A Killing Tide (21 page)

He sipped his coffee, seemingly content to watch her. "Where's Zeke?"

"In my bed," she answered between mouthfuls of food. She shot him a dark look. "Your dog has as much nerve as you do."

One side of his mouth quirked.

"Hey." She pointed her fork at him, irritated. "I didn't ask you or your dog to invade my life. And I sure as hell didn't ask you to stop by and fix me breakfast, or to—to—"

"Show you what you might've been missing all these years?" At her snort, he grinned. "Have you forgotten? I'm going out with you this morning."

She hadn't forgotten. Just what she needed—hours of nerve-wracking work in close quarters with a man whose very presence had her on pins and needles.

"What about Zeke? You can't bring him with you."

"The guys at the station agreed to babysit him. As soon as we drop him off, we're good to go."

Just great. It was going to be a long day.

#

With Michael's help, Kaz had the crab pots loaded on board the
Kasmira B,
the diesel engines warmed up, and the routine check completed in little more than a half hour. She put the trawler in reverse and backed away from the dock while Michael cast off the lines and pulled in the rubber bumpers that protected the trawler from damage when she was moored. Kaz steered toward the fuel pumps and pulled alongside.

While the computerized pump verified her credit card, a new thought occurred to her. If she were looking for the perfect place to hide something, she knew right where she'd put it. And Gary and she thought uncannily alike—at least, they always had in the past.

She handed the fuel nozzle to Michael and leapt onto the dock. "I'll be back in five. Once the tanks are topped off, go below and change. Use Gary's long johns, the cotton and wool socks, the float coat, and the fur-lined gloves."

Climbing the ramp up to the wharf, she jogged along the east side of it back toward land. Off to her left stood a warehouse containing cold storage units used by the fishermen. She and Gary kept their own unit, using it to hold halibut and tuna until they could negotiate a favorable price.

She fished the key out of her front jeans pocket, unlocked the padlock on the steel door, then yanked on the heavy handle. After checking to make sure the soles of her shoes were dry so that she wouldn't stick to the icy floor, she stepped inside. The cooler was essentially a large freezer with steel walls and a concrete floor, and it was kept precisely at zero degrees Fahrenheit, the optimum temperature for storing frozen fish. Overhead, the compressor hummed loudly, doing its job. On her right, a stack of large tuna lay in a slatted, wooden tray, cleaned and ready for market.

She closed her eyes.
Please, God, let me be wrong.
Because if she weren't, then she would have to admit that Gary was deeply involved in what was going on.

Despite the unnatural chill inside the cooler, she rubbed sweaty palms against her jeans, then forced herself to walk over to the frozen fish. Flipping the top one over, she used both hands to pry the frozen flesh of its belly apart. Inside, she found what she'd been hoping she wouldn't—what someone was so frantically looking for. Carefully wrapped packets of hundred-dollar bills.

Lots and lots of packets.

With shaking hands, she threw that fish aside, then checked the others, several dozen tuna in all. They were all stuffed with money.

She repacked the last tuna and backed away, one hand pressed over her mouth.
Oh God oh God oh God.
She was staring at what had to be several hundred thousand dollars. Gary obviously knew about the money. Had he had it all along and not told her? Was he really tracking down the killer, or was he in on it?

"Everything all right?"

She whirled around.

Michael stood in the doorway.

She swallowed, nodded, and walked toward him. "I thought Gary might've left some extra pots in here, that's all. Let's go. We're going to miss the tide."

He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, blocking her exit. Hands in his pockets, he studied her with that pale, knowledgeable gaze of his, his expression as cool as the dawn air. She held her breath.

