Lights from the marina restaurant shone off to his left. Beneath the arched portico, a young valet huddled against the cold, waiting for his shift to end. An older couple, the woman clad in animal fur, the man sucking on a cigar, waited for their car.
Sticking to the shadows, Randall lumbered to the water's edge. The marina was well lit, with sodium-vapor lamps situated at intervals along each of the dozen or so floating concrete docks. Half the slips were without security. A few were empty. Most of the smaller vessels had been put into dry storage for the winter months.
Tate would have security. He wouldn't have brought Addison here without absolute privacy. Randall headed toward the secure docks. A small, weathered structure the size of a walk-in closet served as the security guard's post. Inside, a young, uniformed man ate his dinner, his eyes glued to a small television. It would be impossible to climb over the six-foot chain-link gate without attracting the guard's attention, Randall walked to the window and knocked on the glass.
The security guard started, then slid open the window. "Can I help you?"
He was young, perhaps just out of college. Law enforcement type, Randall thought, hoping the kid was smart enough to know when to look the other way. He pulled his I.D. From his wallet and flashed it. "Where's the Anastasia?"
The kid's eyes narrowed at the identification. "You a private dick?"
"No, I'm just a dick. Now, where the fuck is the Anastasia?"
"Uh, dock four." He motioned in the general direction of the secured dock area. "You got a key?"
"I need you to let me in."
"That's a secure area, sir."
"Give me your key. I'll let myself in."
"I can't do that. Would you step away from the window, sir?"
Randall faced the wind, let it wash over his face to clear his head. Despite the chill, he was perspiring. The pain radiated through his torso, edging over to his spine, between his shoulder blades.
The kid was still spewing excuses when, in the distance, Randall heard the groan of a starter and the low rumble of a marine engine. He froze, cocking his head to listen.
“Who's scheduled to go out tonight?" he asked.
"Crew's taking the Anastasia down to Lauderdale."
"Dammit," Randall hadn't wanted to involve the kid. Knowing he had no choice, he drew the Beretta and leveled it at the young man's face.
The kid's mouth flew open, his tongue flailing for an instant before he found his voice. "What the hell—" Frightened blue eyes jerked to the telephone on his makeshift desk.
"Don't even think about it." Randall shifted the barrel six inches, squeezed off a shot. The telephone exploded on impact.
The kid's hands shot up in the air. "Do whatever the hell you want, man! We don't keep money out here!"
"Get your ass out here."
The security guard's hands trembled so violently, it took him several tries to open the door.
"What time is the Anastasia scheduled to leave?" Randall asked.
"Midnight."
He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. "Who's onboard?"
"I don't know. My shift started at eleven." The kid licked his lips. "Look mister, I got five bucks—"
"Shut up and give me the key to that goddamned gate."
The kid unclipped the ring of keys from his belt and held them out with a quaking fist.
Snatching the keys from him, Randall removed his I.D. from his wallet along with Van-Dyne's card and pressed both into the kid's hand. "Now, listen carefully. I want you to run up to the restaurant and call the cops." In the distance, the engines rumbled ominously. "Give my I.D. to whoever's in charge. Tell them to contact Detective Adam Van-Dyne in Denver. It's a matter of life and death for a young woman onboard that boat. Go." The kid backed away, then took off running. Randall ran to the gate and attacked the lock. Once through, he fell into a broken lope, checking the names painted onto the transoms of each vessel he passed.
He was halfway to the end of the dock when he heard the pitch of the engines change. The rpms revved. The boat was pulling out.
Panic struck him like a sledgehammer. At a dead run, he watched as an immense President 830 yacht pulled slowly away from the marina. From twenty yards away, he made out the Arabic lettering—Anastasia.
Chapter 28
He was too late.
Randall stood at the end of the dock, gasping for breath, and watched the boat pull away. "No!" he bellowed.
Tate was going to kill her.
Helplessly, he backtracked, staggering down the dock, uncertain of his next move. Around him, the night wind had picked up. The boats moved restlessly against their moorings. Nylon ropes groaned against steel cleats. Waves slapped against concrete piers.
A man was examining the gate Randall had left open, obviously perturbed. He straightened and watched Randall approach. "Are you the idiot who left the gate open? Anyone could have just walked in. I don't know about you, buddy, but I don't want some lowlife waltzing in here to take my boat."
Take my boat.
"Which one is yours?" Randall heard himself ask.