I retract the baton and slip it back on my belt. “Showing you how to do your job again, rookie.”
“Sorry, Lobos. The fucking prick was a handful.”
“Like I said, wise up or get killed.”
He gives a brief nod. “Thanks for the assist, again.”
I slip a smoke in the corner of my mouth and head to my vehicle.
Chapter 10
I arrive at the Marina, where I’m greeted by the stench of dead fish and some asshole dumping their septic into the bay. If there weren’t more pressing matters, I would arrest the asshole.
Strolling down the concrete docks, there are fancy boats on both sides, and pelicans perched on pillars lining the pier scouting for fish. I pull out the photo of the vessel I’m looking for. The craft is a large white luxury vessel. I stop at a boat with shirtless men and women clad in bikinis dancing to loud 80s music; all of them seem to have their fingers wrapped around beers and cocktails.
Geez, what the hell? Don’t they know it’s not the 80s anymore?
A shirtless man in shorts saunters to the back of the boat; his eyes trace my body. “Hey, spicy, senorita. You’re a bit overdressed for the party, but you’re welcome to hop on the SS Party Express.”
I flash the badge at him. “Whoa relax, officer. Everybody here is over 21. Trust me, I carded them.”
“Not why I’m here. I’m looking for a boat called the Sea Serpent, you seen it?”
He leans in to look at the picture, sipping his amber colored cocktail. God, dude, lighten up on cologne. “Si, baby, it’s down on the very end. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding.
“Hey, you welcome, sexy. Come on back if your shift ends soon. We’d like to have some more ladies.” He dances back into the crowd, disappearing.
It’s insulting he pegged for the kind of cop who would bust up their party.
I draw my weapon as I near the ship. I leap aboard and get to the side of the door. Nudging the door open, I peek in nobody’s home, but that doesn’t mean anything. It could be an ambush I’m walking into. Time to search the interior and make sure it’s clear of threats before I go rummaging through a serial killer’s belongings. It’s a small yacht, so not many places to hide. Someone has been here recently; there is a bowl of half-eaten soup, a half-full mug of coffee. The coffee is still warm. Aiming down the sights of my Sig, I head to a small bedroom, there is an alarm clock that’s blinking. The bed was neatly made, and the closet is full of clothes organized by color.
Drake will be returning soon.
I pull out the drawers, finding nothing, but boxer shorts and a British Passport and a plane ticket to London. Be hard to use that now with the APB out on him.
You’re trapped, you son of a bitch. I discover a shoebox full of different passports: United Arab Emirates, Russia, China, United States, United Kingdom, and Canada. And none of them have the same name.
What the fuck is going on here? Who is this guy?
Footsteps thump on the upper deck. Well, somebody’s home. I ready my pistol and peak around the corner and see the man I met earlier, pouring two glasses of Vodka. “Come out, come out, Detective Devora Lobos. I know you’re here. No point in keeping up this charade of hide and seek.” That fucking reporter I talked to a week ago must’ve let my name slip.
I cautiously move out of the bedroom, with my gun trained on him. “Ah, there you are.” He smiles manically and with soulless blue eyes, almost like a great white before it swims in for the kill. “I have been watching you ever since you got here. I could’ve painted the docks with your brains.”
Damn, he was watching me through a sniper rifle.
“Yeah? Why didn’t you pull the trigger save yourself the hassle of me nipping at your heels?”
“Aside from the thrill of holding a person’s life in my hands, you don’t fit my code. You’re not rich, and you’re a pretty good person despite your lifestyle choices.”
“Well, shit, I’m touched. A serial killer thinks I’m a good person.”
He nods his head. “Tsk, tsk. Sarcasm, Devora. It’s so childish. Come have a drink.”
“How the hell do you know my name?”
“It wasn’t hard. I just had to chat up that reporter who interviewed you, and then I chopped off his hands, and I cut out his filthy tongue. So he can’t ever write or speak his slanderous shite about you or me again.”
As much as I want to feel sorry for that reporter, I just can’t. The asshole loved to bring up my past in Miami and even took pictures of me in the hospital recovering from stabs wounds I received from the Aztec Killer.
“Now come along, have a drink with me. It’s good Vodka.”
“How do I know the drink isn’t poisoned?”
A grin slides across his lips. “Have you heard nothing I said? You do not fit my code.” He places the glass on the counter next to me and backs away. “Come on, Devora. Its Vodka imported from Russia. Not that watered-down American piss. Come, let’s have a drink, soldier to soldier.”
A puzzled look strikes my face. “How’d you know I was a soldier?”
“Devora, I am Ex-S.A.S. I still have old contacts who feed me info. You were United States Army Criminal Investigation Command. You discharged as a Staff Sargent. You got your biggest bust by proving a rogue Green Beret
