CHAPTER SEVEN

 

7a

“I have the results from the lab. Lunch, you buy.” Kevin Bryan said over the phone. “The usual place in Lafayette, I need to be back at the city hall by three.”

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“We’ll talk then; the captain’s been walking the halls and beating the bushes. Something’s really got him, just hope it doesn’t include me.”

“See you at 1:30,” she said and hung up. “Just what he needs, more shit from his captain,” she thought as she dialed the restaurant Postino’s number.

The Captain had issues with Sharon and Kevin. Separately, he didn’t have any problems; it was only when they were together that the trouble started. Usually either one of them got shot, was shot at or had to shoot back and he blamed Sharon for all of it. She protested but she knew Kevin would do anything for her and her for him. More than once, he had showed up in the proverbial nick of time and saved her ass. It was this fact that annoyed the captain more than anything else.

Bryan was habitually late, lifesaving not-withstanding. She knew he would be delayed; she hoped he wouldn’t be but he always was. Fifteen-minutes late, Kevin walked into the restaurant, chatted up the girl at the front desk and then headed directly to Sharon. As he sat down, he handed her a manila envelope.

“The captain needed to talk, he was concerned,” Kevin said.

“About us again or the samples? Sharon asked.

“No, for once it wasn’t us. It was about budgets and politics. He’s been ordered to reduce costs by thirty percent.”

“That’s cutting it close to the bone.”

“Too close, this time it may be clean to the bone. The council won’t cut their pet programs and besides, they often ask, why do we need such a large force patrolling these quiet suburbs? All I know is that a lot of the men and women are tired of looking over their shoulders. They may get their wish, fewer cops; I think some are ready to move on.”

“They’re good people. They need to take care of themselves,” Sharon said.

“Yes, but most of them like it here and don’t want to start over. So, there you have it.”

The waitress interrupted and they ordered. Sharon tapped on the envelope impatiently. When the server left, she bent the tabs back and slid out a thin stack of papers.

Two minutes later, she looked at Kevin incredulously, “No way!”

“Way! I had them check it twice.”

“I was sure we would get something from the hair, I just knew it. But I sure as hell didn’t expect this.”

“I wouldn’t think so. It’s not every day that you find a hair like that out in the middle of San Francisco Bay.”

“A horsehair? Light blond color, says the animal might be a palomino; its DNA isn’t in any database they have. They have a DNA database for horses?”

“Guess so, you never know when you want to ID a horse, hard to take their fingerprints.”

“Nothing on the fingerprints either?”

“Sorry, no match to anything available but the cigarettes came up with a positive, they got a match,” Bryan added.

“It obviously isn’t from a horse,” Sharon said looking at the report. “The DNA matches a piece of murder evidence from about a year ago?”

“Yes, San Francisco PD has been looking for this guy since they found a man beaten to death on one of the piers. There were bits of skin found in the dead man’s teeth and that skin DNA and your cigarettes’ DNA match. So the interest of the SFPD is also piqued, they had to be told,” Kevin added.

“Understood and who says piqued now days?”

“It’s a legitimate word.”

“Please. Anyway, why the hell was this guy watching my house and why was there a single horsehair stuck in a pulley on a boat stuck on the rocks at Alcatraz?”

“I have no idea but you always attract the nicest and most interesting people. At least we know that these guys are real and not phantoms. Too many coincidences,” Kevin said.

The server brought their sandwiches.

“My client had his boat stolen a few days ago,” Sharon said.

She caught Kevin in mid-bite on his grilled chicken. “What?”

“They had loaded it into a large shipping container to go back to France; somewhere between the San Francisco docks and the Oakland rail yards someone high-jacked it. The driver was killed; they found him in his truck.”

“That man in Oakland was the driver? Another senseless killing.”

“It was Voss’s only working prototype. It’s a radical design and it’s the same boat that Christine Voss was sailing when she died. I found signs that it might have been something more than accidental, these reports begin to help prove it was more than just an accident.”

“She was murdered?”

