Red Tide (Siren Publishing Classic) (9 page)

She finished her ice cream and headed for the bedroom.

Mitch turned on the bedside lamp and stretched out with the paper. Her ritual was comics first, then the Pasco section, then everything else. On page one blared the headline,
Dead Prostitute May Be Victim of Serial Killer
. The story continued on page seven, and she looked at the names and photos of the other victims.

I’m glad I don’t live in Tampa anymore.

Later, as she drifted off to sleep, she thought back to the
Emmerand
. She was certain she had seen the vessel before and it still annoyed her that she couldn’t place it. It slipped out of her mind when sleep finally caught up with her.

Mitch did not sleep well that night. She awoke unrested. Tangled images of the man’s body beckoning to her from the salon of the
Emmerand
filled her dreams
.
When she swam into the cabin, toward him, the outer hatch would shut, leaving her trapped inside to drown with him. Her bedside clock said it was still thirty minutes until daybreak, but she knew her sleep was finished for the morning.

She let Pete out and made herself a cup of coffee, then turned the day’s activities over in her mind, setting her schedule around the morning’s errand. It was still too early to call Ron’s office to confirm the appointment. His secretary wouldn’t be in until nine, and Ron rarely, if ever, arrived before nine thirty. He manned the satellite office in New Port Richey, while Jack ran their main office in Tampa. When Ron was needed, he made the commute into Tampa for meetings or court appearances, but he preferred staying in Pasco. It allowed him the freedom to be more casual, like showing up for work in Banana Republic shorts, a tropical fish print shirt, and boat shoes without socks.

Mitch threw on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt and grabbed Pete’s leash. She didn’t jog religiously, by any means, but she managed to get out a couple of times a week. She found it especially helpful when she had a lot on her mind.

Downstairs, she whistled for Pete, who charged out of the stand of cattails that covered one corner of the property. She snapped the leash onto his collar and headed south along 595, keeping her pace light and easy while warming up. She turned onto the track that led up to the creek’s headspring. It was quiet and cool, the world enveloped in a slight damp, grey haze. The whip-poor-wills still sang, although their songs were winding down. Passing Bob Keith’s house, Mitch caught a whiff of night-blooming jasmine, and the dewy grass he’d mowed the evening before.

The dirt road muffled the sound of her footfalls. When she picked up the pace, Pete kept an easy lope beside her. Mitch tried to clear the weekend’s events from her mind while she dug into the rhythm of her strides, pushing herself harder, feeling the strain in her muscles. Nearing the spring, she returned to a light trot to catch her breath before turning around. She walked the last quarter mile back to the house, and when she returned it was almost eight o’clock and the day had turned hot and muggy. She fed Pete and grabbed a shower before climbing into the Bronco and heading for New Port Richey.

Southbound traffic on US 19 was a little heavy. It was almost nine thirty when she pulled up in front of Ron’s downtown office a couple of blocks south of Main Street. Before she stepped out of her Bronco, he pulled up next to her, complete in shorts, Guy Harvey T-shirt, Top-Sider deck shoes, and Ray-Ban sunglasses.

“Is that what all the powerhouse lawyers are wearing these days?” she asked.

He laughed and, briefcase in hand, held the front door for her. “No, it’s what all the comfortable ones wear. If I don’t need to be in a monkey suit, I don’t wear one.” Janice, his secretary, was sorting out faxes sent in over the weekend. She was like a second mother to him. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek as she handed him a sheaf of pink phone message slips.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he greeted her.

Janice smiled. “I heard you had an interesting weekend. How are you doing, Mitch?”

Mitch shrugged. “I’ve been better. I certainly wish the weekend had been a little more boring, though.”

Ron snorted. “A little?”

“Okay, a
lot
more boring.”

He led her into his office and fixed both of them a cup of coffee. Once they were seated, he grabbed a yellow legal pad and took notes. “Okay, how do you want to do this?” he asked.

