Deep Blue Trouble Read online

  ‘Be cautious with this one, Miss Lori.’ Red’s tone was serious. ‘There’s a bunch of myth and rumour surrounding this guy Searle. Bad stuff, told in whispers.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Match-fixing, doping and potentially some things a whole lot more sinister.’ He cleared his throat and I got the impression he didn’t want to go into more detail in front of whatever company he was entertaining for the evening. ‘Could be something, or nothing. I’ll dig deeper and let you know.’

  ‘I appreciate it, really.’

  I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, ‘It’s a pleasure, Miss Lori. I’ll be in touch.’

  *

  Forty minutes later I was sitting across the street from 1147 Ocean View Boulevard. I’d been parked up ten minutes, watching. I couldn’t tell if the Searles were home. There were no vehicles parked in the street aside from mine, and there were no cars in the Searles’ driveway. There was a fifty-fifty chance they were parked in the garage, but there were no lights or movement inside the house either.

  I glanced along the street. Red had been right, it was a fancy neighbourhood for sure. High-value detached properties with plenty of space around them. Perfect lawns and manicured flowerbeds. Long yards leading back to the ocean, space for yachts or jet skis. Like a picture postcard of the Californian dream – in this place extravagant facades and big money were king.

  Here, people parked up on the street stood out as strangers. I knew there would be eyes on me. In my red Jeep I was bold and obvious, disturbing the equilibrium of the place. I figured I couldn’t stay sitting there much longer without someone coming over to check on my business.

  I took the cardboard box that had contained the rental Sat Nav from beneath the seat of the Jeep and put it under my arm to give the impression I was delivering something. Then, climbing out of the Jeep, I crossed the street and made my way up the block-stone driveway to the Searles’ house. Aside from the breeze coming off the ocean and the sound of sprinkler systems working overtime on neighbouring lawns, the place was quiet, almost eerie. I felt self-conscious. I didn’t belong here; it was too neat, too ordered, and way too silent. In my experience, tidy and smart are a way of hiding the mess behind closed doors. From what I knew of the Searles’ situation, that was surely true. I’d need to play this real careful.

  I pressed the buzzer. Waited a couple of paces back from the door. Respectful.

  No one came. No movement behind the frosted glass panel in the door.

  I rang the buzzer a second time.

  Nothing.

  I checked my watch: almost five o’clock. Could be they were out at work, although from what I’d heard it didn’t sound like Marco Searle was a conventional businessman, and Red had made no mention of Mia having any form of employment. I stepped off the porch, glancing towards the back yard.

  That’s when I saw it. The gate to the yard was ajar. Just by an inch or two. Stepping towards it, I pushed the gate wider and poked my head around.

  There was a woman in the garden, on her knees beside a flowerbed about ten yards away. Her long green skirt was bunched up around her thighs, her bare feet tucked underneath her. She was digging the soil with sharp, angry-looking thrusts of her trowel. Beside her was a basket of bare-rooted seedlings were, ready to plant.

  I watched her a moment then called out, ‘Mrs Searle?’

  She flinched. Turned. The look on her face was fear. Flight or fight – that was the decision in her mind.

  When she saw me her expression changed. She was still tense, possibly angry, but the fear had gone. She stood up. She was taller than me by at least a couple of inches, slimmer, too. Her long black hair was twisted up onto her head in a messy knot. She wore no make-up, and she didn’t need to; her dark eyelashes and brows defined her features naturally. Her movement was elegant, with the grace and strength of someone who works out; yoga, no doubt. She looked at the parcel under my arm.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Are you Mia Searle?’

  She frowned. Eyed me warily. ‘I am.’

  I let her come to me. Sensed that approaching first might spook her. As she stepped closer I held out my hand. ‘I’m Lori. I’m looking for a friend of yours – Gibson Fletcher.’

  She glanced towards the house. Ignored my hand, folding her arms across her body instead. ‘You should leave.’

  I followed her gaze towards the house. ‘Is your husband home?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she snapped.

