Secrets Don't Sink, page 29
I pouted for a full minute, feeling defensive. The worst part was even though his words stung, they rang true.
“You’re right. I know you’re right.”
“None of that matters right now. The only thing that matters is finding your sister.”
“We should start at Nautilus. Even if they aren’t there, they might have told someone where they were going.”
A bouncer and red velvet rope were the only barriers between Nautilus’s heavy ornate oak doors and about a dozen millennials trying to enter the club for open mic slam poetry. The large bald man checking IDs smiled at us as we approached. His tough exterior was used for intimidation when needed, but in my experience, he was a big teddy bear.
“Holden! Audrey! Fancy seeing you two here together.”
“Hey, Sam. We’re looking for Viv. Have you seen her?” My teeth chattered.
“Sure did. She was here until about a half hour or forty-five minutes ago, something like that. Left with a friend.” His smirk and raised eyebrow said everything.
“Would that friend be Lacey Kimball?” I asked.
“Why yes, yes it would.” His round face split into a wide smile, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. “I think they’d already had a drink or two. They were pretty giggly.”
Imagining a giggling Kimball was difficult. Prior to that night, I’d never have imagined her a cold-blooded killer, either.
Holden flopped his arm around my shoulder. “We were hoping to catch ‘em for a drink. Any clue which way they were headed?”
Sam scrunched his face. “I wasn’t payin’ too much attention. I think they went that way.” He pointed across the street.
“The marina,” I murmured into Holden’s neck.
“Sounds like we should go check it out, then. Thanks, man.”
The two men performed some sort of slap/grip/fist bump routine instead of a handshake.
Holden grabbed my left hand and looked both ways. We jogged across the street, a cumbersome task with my boot bringing up the rear. The frigid air created such stiffness in my back I feared a strong shiver might shatter me like an ice sculpture.
“Kimball’s got a liveaboard sailboat in the marina,” I said. “She told me Anderson is moored in a slip near hers.”
“Stay here, Audrey.” Holden’s voice was firm. “The last thing we need is you in all your graceful glory, stumbling around on a sailboat with a killer. Besides, I know this isn’t your favorite place.”
I stopped, yanking him backwards. “Uh, no, I’m going with you.”
“Audrey.” He gave an impatient sigh. Worry clouded his expression. “You’re more a liability than an asset. No offense, but even if you didn’t have a debilitating fear of water and a propensity for injuring yourself, which you verifiably do, clunking that boot down the dock will not make for a stealthy approach.”
I didn’t like that he was right. Fear, common sense, and my compulsive need to rescue my sister were at a standoff. Holden cast the deciding vote with another order to stay put. I watched his shadow descend to dock B, maneuvering the gangplank as furtively a man of his bulk was able.
I texted Darren an update and put my phone in my pocket before drawing my jacket closed to buffer against the cold marine air. My nose stung from the biting wind, winter’s last gasp. Rubbing my arms to create friction for warmth and to give my hands something to do, my head whipped back and forth between the area where Holden had disappeared into the inky blackness and the street in front of Nautilus where Darren was supposed to appear at any moment.
With each passing car, my fear grew, and my heart raced faster until eventually anxiety and restlessness got the best of me. I pulled out my phone.
“Hello?”
“Mildred, it’s Audrey. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“That’s okay, dear. Are you alright?”
“Not really. Do you remember our conversation about Mayor King and his cousin Andy?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“I need to know anything else about them that you can remember. Anything at all might help.”
“Audrey, you’re frightening me.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just that my sister’s life is at stake.”
“Oh, my. Well, let me see. The King and Kimball families moved to Chattertowne from Los Angeles in the nineteen sixties. Harold and Andy were still young enough to be babysat, which I did on occasion when their grandmother was out of town. She split her time between California and Washington because her sons lived in Los Angeles and her daughters were here.”
“Were you friends?”