“Possibly, but the boat’s gone. Her twin, Jean-François Voss, is coming back from France to help with the search. He added that to my ‘To Do’ list. Now, not only do I need to find her murderer but also the boat she was killed on.”

“Because of the dead driver, a BOLO was issued, that might help.”

“Hope so, maybe some fool will get caught moving the container, could get a lucky break. I’m thinking that the boat was stolen for other reasons, not just the technology.”

“Ransom?”

“One possibility, the other is, and I’m going out on a limb here, insurance. And I’m assuming that it was insured for quite a large sum.”

“Worth more lost than found?”

“Maybe.”

“Not nice to think that about a paying client.”

“I know but this whole thing is hinky and now, with a killer parked in front of my house smoking Indonesian cigarettes, it’s even stranger.”

“If it was ransom they’d contact Voss, right?”

“Probably,” Sharon answered.

“Then I’d wait and see what happens, no rush. I’m more concerned about your stalker and his game. You watch yourself. Whatever these guys want, they aren’t shy about using force to get it.”

“I can handle it,” Sharon said as her phone buzzed in her back pocket. The screen said Stroud. She looked at Kevin and put a finger up, pausing.

“O’Mara … Mike, you okay? … Yes, I know, I know … Yes, I can be there … You’re kidding! … Really, I’m flattered, I think. … Tomorrow morning at nine, see you then.” She clicked off her phone.

“For some unexplainable reason, I’m going sailing tomorrow. Ms. Turner has invited me as a guest on her racing boat. Not sure why, but I never want to miss a chance to rub up against billionaires.”

“But you hate sailing,” Kevin said with a chortle.

“I know, I know, but sometimes you have to swim with the sharks.”

 

 

7b

All Sharon could see when she walked into the poor excuse for Bora Bora Yacht Club’s international headquarters was Mike Stroud’s ass sticking straight up out of a huge steel utility box. Piles of ropes and cables were strewn about the floor; Ms. Ellis Turner stood over Mike yelling at him.

“I know the Goddamn thing is in there, I saw it fall.”

A garbled reply came from deep inside the box and then Mike slowly stood as his great frame went vertical. He opened his hand in front of Turner like a child whose mother demanded to know what was inside it. The contents sparkled in the morning sun.

“Your earring, Ellis,” he said.

“Thanks Mike, had that a long time, don’t know how the bloody thing fell off. It was a prezzy from an old mate, years ago. Would hate to lose it.”

They both noticed Sharon.

“Well dearie, glad to see you could make it,” Turner said, checking Sharon out. “Thought you might like to see what all the yabber’s about. I have an empty seat today and I want to be on the tender. This will be Bobo’s second run with the boat and I thought, ‘Let’s give JF’s Sheila a chance to see what it’s all about. You game?”

Mike was looking over Turner’s shoulder, directly at Sharon, a big smile hanging between his ears.

“Always, I just love to sail,” Sharon answered, feeling quite uncomfortable. Even Turner could see through her lie as she smiled at O’Mara

“Well dearie, don’t worry, you don’t have to do any work, in fact you’ll have the best seat in the house,” Turner said as they headed toward the huge triangular panel of sail that extended high above the pier. “You’ll get the sixth seat, right there amidships between the two hulls. Takes five to crew her. You, as they say, are sitting in the catbird seat, nothing to do but watch and enjoy.”

“And get wet and seriously screwed up if she flips,” Mike Stroud injected.

“Oh Mike, that’s not going to happen, she looks athletic and nimble, she’ll have a fair go at it.”

“A Buckley’s chance, I say,” Mike said not letting up.

“Mike, I’ve offered. It’s up to the Sheila to say yes or no,” Turner said looking at Sharon with an “I dare you to back out now” grin.

“Oh, I’m going Ms. Turner, I would never pass up a chance like this.”

“Ripper. Told ‘ya, Mike, she’d do it. Since I saw her that night at Compton’s I knew she was a gamer, she’s no wowser.”

“You ready?”

“Not sure now, Mike. What’s this sixth man business?”

