Hearing the coffeemaker click, I slid to my feet and opened a cabinet in the galley. I turned to ask the women if they wanted some, and they both answered in the affirmative before I’d finished the question. I poured three mugs of the steaming liquid, then set them on the dinette. Plopping down, I took two sips, savoring the flavor, the warmth, and the jolt of energy to come.
“We need to figure out where he went,” I said. “We need anything, even a little shred of a trail to get us going. Any idea what the Homestead Police’s strategy is for tracking him down?”
She took a sip of coffee, then wiped her lips.
“Right now they’re trying to figure out where Lynch would try and sell some of the bars. Shady pawn shops, black market websites, places like that. His group’s still hurting. He needs to rebuild. He needs cash.”
I nodded. It was a smart play, and as good as any strategy that I could think of. We kept talking and downing our coffee until Pete returned with a tired and hungry Atticus. He trudged into the saloon, tried his best to be excited to see us, then plopped down on the deck and sighed.
I feel you, boy.
We thanked Jane for everything, then led her topside.
“You guys did good with all this,” she said. “Not that I expect anything less from you.” Her eyes scanned between me, Ange, and Pete, then focused out over the harbor. “But you can relax now. The police are on it, and I have no doubt that we’ll track these guys down. It’s just a matter of time.”
She stepped back down the dock toward her police cruiser parked in the first row of the marina lot. After a brief moment of silence, Pete patted us both on the back.
“Well, I say we head over to my place and get some grub. I’d intended to have a bit of a celebration tonight on account of finding the gold, but we can still enjoy ourselves.”
The wise sea dog was right. No need to hang our heads and stress over things we couldn’t control. We locked up the boat, then headed for shore with Atticus leading the pack. We waited a few minutes for Jack to finish up some work, then the five of us loaded into my Tacoma and we drove over to Salty Pete’s.
The place was packed, but Pete had called ahead, and Mia had saved us a table in the corner of the balcony. Scarlett and Harper met us there, and we all caught up, regaling the group with the story of how we’d tracked down the gold, dug it up, then how we’d been attacked unexpectedly by Lynch.
Pete did most of the talking. He was by far the best storyteller among us. He was always telling sea stories—tall tales of ocean, adventure, and danger. He usually had to embellish his stories, liven them up a bit with a pinch of fiction, but not this time. The truth fit the cliché of being truly stranger than fiction.
We ordered a sea of deliciously appointed plates featuring dozens of oysters on the half, pounds of steamed shrimp swimming in melted butter and coated in old bay, steamed clams, and freshly fried conch fritters. I ordered a few mojitos, the Cuban cocktail that had been my drink of choice for years. Ange downed a tequila sunrise followed by a mai tai, two of her favorites, and we all relaxed and savored the company and moments as the evening ticked away.
We admired the sunset, able to enjoy the spectacle from the perched view on the balcony. When sol vanished, peopled all over our island paradise belted out their ceremonial conch horns.
By the time we finished our food, we were all stuffed, barely able to nibble at the Key lime pie Mia dropped before us with a wink. We thanked our friends for the day, and the fun evening, then Ange, Scarlett, and I weaved our way down to the parking lot.
Ange and I were both slightly buzzed, and though I knew I was well below the legal limit, I relinquished the keys to Scarlett. Having possessed her learner’s permit for just long enough to allow her to drive at night, she beamed, snatched them from me and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“You know, this kid’s really starting to pay off,” I joked as I sprawled out on the backseat.
They both laughed as Scarlett adjusted her seat forward a few inches, then started up the engine. I rolled my window down, enjoying the fresh, relatively cool evening air as she put it in gear and drove us out of the lot.
She drove pretty good. She had a heavy foot and she got a little flustered at a busy intersection, but her improvement over the past month was obvious.
“We’re terrible parents,” I said to Ange.
She and Scarlett were chatting it up in the front, and they both stopped and chuckled at my words.
“What are you talking about, babe?”
“It’s too late,” I said. “We shouldn’t be keeping her out this late.”
“It’s Friday, Dad,” Scarlett said.
They both laughed again, and I shook my head, trying to remember how many drinks I’d consumed. More than I had in a while.
One too many, I guess.
We made it home without a hitch, then sauntered up into the house. After saying good night to Scarlett and thanking her for the ride, Ange and I headed into the master bedroom. Shutting the door behind us, Ange dimmed the lights, then switched on a noise machine that played a loop of crashing waves.
“You know, it’s been a few days,” she said seductively. She strolled right up to me, pressed her
