those damn waves! Look at them!”
The telephone rang, and Pepper jumped like a jack-rabbit.
“Yes . . . Pepper here,” he bellowed into the mouthpiece.
Rosco watched as Tom listened for thirty seconds. He didn’t say a word, and finally slammed the receiver down into its cradle.
“That was the damn Coast Guard. They’ve suspended the air portion of their search because of the weather. They’ll pick it up again when this thing blows out. Visibility’s down to nothing.”
Pepper drained what remained of his Scotch while Rosco pondered the news and allowed the frightened husband a moment of silence. Rosco avoided glancing at the bay windows and growing surf.
“What about a cell phone?” he finally asked. “Does your wife carry one? Did she have it with her?”
Sitting behind his desk, Tom angled the chair to face the wall of bookcases. He lowered his head, brought his hands to his face, and rubbed hard at his eye sockets. Rosco wasn’t certain if he’d been heard or not, but as he opened his mouth to repeat he questions, Pepper spoke in a strangely subdued tone. “Her cell phone . . . that’s right . . . she should have had it with her. Yes . . . Yes . . . !”
“I can check transmissions for you.” Rosco walked to the desk. He felt such empathy for Pepper, it was hard to remain detached and professional. “I’m afraid this is a waiting game, Mr. Pepper. But I’m an optimist. I only met your wife and Jamaica the other night, but I have a strong feeling they’ll come out of this alive. They’re survivors.” He cleared his throat slightly. “There is another problem that’s bound to come up . . . If it hasn’t already . . .”
“What’s that?”
“The press. Have they called?”
“Not yet.”
“They will . . . Jamaica Nevisson’s an international celebrity. They’ll be camped out in front of your house by tomorrow morning. Do you have any staff? Someone to handle your phone? Someone who can keep them at least out of your drive?”
Pepper gritted his teeth. “Dammit! I didn’t consider those miserable bloodsuckers . . . Jamaica . . . Dammit! Those creeps will stop at nothing!” Both men were obviously conjuring up Jamaica’s unfortunate coverage in The Hollywood Globe. “I’ll bring my secretary here for a few days.”
“What about out front?” Rosco continued. “I know a guy. He’s big; he can handle just about anything . . . And be professional about it. I work with him all the time.”
Tom considered the suggestion for what seemed an excruciatingly long time. Eventually he answered with an even: “No. I’ll get an acquaintance of mine to do the job. He knows his way around the house . . . And he’s persuasive—if you get my drift.” Pepper whipped open the desk’s center drawer, removed a checkbook, and scribbled furiously in it. “I assume three thousand dollars will cover things for now?”
“I usually don’t expect to get paid if I don’t produce, Mr. Pepper . . . Why don’t we wait and see what’s out there?”
“Just get me something on Mystic Isle Yachts. Get my wife back. I don’t give a damn what you do with that check . . . You don’t want to cash it, don’t.”
The temperature had lowered markedly by the time Rosco left, and the air had a raw, cruel feel. As soon as the Jeep’s engine warmed up, he turned on the heater, then set the wipers at their highest speed while he navigated the long, deserted drive. Water descended in torrential sheets, making visibility difficult. Then, true to form, the windshield’s interior steamed up, forcing Rosco to rub at it with the cuff of his coat. He drove with a single circle of clear glass, like a ship’s porthole.
Another person might have been put off by Tom Pepper’s abrasive behavior, but Rosco had recognized that the man’s reaction was due to raw emotion. He desperately wanted to take control of a situation over which he had no power, and was exercising the only option he could find—go after the individual who had chartered the boat to his wife. The disaster had to be somebody’s fault.
Rosco picked up his car phone, punched in star-1, and waited for Belle to answer.
“It’s me,” he said. “Can I come over?”
“Of course . . . What did Pepper want?”
“I’ll fill you in. See you in twenty minutes or so . . . Maybe a little longer . . . The weather’s filthy.”
Concern tinged Belle’s