“For many years, I think since the San Diego races, the America’s Cup rules have permitted one person to sit in the stern of the boat and go along for the ride,” Mike said. “Probably started with an owner or someone who backed the boat but couldn’t participate or even help. They were there for the ride and the thrill. Ellis usually takes the seat but with Bobo as the new skipper, she wants to watch from the tender.”

“That gives me a lot of confidence,” Sharon said.

“No worries, dearie, just want to see what Frenchy can do,” Turner said. “Got a lot of money riding on this race and I want to make sure he’s the right man for the job. And we’re leaving for Italy in three weeks for the Naples and Venice races, so there’s a lot to do and learn before we go. You just sit back and enjoy the ride, dearie.” With that, Turner did an about-face and walked down the pier toward the five people in bright yellow jump suits that had just exited the building.

“The tall one is Bobo,” Mike said. “The other four are from Australia and New Zealand, the one on the right is Barbara Brown; we call her Babs. She may be the best sailor of the lot, including Bobo. She and Catherine were mates, real tight, they worked their way up through the ranks on boats all over the world. They’re all good but I’ll reserve judgment on Bobo; he’s always struck me as a loose cannon. Too much yelling and screaming for my taste but he’s been seeing Eva Karg so I’m sure the road was paved with gold bricks for the bastard.”

“Not a fan of either Bobo or Karg, I take it?” Sharon asked.

“No, and I’ll leave it at that. Still like my paycheck and this gig. In three weeks, we’ll be practicing in Naples, then Venice. Not bad on someone else’s ticket.”

“Do I need some gear?”

“Follow me, I have a suit that’ll fit you and keep you afloat if you fall off. I suggest you don’t. Ellis may leave you there until after the race is done.”

“Pleasant thought,” Sharon said. “It will take more than five people to sail those big seventy-two footers, won’t it?”

“They will carry a crew of eleven and the seat stuck high in the middle between the hulls will carry the twelfth man. Kind of like a jury, twelve men and all. Who knows what verdict they’ll come up with?”

“That’s one hell of a boat, seventy-two feet of raw power and speed.”

“Sure as hell is and they have yet to build one,” Mike said. “The Golden Gate Yacht Club and Ellison are supposedly building theirs in some secret location but everyone knows it’s at Pier 80. Ellis Turner says that hers is also under construction, but that’s not part of my job description. Where she’s building it, even I don’t know; there are some rumors about Oakland or somewhere in the East Bay but I honestly don’t know.”

“She’s confident enough to be spending the money, got to be millions. If they don’t win the AC45 World Series and the competition, it could be all for nothing,” Sharon said.

“She can afford it. My guess is she’ll sell it to the Cup competitor, whoever that’ll be, but it will take at least six months to build so the sooner they get started, the better. Go get into your gear; she’s scheduled to be towed out at 10:30.”

Sharon, all dressed in foul weather gear, could hardly see the two hulls for all the advertising plastered all over the graphite composites. By her count, she saw three high tech firm ads, one Swiss watchmaker, two heavy industries and maybe a partridge in a pear tree. Her perch between the hulls wasn’t a chair, or for that matter, anything like it. Spread between the hulls, hanging on a black pipe that connected the two hulls, was a net-like contraption. This would be the home for her butt for the next few hours. Sharon stood looking at the net, then the bay, then the net, “What the hell am I doing?” kept bouncing around in her head. She’d ducked rocket propelled grenades, dodged AK-47 rounds and even survived a rollover thanks to a roadside bomb but staring at the catamaran, she actually started to hyperventilate, “What the hell am I doing here?”

“You okay, Sharon?” Mike said from just behind her. “You look a little peaked.”

“Yeah, just fine, just don’t like to get wet.”

“The suit looks good on you, can’t say that anyone else has ever looked as good in it as you do.”

“Thanks for that,” Sharon said.

“One more thing,” Mike said as he brought forward a black round shape from behind his back. “Your helmet, absolutely required; no helmet, no ride.”

