Randy White - Gone

Sybarite ’s captain swallowed again, a nervous man for having a body so tall and lean, muscular-looking in his nautical slacks, canvas belt, and a white short-sleeved shirt, Capt. Robert Simpson embroidered above the pocket. “Is she qualified?” he asked, forcing a tough tone. “Does she have papers and is she qualified? Or does that piss you off for some reason, too?”

Pallet took a slow look at Sybarite , an exotic-looking passenger yacht, three decks high, with sleek black windows that gave the steering room and cabins a secretive look. There was also a tower of electronics spaced between radar cones high above the flybridge where there was what looked like a service bar and a Jacuzzi.

“She’s a hell of a lot more qualified than you, I imagine,” Mr. Pallet said finally. “What you’re really asking is, will I vouch for her? Answer is yes, she’d be first-rate-if I wanted her working for the likes of you and your owners. Which I don’t. But she’s a stubborn one, I wasn’t lying. Whether she takes the job or not, that’s up to her.”

For an instant, just an instant, the old fisherman flashed me a private glance that told me he was manipulating Robert Simpson, giving him a stronger reason to consider me for a job I had no intention of taking. Cause him to hire me just because Mr. Pallet didn’t want it to happen. Which was smart. In reply, I touched an index finger to the side of my nose as a private Thank you , then waved as he walked away, calling, “’Preciate it, Captain! If you have any more trouble with that engine, you’ve got my cell. I’ll be in touch.”

Which was true. In the time we’d spent working on the diesel, I’d grown fond of the man. He was smart, he actually listened to what I had to say and didn’t mince words, yet there was a gentlemanly quality about him that I appreciated-maybe because it’s so rare in men my own age. Whatever the reason, I trusted Mr. Pallet enough to tell him details regarding Olivia Seasons-minus Mrs. Whitney’s name, of course. He’d probably figured out right away why I wanted to get aboard Sybarite , but didn’t let on until I’d showed him the photo of Ricky Meeks. After wiping his hands clean on a rag, the old fisherman had held the photo close, squinting to get a sharper look, then said, “You did good to come to me first, young lady. Wouldn’t be smart to show a thing like this around the boatyards.”

I asked, “Do you remember what he calls himself? The man’s using a couple of names.”

Pallet had replied with a quick shake of the head, then used the towel again, wiping his hands until I’d slipped the photo into an envelope and zipped my canvas bag closed. “You sure he’s the one this rich girl ran off with?”

“No, sir. But my suspicions are getting stronger. You must’ve seen him around.”

The man nodded as I added, “He lives on a boat, maybe he’s got some friends. I wouldn’t ask about him right out, of course-”

Mr. Pallet interrupted, “It’s enemies you’ve got to worry about-man like him doesn’t have friends. People he owes money. Some mad husband who wants to chunk him on the head. Folks think you know a man like that, they’ll assume you’re trash, too. Or you’re an easy way to get some questions answered.”

“You met him,” I said.

Another shake of the head. “Didn’t bother. He owns a beat-up Skipjack cruiser, thirty-footer with a low flybridge, anchored here three or four times in the last year. Paddled ashore in a bluish sort of cheap dinghy. I know the kind’a man he is by the way he handles himself and handles that boat.”

A cabin cruiser with a dinghy stowed on the bow-it matched Lawrence Seasons’s description, I noted, listening to Cordial Pallet continue. “That sorta man, he’s all show and big mouth with women around. Otherwise, he stayed to himself, avoided men. That’s always a bad sign- remember that, young lady. A man without men friends, there’s usually something bad wrong about them. That one”-he had nodded toward my bag, which contained the photo of Meeks-“he reminds me of a thing with teeth that hides in a hole and waits for bait to swim by.”

After that, it was comfortable for me to tell Mr. Pallet what I had in mind. I wanted to board Sybarite in hopes of finding out if Olivia had gone on the Key West cruise, as I suspected, or had booked a future trip. It would confirm that I was right about why she had used her special credit card and that Mr. Seasons was wrong in thinking it meant she’d gotten rid of Ricky Meeks.

I didn’t expect anyone I met to name names, of course. And I couldn’t come right out and ask whether Olivia had been on the boat, but the guest list would be somewhere aboard if the boat’s captain kept proper records. And when Mr. Pallet manipulated the good-looking captain, Robert Simpson, into wanting to hire me, my hopes brightened. Like it or not, men tend to be sloppier about paperwork than women-a boat is no different than an office when it comes to that-so maybe a few months of names were hanging on a clipboard somewhere right out in the open.

That’s what was on my mind as Captain Simpson watched Pallet stride away, the scowl still on his face when he turned to me and said, “You helped him fix an engine? According to locals, there’s nothing that obnoxious old bastard can’t do when it comes to boats. What kind?”

Ignoring the insult, I told him the brand of diesel, saying it in a way that suggested I was being modest.

“You have your Coast Guard papers with you?” Simpson asked the question, trying not to sound impressed, but he was.

I had a copy of my Merchant Mariners 100 Ton Ocean Operator’s license aboard my skiff, which I explained as the good-looking captain waved me up the boarding ramp onto the boat’s deck.

“What’re your operating restrictions? We sail from here to Key West a couple of times a month, but sometimes we do a week trip to the Bahamas. And, about twice a year, the owners fly over to Campeche and meet the boat in Mexico. I make the decisions, but I expect my mate to spend a lot of time at the wheel. If your ticket doesn’t cover the area, we could maybe apply for an extension, but I’d rather have someone already qualified.”

I hoped to impress the man again by telling him my license was designated unlimited , meaning I had no operating restrictions-thanks to my Uncle Jake, who’d always pushed me-before risking a question of my own. “Who’s the owner?”

Simpson had been warming to me, I could sense it, but that changed instantly. He had opened the door to the main salon but now used his body to block my way before replying, “This is a private commercial yacht. Everything about it is private. That includes the name of the owners, the names of our clients. It includes what goes on before charters, during charters, and after charters. Especially during charters. Understand that? What’s your name again?”

I told him, trying not to be obvious about looking past him into the salon, where I was surprised to see a girl about my age whose face seemed familiar. A blond girl, thin as a fashion model, Havana-cream complexion, and what I suspected were grapefruit-sized breast implants straining against a white Sybarite blouse. She was standing at a bar that glistened with varnish, folding cloth napkins, the reflection in the mirror behind her showing the most ornate cabin I’d ever seen on a vessel, exotic inlaid wood, brass fixtures, spotless maritime glass.

“Hannah Smith,” Simpson repeated before saying, “The first rule aboard Sybarite is, my crew keeps their mouths shut. They don’t ask questions-not about the owner, our clients, nothing- unless the question has something to do with their job. If you don’t think you can do that, we might as well stop the tour right here.”