Jan Burke - Nine

At that same moment, Mrs. Christopher Logan asked her husband to come out onto the lanai. He had just finished reading an e-mail from Alex. He shut the computer off and, taking a careful route that kept him away from the lines of grout in the marble tiled floor, reached his wife.

Meghan poured two glasses of champagne.

The woman on the yacht in the South Pacific stood up now and moved toward a winch. She operated it with the skill of someone who was at home on the sea and knew how to use all of the equipment on the vessel.

Everett was just over the water now. The boat was rocking gently, not under sail.

The woman lifted a bucket that seemed to have chum in it. She poured it over the side and waited patiently. Soon the water began to churn.

She took a small, sharp knife and began to prick his skin. To his horror, he bled profusely from these little wounds. He looked at the water beneath him. Single, long fins began to appear.

Terrified, he looked back at the woman. She calmly met his gaze.

“Give my boyakina my love,” she said, and hit the switch that plunged him into the shark-infested water.

It was all over in a few minutes. She had wondered if she would feel horror or disgust. She felt relief.

She raised the sails and set a course for Hawaii. She would stop there before heading back to Malibu.

She poured a glass of champagne. She thought of her mother, at rest for almost a year now, finally free of suffering. She thought of her father, who-hearing the size of the fortune bequeathed to his daughter-had wanted to renew his relationship with her. She smiled, thinking of him waiting for a promised phone call. And waiting. And waiting. As she once had waited for his calls.

She thought of the Whitfields, who, thanks to her attorney, Mr. Blaine, had never had a chance of getting their hands on their son’s money.

If she hadn’t known how they had treated their son, she wouldn’t have fought for it. She had never dreamed of riches, but getting the money had meant that after years of being the one who took care of others, she could do almost everything she wanted to do to take care of herself.

She couldn’t say, knowing all she knew about Frederick now, that she admired her benefactor, but she had come to believe that they had met for a reason. She was the one who would not let him be forgotten, uncounted. She would remember him.

She could not deny that she remembered him fondly, or that even now, the memories of the pleasures of a single afternoon and evening made her smile. Something had happened then, something that nothing in the rest of his life or hers could diminish.

Even he had acknowledged that, she believed, with his note, and when law enforcement officials failed to find Everett Corey, she felt that she owed it to Frederick to seek revenge for Everett Corey’s betrayal of him. It was not the killing on Mulholland that brought out this desire for vengeance. It was that Corey had taken what she had seen in Frederick that one evening and made the worst possible use of it. As far as she was concerned, Corey deserved to die as much for that as for any of the other misery he had inflicted on the world.

She unfolded the note that had been given to her by Mr. Blaine. The note Frederick had included with the will.

My One and Only Boyakina-

I told you I might surprise you, Vanessa. Drink a toast to me one day while you’re sailing in the South Pacific. It makes me happy to imagine it.

Thanks for making me less dangerous.

Yours always,

Frederick

P.S. If you are reading this, my mission didn’t go so well. If you want to, feel free to use some of this money to hunt down the asshole who killed me. It makes me happy to imagine that, too.

“Be happy, Frederick,” she said, and sipped the champagne, which had grown warm.

“What did you say the name was?” Moriarty asked the man at the boat fuel dock, who said he had refueled the young widow’s yacht.

“The yacht was the Boyakina, sir.”

“It left last night?” Alex asked.

“Yes. Please don’t worry about her. The ship is seaworthy and well supplied, and she is an excellent sailor, sir. She won’t have any trouble getting to New Zealand.”

They thanked him and walked away.

“Auckland next?” Moriarty asked.

“A waste of time.”

“You know something,” Moriarty said.

“Yes. I know that we can go home now.”

Moriarty studied him, then asked, “What’s a boyakina?”

“It means ‘lucky in love.’”

Moriarty laughed. “No wonder I don’t know the word. Let’s go back to the hotel and drink a toast to the skipper of the Boyakina, then.”

In Maui, newlyweds Kit Logan and Meghan Taggert Logan tipped the edges of their glasses together.

“What are we drinking to?” Kit asked.

Meghan kissed him, then said, “Our luck.”

I have had the help and support of many generous individuals in the writing of Nine, but please don’t blame any of those named below for my occasional inability to grasp explanations or follow instructions.

Major (Retired) John F. Mullins works as a writer and consultant when he is not training law enforcement groups or pursuing one of his many other interests. He served his country during the Vietnam War, running clandestine missions under the aegis of the Military Assistance Command-Vietnam Studies and Observations Group (MAC-V SOG). His Green Beret unit received the Presidential Unit Citation, and he is the recipient of the Silver Star, three Bronze Stars, the Purple Heart, and other awards, decorations, and badges too numerous to mention. John provided invaluable help with this book. His friendship, his wise counsel, and his sense of humor kept me going on those days when the Muse failed to show up for work.

Many thanks are due to members of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department for their help, most especially Barry A. J. Fisher, LASD Director of Scientific Services, who has also served as president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and the International Academy of Forensic Sciences, authored Techniques of Crime Scene Investigation, and otherwise worked tirelessly to promote a better understanding of the importance of science in crime scene investigations. Over years of talking about research questions and other matters, we’ve become friends, which has turned out to be a great job benefit for me.

I also thank other members of the department, including Sergeant Gil Carrillo, Homicide Detective Elizabeth Smith, and Sergeant Ken Davidson.

Other questions about police procedure were answered by John Pearsley, El Cajon Police Department; William Valles, who gave more than twenty years of service to the Long Beach Police Department before his recent retirement; and fellow writer Detective Paul Bishop, Los Angeles Police Department.

Much of what I know about dead bodies and what happens to the ones no one finds right away comes from talking to forensic anthropologists Paul Sledzik and Marilyn London. Dr. Ed Dohring has helped me to know more about what happens to the live ones, given certain injuries. Their friendship and support helps me get through every manuscript, and more. I also received help with medical matters in Nine from Dr. Douglas Lyle, whose generosity in answering such questions is well known by writers of crime fiction.

John Futch, Executive News Editor of the Long Beach Press-Telegram, never failed to provide answers to hastily e-mailed questions. Entomologist Dr. Sean O’Keefe of Morehead State University took the time to answer questions about some of Oaxaca’s six-legged wildlife, and gave me good pointers about other places to look further into.

Rock climbers Chris Little and Steven Tu got me started with a helpful session about climbing, climbers, and gear, and recommended excellent reading as well as places to watch climbers. Fellow writer and rock climber Letha Albright went the extra distance-not only offering helpful, quick comments on several drafts of the book, but also by bringing her equipment to the Mayhem in the Midlands convention and demonstrating various knots and gear while we were there.