She thought about it for a long five seconds and then took the helmet reluctantly, stuffed her red hair under it and pulled the strap tight.

“Blimey, don’t you look great. Like a pro,” Stroud said.

“Just shut up before I change my mind.”

“My, my, don’t you look all sexy in that thing, O’Mara,” Ellis Turner said. “The girls will be envious, and the boys, well, let’s just leave them out of it.”

All that Sharon got out of Ellis’s remark was another very uncomfortable feeling.

Ten minutes later, she sat well secured on the netting, the crew had begun preparations and the tender began to slowly tow them out into the bay. A light but steady breeze blew across the Mission Bay neighborhood, west toward Oakland. The sky was a California blue, sharp, crystal clear, not a cloud in sight. She took a deep breath and said out loud to no one, “Let the games begin.”

As if on cue, the two hulls exploded through the water like the catamaran had been kicked in the ass. She was used to sails banging and fluttering about, rigging rattling, but now there was almost no sound. The single seventy-foot tall hard triangular sail-wing caught the wind and pushed the two hulls forward. To Sharon it was eerie but a little exhilarating as well. The cold salt water of the Bay ripped along not more than five feet below her. Then the space became six feet, then seven, then eight, and then held. She hadn’t noticed but now she and the boat were canted over at least twenty degrees, she could almost feel herself flying. The five crew members had all aligned themselves along the port hull, which was now more than ten feet out of the water, Babs was closest. She nimbly slid over to Sharon.

“First time?” she asked.

“Like a virgin,” was all that Sharon could think of.

“For now, slide up the netting toward the hull that’s rising, I’ll signal with my hand when you’re up far enough. When the Skipper yells that we’re coming about, be prepared to slide or crawl the other way. All of us will be jumping across the trampoline to the other hull. Gotta go.”

Sharon watched as the nimble and, from the obvious size of her thighs, strong Babs Brown, along with another crewman, let out the first sail she had seen, a jib. Again the boat lifted and increased speed. She looked behind them and saw the tender quickly receding. Only a high-speed drug runner could keep up with this boat and, remarkably, she was still dry.

The Bay Bridge flew by overhead; they had transferred to the starboard hull. The open bay, ruffled by white caps, lay ahead. The calm of the west side of the Bay below the Bay Bridge gave way to the stiff and incessant winds blowing straight through the Golden Gate. Sharon was actually enjoying the ride, Babs signaled her and she slid down across the netting to starboard. Bobo was screaming at the crew and now Sharon was getting drenched. Water streamed off the blunt nose of each hull and it was thrown at her at almost thirty miles an hour, it stung her cheeks. The boat came about again.

“Get your ass to port, O’Mara,” Bobo screamed. “I need your fat ass over there.”

Sharon looked at the man who was screaming at her; she heard every other word. But she climbed across the netting toward Babs.

“Pay attention, girl. Bobo wants your head, it seems,” Brown said with a huge smile.

“How fast?” was all Sharon could say before a slug of salt water slammed into her mouth. She coughed hard and through the salt water dripping down her face, saw Alcatraz quickly gaining on the port side. She had to admit to herself that this was fun.

“Thirty-two knots,’ Babs yelled.

“Just past Alcatraz we’ll turn back toward the city, everyone, be fucking ready,” Bobo screamed again, not because he liked to yell, which Sharon was sure he did, but because the wind had picked up even more and the boat was almost flying, Sharon was only ten feet away and couldn’t hear him. She watched both hulls lift out of the Bay until they were completely out of the water, bouncing from wave to wave; only the long white knife-thin rudders touched the surface of the water. Bobo ordered the larger gennaker sail out. She didn’t think this boat could go faster; it was now going faster, insanely faster.

The starboard hull cut through the swells pushed through the Golden Gate; Sharon caught a quick glimpse of the international orange twin towers of the iconic bridge and then lost them in the spray. The wind continued to rip across the bay slamming into the semi-transparent hard wing, lifting the boat even further.

“Cut the jib, cut the jib,” was all she heard from Bobo over the roaring of the wind.

