Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,24

dock lights, though, she was there in the shadows of the upper deck: lean and blond, an elegant silhouette sitting in one of my cane-backed rockers. Looked right at home as if she’d enjoyed the view from that spot many times.

Maybe she had.

It was Tomlinson’s mistress. The married woman who’d claimed her wealthy husband didn’t have a clue.

Not a lie, exactly. But neither was it true.

7

SHE’S NOT AS NERVOUS AS SHE PRETENDS TO BE . . .

That was my initial impression when the married mistress greeted me with a request, calling softly, “Mind turning off those lights?” Then, when I was close enough, offered an apology. “This is very rude, I know. But your buddy is headed for trouble, I think. And you’re the only one who . . . well, who knows about us. Is it okay?”

Could she stay and talk in confidence, she was asking—as if I had a choice now that she was standing, watching me climb the steps to the upper deck.

“I’m Cressa,” she said, extending a hand. “Or maybe he already told you. Cressa Arturo. So I’m sure you understand why I’d rather not attract attention.”

I asked, “Where’s Tomlinson?” Beyond the porch railing, No Más was pointed into the tide, its yellow cabin lights afloat on a breezy moon-roiled bay. No dinghy tethered off the stern, so my friend was somewhere ashore.

The lady allowed her hand to linger in mine, then made a dismissive gesture, her white blouse hinting at angles and contours in the moonlight. “He took off on his bike looking for you and the dog. That was more than an hour ago, so I have no idea.” She looked past my shoulder. “Where is the dog? I thought I saw him.”

I was more concerned with strangers who behave as if they own the stilthouse I call home. “You’ve been here the whole time?” I asked.

“My house is on the beach, not far, so I drove home, got restless, and walked back because I know the gate’s always locked.” She hesitated. “Tomlinson doesn’t know I’m here, if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

The question seemed innocent enough, but could have been interpreted as suggestive. I told myself I was being cynical and judgmental—no way to live for a man who’d been given yet another chance at life by an expert pilot. So I reassured her, “Probably not. Depends on what kind of trouble you think he’s in.”

Details were softened by the dusky light, but I sensed a smile. “He says such nice things about you. Sometimes he calls you Indiana Jones. Or Captain America, but not in a mean way. I guess it’s true.”

Before I could reply, her attention swerved to the dog who had stopped to lap from a bucket of water on the lower deck, then do some exploring. “My god, there you are! We looked all over the place!” She knelt and reached, but then immediately stood. “Ohhhh god, what stinks! He must have rolled in . . . no, a dead fish. Silly dog . . . and you smelled so nice after your shampoo!”

In response, the dog’s tail whipped the back of my leg once, then he ignored us by walking to the farthest, darkest corner of the deck to enjoy his mullet in peace.

I stepped toward the breezeway that separates the lab from my living quarters. “You can wash your hands while I find something to drink. What did the vet have to say?”

“I stayed in the car, but Tomlinson has a sack of stuff, pills and salve. Nothing serious, I guess. Oh—they did an X-ray and found a computer thingee under his skin, but it doesn’t work.”

So the dog had been microchipped—another indicator he was valuable. “I’ll get details later,” I said. “Come on in, there might be something to drink, but don’t bet on it.”

The lady’s laughter seemed genuine, just the right touch of self-deprecation when she replied, “I’m already a little stoned or I wouldn’t have had the nerve. A year ago, even two months ago, if someone had said I’d be high on weed, or standing here telling secrets to a stranger, I would have called them crazy. Just the way I say it—‘smoking weed’—it sounds ridiculous for someone like me, doesn’t it?”

Yes, it did, and yes she was a little stoned. But still articulate and in full control, which she proved as she followed me into the house, saying, “Hope you don’t mind, but I already closed the shades. Just