Carver stayed in the shadows below the dock as he swam slowly toward the Bold Entrepreneur. Even with only one arm, he was a powerful enough swimmer to keep his head well up so the dressing over his ear stayed dry. Bits of paper and garbage floated in the brackish water, and the darting shapes of small fish could be seen inches below the surface. An orange peel, curved like a tiny canoe, was tossed about on the ripples Carver was stirring up, and drifted away. Moved by stronger forces, the hulls of boats swayed and bumped against the tires lashed to the pilings to prevent damage, causing rhythmic hollow thumping noises that were magnified in the silence beneath the dock.
The Bold Entrepreneur was berthed in one of the larger slips, its bow at a right angle to the main dock. Carver had to be careful as he swam alongside it. The rough-hewn plank walkway above him was narrower than the dock itself and provided less shadow. He might be visible from the shore if he wasn’t careful.
He lessened the strength and reach of his sidestroke, hoping no one aboard would hear him splashing around. Sometimes sound carried over water with unexpected volume.
Because of the way the boat was docked, the safest place to plant the beeper would be near the bow and well above the waterline. Keep the supposedly waterproof glue and transmitter dry and away from the force of the waves when the boat was under way. Dry as possible, anyway.
Carver held the beeper gently in his teeth. Treaded water in the shadow of the slip as he wrestled the tube of glue from his jeans pocket. He removed the cap, then, treading briefly with only his legs, took the beeper from his mouth and squeezed out a generous glob of glue onto the magnetic base.
Gripping the beeper firmly and just so, he stroked out into sunlight, reached high above the red stripe near the water-line, and with a twisting motion fixed the beeper on the Bold Entrepreneur’s smooth hull.
He slowly withdrew into the cooler, shadowed water, satisfied. The beeper seemed firmly attached, and while it was well above the waterline, it was still below the curve of the hull where it wouldn’t be noticeable from the dock. And probably no one other than Willoughby himself would think anything of the beeper if it was noticed. Anyone else would assume it was simply part of the boat. A ballast plug or capped vent, or some other mysterious piece of boating paraphernalia.
Carver backstroked until he was beneath the dock. Then, faster now with both arms, breaststroked parallel to the shore, back toward the paint-chipped wood hull of the aged Chris-Craft.
For the first time he noticed a sleek Cigarette speedboat tied at the dock. The elegant, dip-nosed Cigarette was designed by famous boatbuilder Don Aronow and was not so called because of its long low silhouette, as many believed, but was named after a Prohibition-era booze smuggler. The sexy and streamlined V-hulled craft, with its twin 450-horsepower turbocharged engines, could do over seventy miles per hour on open ocean. For its speed and not for its namesake, it was the favorite of drug runners. Carver wondered briefly if the presence of this one had anything to do with whatever was in the planning stages aboard the Bold Entrepreneur.
Within a few minutes he was back up on the dock, pulling his T-shirt over his head with one hand, holding the material away from his injured ear with the other. Wriggling bare wet feet into his moccasins and then using the cane to lever himself to a standing position. He was breathing hard. Felt good. Great, in fact. The lump of gauze and tape over his ear was barely damp.
He limped back to the Ford and climbed in. Didn’t notice the car parked a hundred feet in front of him until the doors opened simultaneously and two men got out slowly. Shut the doors also simultaneously and walked toward him. Their actions seemed choreographed; the two had gotten out of a car together hundreds of times. Partners.
Jefferson and Palma.
Carver wondered why they were here and not down the coast in Hillsboro Beach.
They didn’t seem glad to see him. He wasn’t sure if he was glad to see them.
Chapter 33
Jefferson sat down across from Carver at the square table with its red-and-white-checked cloth, said, “Just order something to drink. I don’t want you having a full belly.”
They were in Lobster Jack’s, a trendy seafood restaurant on the dock. Sitting at a table near the leaded-glass window so they could look out at the Bold Entrepreneur gently rising and falling in unison with the other boats in port. It was a hypnotic sight, this slow dance of boats in the sunlight, in perfect rhythm with the lazy, metronomic tempo of the sea. A ponderous, relentless beat as old as the planet itself.
Jefferson and Palma had told Carver to stay in the Ford, then instructed him to make a U-turn and park in the restaurant’s side lot. They had trudged back to their gray Dodge and then followed him.
In the parking lot Jefferson had said something to Palma, who was driving, then got out of the Dodge, hauled his duffel bag out from the back seat, and walked with Carver into the restaurant.
They were alone at the table. The long duffel bag, the one that had contained the rifle beneath the motel bed, rested on the floor near Jefferson. The restaurant was cool. Paddle fans mounted on thick beams crisscrossing the ceiling rotated slowly. Carver didn’t know where Palma had gone. Didn’t ask. He assumed the other DEA agent was somewhere where he could watch the Bold Entrepreneur even more closely.
A blond, bespectacled waitress who looked like a college student, wearing a frilly red-and-white-checked apron that matched the tablecloth, sauntered over. Asked could she help them. Carver thought, If only you could. Jefferson told her just coffee. Carver said the same for him.
Lobster Jack’s was paneled in waxed oak and had phony Tiffany-shade fixtures on brass chains above each table. The fixtures swayed gently in the breeze from the ceiling fans. There were dead flies on the oak windowledge near the table where Carver and Jefferson sat.
It was the slack time between lunch and supper; there were only a few other customers in the place. A middle-aged man and woman who looked like tourists were wolfing down a late lunch or early dinner of lobster at the other end of the restaurant. There was an expensive-looking 35-millimeter camera with a long lens on the table near the man’s glass of beer. An old man in pastel pants and pullover shirt sat three tables away, methodically eating a platter of oysters on the half-shell. He had white hair. Had on a white belt, white socks, white shoes.
Jefferson said, “This place serves a great lobster-tail lunch.”
“No doubt at taxpayer expense.”
“Uh-hm. Makes it taste better.”
Carver said, “How is it you’re here and not down in Hillsboro Beach?”
“Courtney contacted us not long after you did. Tipped us that the meeting was to be on Willoughby’s boat, and the Bold Entrepreneur was sailing here to tie up and wait for Kip Farneaux.”
Carver watched the white-haired man work an oyster loose from its shell. Dip it in sauce. “Kip Farneaux?”
“He’s a rich textile man from Georgia. When he joins the party on the boat, they plan on chugging out to sea to talk over which side of warring Central American drug suppliers to choose as their source.”
“It’s trains that chug, not boats.”
“Boats do whatever they do, then; get from one place to another on the water. This boat will, anyway.”
“Would one of these warring drug suppliers be the people who blew up Bert Renway?”
“Most likely.”
A fly buzzed in tight circles around Carver. Touched down on the back of his hand. Took off again before he had a chance to flick at it, leaving only a tickle. He wished it would join the dead ones on the windowsill. “When’s Farneaux due to arrive?”