asked about you. Apparently he knew that I knew you from the other night, at your send-off for the grand jury.”

She stilled. Why would Michael Caldwell go to him? Why was he looking for her?

“You said no one contacted you.”

“Casual conversation. That’s all.”

She wondered whether she’d just made a grave mistake by calling Jack. “What did you tell him?”

“That his guess would be as good as mine. Now that much is true. So is the fact I have no idea where you are.”

“Be careful, Jack,” she said, her heart in her mouth. She didn’t want someone else she cared about hurt.

“I am,” he said.

“I’ll call you back in a couple hours. Will that give you enough time to check on Maude Jeffers?”

“I’ll call the hospital from a pay phone so it can’t be traced back to me.”

“Tell Mama. I’ll call her at Charlie’s. That should be safe enough. I doubt they would wiretap a bar.”

“I’ll do that.” He hung up.

Michael?

An innocent question? Or something else? Why would he be asking her friends about her whereabouts when it should have been obvious she didn’t want anyone to know?

She shook off the question. She was becoming paranoid. Suspecting everyone. He was probably just worried about her. That was all. But if he started to ask questions, then others would as well. Maybe she should call him, tell him she was all right.

No! She’d broken contact with everyone but Jack, and now she had to break it with him as well.

She shook off the misgivings and drove by one more marina on the way to her motel. She stopped and went to the office. It was closed. She looked toward the docks. Lights blazed from a small cabin cruiser, and loud music blared into the night air. Several men stood on deck, beer cans in their hands. She decided to ask them if they’d seen the boat she was seeking. She worked to minimize her limp as she approached them.

“Hi,” she said as she reached the boat.

They glanced at each other. One waved a beer can at her. “Hey there. Come aboard.”

She stepped up onto the boat.

“I’m looking for some friends,” she said, “but I guess they gave me the name of the wrong marina.”

“Hell, lady, you can stay with us. We’re more fun.”

“I bet you are,” she said, “but I promised.” She handed them the photo of the boat.

“That’s one beaut of a boat,” said a towheaded man.

“Have you seen it?”

One of them looked at the boat thoughtfully.

“Isn’t that the bloody boat that nearly ran us down earlier?”

The second man looked at the photo more carefully. “Hey, it is the one. I recognize the rigging. Arrogant bastard.”

“What happened?” she said.

“Cut in front of us. Almost swamped us.”

“Do you know where they were heading?”

“Out to sea.”

“When?”

“Just a few hours ago. We were coming in from fishing, and that damned boat came tearing down the river. If that’s where you were heading, I don’t think you’ll find it.”

“Why do you think that? Maybe they just went out fishing.”

He shrugged. “Don’t usually use that kind of speed on a leisurely fishing trip.”

“Did you see the name?”

“I did,” said one of the guys in back. “Thought about reporting him to the Coast Guard. It was the Phantom.”

“Did you?”

They looked blank.

“Report it to the Coast Guard?”

The guy shrugged. “Nah. Figured he would be long gone.”

“And our booze was running low,” said another with a chuckle.

“Any idea which marina it might have come from?”

“No.”

“If you were going to a party there, why didn’t you know the name?” asked the young man who’d invited her aboard.

“Just wondered if it was the same boat I was looking for. Must have gotten the wrong message about the date.”

“Invitation’s still open.”

“Some other time. Are you going to be here a while?”

“Another week unless the spirit moves us. We started in New York and plan to sail to the Keys.”

“A charter?”

“Nope,” said the towhead. “My present for finishing Harvard.”

“Nice present.”

“Like I said, come back. We party every night.”

Her mind in a turmoil, she left. Had someone discovered she was here? Or had the boat left on its own for some reason?

Or was it even the right boat? The manager of the first marina said there were several similar boats around.

She looked at her watch. Nearly nine, and she was tired and hungry. She would stop at a fast food place and resume her search in the morning. She felt a glow of triumph. She had the name. If only she could find the registration. That might lead to the owner, and the owner to someone else.

Ben landed in Brunswick. After breaking every traffic law to catch it, the flight had been more than an hour late leaving the gate.

How to find her quickly?

If she was here.

Big if, but gut instinct told him he was right. She was not the kind of person who would skip off on a vacation when people around her were being threatened. She had a purpose and destination in mind.

He rented a car at the airport, then on a hunch swung by several marinas he knew from his last trip. The office was closed at many of them, but at a few places he saw several boats with lights on, so he approached them all, asking if they’d noticed a young blond woman asking questions. No one had.

He came to a marina whose parking lot was nearly empty. There was one boat here—a cabin cruiser—with lights still on. He hurried up the dock, realizing he was running out of time. It was nearly eleven.

The deck of the cruiser was empty, but he heard loud voices from inside. He stepped aboard and knocked at the door to the cabin.

A young man in swim trunks opened the door, paled when Ben showed his credentials. Probably had drugs of some kind inside.

“I’m looking for woman,” he said. “She might have been asking questions about a boat. She’s pretty, late twenties. Short, taffy-colored hair. Wears a leg brace.”

He saw recognition flash in the man’s face at first, then it faded when he mentioned the brace.

“What’s she done?”

“She hasn’t done anything. At least nothing wrong. But her life might be in danger.

Indecision flickered across the man’s face, then he said, “There wasn’t a brace.”

Damn, he should have figured.

“Dark blue eyes? Good figure?”

“That’s her. Looking for a large fishing yacht. We told her we saw one heading seaward this afternoon. Asked her to stay and party but—”

“When?”

He shrugged. “A few beers ago.”

He nodded. “Did the boat have a name?”

“She asked that, too. It was the Phantom.”

“Thanks.”

Relief flooded the young man’s face.

Probably his own as well.

Robin Stuart was still alive.

Now he had to keep her that way.