  I looked back at her. Held her gaze. ‘Everything I would imagine.’

  Her shoulders dropped. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m working with the FBI. I need to find Gibson. Trust me, he’d be a lot better off giving himself up to me than trying to make it to Mexico. I know the two of you have history.’

  Mia shook her head. She looked tired. ‘He hasn’t been in touch.’

  Something about the way she said it – the air of hope in her voice, how she glanced away from me as she spoke – told me she was lying. ‘You sure about that?’

  She looked back at me. Held my gaze firm. ‘Completely.’

  I nodded. Went as if to turn away, then turned back and said, ‘Only, when folks are in a jam, they usually turn to the ones they love.’

  Mia’s cheeks coloured.

  ‘He’s turned to you, hasn’t he?’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘It must be hard, I’m sure. You’ve got your husband to think about … and your son.’

  ‘What could you possibly know about anything?’ Mia snapped.

  ‘I have a daughter, she’s nine, so I know, as a mom, you do all you can to protect your child. And it seems to me you wouldn’t want to be involved in a situation that could end up in a man gunned down by a hail of police bullets. Because that’s the difference between me finding Gibson and the cops getting him first. Trust me, you’d be doing right by everyone if you tell me what you know.’

  She held my gaze for four long beats. It was a stand-off of sorts – both of us waiting for the other to yield.

  Mia exhaled. ‘When you’re young you think being an adult will be so simple, that you’ll have things sorted and life will be good.’ She shook her head. ‘Things have never been—’

  The sound of tyres on the driveway out front stopped her speaking. The engine cut off, then a car door slammed shut.

  She looked at me, panic on her face. ‘You need to leave.’

  I glanced towards the front of the house. ‘Is that your husband?’

  She nodded. ‘Go, please.’

  ‘Tell me about Gibson first.’

  ‘I really can’t. There’s nothing to say. You must leave. Please.’

  I needed her to tell me more. Knew I had to ask her more questions, find the truth. But the way she looked at me – a panicked combination of terror and pleading – made me stop. I knew what it was like to fear the one who was meant to love you. I’d lived with my husband Tommy’s temper and fists for many years before I’d got free. The look in Mia Searle’s eyes told me she was still held in that place. A captive.

  ‘Okay, I understand,’ I said. I took my card from my purse and held it out to her. ‘If you remember anything about Gibson you think could help me – help all of us – then call.’

  She stared at the card then back to me. Shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

  Oftentimes I’d have left the card there, tucked it into her shirt pocket, or put it somewhere for her to pick up later if she reconsidered, but if Mia feared her husband I couldn’t do that. Couldn’t take the risk that Marco Searle would find it and punish her. So I nodded and put the card back into my purse. ‘I’m staying at the Carlsbad North Inn over by the airport. If you think of anything, you can get hold of me there.’

  14

  The next day I woke early.

  Although I’d had seven hours I didn’t feel rested. My sleep had been patchy, with dreams of JT slumped in a prison bathroom, bleeding onto the grimy ti
led floor, haunting me every time I closed my eyes and mixing with with fleeting images of shadowy figures following me. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get a clear look at their faces. In both dreams I felt powerless, angry. I woke with a strong urge for action.

  Checking in with Monroe came first. I’d missed my evening checkin the previous night – on purpose rather than by accident. Figured we’d spoken a few hours previously, and after his casual attitude to JT’s injuries I was in no mood to speak with him again so soon. But much as I hated it, I needed to give him an update and keep him onside; for now he was a necessary evil.

  Grabbing the burner from my nightstand I typed a quick message: Have poss lead on Fletcher. Following up today. JT news?

  Switching cells, I checked my smartphone. No messages, no calls. Florida was three hours ahead – it was nearer lunchtime than breakfast for them. I figured Dakota would be out horseback riding already. Red was most likely looking into the rumours around Searle he’d mentioned, or could be still curled up with his previous night’s company. Either way I had nothing more to work with.

