Red Tide (Billy Knight Thrillers 2)

“Pearl’s,” I said. I closed my eyes. “Fast, Deacon. As fast as you can go. Get me to Star Island.”

There’s a guard gate on the bridge to Star Island, but if you flash a badge and ask the way to the Pearl’s house they don’t give you any trouble. They direct you to circle around to the right, look for a big place with a massive iron gate and a huge wrought-iron modern sculpture in front.

We found it quickly, easily. Deacon showed his badge again, to the guard on the Pearl’s front gate. He was a big guy with a crew cut and a dead face. He examined it carefully, asked us our business, and listened politely while Deacon said we just wanted to see Richard Pearl for a few minutes. Then he stepped back and spoke into a radio he had unclipped from his belt.

In less than two minutes we were waved through the gate, around the big circular driveway, and up to the house.

A stocky woman was waiting in the door. She had grey hair, a silk dress, and enough jewelry hanging off her to pay off the national debt.

“What’s he done this time,” she demanded.

“Is Richard Pearl here?” Deacon asked her politely as we climbed out of the car.

“I’m his step-mother. What did he do?”

Deacon glanced at me, then back at the woman. “As far as I know, ma’am, he hasn’t done a thing. We have an emergency we think he might be able to help out on.”

“An emergency.”

“That’s right, ma’am. Is he here?”

The crossed her arms and tapped her foot. She looked at Nicky, looked at me, then back at Nicky again, like she wasn’t sure she’d seen it right the first time. Then she looked at Deacon. He looked back at her.

“Wait here,” she said, and disappeared back into the house. The big dark wood door slammed shut with a very solid sound. Barbarians and commoners, stay out.

Waiting is always hard. Waiting when I knew that every six minutes took Anna another mile away was almost impossible. In about five minutes Mrs. Pearl was back. She opened the front door and glared out at us.

“I spoke to my husband’s attorney,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Deacon said politely.

“He wants to know if you have a warrant.”

“Who’s your attorney, ma’am?”

“Steven Dade,” she said, as if everybody knew who that was. And I guess everybody did, in South Florida.

Deacon smiled. He reached into his pocket and handed her a business card. “Tell your attorney my name,” he said. “Tell him Richard is in no way implicated in any crime whatsoever. We simply want to ask for his expert opinion.”

She snorted. “Expert. Richie? Expert on tanning, maybe.”

“And boats,” I said.

She swung her head to me. “Oh,” she said. She blinked. She looked down at the business card. “Well. I suppose so.” She blinked again, then slammed the door.

She was back much quicker this time. She stepped shyly out into the sun, as if she was afraid it might melt her clothes.

“Are you really The Deacon?” she asked him.

“That’s what my friends call me,” he said cheerfully.

Mrs. Pearl licked her lips and put a hand behind her, feeling for the door. “He says you owe him a two-pound grouper filet.”

“Yes, ma’am, that I do. Can we see Richard?”

She hesitated for a second, but she couldn’t think of any other reason to stall us. “He’s out back,” she said. “On the dock.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Deacon said, but I was already moving, circling off the front steps and around the side of the house. I ran across the acre of lawn toward the dock, which was attached to a boathouse. Savage roaring sounds came from the end of the dock. It pretty well matched the way I felt. I ran out the length of the dock to where a long black racing boat was tied up.