Andrea Kane - The Line Between Here and Now

Ryan grinned. Marc didn’t waste his time worrying. He just planned, executed and succeeded.

“I’m going back another decade on Everett and Morano,” Ryan told him. “Hell, I’ll go back to nursery school if I have to. There’s got to be some kind of connection. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I.” Marc had jumped out of the van, and was now leashing up Hero and collecting the backpack of items he needed for his excursion.

“I mapped out the location of the security cameras for you,” Ryan reminded him.

“Got it.” Marc pulled out the printed diagram Ryan had given him. “I’ll make sure that Hero and I avoid them.”

“The place is fenced in and gated, and there’s a friggin’ guard sitting in that booth in front.” Ryan cast a troubled look at the marina. “The commercial building that Fenton’s made into his personal boat garage is way in the back. You can’t scale the fence, not with Hero in tow. And who knows what kind of private security Fenton has in place? This isn’t going to be as easy as breaking into Morano’s trailer.”

“Never thought it would be.” Marc shrugged, urging Hero to stand beside him. “I’ll handle whatever’s thrown at me. You just figure out what link there is between Morano and Everett.” He slung the backpack over his shoulder. “See you in a while.”

“Yup. See you.”

First things first.

Marc ambled along the pavement as if taking Hero for an evening stroll, but using that opportunity to pass by and assess the guard in his booth. The guy looked half-asleep, his feet up on the desk, his chin on his chest. No obstacle there.

Turning around, Marc strolled back to the gate. He assessed the lock and pulled out his tools. No challenge here, either.

Once he’d taken care of the lock, he opened the gate a crack-just enough so that he and Hero could slide through. He shut it behind them, leaving the lock hanging in place so the guard wouldn’t notice anything. It was too dark for him to see that the lock was open-not that he was looking anyway.

Marc and Hero were inside.

Referring to Ryan’s diagram, Marc walked Hero through the docks in a zigzag pattern that avoided the security cameras. Hero was intently sniffing, taking in every new and interesting scent around.

They reached the commercial building without incident.

Sure enough, there was a burly-looking security guard sitting outside the building. He jerked into a standing position the instant he saw Marc and Hero approach, then come to a halt beside him.

“Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

“I’m a mechanic,” Marc replied, using his peripheral vision to ensure that no one else was around. “Mr. Fenton asked me to check out something on his yacht.”

“He didn’t say a word to me.” The guard fumbled for his cell. “You’ll have to wait.” He glanced down at his phone. “I’ve got to verify…”

The guard never finished his sentence.

Marc’s arm was around his throat, his thumb pressing down on the carotid artery. With his other hand he pressed the guard’s neck sideways in the same direction, and waited the few seconds it took for him to lose consciousness. Marc released his grip as the guard sank to the ground, and caught him as he did. He dragged the guy to the side of the building, where he’d be out of sight. He then tied his wrists and ankles with the thick cord he’d brought with him and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth-just in case he regained consciousness before Marc’s exit.

Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.

The lock on the building was almost as easy to pick as the one on the front gate had been.

He and Hero were inside in three minutes, the door shut behind them.

The building was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight that filtered in through the large skylight in the ceiling. It was enough to reveal the outline of a ship. Marc reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. He clicked it on, shining it directly on the yacht. It was an exquisite vessel-streamlined, white, ninety feet long, and with the name Lady Luck printed in bold letters on the bow. An apt name for Fenton’s private treasure.

Marc didn’t waste a second. He gathered Hero up, balancing his ninety pounds of weight against his chest, and climbed up the ladder and over the side, placing the bloodhound onto the main deck of the yacht.

They explored the berth deck, concentrating on the stateroom and the bath. It didn’t take long to find a few of Fenton’s personal items-an old razor and a pair of swim trunks. Marc let Hero sniff them, then he shoved them into his backpack.

He pulled out the scent pads he’d made with Paul’s smell on them, and gave one to Hero to sniff. Hero sniffed at it long and hard. Then, he picked up his head and bounded across to the galley kitchen. There, he sat down and pawed the ground. He refused to move, no matter what.

Bingo. Marc had his answer. Paul Everett had been on this yacht. And Fenton had never mentioned it. Casual business associates? Yeah, right.

With that important knowledge stored away, Marc gave Hero a coveted treat and then led him along the main deck and up the ladder to the bridge. All the controls-including the electronic radio controls-were located there.

Marc went straight for the control panel and quickly zeroed in on what he was looking for.

He pressed the power button on the rack-mounted Sailor Broadband unit and waited for the system to acquire a satellite. Once that was accomplished, he extended the retractable ethernet cable, plugging one end into his netbook, the other into the wall jack adjacent to the mahogany tabletop that served as Fenton’s maritime office. When the Power, Terminal, and Antenna status lights on the Sailor 250 were solid green, Marc powered up his netbook. Opening up Firefox, he entered http://192.168.0.1 to gain access to the main menu.

Done.

Marc clicked on the Messages navigation button to look at all of Fenton’s recent calls and text messages. He downloaded the call log to his netbook, saving the details for Ryan to decipher later.

Abruptly, while examining the phone book, something caught Marc’s eye. It was an entry for Big Money.

Interesting.

He went into the software’s edit mode, then copied the mobile number-870 area code. Didn’t recognize it.

Clicking the Messages navigation button, and selecting the Write Message option, he pasted Big Money’ s phone number into the Recipient field and then composed a cryptic, one-word text message:

Status?

He changed Delivery Confirmation to Yes, clicked the send button and waited.

A brief interval passed. Then Marc got a confirmation. Shortly thereafter, his response arrived:

Why are you on your boat? Thought it was in storage for winter.

Marc considered what Fenton’s reaction would be to having his whereabouts questioned. Then he responded:

My business, not yours. WHAT IS YOUR STATUS?

Sure enough, came the reply:

Sorry. All containers retrieved. Heading 4 Bayonne.

Marc did a double take. Then he typed his final message:

Good. Signing off.

Containers retrieved? In Marc’s experience that meant one of a couple of things-either of which would put Fenton behind bars for a long, long time.

Ryan was sitting in the back of the van, thoroughly studying his computer screen, when Marc yanked open the back door and instructed Hero to jump in.

“Hey.” Ryan’s head snapped up. “How did it go?”

“It went.” Marc gestured for him to return to the driver’s seat. “I’ve got a call log for you to decipher. And we’ve got three other stops to make. Let’s start with Westhampton Beach. We’re picking up Claire.”