The robotic voice answered, “Calling Martinez.”
The phone rang and rang then eventually went to voice mail. It wasn’t really all that early. He actually should have been at work for a couple of hours now. Maybe he was in a meeting. I left a message:
“Hey, it’s me. I know you’ve got your own stuff going on today, but I thought I’d let you know that I’m headed to the marina to check out a houseboat. I’d love it if you’d join me. That badge of yours would probably make it a lot easier to find the right boat, if you know what I mean. I’ll pay you back. I’ll ride along while you take care of your storage problem. I know you love that idea. Call me.”
I hung up. Chris may have thought that I couldn’t do anything without his help—and my phone call wasn’t going to dispel that at all—but I wasn’t worried. After my confrontation with Dad, I was feeling pretty fearless. What could Peter Fairchild really do to me now?
I was probably better off not thinking about it. The top of my foot, which I’d once broken on the back of Luna’s head, throbbed at that thought.
It was a beautiful day, and the marina was hopping. I always loved the way the boats looked, all lined up and bobbing in the waves. Their names, printed proudly on their sides, beckoned me in colors and textures that dazzled my brain. I loved the smell of the sea and the cry of birds and the hum of engines as boats came and went, their ocean adventures calling to them. It was a place where my synesthesia wasn’t a burden. A place where I could let go and enjoy the show.
But today it was a place where I had to pay attention. There were about five thousand boat slips, and after just a few minutes, they all started to look the same. Fortunately, good old Caroline the Realtor had spilled the beans when she said she thought Peter Fairchild just liked saying he lived in Tahiti. Tahiti, a foamy tangerine word. Also the name of one of the basins.
Still a lot of boats to comb through, but definitely less than five thousand. I started walking, barely glancing at the smaller boats, the sailboats, the fishing boats, the pontoons. I craned my neck as I passed every houseboat, trying to get a look inside, or at least on deck. Trying to find their names. Hoping for a Luna or Peter or SS Fairchild.
BuxtonTudor III
Norfolk
Alligator One
Loyalist
Claudette
Celeste
I stopped. Celeste. Midnight with star pops of light. Not celestial, but close. The Celeste. I was suddenly uneasy but unsure why. There were probably a million Celestes in this world. Just because Celeste Day worked for Peter Fairchild didn’t mean a boat in his marina named Celeste had anything to do with her. Right?
Slowly, I went back to scouring the marina.
Saga
Gallion 10
Experiment
Bob’s Babes
No Peter. No Luna. No Fairchild. Not even a Hollywood Dreams.
I got to the end of the marina and started back, rereading all the names, even though I knew I hadn’t misread or missed any of them. I even read the names on the sides of sailboats just to be sure that Caroline hadn’t gotten it wrong, or just had a very different definition of yacht than I did.
Actually. I stopped and turned slowly, trying to ignore the minutiae for a moment. Trying to see the boats as a whole. Very few would actually be big enough to be considered a yacht. I focused on those as I walked back.
Prime
Second Time Around
Sea Gypsy
Celeste
Again, I stopped. But this time not for the midnight with pops of light. This time for what was painted on the bow. I’d missed it on my first pass. How could I have missed it? Big swirly letters adorned the boat’s nose.
Candy cane. Mustard.
VP.
There was no doubt in my mind. Celeste was Peter Fairchild’s boat.
PETER FAIRCHILD CLEARLY intended to call this home. He had built a sturdy flight of boarding steps. The door at the top was closed, but I hadn’t come all the way out here to stare at a closed door and go home. Since when did a closed door stop me from going inside a place?
Quickly, I glanced around the marina. I was pretty much alone for the time being. I pulled out my phone.
Again, the other end rang and rang. No answer. I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked the time. Even if he’d slept in, he’d be awake now. Maybe he was still in a meeting. Or he’d busted someone and had been busy writing reports.
Still. He would have called me back.
“Hey,” I said to his voice mail. “Just letting you know I found the boat. I was hoping we could go in together, but you would appear to be . . .” I glanced up at the yacht, which looked a lot bigger once I had decided aloud that I was going to be boarding it. “So anyway, call me if you get this. Or just . . . come here. The boat is called Celeste.” I pulled the phone away to hang up, but thought better of it and brought it back up. “Hey, and call me either way, okay? I’m just . . . you haven’t given me shit all day and it feels weird.”
You’re worried, Nikki. You can say it. You are hard-core magenta-and-gray-spotted worried. It doesn’t have to mean anything, other than that you’re human.
“Yeah, but when did I turn into that?” I asked aloud as I hung up the phone.
I pushed thoughts about what could be happening with Chris out of my head and walked up the stairs, my heart pounding harder with each step. If I was right, and Luna was on this boat, what then? I could hear Chris now: Once again, Nikki, you’re barging into a situation based on one of your hunches and without a plan. I hesitated halfway up, and then kept going. Apparently barging into situations without a plan was working well for me.
Or at least I was surviving.
I tried the door. Of course it was locked. I knew it would be. Who would leave a luxury yacht unlocked and available for anyone who wandered by to steal out of? Still, I was disappointed. It was never fucking easy.
I went back down the stairs and walked back to my car to see if there was anything inside that I could use to break in. Last I had seen my penknife, Blake Willis had it in a plastic evidence bag. I had never gotten it back. I had nothing. Not even a credit card to slide down the doorjamb. Not to mention, this was hardly going to be some flimsy lock, and who even knew if there might be an alarm system if I got in?
I felt my way through the seat cushions, hoping to find a bobby pin or fingernail file, all the while knowing it was hopeless because I wasn’t exactly the kind of girl who used bobby pins or filed her fingernails. I was more the quick brush and ponytail kind of girl, and I had noticed myself gnawing on my nails more than once since trying to quit smoking.
I popped the trunk. Maybe the tire iron would be helpful. If I were able to pry the door open, it would leave a statement, that was for sure. But sometimes statements had to be made. Especially statements like, I found you, Luna, you crazy bitch, and now you’re going to pay.
I had to slide out of the way as a catering truck backed past me, all the way to the dock, beeping obnoxiously—a sound that pealed through the serene air like a knife through fabric.
“Jeez, watch where you’re going!” I shouted at their closed windows. The two guys inside didn’t even notice that I existed. Satisfied with their entry, they parked the truck and both hopped out, throwing open the back doors and pulling out a ramp.
I pawed through my trunk, looking for the tire iron. Once I found it, I knew it wouldn’t work. Not unless I wanted to just bust my way through the door, The Shining–style. Maybe not the subtlest entry, even for me.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I slammed the trunk and leaned against the back of my car. I’d found one thing in the backseat that was useful. I pulled out a cigarette and the lighter that had been tucked into the cigarette packet and lit up, idly watching the Ambrosia Catering guys do their work.