Then he shifted to one side to let her past. Had she imagined the flash of disappointment in his eyes? "Whatever you say, boss." His smile held no humor.

~~~~

Chapter 17

She was lying.

Michael stood in the galley, warming his hands on the oil stove and staring out a portal on the starboard side of the boat. He was eye-level with the surface of the Columbia, which was an odd perspective. The water, which looked smoother from a distance, bounced and lapped past the glass, in concert with the dipping and rocking of the boat. Now and again, a cormorant would float by, startled into flight by Michael's close proximity. In the distance, barely visible through the top half of the small window, he could see forested hills and sand-colored cliffs.

They'd passed through banks of fog, short but fierce rainsqualls, and the occasional bit of sleet. But he wasn't focused on the weather they'd be battling to lift the pots. He was thinking about Kaz and what could have made her face drain of all color in that storage unit.

Something had rattled her. But whatever it was, she wasn't talking. She'd shut herself inside the wheelhouse and hadn't said a word to him since they'd headed out.

He understood he was the newcomer, but dammit, he'd hoped that she was feeling at least some of what he was. They had something special—he
wasn't
imagining it.

Okay, to be honest, he had to ask himself whether, if he were in her position, he would confide in the investigator on the case. And admittedly, it was a tough call. She had to know that as fire chief, he had the authority to arrest her brother. So he probably needed to cut her some slack.

The arson case felt hinky, the murder investigation was full of inconsistencies, and the town fairly oozed with secrets. Add to that his steadily growing, very bad feeling that she was in danger.

To hell with it.
Tossing the rest of his cooling coffee into the small galley sink, he filled a mug for her from the thermos and headed upstairs to the wheelhouse to confront her. She had her back to him, consulting the navigational charts that covered the walls. The radio chattered intermittently but was still mostly quiet—they were one of the first boats out.

She jumped a little when he reached around in front of her, the coffee mug in his hand. When she glanced his way, he noted that she was still pale, and that there were deep lines of strain bracketing her mouth.

"Thanks," she said, taking the coffee from him but not meeting his gaze.

He smiled grimly. He had to be six kinds of fool to take this woman on. "Time's up. Tell me what's got you so spooked," he demanded.

She stiffened. "That's exactly what I told the fishermen yesterday," she replied. "Didn't do
me
any good, either."

"Yeah, but if you don't level with me, I'll toss your body overboard to feed the sharks."

"Nothing much in these waters except a few great whites. I'll take my chances."

He grunted. "I am
not
amused." When he reached out to grip her shoulder, it was rigid. "Trust me," he urged.

She turned and searched his face as if she were looking for some kind of reassurance. He waited. Then she lifted a hand in a 'what the hell' gesture, releasing a strained laugh. "I think I've got the 'what-everyone's-looking-for' angle figured out."

As she described what she'd found, Michael felt cold dread settle deep inside him. "That's the kind of money that motivates people to commit murder."

"Yeah."

"Who has keys to the cold storage unit?"

"The guy who owns the warehouse, Gary, and me," she said, her reluctance to answer clear.

"Any chance the owner is dirty?"

"It's possible," she replied, then added reluctantly, "but it doesn't make much sense, does it? Why use someone's locker and risk discovery?"

Michael nodded, waiting while she checked their bearing and adjusted the heading slightly. "You realize this means that your brother is in this right up to his neck."

She stared at the distant horizon, her lips pressed together. "Yes," she said finally. "Though we probably disagree as to his motive. I've been thinking about it, and I believe that Gary found out whatever Ken was into and was trying to extricate him. And maybe that meant helping him hide the money."

The idea had some merit. Michael wondered again whether Gary was being framed. But that didn't explain the money in the locker—no one had access to it.

The trawler began to rock as they neared the breakers, and Michael planted his feet more widely. "What else haven't you told me?"

"Nothing important," she said, too quickly.

"Right," he said, letting the sarcasm bleed through. He ran a hand through his hair, still angry.

She glanced over her shoulder, her expression was pleading. "Look, let's listen to the radio while we lift the pots, then take it from there. Deal?"

"When we get back to port," he ordered, "you're handing the money over to your pal Lucy. And you don't make a move without me—I just became your round-the-clock shadow." She started to protest, and he reached out with both hands, yanking her around to face him.
"No.
You don't get a choice on this one. I'm not letting another person I care about die on my watch. You got that?"

"Don't confuse me with your fiancée," she shot back. "I don't need your protection."

His tone turned hard with anger, his hands gripping harder. "If I have to, I'll have Sykes confine you. I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige."

She paled. "You wouldn't."

"Cooperate, or you're about to see."

She jerked out of his grip. "We're about ten minutes away from the bar. You should get below."

"I'm staying right here."

Their gazes clashed. She was the first to look away, turning her back to him. "Then shut the door. I don't want to be standing in a foot of water while I navigate."

#

Fifteen minutes later, the coffee Michael had ingested was threatening to make the rest of his day miserable. Huge waves were coming at the trawler from all directions, and remaining on his feet was impossible unless he braced himself against the wall and hung onto the equipment console. In all his summers of crabbing back East, he'd never been this close to being puking.

Kaz stood, feet braced with both hands on the wheel, for all outward appearances cool and calm in the face of what was sheer insanity. But her eyes moved continually—from landmarks, when they were visible, to the navigational maps, and then to her equipment.

He wasn't merely impressed, he was in awe, his respect for her skills having increased ten-fold in just the last five minutes. He knew the Columbia River bar was the most treacherous stretch of water in the Lower Forty-Eight, but until he'd experienced it, he'd had no clue. Waves battered them relentlessly, crashing over the trawler in a crazy jigsaw pattern, tossing the boat about like a toy. A person had to be crazy as a loon to tackle this every day. No wonder she wasn't worried about the occasional intruder in her home—the guy would have to be armed with an Uzi to make her even break out in a sweat.

"You do this every day," he said, breaking the tense silence that still remained between them.

"Most days, yeah." Her response was absent-minded. "This is pretty calm today."

He nearly laughed out loud. The swells were over ten feet. And how long would it take the trawler to break apart if she made a mistake? No more than a few minutes, max. He couldn't even think about what it must've been like for her that night fifteen years ago. He fought down the urge to demand that she turn around and take them back to port where she'd be safe—to demand that she never do this again. To tell her that he couldn't handle it if she went out and never came back. "You need counseling," he said instead.

She shot a quick grin at him. "Nah. I had counseling, right after the shipwreck. It didn't stick."

He shook his head.

She gestured at the horizon with one hand. "This is all part of a tradition—going back, for most of us, at least three generations. I may have left this life behind, and I may have had some bad experiences out here, but I'm discovering that it's still a part of who I am."

He couldn't deny what she was saying—his brothers who fished back East felt the same way. They faced harsh conditions, but nothing like this. "Why not dock the trawler somewhere farther down the coast?"

"All the good mooring basins have river bars." She paused to listen to the radio for a minute, then continued, "Other than the fish processing in Coos Bay, the buyers are all right here in Astoria. The river bar is an inconvenience—" she rolled her eyes at the understatement—"but it's a fact of life."

"And death."

"Yeah." She pushed the trawler up and over another vertical wall of water. "Gary has always said that you have to be lucky, each and every day you're out here. Because if you aren't, all the skill in the world won't make any difference."