houses on the horizontal bar at the top of the T. These were the lakefront houses and Fowler’s was at the south end, cut off from his neighbors by a row of evergreens grown to privacy heights.
There were no streetlights and all of the houses were dark, late February not a popular time at the lake. The houses were spread apart, divided by mature stands of trees.
Like the others, Fowler’s house was dark on the front, though they could see a glimmer of light through the front windows coming from the back of the house. The sedan and the minivan were parked in the driveway. The hoods of the cars were still warm, as was the hood of an SUV that was parked in front of the house next to Fowler’s. Back in the car, Blues studied the GPS screen.
“There,” he said. “The next road over is M. Let’s hope somebody left their boat in the water.”
M Street was laid out in the same fashion, the houses blacked out. There were no cars on the street or in the unattached carports. Blues picked the empty carport for the house at the top of the T, giving him a straight shot to Keystone. He backed in, unscrewed the bulb in the car dome light, and grabbed his night vision binoculars.
The yard behind the house was deep and wide open before reaching a forested tree line and sloping gently down to the water. Wooden stairs had been cut through the trees, leading to a dock where they found an aluminum fishing boat with its motor lifted out of the water.
“Just what we’re looking for,” Blues said. “Won’t be too noisy or noticeable. No running lights either. That’s even better.”
“The god of the slippery slope is smiling on us,” Mason said.
“Hey. No one is making you do this but you. I could be home with my feet up watching SportsCenter, you just say the word.”
Mason took a deep breath. “You’ll be the first to know. Let’s go.”
Blues kept the boat quiet, revving the engine barely above trolling speed. They crossed to the east side of the lake before turning north, hugging the eastern shore until they were directly across from Fowler’s house. A light was on inside the room adjoining the deck, probably the den or kitchen, Mason guessed. The light was bright enough that they could make out the shapes of people standing on the unlighted deck.
“How far away are we?” Mason asked Blues when they cut the engine.
“Five hundred yards, give or take,” Blues answered, studying the deck through the binoculars. “Looks like a party. Kelly and Brewer are there. I don’t recognize the others.”
“What’s Fowler’s phone number?” Mason asked, opening his cell phone.
“You sure you want to call right now? What if Fowler has caller ID? What are you going to say after you say hello?”
“You’re right. Give me the glasses.”
He adjusted the focus, capturing Kelly, Brewer, and Al Webb huddled at the deck rail. Even in the green glow of the night vision, there was no mistaking them. He swept the deck to see who else was there. The driver of the sedan stared back at him through his own binoculars, which he quickly lowered, rushing to Webb’s side and pointing at the boat across the water. Webb snatched the glasses from him and looked for himself.
“Shit!” Mason said, ducking into the bottom of the boat. “We’re busted. Get the hell out of here!”
They’d been seen, though there was no way to know if they’d been recognized, the distance and darkness in their favor. Blues started the engine and flattened himself against the seat, steering with one hand while watching the bow rise as the boat picked up speed.
The shape of the lake worked against them. Webb had a perfect view of their escape. If they cut back across the lake to M Street, he would know where to find them and would probably get there before they did. If they continued on their present course, they would have to get out on the east side of the lake with no way to get back to the west side and their car other than a walk that would take the rest of the night. He made his choice, angling the boat hard toward M Street.
Mason tied the boat to the dock and followed Blues to the line of trees at the edge of the backyard. They listened for the sounds of another car or anything else that didn’t belong on a deserted street but heard nothing.
“Be quick but don’t hurry,” Blues told Mason, pointing toward the car.
They cracked the doors and slid in, closing them as quietly as German engineering made possible. Blues started the ignition, keeping the headlights off, just as a car skidded to a stop at the entrance to the street, blocking their exit. The bodyguards from the Galaxy Hotel got out carrying guns. They signaled to each other, pointing at the BMW, the only other car on the deserted block. The added shadow of the carport made it impossible for them to see Blues and Mason inside the car, though the engine was running.
The brick wall and split-rail fence bordering the entrance to the street, together with the car parked in the intersection, had Blues and Mason bottled up. The fence was the obstacle of least resistance, though the odds were good that they would be shot before they got that far. They would be even easier targets if they tried to escape on foot.
“I don’t suppose BMW equips these cars with guns,” Mason said.
“Nope,” Blues said. “Should have brought my pickup. Got a nice shotgun on the rack be the perfect equalizer for these boys.”
“Any ideas?”
“Ever play bodyguard pinball? Car doors make great flippers. When we get close enough, I’ll floor it. Stay down and be ready.”
When the bodyguards reached the end of the driveway, Blues shifted into drive, letting the BMW roll out of the carport. The bodyguards took aim and inched forward, lined up so that they would be on each side of the car as it passed.
In the same instant Blues stomped on the accelerator and hit the high beams, blinding the bodyguards. Mason and Blues flung the car doors open as they sped past, catapulting both bodyguards into the air before they could fire a shot.
Blues jammed on the brakes and they got out. Neither bodyguard was conscious, though both were breathing. Blues picked up their guns and their wallets, taking their driver’s licenses. He ran back to the lake and threw their guns into the water. When he came back, he handed Mason their driver’s licenses.
“These names mean anything to you?” he asked Mason.
The one who had worked Mason over at the hotel and picked up Fish’s coat was Bud Tenet; his partner was Frank Naughton.
“No, but with the phony IDs in this case, these probably aren’t the names their mamas gave them.”
Mason rifled their pockets until he found the keys to their car and a cell phone. Blues parked their car alongside them while Mason used their cell phone to call 911 and report that there were two drunks passed out on M Street.
They passed the Lake Lotawana police station as a cruiser pulled out, siren sounding and lights flashing, an ambulance right behind it. They were northbound on Highway 71 when Mason’s cell phone rang. It was Kelly Holt.
“How was dinner?” she asked.
“Nice and quiet.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Really?”
“Really. See you tomorrow,” she said.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Blues parked the BMW behind the bar, avoiding potholes as if he had radar. Driving back, they had dissected the possible explanations for what they’d witnessed. Both Kelly and Brewer could be dirty or both could be working undercover; or, only one of them may be on the take while the other was trying to bring him or her, and Webb, down. They exhausted the evidence and gave up, declaring themselves a hung jury of two. The only verdict they reached was that they couldn’t trust either one of them.
“So what about Fish?” Blues asked. “Why did Rockley’s killer dump the body in the trunk of his car?”