“As painlessly as possible. I don’t want alimony or anything. He can have the Tampa house. I just want the WaveRunners and the stuff I’ve still got there. The Porsche is his, he can keep it.”

“This should be fairly easy to draw up. Do you think he’s going to give you a hard time about it?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. We haven’t been together in a over three years. I’m not out to soak him or anything. I don’t see any reason why he should object.”

Ron nodded. “We’ll cite irreconcilable differences. Florida’s a no-fault state, thank God. As long as he doesn’t contest anything, it should go right through with no problems. Give me a list of joint assets and what you want and what you want to let him have.” They talked for the next hour, Ron taking down all the information he needed for the filing. Once finished, they chatted for a few minutes.

“Have you talked to Ed yet?” he asked.

She stared. “About what?”

He snorted. “About this. I think he’d love to know that you’re getting rid of John for good. That, and about the other thing we discussed.”

“Ron, look.” She thought for a moment to pick her words carefully. “Ed and I are friends. I’ve known him most of my life, and yes, I do love him, but I don’t want to risk that friendship. We work well together, and I really don’t have any other family now that Mom and Dad are gone. I’m fine with the way things are.”

Ron leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Yes, but wouldn’t you like to see them go farther?”

She sighed. “I don’t think Ed wants that. I don’t want to put him in an uncomfortable position of having to turn me down. Frankly, I’d be mortified if that happened.”

“Mitch, you’re not listening to me. Ed is crazy about you. Any fool with half a brain can see that. I watched him this weekend, and the way he looks at you and acts around you, he’s got it bad for you.”

“If he wants to take things a step closer, he will. I’m not going to put him on the spot, Ron.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. He’ll be back from St. Pete in a little while with the injectors, and I want to help him put them in.” She stood and handed Ron the coffee mug. “How soon will this happen, and how much do I owe you?”

He walked her out to the Bronco. “Pro bono. Give me a week to get them drawn up and back to you for a signature. I’ll let you do the filing yourself, and you can pay the clerk’s fees.”

She hugged him. “You sure? You don’t have to do that.”

He smiled. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m just glad to see you untying the knot with that creep.”

Mitch headed back up US 19, stopping at the Publix in Bayonet Point to pick up something for lunch. She went to the house, changed her clothes and got Pete, then headed over to the boat. Ed already had the engine cover up and was organizing the tools. He smiled when she stepped onto the stern. “Whatcha got in the bag, dear?” he asked.

“Fried chicken for lunch.” She set the bag on the counter in the galley where Pete couldn’t reach it and helped Ed replace the injectors. They took a break about two hours later to eat, relaxing in the stern.

“Where’d you go this morning?” he asked her.

“I went to go see Ron.”

“About what?”

No reason not to tell him.“
I want to get the filing done and be finished with John. There’s no reason in the world to stay married to the man. I’ve been putting it off because I dread the contact with him, but it won’t get done if I don’t do it.” She studied his face and wished she could read his mind. Her stomach twisted. She knew he hated John, but would he take the opportunity to speak up and tell her what she wanted to hear? Would he make her day, or break her heart, with his reaction?

* * * *

An earthquake couldn’t have rocked Ed’s world any harder than that news. He successfully resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and plant a deep kiss on her lips. “I’m glad to see you get that done. It’s not good for you to be connected to him. Are you going to ask for anything?”

Mitch shook her head, her auburn ponytail bobbing. “Only what’s rightfully mine. Mainly the WaveRunners, stuff I’ve still got in the house, things like that. No alimony or anything, and he can do whatever he wants with the house. I don’t want it.”

He silently nodded, his mind racing. He felt radical changes approaching. Problem was, they weren’t close enough for him to tell if they were good or bad. With her divorced, his last, logical argument as to why he couldn’t approach her vaporized.

Oh, quit thinking like that. You’re nineteen years older than her. What would she want with you?

