W. Griffin: The Last Witness

“How so?”

“You know boats have those emergency signal guns. .”

“Sure.”

“. . well, someone wanted to send a signal, all right. They fired a twenty-five-millimeter white phosphorus one into his chest.”

“Damn! That’s an illumination flare. Once it starts burning it doesn’t stop until it burns out. That’s fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, and apparently he lit up the harbor pretty good. They said folks from a cruise ship got video of it and put it online, thinking it was part of some celebration.”

“Well, in a warped way I’m sure it is cause for celebration. For Garvey at least. But what about the coke?”

Tony chuckled. “Damnedest thing, Matt. You know the men’s room over the evidence room? Night before last, a waterline to one of the shitters broke loose. Initial blame went to maintenance-or lack thereof. Then someone said it looked like the line might’ve got cut. Who knows? Regardless, the result was three feet of standing water. Flooded the shitter and, a floor below, all the evidence brought in during the previous forty-eight hours.”

Matt heard steps and turned to see Amanda approaching the helm with a cup of coffee and a copy of Cruising Guide to the Bahamas. She slipped the cup into the holder on the console, then put the book in with the towels that were in a beach bag at Matt’s feet.

Matt smiled at her and said, “Well, Tony, I guess once in a great while there is a little justice in this screwed-up world. Talk to you later.”

He broke off the call.

Amanda tugged the phone from his grip. She turned it off.

“No more talking,” she said, then tossed it into the bag. It disappeared under a towel. “Enough with the phone.”

She then turned up the sound system.

Bob Marley was singing “Is This Love.”

She put her arms around his waist and leaned in. They kissed.

“Now the fun begins,” Amanda said, putting her hand on the throttles and shoving them forward.