  It was obvious to me that Mia knew more than she’d let on. The more I replayed our conversation in my mind, the more I was convinced I felt that she knew where Gibson Fletcher was, and that gave me a problem. I’d gotten the strong impression she wasn’t going to give the information up easy, which left me with one other viable way to find it out. I was going to need to tail her.

  *

  Stakeouts aren’t how they look in the movies. Oftentimes they’re dull and it’s trickier when you’re alone. The bathroom breaks are troublesome, and you have to work hard at not being noticed. A woman sitting in a vehicle for hours on a street with little traffic stands out, which is no damn good because stakeouts are all about blending in.

  So I parked further along the street this time. Way back, so that the Searles’ house was barely visible, and I wasn’t immediately obvious to them. You see, most folks when they enter and exit their homes only give their surroundings a cursory glance. We’re too used to being comfortable, feeling safe, in the places we know. We think that familiarity brings protection, when in fact it’s most often our weakest spot – we’re less vigilant, an easier target. So I figured Mia wouldn’t notice me, whereas I had her driveway in my sights, ready to make a move just as soon as she left the property.

  I’d been waiting a little more than two hours before anything happened. Two hot, sticky hours with the Californian sun beating ever stronger down onto the blacktop, making the air seem to warp and haze as I watched the Searles’ property through my windshield. Waiting. I’d put my hazard triangle out at the side of Jeep, to fool anyone wondering why I was parked up so long into thinking I’d broken down and was waiting on the tow truck. The downside was that, without the engine, and therefore the air-conditioning, running, the inside of the vehicle was like a regular sweatbox.

  Finally there was action. The garage door opened and Mia reversed her silver Ford SUV out of the driveway. Starting the Jeep’s engine, I kept it idling until she’d pulled off, turning away from me. I waited until she was almost out of sight before grabbing my warning triangle and following her. Ocean Drive Boulevard was a long, straight road with few side turns. I knew I’d be good for a half-mile before she’d have the option to turn off, so I kept my distance.

  As it was, she followed Ocean Drive Boulevard along the waterfront until the signs for a bunch of stores had her take a left. I hung back, let a couple of other drivers slot between us, before I took the same left turn into the parking lot of a BJ’s store.

  I parked a few rows behind her and waited as she hurried across the lot to the store entrance before I got out of the Jeep. To look a little different from the previous day I pulled my red-and-blue plaid shirt on over my black T-shirt, tucked my hair up under my Red Sox ball cap and slipped on my aviators. Wearing shades inside wasn’t something I’d usually do – more often than not, it drew more attention than it deflected – but this was California, folks wore shades as standard. I figured it’d make me blend in more.

  A half-hour later and the only thing I’d learned about Mia Searle was her strict diet; unsweetened, organic wholefoods were the only things that she put in her basket. I grabbed a carton of juice, a box of mint Oreos, and a pre-packed chicken salad. Paid at the cashier four stations along from where Mia bought her goods and left the store ahead of her this time. I waited in the Jeep while she loaded her bags into the SUV, and watched her ride out of the lot.

  She didn’t go straight onto the highway. Instead she took a right and looped back around the retail stores to the drive-thru of First American Bank. I stayed sitting in the parking lot, watching. Used the zoom lens on my smartphone to see what she was doing. Her transaction was fast; a simple cash withdrawal. I couldn’t tell precisely how much – more than one note, less than twenty. Could have been housekeeping money or something else. I wondered if it was something else – for a friend; Gibson, perhaps. As she pulled away from the bank I put the Jeep into drive and followed.

  At first I thought Mia was returning home, but we didn’t turn off onto Ocean Drive Boulevard; instead, we carried on heading along the coastline towards the beach. I kept four cars between us, maintaining a steady speed. Did nothing to attract attention. The freeway was three lanes wide and free flowing. The Jeep was a regular vehicle. It seemed Mia still hadn’t noticed she had a tail.

  Four miles later she turned off the main freeway and took a road signposted for the beach. I followed, three cars behind. When she parked up on the street I drove on past. Kept going a while before pulling a U-turn and heading back towards her. I parked a couple of hundred yards away on the opposite side of the street and waited to see what she did.

