Ashley turned to leave and spotted a curious painting leaning against the wall. “Where did this painting come from?”
Bobbi beamed. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so bummed George isn’t here today. Last night, right when I was closing up, someone brought that into the gallery. He said it was one of Miranda’s last paintings before she died.”
Ashley knew all of Miranda’s work and this painting was not part of her collection. But studying it, she had to admit it did look like an original. The painting was her style, and was definitely her stroke.
“Who brought this in, and where did they get it?”
“He didn’t say,” Bobbi shrugged. “He just left a card with his name and asked for George to call him about price when he came in today.”
Ashley stuck out her hand. “Show me.” Her words were blunt and quick. Her voice mirrored her actions.
“Here it is,” Bobbi said, handing the small rectangular card to Ashley. “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong by accepting the painting. The man was really nice and stuff.”
Ashley’s complexion paled when she looked down at the name. Ash was written in the exact same handwriting as the murder notes.
Miranda’s handwriting.
Ashley grabbed the painting and tore out of the gallery. After tossing it in her trunk, she dialed Sin’s number as fast as her unsteady fingers allowed.
She sat in her car and listened to Sin’s phone go straight to voicemail for the third time, and for the third straight time, she left the same message. “This is Ashley. I think George might be in big trouble. Call me!”
Not knowing what else to do she decided to drive back to the FBI field office…praying Sin was there.
49
Sin hadn’t slept in well over two days. She needed sleep, but more than that, she needed a shower and a change of clothes.
Fletch and Garcia were in the same predicament. On the way back from the Keys they decided to stop off at Sin’s houseboat for a shower before heading back to HQ.
Fletcher pulled the jeep into the parking garage across the street from the boat, and the three of them dragged their tired, aching bodies from the vehicle. They decided to leave their gear in the jeep since they wouldn’t be very long. Walking out of the dark garage into the late day sun almost blinded their oversensitive, overtired eyes. They dropped their shades for protection and waited to cross the street.
“Thank God for the sea breeze,” Garcia said, “or this heat would be unbearable.”
The other two didn’t respond, they just stared at the traffic light and willed it to change.
Walking down the sidewalk toward the boat, Fletcher raised his nose in the air. “What’s that smell?”
Sin and Garcia followed his direction. “It smells like every city,” Garcia said, “just a little saltier.”
“There is a French bakery a block up on 41st Street, just over the bridge,” Sin said.
Fletcher looked in every direction. “Whatever I’m smelling isn’t coming from a bakery.”
Sin’s mind was mush, and she was too tired to give his comments any credence. The last thing she needed to unravel was his odd weather report. As they approached the boat, she sighed, “The old girl has never looked so good. That tiny shower is going to feel like heaven.”
They stepped onto the deck at the stern, and a strong wind blew off the Intercoastal. “Shit,” Fletcher yelled, “it’s tar!” He went to grab Sin and Garcia but they were a step ahead of him. The three of them dove off the side of the boat just as the entire thing blew in a series of giant fireballs.
Under the water, Sin felt and heard the concussive force of the explosion. She was disoriented but knew enough to dive as deep as possible, as fast as possible. With each consecutive blast, the water around her grew hotter, and the pressure in her ears increased until her eardrums felt as if they would implode. Even with all the adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream, she still felt the sharp pain that accompanied getting shot, or in this case, the piercing of flesh by sharp metal fragments.
Sin surfaced under a dock about thirty yards north of where her boat used to be. She grabbed hold of a barnacle-encrusted pylon and tried to catch her breath. Not seeing the others, she dove back down to try and find them. As soon as she submerged, she felt a hand pull her back up.
It was Fletcher.
She was relieved when Garcia emerged seconds later. Both men were bleeding from facial and head lacerations, but thankfully…breathing.
“You two don’t look so good,” Sin huffed. “You’re both bleeding pretty bad.”
“I hope I don’t look as bad as you do,” Fletcher said as he tried to catch his breath.
Sin didn’t understand his comments; she knew her leg was bleeding, but how did he know.
He pointed to her face and ran the palm of his hand down her cheek. It came away streaked with blood.
“That’s the great thing about shock,” Garcia shivered, “you d-don’t f-f-feel a thing.”
“We need to get out of here,” Fletcher said, “before we catch some type of mutant flesh-eating bacteria.”
Sin was now starting to shiver along with Garcia. She grabbed Fletcher by his torn shirt and shook her head. “No. The bastard wants me dead. W-we n-n-need him to think I am.” She peeked her head out from under the dock and saw emergency personnel racing to the fire that was her boat…Charlie’s boat.
“These docks line the Intercoastal a long way up Collins Avenue. W-w-we need to stay hidden and keep moving. The movement will help f-f-fight off the shock. Once it’s dark, we’ll be able to surface and call for help.”
“The shock will constrict our p-p-peripheral blood vessels. That will help slow our bleeding.”
“You are f-f-full of fun facts, aren’t you, Fidel?” Fletcher said.
“I