The summer heat felt hypnotic, and they had to force themselves back to work. Even the shade of the boat slip’s roof proved no help. Mitch eventually went home to get an electric fan for some relief. It was late afternoon before they finally finished everything they had to do, and they wearily closed the engine hatch and put the tools away. They were just cleaning up when Rick’s grey-and-black FMP Bronco pulled into the parking lot and stopped next to Ed’s truck. He ambled up to the slip.

He laughed. “Boy, looks like the two of you’ve been having fun today.”

Ed swabbed at a smudge of diesel oil on Mitch’s cheek. “Fuck you, Rick. Some of us have to do our own maintenance, you know.” Ed and Rick exchanged snide remarks ever since the FMP officer sheared a lower unit off one of the Johnsons on the back of his Boston Whaler a couple of years earlier while chasing a suspect. Ed and Mitch towed him back in, and Ed didn’t let him forget it.

Rick sat on the dock box. “My, my, touchy today, are we?” He smiled. “Just thought I’d let you know, they found out that guy’s real name. Julio Barres, from Miami. Had rap sheets long as your arm in all the aliases, but never anything as big-time as this. They’re still not sure that maybe someone else was on the boat with him before it sank, but they don’t know and aren’t going to worry about it unless a body turns up. They haven’t tracked down the owner yet.” Rick had spent a few years in the DEA before changing tracks, but he still had a few friends in low places, so to speak.

“Did the Coast Guard figure out why the
Emmerand
sank?” Mitch asked as she scrubbed the grime off her hands in the wash sink.

“It looks like somewhere along the line she hit something pretty hard and bashed the props which bent the shafts—”

“Which made the packing come loose,” Mitch finished. “That’s what I figured.”

“Bingo. That’s the only explanation they can come up with, so they’re going with it.”

Ed perched on the gunwale. “He wasn’t the owner?”

Rick shook his head. “No, the real owner is a Caymanian trust called Tropical Holdings. Being in the Caymans, it’s most likely a front to launder money. Problem is, it’s damn near impossible to get through the legal red tape to find out if there are any flesh-and-blood people actually traceable to the boat. Many times, it’s a web of trust after trust after offshore corporation, that’s owned by another trust. When you finally figure out where the chain begins, the people are usually fictitious or dead.”

“Let me guess,” Ed interrupted, “with a trust handling the affairs of the estate.”

“Exactly.”

Mitch piped up. “So with the Caymanian driver’s license, it’s logical to assume that if he wasn’t a trustee, he at least had access to its different holdings.”

He nodded. “That might be true. And for all we know, that could include condos, more boats, companies here and abroad, etc., etc.”

Ed laughed. “Do you think this guy was really smart enough to pull all of that off?”

“The official story is yes. Realistically, they don’t want to touch this. It’s not like there’s a clear-cut South American connection they can go after. There’s nothing to follow up on this guy. When DEA went to his apartment in Miami, it was cleaned out. Nothing left but the furniture. Someone doesn’t want this guy traced back to them in a big way, but there’s nothing to go on right now.” He chuckled. “Are the press still hounding you?”

Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. They haven’t come out here today, and I haven’t checked the machine yet for messages. I hope they stay away.”

Rick glanced at his watch and stood up. “Oops, I’ve gotta run. I told the wife I’d take her to Outback for dinner tonight. See you later.” They watched him return to his Bronco and pull out of the shell parking lot in a cloud of white dust.

Mitch sighed. “Speaking of dinner, why don’t we call it a day?”

Ed grinned. “I’ve got a couple of steaks I put out to defrost this morning. I’ll bring ’em over and fire up the grill.”

She smiled in return. “That would be great.” They finished cleaning up and secured the boat. Ed left for home in his truck. He lived on the north side of Aripeka, out on the west side of the road in a tall, sturdy stilt house overlooking a vast expanse of saw grass flats that gave way to the Gulf. She lived on the south side of Aripeka, but on the creek, on a point that faced the cypress wetlands to the east.