Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Pryor started to lead Spenser away by his arm. “When will I be free to go?” the art dealer asked.

“We’ll let you know,” Hanley said, “but it will be soon.”

Pryor led Spenser into the hall. Just before the door closed, he looked back to see Hanley begin to peel the latex mask from his face.

BARRETT heard a beep in his earpiece and stared at the shoreline with his binoculars. A quick flash of headlights appeared like twin explosions in the green screen of his night-lit viewer, then the white dots faded to black.

Barrett flashed the docking lights on the Scarab, then steered closer to shore.

Tom Reyes finished wiping his fingerprints off the steering wheel and controls, then twisted the key to off. Turning around in the seat, he stared at Cabrillo and Nixon.

“We’re clean and green, boss,” Reyes said as he slid the keys into his pocket.

“Let’s go get wet,” Cabrillo said as he opened the rear door of the cab.

Nixon climbed from the cab, clutching the last box of props and tools, and followed Reyes and Cabrillo to the water. Staring to the east, he could just make out the sky beginning to lighten. To the west, the wind was diminishing. In a few hours it would be morning and the storm would have passed over Macau, but for now the sheets of rain continued to rake the islands.

Barrett angled as close to shore as he dared, then tilted the drive up to avoid rocks. Cabrillo waded into the water and grabbed the bow and held it in place. Reyes climbed into the Scarab, then took the box Nixon held in his arms. Placing it on the deck, he reached over again and helped Nixon over the gunwale. Once Nixon was on the deck, Cabrillo gave the Scarab a push backward and reached for Reyes’s hand. As the boat drifted backward he climbed over the side and Barrett lowered the drive and slid the control into reverse.

Slowly, he backed away from the southernmost edge of the airport island.

Once free from obstructions, Barrett slid the control forward and steered toward the Oregon.

“WHAT do you mean?” Hanley asked.

“The lead detective sent for buckets of paint,” Michael Halpert said quietly. “They are planning to pour them down the storm sewer to trace the flow of the water.”

“I understand,” Hanley said. “Good job. You can return to the Oregon now.”

Stone was studying the returns on the radar scope and he turned to Hanley. “Barrett is headed back across the water. He should reach us in a few minutes.”

Hanley was watching the storm scope.

“Make sure there are a couple of deckhands standing by,” Hanley ordered. “We need the Scarab back in the hangar and out of sight.”

“Yes, sir,” Stone said as he reached for the microphone.

SUNG Rhee walked over to the suspect, who had been moved under the overhang just outside the departure terminal at the airport. In the bright lights spilling from inside the terminal, the man looked vaguely familiar.

“One of your partners turned on you,” Rhee said, “and phoned in your location.”

The man stared at Rhee with a look that contained equal parts pity and contempt. “I’ve got no idea what you are talking about.”

“There is no reason to try to be coy with us,” Rhee said. “We caught you red-handed.”

“You caught nothing,” the man said. “I was buying a piece of art, and a team of thieves scammed me. They’re the ones you should be harassing, not me.”

“When did you arrive in Macau?” Rhee asked.

“A couple of hours ago,” the man replied.

“The last ferryboat was three hours ago,” Rhee said, “and the next does not leave for two more. In addition, there are no commercial airline flights from the hours of one a.m. until five a.m. Your story is obvious nonsense.”

“I have my own jet,” the man noted.

“Indeed. Where is it now?” Rhee asked.

“I have no idea,” the man said. “The thieves stole it.”