Brian Freeman - The Crooked Street

He climbed the ladder to the main deck, which was damp with spray. Cushioned seats surrounded a vast stone-and-chrome fire pit that gleamed with red stones. It was easy to imagine the flames licking at the darkness out on the cold water. Above his head, the overhang of the flybridge was like a flying saucer, and he spotted the octagonal wall of a hot tub.

This was a place for one-percenters. Denny had come a long way since their days on the Jumping Frog .

Frost let himself inside the guest quarters, which were equally lavish. The living room was decorated in white leather, with a well-stocked bar, 4K satellite television, and shining fixtures in cherrywood and stainless steel. The area didn’t just look clean. It looked sanitized. He pulled one of the cushions from the leather sofa and found that the base of the furniture had been vacuumed so thoroughly that there wasn’t even a crumb of food or strand of hair.

The next room was a dining area with tables that could serve at least sixteen people. Steps led down to the crew deck and kitchen. Beyond the dining room was a master suite with a queen-sized bed and mirrored ceiling. The bed was made with brightly colored sheets and a mountain of pillows. Jade sculptures and silk birds-of-paradise decorated the dressers. Soft overhead lights gave the room a romantic glow. Another flat-screen television was built into the wall, and above the television was a geometric wall sculpture made of mirrored glass. The sculpture hung slightly askew, as if it had been recently moved. Frost looked behind it and spotted a small rectangular plastic panel. One corner of the panel was loose. With gloves on, Frost took down the sculpture and pried away the black panel to see what was behind it.

He found the ends of an electrical power cord and a USB cable that ran back behind the wall. Neither cable was connected to a device, but when he shined his light on the small shelf, he could see a circular dust outline. Something electronic had been situated here and recently taken away. Based on the size and location, facing the bed through the mirrored glass, Frost had a suspicion about the missing equipment.

A video camera.

If Denny had been spying on his elite guests, that was definitely a motive for murder.

When Frost finished upstairs, he returned to the dining room and took the stairs to the lower deck. The kitchen was here, gleaming with stainless steel appliances, and it had the functionality to prepare a gourmet meal. There were other, plainer bedrooms for crew and serving staff. He found Denny’s bedroom and office aft, where a locked door led to the boat’s mechanical equipment area. He sat down in the comfortable swivel chair behind the desk and tried to get a sense of Denny’s life.

The first thing he noticed on the desk was a photograph of Carla. Despite the years in between, he recognized her immediately, tall and slim, with long, straight sandy hair and a sarcastic smirk that was always on her lips. The smirk covered darker, scarier things. He sat there, staring at the picture, and eventually realized that several minutes had gone by while he was lost in the past.

He shook himself out of it and examined the rest of the desk. Like the hidden camera — if it really was a camera — Denny’s computer was gone, which likely meant that any video records had disappeared. Probably Denny’s ship logs had been there, too. Frost began to think that someone had beaten him to the boat in order to erase the evidence.

He opened each drawer of the desk but found nothing except loose paper clips, open boxes of printer ink, USB cables, and a pair of mini binoculars. There was also a blue box with an expensive Waterman pen that Denny’s mother had given to him as a high school graduation gift. Even back in the days of the Jumping Frog , the pen had been Denny’s prized possession. Some things never changed.

The lowest drawer of the desk felt oddly heavy as Frost opened it. He removed it and turned it over so that he could check the panel underneath.

Duct-taped to the bottom of the drawer was a small brick of cocaine.

Frost leaned back in the chair and shook his head. He’d already talked about the possibility of Denny smuggling drugs with Captain Hayden, and now here was a supply of cocaine to back up that theory. Even so, something didn’t feel right to him. The evidence of Denny’s yacht business had been carefully removed, but the drugs had been left behind in a way that no one doing a routine search could fail to find them.

Too easy.

He slipped an evidence bag out of his pocket to secure the cocaine but froze when he heard a footstep on the stairs that led up to the main deck. He wasn’t alone on the boat anymore. Whoever had made the footstep above him froze, too, as if he knew he’d given himself away. Frost reached into his jacket and slid his gun into his hand. He waited in the silence and then called out, “This is the police. Come down here slowly and show yourself.”

The warning didn’t work. Instead, the person above him ran. Frost leaped to his feet and gave chase. He took the steps two at a time on the twisting staircase and reached the boat’s dining room just as he saw the shadow of a figure disappearing through the doors to the open deck. He crossed the space and burst into the pink light of morning. When he spun around the corner, he saw someone sprinting down the starboard gangway between the ship’s railing and the slanting wall of the cabin.

“Stop!”

The man was halfway along the length of the boat when he glanced back and saw the gun in Frost’s hands. He weighed his chances and gave up. He froze where he was, turned around, and put his hands in the air.

Frost closed in on him along the length of the gangway. As he got closer, he realized that the man looked more like a boy, probably no more than five feet tall and fourteen years old. He was Asian, dressed all in black in a tank top, cycling tights, and black sneakers. His dark hair was bushy and styled. A gold chain hung around his neck, and one gold stud dotted his ear. His skin had an almost plastic glow, as if he were wearing makeup, and his eyes were alert and suspicious.

“Who the hell are you?” the boy demanded, like a dog standing up to a bear.

Frost smiled. He replaced his gun in his holster and took out his badge instead. “I told you, I’m a cop. My name’s Frost.”

The badge didn’t do anything to ease the boy’s suspicion. “Yeah, so? This ain’t your boat.”

“It’s not yours, either,” Frost replied. “Who are you?”

The boy set his mouth in a tough line and didn’t answer.

“Just tell me your name and what you’re doing here,” Frost said. “Do you know Denny Clark?”

A long silence passed. The morning sky got lighter as the clouds moved. The boy’s eyes darted between the boat and the water of the harbor. “Sure, I know Denny,” he said finally.

“What’s your name?” Frost asked again.

“Fox.”

“Okay. Why are you here, Fox?”

“First, you tell me why the cops are on Denny’s boat,” the boy demanded. “What’s up? Is he dead?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I hear things. Word on the street is that somebody whacked him last night.”

“Yeah? Did you get a name?”

“I just heard he was dead.” The boy drew his index finger across his throat and made a gurgling noise.

“Why would someone want to kill Denny?” Frost asked.

“No idea.”

“So what are you doing on his boat?”

“My father did a job for him,” Fox replied. “Now he’s missing, and I’m trying to find him. I figured maybe Denny left something behind that would give me a clue about where he is.”

“Who’s your father?”

The boy said nothing.

“Fox, if your father worked with Denny, I need to talk to him,” Frost insisted.