“Se fueron,” Bruce told the old man.
Jesus nodded and disappeared back into the galley.
“Every now and then,” Bruce said.
“What did they say about me?” she asked. “And why did you get mad?”
Bruce turned to look at her finally, and though his body posture was relaxed, his expression was still tight. “It was nothing. He probably meant it to tease me, you know, here I am with six ladies all to myself.” He sighed. “Typical male machismo. These guys aren’t exactly of the enlightened male outlook.”
“Right,” Cassidy said, shaking off the weird vibe that the officers had cast. “But then he said something about ‘be sure to’, what was that?”
“Oh, he was trying to bust my balls for not calling in our arrival in Nicaragua. I told him I would in San Juan, where there’s actually a port.” He swept his hands to indicate the expanse of empty jungle and distant mountains. “He said that inland from here, there was some kind of feud going on between clans.”
“Are you worried?” Cassidy asked. Tracking drug wars was not something she knew anything about.
He gave her a sideways glance. “I’d be stupid not to be,” he said.
The women were paddling back from the lineup, their configuration like a swarm of bees.
“At first I thought they might be pirates,” Cassidy said.
“Nah,” Bruce said.
“Don’t drugs come in by boat?”
Bruce kept his eyes on the returning surfers, or maybe the distant mountains. “Yeah, coke makes a lot more than tuna.”
“Narc patrols don’t catch them?”
“Some. But they can’t keep up.”
Marissa and Taylor reached the back of the boat, unfastened their leashes and climbed up to the swim deck. Soon the others were back, and everyone pounced on the egg frittata breakfast Jesus had laid out. As soon as they finished eating, Bruce pulled anchor and the boat sped towards the south. Cassidy was silently relieved.
After a sunset session at another remote wave, Cassidy slipped to the bow and her stack of documents, hoping to pick up where she left off, but found Benita leaning back against the railing, playing Reeve’s ukulele and singing softly.
She must have seen the look on Cassidy’s face because she stopped mid-strum. “Is this yours? I found it on my bunk.”
“Uh, no, I mean, yes, it’s mine.”
Benita gave her a shrewd look.
“You can play it. I don’t mind, I was just surprised, is all.”
“This is actually a really nice one. Do you play?”
“No,” Cassidy said, settling in on her cushion. She realized that her answers were not making much sense.
“My son learned in school. He got really into it.” She looked up. “Do you have kids?” she asked.
Cassidy tried not to download all the reasons why she did not. “No,” she said. She remembered that she hadn’t answered Benita’s question the day before about her marital status.
Benita shrugged. “It’s the kind of thing that happens if you ever do. Your kid gets into something, and then suddenly you’re into it too.”
“It’s my stepbrother’s,” Cassidy said.
Benita fingered a few more keys and strummed. “The one you’re looking for,” she said. It was a statement, not a question, and Cassidy remembered that Benita was a lawyer. A good one, too, she guessed.
Cassidy looked out at the blue horizon. The sun would be setting soon, and the soft glow on the water looked like a sheen of pearl luminescence. From inside the boat, she caught the occasional whiff of baking bread. “Yes,” she said.
Benita gave her a look. “Are you guys close?”
“Not really,” Cassidy replied, “but there isn’t really anyone else.” She looked out again, this time at the distant charcoal-and-brown mountains shrouded in wispy clouds. “He was working for Bruce on one of these trips. He went ashore in San Juan and never came back.”
Benita’s eyes narrowed, and Cassidy could tell her mind was working. “What did the police say?”
“I talked to the police in Tamarindo and Santa Cruz, but they said there wasn’t much they could do because he disappeared in Nicaragua. I don’t know if anyone’s talked to the police in San Juan. My stepsister tried calling, but she doesn’t speak Spanish. She has been talking to someone at the U.S. Embassy, but I don’t think anyone’s taking her seriously.”
“Do you have an idea of what happened?”
“No,” Cassidy replied, then the pieces of her so-called investigation played like a mind-movie behind her eyes. “Maybe.”
“Do you want help?”
Cassidy looked at her sharply. Help? How could anyone help her with this?
Benita shrugged. “I handle sexual harassment cases, so I understand how to play dirty.”
“Well, I don’t know that there’s any dirt.” She thought about it. “He’s had problems with drugs in the past. Did some time in juvie.” Cassidy remembered how she had returned home from a college-scouting trip to discover that some of her things were missing, her mother’s pearl-and-gold pendant among them. “He got in a fight with a taxi driver a few months ago. He was also apparently seeing a prostitute.”
“You find her?”
“No,” Cassidy replied, feeling like a failure.
“No drug charges or activity?”
“I talked to his neighbor at his apartment.” She shuddered, remembering the ratty room and the even rattier neighbor. “And the surf guides he hung out with.” She shook her head. “No one I talked to reported seeing him doing drugs.”
“Could he have been involved with the distribution chain somehow?” she asked.
Cassidy breathed out a big sigh. She remembered Bruce’s comment about coke making a lot more than tuna. And the fact that drugs moved from Columbia through Central America. Could Reeve have tried to smuggle drugs in order to sell them? The thought was absurd.
“Sorry. Let me know if this is too much.”
“No,” Cassidy said quickly. “It’s okay.” Pete worked on investigative pieces, and had even cracked a few breaking stories. One thing she had learned from him was that the most logical explanation was usually the right one. “It’s possible. Though that means he’s probably . . . ” the word died before she could force it out. A tide of regret poured into her heart.
Benita