“Can’t, the block’s jammed,” someone screamed.

“I said cut the jib, God damn it.”

The hulls continued to drive through the cold water; the waves now washed and submerged the forward part of the starboard hull. Sharon crouched now, holding tight to the black spreader, she watched in abject fascination as the right hull continued to drive deeper and deeper under the waves, until, for a moment, it was totally submerged. The drag of the submerging hull fought the lifting of the wind, the port hull rose higher and higher. The five crewmen were holding on for dear life, knowing nothing could stop the inevitable.

“Oh shit,” was all Sharon could say as the two hulls slowly came perpendicular to the cold bay water; the boat’s wing sail hovered, not vertically as it was designed to do, but horizontally, like a large hand passing over the waves. Her world was literally turning upside down.

“We’re going, going, she’s going over,” someone yelled from a less than secured spot on the capsizing catamaran.

“Fuck,” was the last thing Babs Brown heard from Sharon as Sharon fell past her, hit the bay and disappeared.

 

 

7c

There was no explosion or crashing sounds like a highway collision makes, almost nothing to hear except for the screaming and cursing from the crew, some dangling from their security cables like Christmas ornaments on a bizarre tree.

“What the blooming hell happened, Bobo?” Turner bellowed as she and the tender came along side. “You know better than that. Is the wing okay?”

“Where the hell’s O’Mara,” Mike yelled from the stern of the launch.

“She fell in about there,” Babs Brown screamed back at Stroud. She pointed toward the bay.

As if she had been summoned from Neptune’s lair, Sharon exploded out of the sea, coughing and flailing her arms.

The first thing Stroud heard was Sharon yelling at him, “I’m going to get you, you Scottish bastard. Sometime, when you don’t expect it, I’ll get even.”

All Stroud could do when he heard Sharon’s curse was laugh. His laugh was contagious, everyone, including Ellis Turner, started to laugh.

“Let’s get the damn thing upright,” Bobo said. “Everyone on the starboard side, you too, O’Mara, we need the ballast.”

Sharon had been called a lot of things in her life: bitch, bastard, son-of-a-bitch and something in Arabic she still didn’t understand, this was the first time she had been called ballast.

“Bobo, you’re an asshole!” she yelled as she started to climb up the webbing of her catbird seat.

Bobo looked hard at Sharon, said something under his breath and pointed, “I need you up there. The free ride is over.”

As Sharon climbed, she saw a line thrown from the tender and tied off on the upright hull of the catamaran. The powerboat slowly turned into the wind and pulled the twin bows toward the Golden Gate, lessening the drag on the sail; in seconds the sail was vertical and the boat horizontal.

For the next hour, they ran a figure eight course out to the Golden Gate Bridge and back, all along the Marina Green and past the Golden Gate Yacht Club, which Babs pointed out, “Should really piss off the old farts holding their lunchtime drinks at the bar.”

Even Sharon had to admit that it was fun, a blast to ride this thing. The final leg home was quiet and uneventful even though the boat was hiked up at almost a thirty-degree angle for most of the ride.

Other than general sailing directions and orders, Bobo said nothing to the crew during their return to the pier. Sharon could see that he was fuming. After they tied up, Bobo climbed up to the pier and waited for one the crewmembers to join him.

“This won’t be pretty,” Babs said to Sharon.

She couldn’t hear what was being said, except the opening remark, “You God damn asshole,” Bobo screamed at the man; his French accent mangled the phrasing. Then Bobo pushed himself into the man after hearing his response, in a split second Bobo found himself decked. After slugging Bobo, the man turned and left the pier.

“That’s been coming to him for a week, ever since Bobo got the job,” Babs said to Sharon. “They haven’t liked each other since the Falmouth races, bad blood, real bad. How about a beer? There’s a great little bar not too far from here.”

“Mission Rock Cafe?”

“You know it?”

“For years and years, long before this area started to get all toney and highbrow. Great breakfast and lunches as well,” Sharon said. “Give me ten to get out of this gear and try to do something with this mess of hair. I’ll meet you out front, I’m famished.”

