"Let's not underestimate them."
Holding an index finger to his lips, Scott motioned for Jackie to remain quiet. He walked to the phone, picked up the receiver, and unscrewed the mouthpiece. They saw the bug and Scott reacted immediately.
"Well, let's go to the airport." He checked his Sig Sauer. "We don't want to miss our flight and get stuck here."
"I'm right behind you."
After checking out of the Hampton Inn, they left the rental car in the hotel parking lot and walked toward Flounders Chowder House.
Scott talked in a hushed voice. "These people are real pros."
"Yeah, but they're reckless."
"First thing we do is contact the police and get a bomb squad out here to isolate the area and check our car."
"Good idea."
With a heightened sense of awareness they continued toward the restaurant, while Scott kept his eyes moving. "As usual, Hartwell made it clear that we have carte blanche for whatever we need."
"Well, we better send a distress signal."
Scott reached for Flounder's front door and opened it. "Think I'll have Hartwell arrange for us to be flown to D. C."
"From the regional airport?"
"I don't think that would be in our best interest. We've already been ambushed. We'll take a cab to the air station and the navy can fly us to Washington."
"You're right. They have several Sabreliners and Beechjets here that they use for training."
"Bingo."
Jackie suddenly stopped, causing Scott to inadvertently bump into her. "It just came to me — we weren't paying attention."
"What are you talking about?"
"The other night at the Grant Grill — in San Diego — the dapper Oriental man who was sitting across from our table?"
Dalton paused, searching his mind. `You're right." He recalled the small, well-dressed man who had examined his menu for an extended period of time. "He was Chinese, if my memory serves me correctly."
"That's right, and he must have been reading our lips."
"I'll be damned."
"Remember, he was in the lounge too. He probably read Early-wine's lips and knows the whole story."
"We should've noticed." Scott's satellite phone rang. He answered it as they sat down at an empty table.
Jackie cautiously looked around the crowded patio. She listened to Scott, noticing his face take on a troubled expression. Seconds later, he absently placed the phone on the table.
"Hartwell."
"'What is it?"
"Lou Emerson supposedly committed suicide in his apartment."
"No."
"There's only one problem. Actually, there are two problems. No suicide note has been found."
"And?"
"He was found in his bedroom, weapon in hand, but there were small drops of his blood in the hallway and in the kitchen — which happens to be thirty-seven feet away."
Scott rested his chin in the crook of his thumb and forefinger. "That's a helluva long way to walk with part of your head missing."
"Why would someone move him to the bedroom?"
"I have no idea."
"Was there any tissue, any evidence, in the kitchen?"
"Nothing but a few minuscule blood drops leading to the hallway. The entire kitchen had been sanitized. JAG is investigating, but I don't think they'll find any evidence leading to the murderer."
"We don't know how to contact Merrick," Jackie said. "Let's find out if she's gone on leave yet."
"Do you think Emerson's death is related to the first crash?"
"Absolutely. According to Hartwell, Emerson was considered to be a stable guy who didn't have an enemy in the world."
"Well, he had at least one."
Chapter 6
With her yellow voile dress blowing softly in the warm Louisiana breeze, Adriana Douville leaned against the ivy-covered balcony railing of her magnificent antebellum home. The pale moonlight accentuated her aqua-blue eyes and creamy smooth complexion. A native of Oxford, Mississippi, Mrs. Douville didn't look like a newly minted grandmother. Trim and soft spoken, she looked like the quintessential southern belle and cheerleader she had been at Ole Miss.
Mrs. Douville took in a deep breath of the humid night air and let her shoulders relax, then gazed down at the lighted fountain and gaily decorated courtyard. Their festive anniversary celebration had been a rollicking success, and she was glad that the last of the dinner guests had finally left.
She sipped her cordial and admired the lush green liriope that bordered brightly colored petunias' and magenta impatiens planted around the old-fashioned gas streetlamps. Beyond the towering, moss-draped oak trees and the ivory magnolias, a classic garden gazebo added the final touch to the vintage courtyard of their distinctive New Orleans residence.
Her quietude was interrupted when her husband, Dr. Lavon Douville, a preeminent theoretical physicist, ascended the softly lighted spiral staircase and transferred his fresh mint julep to his left hand. Tall and chunky, he was the son of a New Orleans cop who had drunk himself to death after his wife ran away with another man. Raised by his fundamentalist grandmother, Douville had been a brilliant student who won a full scholarship to the Georgia Institute of Technology and subsequently received his doctorate at MIT.
"Happy anniversary, Addy," Douville said. He leaned against the wall and raised his glass.
"And happy retirement to you." She extended her manicured hand in a toast. "The party was a huge success, especially the musicians."
"I'm glad you enjoyed them."
"They were so pleasant and professional, not like those ragtag hooligans we had last year."
"Now, Addy, I've apologized for that." Douville downed half his drink. "These fellows are some of the best in New Orleans, the very best you can find in this part of the country."
"They were certainly an improvement." Adriana looked at the small boat floating in the large, round fountain. The candle inside the cabin cruiser had finally gone out. "I can't wait to start decorating our yacht."
"You'll get your chance." Douville swirled the ice in his glass and tossed back the last of his mint julep. "We have to find a permanent captain too."
"What about a cook?"
"Whatever you want, dear. This is going to be our magic carpet. We aren't going to spare any expense."
Mrs. Douville never questioned her husband's financial affairs, but his unexpected retirement and the new motor yacht were certainly puzzling to her. Steeped in southern culture, Mrs. Douville was a traditional wife and mother. Money was none of her concern. Men made the money and women raised the children and, with the help of maids, butlers, nannies, and gardeners, maintained their homes.
"Are you sure our new boat can make it to the Bahamas?"
" Boat? It's a seagoing yacht. We can go anywhere — as long as they have water."
"You know I trust you."
"After thirty-one years of marriage, I certainly hope so."
"It's just that so much has happened so quickly, so many changes we have to make in our lives."
"You'll get used to them." A chorus of katydids serenaded them from the far corner of the yard. "I'm going to fix another drink."
"Here, I'll get it. I'm going to freshen mine too."
"Thanks," Douville said, then looked at the moon. "We're going to see the world and watch beautiful sunsets. We'll do anything we want to do." His last few words were slurred.
She kept her thoughts to herself. For the past eight months, her husband had been drinking heavily during his infrequent trips home. Lost in her thoughts, she walked downstairs to the kitchen.
Dr. Douville shoved himself upright and unsteadily approached the balcony railing. He stopped and placed his hands on it, breathed in the night air, and then turned around and leaned against the railing. There was a sudden snap, followed by a desperate gasp. Dr. Douville plunged backward into the fountain, striking his head on the brick border. A huge wave of water sank the toy boat.