Mildred paused. “She wasn’t the warmest of women, and that’s putting it kindly. No, Lottie Whelan and I were not friends.”
“Mildred, I gotta go!”
I hung up the phone and contemplated my strategy on how to get to my sister, because I wasn’t leaving her with the mafia princess for one minute longer.
Hopping down the dock would create a ruckus like a herd of kangaroos. If I dragged my boot, it would scrape across the grate like fingernails on a chalkboard. I settled on a vaulting motion, hoping I could travel more ground with fewer steps without also flinging myself into the water.
The din of the club quieted the further I got from the street. The marina light posts put forth a dim glow through the fog, just enough to see a few feet in front of me. The gangplank’s grated metal teeth provided much-needed traction, since fog had dampened its surface, and my ability to stay upright under even the best circumstances was a crapshoot.
The water was still and dark. A wave of anxious nausea passed over me. I forced myself to pretend it was solid ground. I ignored the whisper of Danger! inside my mind, which grew louder with each step. The only thing that kept me moving was my determination to rescue my sister.
Most of the vessels were buttoned up for the winter. Up ahead, however, bits of conversation and a beam of light spilled onto the dock from one of the boats.
I figured the deepest voice had to be Holden, although Kimball’s wasn’t much higher.
There was no third voice.
I paused next to a white boat with navy-blue writing: Peg’s Castaway. The rear entrance of the cabin cruiser was dim except for the glow of a table lamp. A figure passed in front of the light. The door slid open, and Anderson’s familiar voice called out through the shadows.
“Audrey? Is that you?” He wasn’t yelling, but he also wasn’t quiet.
“Shh.”
I climbed down to his swim platform.
“Mr. Anderson,” I whispered. “I need your help, but we’ve got to be quiet.”
The sound of a door sliding open caused me to duck onto my haunches, a position becoming quite familiar.
A throaty female voice called out, “Hey, Nick, how’s it going? Everything okay?”
“Sure thing, Lacey. How’s your night been? You up for a whisky?”
“I’ve got company. Thanks, though. Hope we aren’t keeping you up.”
“Oh no, I came out to catch some fresh air before bed. Early riser, you know. Another time, then,” he bellowed.
“You got it.” Kimball’s disembodied voice sounded strange, skipping across the water.
I stared at Anderson, waiting for the all-clear signal.
“She’s gone. Is this about your sister?”
“How’d you know?” I used a handle on the back of the boat to pull myself into a standing position.
“Well, I’ve seen her around here a few times recently. I hope you’re not trying to break them up. Everyone deserves love and happiness, Audrey. In whichever form it takes.”
“I’m not spying because of that. It’s because Kimball murdered Marcus Washburn!”
His face twisted with shock and disbelief. He crooked his head and squinted at me. “What’re you talking about? Kimball’s been a cop for over fifteen years. Her dad used to be Chief of Police. Her uncle was Mayor. She comes from a long legacy of public servants, men of renown in this city.”
“Actually, Mayor King and Chief Andy are cousins which makes Mayor King her, uh, second cousin. No, first cousin, once removed. Something like that. Not that it matters. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She comes from a long legacy, all right, a legacy of corruption and murder. King and Kimball allowed the Port of Chattertowne to be used for smuggling because they’re related to the Whelan crime family out of Los Angeles.”
“Whoa.”
“I believe they offed Jimmy, or at least had someone take him out so he couldn’t testify against them, and that King and Kimball are still overseeing the local operation with Lacey as their inside man, er, woman. Holden’s trying to get Viv off Kimball’s boat so when the FBI shows up–”
“FBI! The FBI is involved?”
I eyed him with skepticism. “Darren Benson’s an FBI agent. You didn’t know that?”
“How in the hell would I know that? He presented himself as an overqualified finance expert looking to decompress from the frenzy of corporate America following his mother’s untimely death. That’s the story he sold me, and dangnabbit, I bought it.” He grimaced.
