J. Black - The Shop

Frank had a lot of practice backing down and saving face. He thought it was wise not to fight every battle. He may have lost a few skirmishes, but he’d managed to push the president’s agenda through with virtually no compromise. Frank Haddox had met plenty of Holloways, and in the end, he’d always managed to beat them.

Frank knew this guy would zero in on any weakness and use it for his own ends, and he wouldn’t give him any ammunition. “Well, it’s a nice day for it,” he said.

Striking just the right note. He sounded like a host who was fine with anything as long as his guest was happy.

They headed into the Gulf, both of them on the flying bridge. Frank kept an eagle eye on the GPS, looking for Cap Martin’s Reef, a cluster of reef balls off Meridian Beach, but also keeping his eye on Holloway. The man scanned the Gulf. He looked like he lived on a boat. This was not the impression Frank had gotten from his book, although to be fair, there had been no mention of fishing or boats.

Holloway leaned over Frank’s shoulder. Frank could feel his cousin’s breath on his neck. He turned. “What?”

Holloway said, “We’re three miles out. International waters.”

“So?” Just then he glanced back at the GPS. “We’re over the reef,” he announced. “Let me get you rigged up.”

Too cheerful. He’d have to watch that.

An hour later and not a bite. Holloway didn’t seem concerned. Frank tried small talk, but the guy wasn’t very forthcoming. Frank thought about his manuscript down below. He’d already decided not to mention it. He just wanted to take the man back to the dock and get away from him.

Being around Nick Holloway was unsettling. It got worse as the day went on. Frank felt absolutely nothing coming from him, like he was a hole in the air, a dead zone. Guy was a cipher, with his baseball cap pulled low, the sunglasses, the Croakie. The sun became increasingly oppressive, nailing them under its glare. Too bright, the light bouncing off the dark blue water, hurting Frank’s eyes. The uneasiness in his gut settled in. Whenever his mind wandered, it went to disturbing images, like the report of a grisly homicide he’d seen on Fox News last night, or Somalian pirates seizing a cruise ship.

It was lonely out here today. He saw only one other boat, at least a mile away. This shouldn’t bother him, but it did. It added to the bad feeling in his gut.

Frank didn’t dare look at the guy head-on. He had no doubt Holloway could read his mind. So he busied himself with lures, drink and snack offerings, frequently checking his own lines, all the while tracking Holloway from the corner of his eye.

Then it came to him that the guy didn’t just seem alien. He looked different . Different from the man he’d expected.

He had Holloway’s book, Hype , down below. Planned to ask Nick to sign it, but that wasn’t an option now. He wanted to divest himself of the book as quickly as he was going to divest himself of its author.

“Can I get you something stronger?” he asked. Cheerful—too cheerful.

“No, thanks.”

“I think I’ll get something for myself then.”

He ducked into the cabin, went to the cupboard above the galley, and pulled out the book. Closed his eyes for a moment, his heart thumping hard.

Opened the book to the photo on the back flap.

He wasn’t surprised.

Could have been him—there was a passing resemblance—but Frank knew the Nick Holloway he was hosting right now was not the Nick Holloway on the book cover. The jawline in the photo was too soft. The shape of the face too wide. The eyes…well, he hadn’t seen the man’s eyes since they’d met, but he doubted the man fishing from his boat had ever looked anxious.

Even in a headshot, the author didn’t look like a big man.

And the way the author was dressed—as if he’d pulled his clothes out of a trash bag.

Okay, if the guy up on deck wasn’t Nick Holloway, who was he?

A thrill of fear went through him—it was the feeling he’d always imagined people in a jetliner felt when the plane went down fast. Pure terror.

The man out there fishing from his boat was the reason he’d hired a new security detail. The reason he had three bodyguards, none of whom was on this boat right now—

Cardamone .

There was buzzing in his ears. He couldn’t feel his hands. The screaming jetliner was gaining speed, the fear stark and real, adrenaline hurtling through him.

The man was here to kill him.

He needed a plan. A plan, a plan. Concentrate!

Here he was in the cabin of his beautiful boat, and he could barely register what he was looking at. The air seethed with visible molecules—the cabin seemed to swim before his eyes.

A shadow filled the narrow doorway, blocking the sun. He started to turn in Holloway’s direction, but he didn’t make it all the way.

The next thing he knew, something stung his neck. A wasp maybe.

After that, nothing.

29

Scott Emerson suggested to Jolie that they take a walk around Harbor Village. “It’s too nice to be inside.”

“Don’t you want to change clothes first?” Jolie asked.

“No, this is fun. I don’t dress up all that often, believe it or not—too much hassle. You’re probably wondering why I got so elaborate.” He spoke in his normal voice, a honking tenor. That voice coming out of the Barbie doll face was disconcerting.

Jolie waited.

“I wanted to see how smart you were. Well, actually, I wanted to see if you were as dumb as Detective Jeter. Completely clueless, not to mention deeply prejudiced.”

“You think he didn’t do enough?”

“Honey, he didn’t do anything ! You have no idea what it’s like to be a second-class citizen. How did you figure out who I was?”

“It was the hair.”

“Looks kind of fake, doesn’t it? It’s real human hair, but it still doesn’t look right. Especially under those lights. Eating at the Waffle House is like eating under klieg lights. Anything else give me away?”

“Your car.”

He smiled and his Adam’s apple bobbed. She wished she’d noticed that earlier. “You’re right. No self-respecting girl would drive around without hubcaps.” He cradled his boobs for emphasis.

“And then there’s your ass.”

“My—?” His hand flew to his lips. “Oh, honey, that is just plain junkyard dog cruel !”

Jolie struggled not to laugh.

“I’m getting to you, Mrs. Policeman. I can tell. So why is the PCB police department suddenly interested in a missing faggot?”

They took a walk, following in the direction of the pool.

Jolie said, “I’m not with Panama City Beach PD.”

“You’re not?” For the first time, Scott looked nonplussed. “You said you were a detective.”

“Palm County Sheriff’s Office.”

He stopped walking and looked at her. “Is he dead? You’re not notifying me because I’m the closest thing to a next-of-kin, are you?”

“I don’t know if he’s alive or dead,” Jolie said.

“Then why are you here?”

“We’re working in conjunction with Panama City Beach PD. Could you tell me what happened the last night you saw him?”

He told her that Nathan left the apartment around eight o’clock at night. The night before, he’d met a guy, “Rick,” at Cove Bar. Rick invited Nathan to go with him to a party Friday night.

Jolie asked Scott what the man looked like.

“He said he was a big guy. Not his type—he prefers someone who’s willowy, like me—and by the way, we’re just roommates. You have to understand Nathan. He’s always been a climber. Impressed by wealth, power, that kind of thing. He said that he had a feeling this was going to be a real power party.”