lake if I’m stuck on shore.”
“This is a motorized boat, not a sailboat. Who’s your boss?”
“Shane McIntyre.”
“Never heard of him.”
“How about Tyler Jamison? Have you heard of him?”
I laugh. “Tyler did this?” Warmth spreads across my chest, and I can’t stop smiling. He’s worried about me. “Yeah, I know him.” Hell, I kissed him.
“Permission to come along, then?” He points to the lines securing the boat to the dock. “I can help.”
“Do you know anything about operating a boat?”
“Nope, not a thing. But I’m a real fast learner.”
I point at one of the lines secured to the dock. “Untie that rope and toss it to me.”
Miguel does as I asked. He moves with efficiency, seemingly pretty competent. I can operate this boat just fine on my own, but it’s easier when I have help. Plus, it would be nice to have some company.
“All right, you can come aboard,” I say. “Untie the remaining lines and toss them to me.”
Once he’s done, he steps onto the swim platform, swaying a bit as he adjusts to the rolling deck.
“Come on up to the cockpit.” I wave for him to follow me.
I’m sitting in the captain’s chair, double-checking the controls, when Miguel steps into the cockpit.
“Whoa,” he says, eyeing the two gray leather chairs positioned in front of the command console. “This is pretty sweet.”
I chuckle. “Yep. State of the art technology. She may not be big, but she’s top of the line.”
When I power on the radar console, lights come on. The screen projects everything from local weather conditions to radar to GPS data. I power on the front and rear cameras, the side cameras. I have a 360-degree field of visibility.
I nod at the seat next to mine. “Have a seat, Miguel. We’re getting underway. If you’re not used to cruising, you’ll likely fall flat on your ass.”
He sits, his gaze cycling between me, the dock, and the channel that leads to open water.
“You don’t get seasick, do you?” I say.
He shrugs. “I have no idea. I’ve never been on a boat before.”
I point toward the open doorway. “Please don’t puke on my boat. If you’re going to be sick, throw up over the railing.”
“Got it.”
When I rev the engines, Miguel white-knuckles the armrests of his seat.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
Chapter 11
Tyler Jamison
With the circumstantial evidence I had, it wasn’t difficult to get a search warrant, even on a Sunday morning. By ten o’clock, I’m at Brad Turner’s apartment with an escort of two uniformed officers. I knock on Turner’s door, and a moment later he opens it, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black flannel pants. His shaggy mane of straight black hair is mussed from sleep, and his eyes are bloodshot, his pupils unfocused. He’s probably coming off a night-long binge of alcohol and God knows what else.
“Brad Turner?” I say.
He narrows his eyes, glancing first at me, and then at the other officers. “What the fuck do you want?”
I pull the warrant out of my jacket pocket and unfold it, holding it out to him. “I have a warrant to search your apartment.”
He pales, turning a sick shade of gray right before my eyes. “Fuck no! You have no right to come in here!” He tries to shut the door in my face, but I already have my foot wedged in the opening, preventing him from closing it.
One of the officers throws his shoulder against the door, shoving it wide open and sending Turner flying back. Turner falls on his ass, hitting the carpeted floor.
The three of us step inside, and one of the officers closes the door behind us. I quickly survey the small living room and kitchen combo. The apartment is sparsely furnished, and at first glance nothing seems amiss.
An officer hauls Turner to his feet and sits him down on a brown corduroy recliner.
I pick up the warrant, which ended up on the floor, and hold it up to Turner. “I have a warrant to search your apartment. Sit here. Don’t move.”
One of the officers stands guard over Turner, while the other officer and I begin a systematic search of the small apartment. It doesn’t take long, as there are only three rooms to search: this living room and kitchen combo, a bedroom, and a bathroom.
The living room and kitchen are clean, as is the bathroom. My focus shifts to the bedroom. I pull on a pair of latex gloves and begin my search. His dresser and nightstands check out okay, but when