P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

"Bjorn?" She grabbed another handful of frozen bait and brought the cleaver down hard. "He's okay, third generation, like Gary and me. He's got a large family—several of his teenage sons are already crewing for him. One of them helps Gary out from time to time."

"Kaz."

The grim tone alerted her even before she turned around. She saw the broken line he was holding up. "Sonofabitch!" She stabbed the cleaver into a hunk of bait and dropped down to look over the side, then along the line of buoys as they stretched out into the distance. She stood and moved into the wheelhouse to run the trawler up to the next buoy.

Michael leaned over the side and snagged the buoy. He connected the line to the hydraulic block and hauled up the first pot. On the other end of the pot, the line had been cut, just like the one before.

"Check the others," she ordered, her anger growing.

For the next hour, they ran the rest of the first half of the pots. Each buoy had one pot attached, then the line was cut. All in all, she estimated that they'd lost well over three quarters the pots. It was a devastating financial blow, not so much the pots but what had been in them. Unless Gary relented and let her invest some of her own savings in the business, it could go under.

Someone had done this, and made it look good enough so that no one would notice. That took time and determination. She returned to the wheelhouse and unhooked the handset for the radio. "This is the Kasmira B, over."

"Kasmira B, nice to hear from you." Bjorn's voice boomed across the airwaves.

"We've got a problem here. You guys see anyone around my lines the last couple of days?"

"State your situation."

"Lines cut, pots not retrievable." She waited. Michael came to lean against the door, pulling off his rubber gloves and rubbing the ice from his coat.

The radio remained silent.

She clicked to retransmit. "I repeat, lines cut, pots not retrievable. I'd appreciate a report of who y'all have seen over here lately."

Silence.

Her gaze met Michael's. His expression was hard. She swore and tossed the handset onto the console.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"Bad enough." She rubbed the back of her neck. "Let's take a break, then see what else we can salvage."

She headed down to the galley, and Michael followed. While she was pouring coffee, he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She tensed.

He overrode her resistance, pulling her back against him and wrapping his arms around her. "All this will be over soon, and these guys will come around." He placed his chin on top of her head. "They probably didn't want to talk because I was on board."

"Maybe." She sniffled once, appalled at how close she was to tears. For something of so little consequence compared to everything else she'd faced in the last week, the cut lines were, for some reason, the last straw. But she knew it wasn't the lost pots, not really. It was the silence on the radio that had gotten to her.

Michael tightened his arms for a moment, then let loose of her. He moved around her, got sandwiches out of a Styrofoam cooler, unwrapped them, and handed one to her. "Eat."

She stared at the sandwich, which looked totally unappetizing. "Do you always push food as a universal solution?"

"I can think of other remedies, but they're harder to implement when swathed in four layers of foul weather gear."

That got a small laugh out of her. "Valid point." She took the sandwich.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, warming themselves next to the oil stove. The ice on their coats melted and dripped, making a soggy mess of the carpet.

"So what now?" Michael asked.

"We pull what we can, then head for port. I'll see if it's possible to get a diver out here, but with these currents, it's probably a lost cause. Someone knew what he was doing."

"Someone who knew your colors, and who knew what to do to inflict maximum damage. Someone in the fishing fleet."

"Yeah." She tossed down the rest of her sandwich, no longer able to swallow.

Someone not only wanted to frame Gary, but put them both out of business. That took a lot of hate.

Or a lot of desperation.

She'd faced hostile corporate boards, and over the years, she knew she'd made some enemies. They'd undercut her and take her next client maybe, or try to block the merger she was working on. Tit for tat. But that was business.

This felt personal.

#

It took them five hours to run the rest of the lines. She'd lost the majority of their pots. Tired and discouraged, she turned the Kasmira B toward port. The ride back over the bar was a silent one, but Michael never left her side.

They docked the Kasmira B well after dark, then went straight to the storage unit to retrieve the money to turn it over to the authorities.

It was gone.

~~~~

Chapter 18

When Kaz and Michael walked out of the storage unit, several police stood waiting for them. Lucy's expression was grim, Ivar's sympathetic.

Sykes stepped forward and handed Kaz a folded document. "General search warrant," he explained. "Covers your cold storage unit, your boats and vehicles, and your house. We're looking for evidence related to the arson and the murder of Ken Lundquist."

Kaz took the document, unfolding it with shaking hands. The impersonal legalese brought home the gravity of Gary's situation. And hers. "You already have an arrest warrant." She angrily waved the search warrant. "Why are you doing this?"

Clint Jackson, who was standing next to Sykes, smirked at her.

"We've arrested your brother in the past and couldn't make it stick," Sykes said. "This time, I'm personally making sure the DA has all the evidence he'll need to convict."

Kaz rounded on Michael. "Did you know about this?" She'd trusted him, been ready to confide in him. Now she could only choke on his betrayal. Why did it hurt so badly?

He shook his head. "I only knew about the arrest warrant." When he reached out a hand, she shoved the paperwork at him.

She wanted to believe him. But he had to have suspected this would happen. Why hadn't he warned her? For that matter, why hadn't Lucy? The betrayal stung, and her eyes welled with tears.

She held out her key ring to Sykes. He took it, telling her to wait nearby, then he and Clint entered the storage building.

To put some distance between herself and the others, she walked over and sat down on the cold, wet concrete curb of the parking lot. She couldn't shake the feeling that events were spinning out of control. If Sykes and Jackson had searched the unit even a few hours ago, they'd have found the money and been able to use it to build the case against Gary.

It made sense that Gary had moved the money—maybe after he'd seen her go into the storage unit that morning. If so, then he had to be hiding out nearby, perhaps using one of the many abandoned warehouses that were strung out all along the waterfront. The crumbling old buildings were some distance from Astoria's business district—only fishermen would've been close enough to see him coming and going, and they wouldn't say anything. Fear for him made her stomach cramp. He was taking insane risks, moving around in broad daylight.

Lucy came over and dropped down beside her, giving her a hug. "I tried to call you several times today—"

"We were out working the lines."

Lucy's expression turned wry. "So I heard, from just about everyone at the Redemption. No one was happy about you taking a newcomer out."

Kaz shrugged.

"The chief got Judge Banks on his cell phone," Lucy explained quietly. "Banks was out elk hunting and was reluctant to issue a warrant over the phone, but after Sykes told him about the blood on the tire iron matching Ken's, he didn't really have much choice."