Metro Girl (Alex Barnaby 1)

ll was expecting his call. Something about a property dispute. Apparently Bill inadvertently took something that belongs to this man.”

I talked to my mom for another minute, promised I’d be on guard for the roaches, and then I disconnected.

“You’re going straight to hell,” Hooker said. “You just lied to your mother, didn’t you?”

“I don’t want her to worry.”

“Lying for a good cause. That’s the worst kind of lying.” He threw some money on the table and stood. “Let’s go to the marina and see if my boat’s drifted in.”

I followed Hooker through the crowd to his Porsche. “Are you telling me you don’t lie once in a while for a good cause?”

“I lie all the time. It’s just that I’m going to hell for so many other reasons, lying doesn’t hardly count.”

“You didn’t call my mother, did you?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“Someone with a Hispanic accent called and asked for Bill. They said it was regarding a property dispute.”

Hooker parked at his condo building, and we walked up to the marina. The crime scene tape was still restricting entrance to the dockmaster’s office, but it had been removed from the entrance to Pier E. We walked past Pier E to Hooker’s pier. Flex II was tied up at the end of the dock. No one was on deck. The helicopter was still in place.

“How often does a boat like that cruise?” I asked Hooker.

“The corporate boats are out a lot when the weather’s good. The executives use them to sweet talk clients and politicians. It’s always nice to have a politician in your pocket.”

We stopped at Hooker’s slip. No boat.

“Shit,” Hooker said. It was more a thought than an exclamation.

There was movement on board Flex, and we both turned to check it out. A couple crew members were setting out lunch at the back of the boat.

“Someone’s on board,” Hooker said.

Two pretty young women in bikini tops and wrap skirts came on deck. They were followed by two men who were in their late sixties, maybe early seventies. Moments later, they were joined by a man in a Flex uniform and a poster boy for the young, up-and-coming corporate executive.

“Do you recognize anyone?” I asked Hooker.

“The tall gray-haired guy in the uniform is the captain. I don’t remember his name, but he’s been around forever. He captained Flex I and then moved over to Flex II last year when the boat was launched.”

“Is there still a Flex I?”

“No. It’s been scrapped.”

“Do you know anyone else?”

“The bald guy with a face like a bulldog. He’s a state senator. The guy modeling for Tommy Bahama looks like corporate chum. I don’t know who the women are. Entertainment probably.”

“And what about the remaining man?”

“Don’t know him.”

The remaining man was average height and chunky. His thick, wavy hair was silver. His face was doughy. He was wearing tan slacks and a floral-print short-sleeve shirt. We were some distance from him, but something about his body language and the set to his mouth was repelling and sent my thoughts back to the giant flying cockroach.

“Want to share your thoughts?” Hooker asked.

“I was thinking about a cockroach.”

“That would have been my second guess.”