Elizabeth Lowell - Death Echo

“The yacht is getting farther and farther from Shinhua Lotus. God, what if we have the wrong one?”

“That’s why the scratch is there. What’s the transit captain’s name?”

“On my to-do list.”

Faroe grunted. “Description?”

“I’ll get back to you on that along with the name.”

“Soon.”

The phone went dead before she could say anything. She flipped it shut and tucked it into the holster at her waist without breaking stride. She didn’t notice the people around her unless they looked at her for more than a passing glance. Then she memorized them.

Nobody stood out-front, side, or behind.

So far, so good.

Belltown Marina was guarded by a gate with a coded and keyed entrance lock. Given enough time she’d be able to get the combination. But on an unusually warm October day, all she had to do was be a little lucky. People would be coming and going from their boats.

When she spotted two yachties walking up the long ramp from the water, she moved into position. As the gate opened, she caught it, holding it for the couple.

“Great timing,” Emma said. She tapped her cell phone. “I was just going to call my husband to let me in.”

The male looked her over, as if trying to decide whether she really belonged to the boating fraternity that might tie up to the most expensive overnight docks in Seattle.

Smiling, Emma pointed toward Blackbird, which was motoring at dead slow speed down one of the marina fairways, headed for the fuel dock. “We just got her delivered. Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Yeah,” the male said, still looking at her.

Emma’s smile stayed bright, even though the man’s eyes had come to a full stop on her breasts. She had dressed to emphasize her assets and lower a male IQ. Tight jeans, tight crop top, and the toned body to make it work. She wasn’t movie-star material, but she was plenty female.

And she’d learned a long time ago that men remembered breasts much better than faces. Telling questioners that the woman they’re asking about had a nice rack didn’t help anyone trying to find her.

“Hap, for God’s sake, get out of the way,” his companion said. She, too, was dressed to catch the male eye.

“I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t some street person.”

“She may be a street person, but not the kind you’re worried about.”

Emma slid through the gate and shut it behind her, leaving the couple to their practiced bickering. When she reached the interconnected docks at the water, she stopped, caught by the sight of Blackbird maneuvering in close quarters. Next to the container ship, the yacht had looked dainty, almost tiny. In the crowded fairways of the marina, she looked big.

Slowly, elegantly, the yacht turned in its own length. The man running her seemed almost motionless, but she could tell he was fully in control of the boat. She enjoyed watching that kind of skill at work.

Quickly she closed the distance to the fuel dock. Even if it hadn’t been her assignment, she would have been intrigued by the grace and restrained power of the black yacht.

And the captain. He was a big, rangy male with a saltwater tan and a dark, closely cropped black beard. His hair was equally short beneath a battered baseball cap. A faded black T-shirt tucked into his close-fitting, worn jeans.

For all his threadbare clothes, he was perfectly at home on the obviously expensive Blackbird. He touched the controls on the flying bridge with calm expertise, nudging a throttle for a second, then tapping it back to neutral and waiting for a moment to gauge Blackbird ’s momentum and direction. He brought the yacht parallel to the fuel dock, letting the residual thrust slowly take the flared starboard bow over the edge of the dock without brushing the hull against the heavily tarred wood and rub rail.

The dockhand grabbed the mooring line that was draped over the yacht’s bow rail. She took a turn of the line around the steel cleat, and nodded up at the man on the bridge.

A propeller kicked for a second, then quit. The stern slid sideways and eased toward the dock. The inflated fenders dangling protectively from the yacht’s rails barely kissed the dock before Blackbird was at rest. The dockhand made a “cut it” motion with the side of her hand over her throat as she walked quickly back to the stern line.

Bounced, really. She wasn’t old enough to drink, but she wasn’t jailbait, either. Tight shorts and T-shirt aside, she knew exactly what she was doing on the fuel dock.

The engines stopped.

Emma knew just enough about boats to be impressed with how easy the captain made docking the big boat look. Even a lightweight aluminum rowboat had a mind of its own. The mass involved in a yacht Blackbird ’s size was measured in tons. A lot of them.

The captain climbed down the steep fly-bridge stairs like a cat and vanished into the boat’s salon.

Swiftly Emma sorted through available strategies. She decided to stick with the IQ-lowering crop top. The lace inset between her breasts was a bigger tease than bare cleavage. The oldest approach in the world might be a hip-swinging cliché, but it was still around because it still worked. She tucked the left earpiece of her sunglasses into her cleavage, pulled out the colorful band that held her hair in a ponytail, shook her hair free, and sauntered forward.

Time to brighten the captain’s day-and get an invitation aboard.

DAY ONE

BELLTOWN MARINA

AFTERNOON

Mac stepped out of the cabin and walked to the stainless-steel fuel plate that was flush with the deck. He went down on one knee to open up for fueling. Two prongs of the metal tool he held fit into indentions in the flat, circular fuel plate. A hard twist loosened the big, stainless-steel screw. While he turned the plate on its threads, he glanced at the fuel dock.

The lithe woman strolling down the ramp was older than the bouncy little line catcher who’d been hired by the fuel dock as eye candy for the yachting set. The woman with the small backpack over one shoulder moved with easy confidence. He liked that in a person, male or female.

But he wondered if he’d like the reason why she was interested in Blackbird.

Stop being paranoid. Yachties love to look at what’s on the water. Just because her hair is the same color as the woman on the Zodiac, there’s no reason to be wary. Lots of women have dark hair long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail or left free to fall to her shoulders.

And nice breasts. Real nice, not a bra line in sight.

His neck hairs ignored sweet reason and kept on voting for paranoia.

“That’s one beautiful yacht,” the woman called out to him.

Mac looked at her. There was only appreciation in her voice and in her expression. No reason to get upset. Blackbird was indeed a fine boat.

And the female wasn’t bad, either. Not fat, not skinny, with a spring to her stride that came from some kind of athletic activity. She was probably a few years past thirty. Her eyes were clear, light, and direct. Everything he liked in a woman.

Too bad she’s the one from the Zodiac.

It was in the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear, the narrow nose and full mouth. Dark hair now ruffled by the wind. The lacy gap in her top should have been illegal.

He didn’t know the game, but she was one intriguing player. “Thanks,” Mac said, standing up. He braced his arms on the railing, looked down, and drawled, “She’s very responsive.”

Her head tilted up toward him. She could have been friendly. She could have been measuring him for a coffin. Her eyes were a green that reminded him of the color of big ocean waves in the midst of breaking over the bow. Clear. Light green. Powerful. A warning a smart man listened to.