That was fine about Cohen. Cohen belonged to lake. The rest of them were his. He started smearing
black shoe polish on his face.
This time it was Dutch who snatched up the phone when it rang. He was waiting for the call. It was
Cowboy Lewis, patched in from the police helicopter.
“We spotted „em, Dutch. Costello?s barge is pullin? into the private dock on the back of Thunder
Point Marina right now.”
“You sure it?s him?”
“It is unless he cloned that boat of his. Ain?t another one around here like it.”
“How far away are you?”
“Half a mile, maybe.”
“Can you get down low enough to check the parking kit for that cinnamon Eldorado without getting
your kiester blown off?”
“We?ll have to use lights.”
“Okay, but be careful. We?re heading out there anyway, just in case. I?m tired of sitting on my duster
back here.”
“See ya,” said Lewis.
Stick trimmed his sails and slid quietly past the end of the dock. The two guards were leaning against
the side of the yacht, talking.
Stick studied the layout. The marina was to his left, separated from the private dock by a concrete
wharf and twenty feet of water. A walkway led from the dock up to the house.
A hundred meters maybe, no more, from dock to house.
Plenty of trees for cover plus a terraced lawn that led down to the water.
Two big lights on a pole at the end of the dock. Fuck it, no problem.
The house itself was one-story. That was good. No high ground for them. He swept the house with his
night scope, planning his attack. From left to right, he made the kitchen, with a sliding panel out to a
terrace; the main room, big, with a cathedral ceiling; a bedroom with a large picture window