  She got out of the car. I noticed then that she’d made an effort to alter her appearance, too – her long black hair was hidden beneath a headscarf tied fifties-movie-star style, and big, oval shades covered her eyes. As she set off along the sidewalk I jumped out of the Jeep and followed.

  It was real crowded. Rollerbladers mixed with dog-walkers and joggers. Tourists stood out here, their untanned faces in stark contrast to the locals’ beachy looks. I fitted in, my Florida tan a match for the California look, or close enough anyways. The breeze coming off the ocean was cool against my skin, a welcome respite from the heat of the midday sun. Out on the waves I saw the ripped torsos of surfers catching the waves. Thought it looked a fun way to spend a day.

  But I didn’t have time for fun. With every step I felt the ticking of the clock, the stopwatch counting how long it was taking me to catch Fletcher, how many minutes I’d been separated from my baby girl, and how long JT had been lying vulnerable in the prison infirmary bed.

  We walked a good twenty minutes, and I got to wondering if that was all Mia was doing – walking. Maybe this was her regular routine, a place she came to stretch her legs. I started to doubt my tailing her would lead to anything useful.

  Then I saw her glance behind. Not a long look, as you might do if you’d spotted someone familiar pass by, but a quick, half-turn of the head; the kind folks going somewhere they shouldn’t use. Maybe I was right after all. I kept back, part-hidden behind a muscular guy walking three tiny terriers and a long-haired greyhound, and watched.

  Mia slowed her pace and glanced round again. Another few steps and she turned off the sidewalk onto a wooden pier. I lengthened my stride, ducked around the dog-walker, and along to the place Mia had turned off.

  I read the sign. ‘Pier 61: Costal Surf Cottages’.

  The whitewashed pier had been divided into lots. Each housed a single-storey, weatherboarded cabin with a white-railed fence around it. I counted twenty of them. Pretty, with a perfect view of both the beach and the ocean, I figured they must be summer homes or vacation rentals.

  Mia was heading along the walkway between the cabins. Her stride was purposeful, determined. Like she knew where she was going and wanted to get there fast. I needed to follow her, but it was tricky.
The walkway was the only route down the pier, but as the only purpose of it was to access the cabins there wasn’t much foot traffic. Aside from Mia there was a small boy practising riding his bike, and his mom. If I followed Mia I would be out in the open without cover. Not good. So I hung back. Watched from a little way along the main pier. I leaned over the railings towards the ocean as if I was studying the surfers, but behind the shield of my shades my gaze was trained on Mia Searle.

  I watched her open the gate in the white picket fence surrounding the furthest cabin on the left of the pier. Stepping through, she went to the door and knocked twice. She looked nervous, her posture rigid and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. No one answered the door.

  She stepped closer and cupped her hands against the glass, trying to peer inside. I figured she didn’t see what she was hoping to, as she soon moved away from the door. She stood for a moment, her shoulders hunched, head down – the rigidity gone. Then she rummaged in her purse and took out a piece of paper and a pen. I watched her scrawl something onto the paper and then fold it neatly in half. She moved back to the door. There was a white mailbox to the right of it – smaller and squarer than the usual residential boxes, and decorated with painted pink roses. Leaning down, she opened the box, put the note inside and closed it again.

  Turning away from the cabin, she moved back to the walkway and hurried back along the pier. I shuffled a little further along the fence. Made a show of waving towards the surfers, as if knew them, giving them the thumbs-up. But all the time kept my peripheral vision focused on Mia.

  Reaching the end of the pier, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and carried on past me, head down, hands in her pockets, seemingly oblivious to anything around her.

  It looked like she was crying.

  15

  Oftentimes folks don’t understand it’s the little things that give them up. I’d been telling the truth when I told Mia that people on the run often turn to those they love. What I’d not said was that it’s often those loved ones that lead to the person getting caught – and not necessarily because they’ve co-operated.