device.
Twenty feet away, the yacht was on fire. When the tanks had gone up, they'd taken the minder with them, not to mention a good portion of the deck and cabin. Cain spied a bikini-clad figure leaping from the boat into the water. Another figure hobbled down the steps onto the pier, a white patch on the side of his head. Even from here, Cain could tell it was the remaining Latino.
Of the remaining minder and Carson, there was no sign. Perhaps the Latino had turned his gun on them before making his escape. But Carson appeared, staggered to the railing, and fired a handgun at the limping Latino trying to escape. His aim was useless, and the Latino made it to the shelter of a second boat. The Latino proved a better shot, firing back at Carson three times in quick succession. Carson folded, somersaulted over the rail, and sprawled facefirst on the boardwalk. Didn't look like he'd be getting up again.
Cain paid them no further heed. He kicked with his feet, trawling Telfer and his precious cargo backward. They'd just made it to the ladder of a yacht about a hundred feet away when the air turned inferno hot around them. Cain held Telfer down, following him beneath the water as Carson's yacht erupted in a churning fireball that scattered steaming chunks of metal and wood across the harbor.
31
'you've gotta be yankin' my goddamn chain.' Rink was standing with his knuckles on the hood of Cheryl Barker's squad car. His bowed head emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, equally emphasizing his dismay.
I wasn't feeling much better. I was thinking much the same thing as he was.
We'd both caught the TV news earlier.
A man with a hangdog expression related the disaster that had struck an exclusive yachting club only minutes earlier. The camera cut from the studio to an on-scene reporter who was standing amid crowds of stunned onlookers as a huge pall of black smoke breached the heavens behind them. I'd grimaced at the screen. The world was full of doom and gloom. Even, I'd decided, in exclusive rich men's playgrounds like Marina del Rey.
Uninterested, I'd switched channels. Then we'd driven out here to meet with Cheryl Barker.
We were parked on the ridge of a shale embankment at the head of a valley in which we could glimpse the roofs of houses amid lush greenery. Palms and peppertrees dominated. Birds called and flapped in the skies above us.
Cheryl had chosen this place for an impromptu meeting simply because it was a halfway point for us all. I could hear the disjointed chatter and squeals of children and guessed it was playtime at some park hidden in the trees. It was a surreal moment, us talking about death and destruction while dozens of kids laughed and whooped with delight below us.
Barker, an attractive woman with light freckles and short but unruly red hair, shook her head. 'I ain't the one yankin' chains, Jared. It's just come over the air. The fireball in Marina del Rey is down to your good buddy John Telfer.'
Rink glanced my way, and I lifted my shoulders in a noncommittal way. Since the nonsense I'd read on Harvey's computer, not to mention the subsequent newscasts I'd caught on TV and our rental car radio, it didn't surprise me that this latest atrocity was being laid at John's door. It seemed that John had superseded Osama bin Laden as the most notorious felon in the western hemisphere.
Barker was almost as tall as Rink but she was much leaner, and that made her appear diminutive next to my friend's bulk. She stood with her thumbs hooked in her belt like some Wild West gunslinger. Annie Oakley in the flesh.
Rink turned from bracing himself on the hood of the LAPD mobile. He looked Barker up and down. He took in the officer's pristine uniform.
'You ain't made detective yet?'
'Nope,' Barker said.
'Someone has to see sense soon,' Rink offered.
'Tell the truth, I'm in no great hurry. I'm as happy swanning around in a squad car as steering a desk. If I get the promotion, all well and good. If not, well, I'm as happy busting the balls of gangbangers and writing misdemeanor tickets for little old ladies driving the wrong way up the freeway.' Barker glanced down, brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her black shirt. 'Anyways, I'm partial to the uniform. Can't see why there's such a big deal about getting into civilian duds.'
Rink gave Barker a tight-lipped grin. 'Plus you get to drive a cool car, huh?'
'Yep, beats the hell outta the pool cars the detectives limp around in. More power under the hood, for one thing.'
'You'll need it when you're chasing all those rogue grandmothers in golf carts.' The small talk out of the way, Rink asked, 'You putting much credence in it?'
'What? The fireball? No doubt about it, Jared. Eyewitness testimony places your boy at the scene.'
'They sure it was John Telfer?' I asked, stepping into their circle.
Barker turned and squinted at me.
'Joe Hunter,' I said, introducing myself. I stuck out a hand and Barker accepted it, shaking it languidly. 'John is my brother.'
Barker frowned and glanced at Rink, who said, 'It's cool, Cheryl.'
Rink's word was enough for Barker.
'Your boy's been on every network and newspaper in the country. Witness swears that Telfer was the one who brought hell to that boat.'
I still wasn't convinced and it obviously showed in my face.
'Before the boat went supernova, the witness managed to get off it unscathed. She says that John Telfer must've brought a bomb on board with him. He was carrying some kinda backpack when he arrived.' Barker sucked air through her teeth. 'Mind you, we ain't giving the bomb part much weight. More than likely, something on the boat went bang. Apparently there were a lot of guns going off prior to the explosion.'