An hour later, after crab cakes, salad, and two Anchor Steam beers, Sharon began to feel better. She had been able to wipe some of the dried salt water from her face but it would take an hour under the shower to really clean her hair.

“How do you put up with all this testosterone,” Sharon asked Babs.

“Not easy, hard to get a crew to work together, so many have histories together in this business, comes out like it did today.”

“What happened to the man?”

“Ellis had a talk with him, they came to an agreement,” Babs said. “He’ll be there tomorrow. He knows it’s his fault that the winch jammed. Wasn’t paying attention and the line slipped. Was his job as grinder to make sure it didn’t happen, it hung up and we flipped. No biggee, done it lots of times. In a race though, no recovery, and that’s what Turner wants to make sure doesn’t happen, stupid mistakes like that.”

“I understand that, but why are you here? Probably a lot of other opportunities?”

“Some, but Ellis and I go way back. I grew up in Sydney, sailed like some girls chased boys. Couldn’t get enough of it. Saw an advert for a crewman on her yacht, really a luxury sailboat, 120 feet long and I spent two years there. Sailed it from Australia to Nice. That’s where I met Catherine Voss; we raced against each other a lot there. And as they say, the rest is history. Ellis wanted to race in the America’s Cup and I offered to help, she said yes and here I am. I also did some work with Catherine. Still pisses me off about her dying, so strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she and Ellis got along fine, Catherine knew so much about sailing that Ellis turned over most of the responsibilities for the upcoming Cup races to her. She set the crews, the schedules, made sure the boat was being built to specs in New Zealand, everything. Then when Catherine started to work on her own project, her hydrofoil, things started to go wonky. After a lot of tension and arguments, Ellis wanted to stop all the “nonsense,” as she called it. Wanted her to focus on Turner’s boat, she even offered her a ton of money to stop manufacturing the thing. Catherine told me it was a lot of money, but JF, that’s her twin brother, said let’s think about it. Catherine said no and two weeks later she drowned. Sharon, that girl couldn’t drown in a hurricane.”

“You think it was something other than a accident?”

“Absolutely, I think somebody killed her, wanted her out of the way. Don’t know why, but that’s what I think.”

“Do you know Eva Karg?”

“Good God yes, now’s there’s a piece of work. Not sure what she does. Shows up here and there, sometimes with Bobo, then Ellis. Heard a lot of strange things about her, sexual things, but I stay way away when she’s around. “Bitch in heat” is what comes to mind first.”

Sharon smiled, “You think she may have had something to do with Catherine’s death?”

“Never thought about that,” Babs said taking another sip from the bottle of beer. “Maybe? She certainly has the skills from what I understand. South Africa and all.”

“She’s from South Africa?” Sharon asked, trying to draw more from Brown.

“Yes, and we Aussies know a real accent when we hear one; she’s from Cape Town or certainly nearby. Couple of the fellows told me she was with their special forces or something similar. Not surprised. She walks with a swagger that says a lot. And she’s been dating Bobo. I think that’s what really pisses me off about the whole thing. Catherine was seeing Bobo, not sure why other than he’s a fellow Frenchman and as soon as she was dead Bobo shows up with Karg.”

“I thought that he was seeing or was at least with Turner,” Sharon offered.

“No, not hardly. Turner probably accepts it, but I just don’t know. He’s definitely with Karg and she’s not particular when it comes to partners; in fact, my guess is she’d find a way to screw a horse if she could.”

“Now there’s an image I don’t want in my head.”

“Well she rides a lot and I understand she goes to a stable somewhere out that way,” Babs pointed across the Bay toward Oakland, Mt. Diablo loomed over everything. “Near Mt. Diablo, whatever or wherever that is.”

“It’s that mountain over there,” Sharon said pointing. “Lots of stables and ranches around it. Good country for horseback riding.”

“That’s all I know but she’s tough and strong and doesn’t play well with others. Like I said, when she’s around, I try hard to be somewhere else.”

“Got it.”