“None of us knew. Well, I knew something was off. I didn’t know it was that…or the fact he’s my cousin.”
My loaded remark elicited the expected stunned expression, but I didn’t have time or inclination to explain.
“Speaking of Darren, he’s on his way here,” I said. “In the meantime, I’m gonna see if I can get closer to the boat to figure out what’s happening and why Holden hasn’t gotten Viv out of there yet. Will you text Darren the slip number and location of Kimball’s boat?” Grabbing a cleat drilled into a wood beam, I hoisted myself up and flopped onto the dock like a flounder.
“Audrey, don’t do this. You should go home and let the police handle it. Honestly, I can’t even believe you’re out here, what with your phobia—”
“It’s a little late for that now,” I hissed. “You sent me down here to pay your slip rental the day Marcus was killed, which is when I saw Peter, which is why I had to give a statement to Kimball, which is how she got connected to Viv, who is currently being held captive on her boat. I gotta go. Let Darren know what’s happening. Please.”
Still on my hands and knees, crawling seemed as viable an option as any, despite the rough, splintery planks. My fingers were numb from cold and full of wooden slivers, but I persisted, undeterred, for my sister’s sake…and Holden’s.
My final approach to the boat was made slithering on my belly. Water lapped against the pylons below, and a bolt of fear ran through me. I peeked over the edge.
The sliding glass cabin door was ajar. Holden leaned against a counter inside, arms hugging his broad chest. His casual air and lack of urgency confused me, and I began to wonder if he might be more involved than I previously thought.
As I contemplated my next move, I was startled by a squawk above me. Two seagulls circled overhead. One of the birds dive-bombed mere feet from me, his target a white paper bag with blue and white checks. The words “Chuck’s Chowder Grotto” were printed in blue across the middle. He swooped away, and his buddy made a play for the bounty.
I was a frequent customer of Chuck’s and friends with the owner, Dave. He’d named it for his favorite former Seahawks coach, Chuck Knox. Considering Chuck’s had the best chowder in town, it was no wonder the gulls were going nuts over what might be inside the discarded bag.
This was, however, an unfortunate turn of events and hampered my ability to remain unnoticed.
I waved my arm to shoo them away, and in return, they seemed to think I was playing a game. One of the gulls did a screeching fly-by. With one hand covering my hair and the other swatting wildly, my activity caught Holden’s attention. He made a casual glance in my direction, followed by a double take. Even in the dark, his eye roll was visible. He looked annoyed but also like he was struggling not to laugh at the mayhem of the scene out on the dock.
Kimball’s voice rumbled with unintelligible murmurs. Holden stepped in front of the gap, blocking me from her sightline. I found this a reassuring sign he was still on my side and that I could trust him…in the current situation, at least.
Why hadn’t he overpowered Kimball and dragged Vivienne out? And where was Darren?
A ruckus in the cabin was followed by breaking glass. Holden was no longer visible in the doorway.
On the right side of the slip was a dock box for storage of extra life vests, cleaning supplies, and maintenance items. I considered opening the lid and crawling inside, but not wanting to encounter spiders or rats, I instead postured myself behind it. Cobwebs blew into my face and mouth.
The cabin door slid fully open, and Kimball staggered out with a gash on her forehead. She grabbed a side rail for support, and she seemed winded and distressed. Her left hand held herself steady while her right swiped at her brow. She winced and held out her fingers for inspection. They were covered in dark liquid.
There was no movement or noise coming from within the boat, and there was still no sign of Darren. I was the last line of defense. If Kimball escaped before Darren showed up, she could disappear forever.
A rope ladder hung from the left dock. Kimball grunted with each grasp of the next rung, leaving marks as she went. In the pitch-blackness of the late-winter’s night, with no moon to cast its glow upon the scene there was no red or blue or purple, but I knew it was blood.
Kimball reached the platform and began her getaway. She ambled in my direction. Her galloping footsteps vibrated the dock.
