Jack was working on his third when his cell phone vibrated against his thigh, telling him he had a text message. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and saw that the sender was Bob Copeland.
The message was short and simple:
1600 hrs MOMA
Jack did not bother to reply. Copeland wouldn’t expect or even want one. He knew that Jack would be waiting for him at the Museum of Modern Art at four P.M. tomorrow, so there was nothing else to be said. But Jack was happy to hear from him. Copeland would only be requesting another meet because he had new information.
“Who’s that?” Max said, glancing at the screen as he put away his phone. “One of your many conquests?”
Jack looked at her and grinned. “You know I only have eyes for you.”
“And for some reason they keep staring at my chest. Men are so predictable.”
“Well, you know how I feel about sex, Max, don’t you? ‘The position is ridiculous, the relief momentary, and the results catastrophic.’”
She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve read Chesterfield, Jack. But I think that’s probably the scotch talking, Don Juan. Or maybe you’re just turned on by the fact that I saved your hide tonight.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Jack said, “but I had the situation under control.”
Max cocked an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. After working together with her for the past few months, Jack recognized it as the expression she wore when she was having fun with him.
“What you had, ” she said, “was a near-death experience. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you would’ve been riding in the back of that ambulance with Jamal Thomas.”
Jack played along, not bothering to mention that he could have taken Leon with a Krav Maga move-step in, push the gun arm to his chest with your own perpendicular forearm, hold it there while you take a second step behind him, then snake that arm up and across his throat and put him in a chokehold. The way they were standing, however, the EMT would probably have taken a slug or two in the chest.
“Are you purposely trying to deflate my sense of masculinity?” he asked.
“I don’t think that’s possible. Let’s just call it a dose of reality.”
Jack was about to respond when they heard a beeping sound. It was Maxine’s turn to grab her cell phone. She checked the screen and suddenly got serious. “Leon finally sent me the video.”
“Good. You really think you can blow it up?”
“Blowing it up isn’t the problem,” she said. “It’s the resolution I’m concerned about. Even though it’s HD, there’s no telling what we’ll have once the image is triple its size.”
“So it’s a crap shoot.”
“I’ve got a few high-end tools I can use to fill in some of the pixels, but no guarantees.”
Jack nodded. “You have an ETA?”
She smiled. “I could be working on it right now if you weren’t busy trying to get me drunk and figure out how to take advantage of me.”
Jack grinned again. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Sometime tomorrow then?”
“I’m working another shoot in the morning, but I’m pretty sure I can have a yea or nay for you by the time you get back from that little rendezvous with your hottie. I’ll call you the minute I do.”
Max dropped him off at his boat around eleven P.M.
After a halfhearted attempt to invite her in-an attempt that went down in flames, as he knew it would-Jack bid her farewell and climbed aboard the Sea Wrighter. He wasn’t two steps on deck before he abruptly sobered.
Someone had been here.
Boaters tend to have a kind of sixth sense when it comes to knowing their space has been invaded-maybe because there’s often so little of it-and Jack had no doubt in his mind that he’d had a visitor tonight.
Tony?
Not likely. He would have left for Camp Parks hours ago.
Carlos Rodriguez, the kid Jack had hired to wash his boat? Carlos was an illegal and Jack had been trying to help him gain citizenship-although he was convinced that the illegal problem, coupled with corporate welfare, were two things that were surely and swiftly sinking this country.
But Jack wasn’t without his sympathies, especially toward a young man he knew wasn’t afraid of hard work. His own grandfather, a Russian immigrant, had taken a similar path, working long, backbreaking hours to raise his family, and had spent many years living in poverty on New York’s Lower East Side. Jack saw the same thing in Carlos that he saw in his own family and people. A sense of pride and a willingness to make sacrifices.
But Carlos only came to wash the boat on Tuesdays, and wasn’t due again until next week. So, if not him, and not Tony, who was the intruder?
And, more importantly, was he still here?
Jack glanced up toward the flybridge but saw no sign of movement up there. As a precaution, he pulled his. 357 from its holster then quietly unlocked the starboard pilothouse door and slipped inside, carefully surveying the room. He left the lights off, leaving only the pale moonlight to guide him, but as far as he could tell, there was nothing out of place.
Yet that feeling of invasion persisted.
What was worse, Eddie would usually be leaping at his feet by now, over and over until Jack caught him in his arms. But there was no sign of him.
Jack’s gut tightened and a fresh wave of uneasiness rolled through him. He was tempted to call out to the little guy but he remained silent. If anyone was in here, there was no point in announcing himself.
Instead, he stepped past the helm to the port door.
It was unlocked.
Jack never left his doors unlocked. Not while he was gone.
For a moment he considered backing out completely and waiting in the darkness on the dock for someone to emerge. But an unlocked door was merely proof that someone had been here, not that they’d stuck around. And he was worried about Eddie.
Turning, he checked the salon, watching the darkness for any sign of movement, listening for any sounds of breathing, but there was a stillness in the air that told him it was empty. He moved down the short set of steps and crossed through to the aft cabin, which was also empty.
Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he hit the flashlight app and the screen glowed. He shone the beam up the spiraled wooden stairway and cautiously climbed the steps to the flybridge, but there was no sign of anything amiss. A moment later he was back inside the pilothouse and headed down to the lower deck. He took the steps cautiously, keeping the. 357 at the ready. He had no qualms about doing whatever was necessary to protect himself.
When he reached the companionway he stood very still, listening. The boat gently rocked and the only sound was the quiet lapping of the bay against the hull. No sign of Eddie down here, either.
So where was he?
Dread washing through him, Jack used his cell phone flashlight again, keeping the beam low as he worked his way around to the guest stateroom, bracing himself for a surprise attack. But the cabin was clear-no bogeymen in the shadows, no sign of a disturbance.
Turning, he was about to check the second guest stateroom when he noticed that the door to the head was ajar. He supposed it could have come loose somehow, but he doubted it, and he wasn’t prone to leaving the door unlatched.
Tightening his grip on the. 357, he approached the head carefully, half expecting to find someone hiding in there. But when he gently pushed the door open and shone the light inside, he discovered the small bathroom and shower stall empty.
But his instincts had been right. Someone had been in here.
In the light of his cell phone he saw a noose hanging from the shower head.
An empty noose that had been fashioned from Eddie’s leash.