Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,101

talking to Hannah, then pulled a pillow over my head to get a few hours’ sleep. Our conversation had begun with a chill, but had ended, an hour later, with admissions that so closely resembled affection I was still rattled. I didn’t want to marry the woman, for christ’s sake, but the fact she was often on my mind was reason enough to pursue the relationship. Get to know her better—slowly. When I saw that the Stiletto was gone, though, all thoughts of that vanished and I veered left just enough to confirm it was true.

Yes . . . during the few hours I’d slept, someone had slipped into the marina, started the boat, and left—the owner, presumably, because the marina gates had been locked earlier when I’d taken the dog for a last visit to the mangroves. Of course, the owner—or thieves—could have come by water. The driver could have also maneuvered the racing boat clear of the basin using steering thrusters—water jets normally used to facilitate docking—then started the engines far from the docks.

What to do? It was 5:45 on a February morning. Over the Gulf, at tree level, the moon mimicked sunset, a pale and heatless hole in the darkness. The east was black with stars that appeared to drift behind immobile clouds. Should I call Jeth? Alert Mack?

Mack lives in a piling house beyond the boat ramp, to the right of the mechanic’s shed. No lights on there. Tomlinson’s dinghy was ashore, the cabin of No Más dark, so he was staying with Cressa. My attention panned from the apartment above the marina office, to Tiger Lilly, to Playmaker, then along the row of cruisers and sailboats—everyone still asleep. Aboard the Brazilian’s yacht, though, cabin lights were on but dim. A pale blue flickering suggested a television screen or lighted candles. If Diemer was awake, he would have heard or seen something because the Stiletto had been in the neighboring slip.

I pushed the twin throttles forward and idled toward Seduci. A boat length away, I shifted to neutral and revved my engines a couple of times. Waited several seconds, then did it again. No sign of movement inside, no telltale swipe of curtains, so Diemer was asleep or . . . or he wasn’t aboard.

The possibility nagged at me for a moment, then I dismissed it. So what? My pal Donald Cheng had checked on the Stiletto. The vessel was owned by a Miami company that sponsored boats in the Offshore Grand Prix and the Key West International race series. No connection—not with the Brazilian anyway. So I turned the Zodiac toward the channel, running lights out because the moon illuminated Dinkin’s Bay with a pumpkin gloss so bright I could see that, aside from No Más, the bay was empty.

No Más . . . my eyes settled on the sailboat as I approached the No Wake buoys. The cabin dark, Tomlinson’s dinghy tied near the boat ramp, as it often was when he was gone for the night—nothing unusual, so why was I still troubled by the missing ocean racer?

Damn it!

I shifted to neutral and called Tomlinson’s cell. No answer, and no need to leave a message—the time stamp would tell him the call was important. It did, because my phone flashed a few seconds later, and Tomlinson, sounding groggy, said, “If you’re calling about your truck, yes, I stole it.”

I asked, “You’re with Cressa at her beach house?”

“At the Holiday Inn, unless someone levitated my ass to a different place. Middle Gulf Drive. But don’t tell anybody—especially that vicious little voodoo monster, Kondo. Geezus, what time is it?”

“The Haitian came to the marina?”

Whispering now, Tomlinson said, “Could be. I’m in hiding. Geezus, not even six yet, man! Is the dog sick?”

“How do you know Kondo’s after you? Someone must have towed him in.”

“Hang on, I don’t want to wake her up.” I heard the click of a door latch before Tomlinson resumed, “Two-bedroom suite, you believe it? Because she wanted me to, I rubbed her neck until she went to sleep, then snuck off to my own room. That was around one, and my willpower is running dead on empty. I thought you’d be on your way to the Bone Field by now.”

“Tell me about Kondo!”

“Christ, you don’t have to bite my head off. I’m the one he threatened to kill.”

“You did talk with him.”

“No. And I deleted his messages after listening to the first one. But his texts, man, the way they flow—he