I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs, and thrust my boot into her path. Her fulsome backside lurched forward, and the toe lip of her thick-soled Doc Martens boots caught on a metal cleat.
With no railing to stop her, she disappeared over the edge. The hollow thump of some portion of her body hitting wood was accompanied by a yelp followed by a splashing plop.
I pulled myself with my forearms, and my stomach dragged across the rough-hewn planks. An aggressive lunge pitched me too far forward, causing me to roll onto my back like a pill bug with feet in the air.
Of course, it was at that very moment Holden appeared, towering over me. His expression was a mix of amusement and concern.
Darren ran the gangplank toward us. “Where are they?”
Behind him were five men in windbreakers with gleaming yellow FBI logos printed on the left side.
“Where’s Kimball?”
Still lying on my back, I pointed over my head in the direction of Kimball’s launch. The men rushed over. Two of them jumped onto the platform below, and judging by the spray hitting my face, one jumped into the water. Darren, Holden, and the other two agents looked on while they attempted to locate Kimball.
“Got her!”
Everyone scrambled to help lift her onto the dock. Everyone except me. I wasn’t worried about Kimball. I couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died. All I cared about was finding my sister.
Chapter Thirty-Six
While the crowd, including Anderson, hovered over Kimball’s wet, grayed face, one of them, a tall thin man with a bald spot and a goatee, performed CPR and mouth-to-mouth.
My ankle throbbed inside my boot. Tripping Kimball had been one stress too many.
I remained determined to get to Vivienne. Using the dock box for leverage, I grabbed the handle and drew upon what little upper body strength I possessed to maneuver into a semi-upright position. Hunched over, I hobbled over to Kimball’s ladder.
The boat listed away from the dock. One of the mooring ropes was untied.
Holden spotted me and jogged over.
“Audrey, what are you doing? You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
He reached for me, but I swatted at his hand.
“I have to help Vivienne.”
Gripping the cleat, I slid my left leg onto the first rung. My booted right foot slipped. I swung around, hanging two feet above the aft of the sailboat.
Holden dropped to his stomach, grabbed my right hand, and clasped the left, which still had a shaky hold on the cleat.
“If you aren’t the most obstinate woman I have ever—” He gently lowered me onto the boat.
I stumbled backward into the giant steering wheel.
My first thought was that the sailboat should’ve been a clue to anyone who’d visited that something didn’t add up about Kimball’s life. Somehow, Anderson had spent several evenings downing cocktails on the beautiful teak deck with its shiny brass railings but had never suspected she was on the take.
I slid the door open to go inside. Holden landed on the platform behind me with a thump.
“Audrey, wait.”
I ignored him.
The interior was even more luxurious, with striped teak flooring, teak cabinets, tables, and molding surround. Cobalt teardrop lampshades, gray paisley pillows, and velvet cushions made the seating area both elegant and comfortable. White wainscoted walls sported glossy teak railings, which led into the galley. Amidst the refined and tidy style was evidence of a struggle: remnants of a broken lamp, a crystal glass knocked over with its contents pooled on the table next to it, a dining chair upside down.
Down the hall was a door which I assumed led to the bedroom. I tentatively turned the knob, filled with trepidation about what I might find.
Vivienne lay on the round bed, her cheeks pink in contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes were closed but fluttering.
Holden came in behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders.
“How can she sleep through all this chaos?” I whispered.
“She’s sedated. When I got here, she was already unconscious, and Lacey was preparing to set sail. I assumed she knew about my association with Whelan even though I hadn’t known about hers, so I bluffed. I told her he’d contacted me and wanted us to come up with a plan because the FBI was onto her about killing Marcus. She was rattled by my accusation but didn’t deny it. She mumbled something about her father, Whelan being her cousin, and did I understand what family pressure was like? When I asked what was wrong with Viv, she told me to mind my own business. I pressed her further, and she told me Viv played your voicemail over speakerphone. Kimball got spooked.”
