“You’re a real comedian, Mr. Lowell.”
“Nah. I’m not smart enough. Lenny Bruce. Now he was a comedian. Richard Pryor. Sam Kinison. They were comedians.” Lowell folded his hands across his thighs and waited.
Casey called on his well-known control. “Was that your car, Mr. Lowell?”
“Don’t have a car. Walk or ride the cable cars. Better for the earth.”
“Do you know who took the car?”
“Say, does this have anything to do with that former tenant you were asking about?”
“Lucy Rossano, Mr. Lowell. Don’t pretend you don’t remember who we were looking for. And yes, it does.”
Jake shook his head. “Well . . . maybe the car was hers then and it’s wherever she is.”
Casey turned his back so Lowell wouldn’t see his frustration. How did you break someone who had probably played this game a thousand times?
After a minute Lowell said, “So, anything else I can do for you? It’s getting late.”
Casey took a moment before he replied. He didn’t turn around. “No. You can go. I wouldn’t leave town if I were you.”
Casey heard the man stand. The chair scraped back. “You seem to have extra help, so feel free to set a tail on me. Better get some good walkers, though. I’m spry for my age.”
The door opened and closed. Casey stood for a long minute more. The guy was a spook, or had been. He’d either blackmailed somebody or been paid off with a lot of cash and a new identity for very dirty work. He was involved in the Lucy Rossano mess up to his eyeballs.
But did you ever retire? Did anyone ever let you? Maybe Lowell was working for a rival agency. The CIA would kill for a time machine. Maybe the NIATF had a leak. Or maybe Casey’s bosses were only pretending not to believe him about what it was. Maybe they didn’t trust him to bring it home and were running a shadow operation. One thing was certain. It was too much of a coincidence that Lucy Rossano was living in an apartment building with an ex-spook.
“Hey, Colonel, did you mean to let Lowell go?”
“Of course I meant it,” Casey snapped without turning around. “We can pick him up again whenever we want.”
“Right.” Evans did a disappearing act.
Casey wanted Lowell in the worst way. Nobody was going to get that machine but him. But it was more than that. Jake Lowell thought he was better than Casey at his own game.
So Jake Lowell was going down. But first Casey had to find out what he was up against, who Lowell was working for. Time to call in some very old chips.
By the time Lucy and Galen got back to the marina, the clouds had spilled over the coastal range and were racing, dark and low, across the bay. Lucy took out her key and fumbled at the lock. Galen loomed close behind her. The electric feeling in the air echoed some feeling inside her. Down the dock, the hard guy was out on his deck screwing down something. Boats took a lot of maintenance. The Camelot was impeccable. Jake must hire a service to do it. How did he pay them without leaving a trace?
The father and his son were out on the deck of their old Catalina, too.
“Goddamned dog,” the father slurred, his voice loud enough so she and Galen could hear him clearly over the creak of boats rocking in their slips. “Get him up here, Kevin.” The father had a lined and pinched face, his eyes narrow, whether from squinting against the sun or just because he didn’t want to take in very much of what he saw she didn’t know.
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Dad.” The kid was surly, his hair brush-cut like his dad’s, his jacket worn out at the elbows. “They was my socks. I didn’t care nothin’ about them.”
“Him or you,” the father threatened. “Leavin’ crap all over where he can get at it . . .” The father’s fists were balled up at his sides. “You think money grows on trees?”
The kid took a couple of heaving breaths, thinking about rebellion before he slumped and disappeared down the hatch. The man looked around and stumbled over to a stout stick with a hook on it used for hauling in big fish like marlin or tuna and picked it up. Lucy had a horrible image of spurting blood until he grabbed it by the hook end and stood there, tapping the long handle against his palm. That was bad enough.
Lucy’s pulse raced. The boat loaded with impending violence was several down to the right. She and Galen should be turning left to get to the Camelot, but Lucy couldn’t just walk away. She glanced to the hard guy, maybe five boats farther down from the boat in question, but he studiously turned his back. He’d seen this before.
The kid came up the hatch dragging the big black dog behind him, rope around his neck.
“Get him over here,” the father slurred. “Teach him to chew socks.”
The dog knew what was up. Maybe he had seen this before, too. Or felt it. He sat down and the kid had to drag him over, the dog pulling and shaking to get out of the rope noose.
“Damned dog.”
The dog whined and cringed, pulling against the rope as he rocked back on his haunches. The boy had gone flat and emotionless. He held the rope about halfway down its length so the dog had nowhere to go. The sound of the dog’s nails scrabbling against he wooden slats of the deck mingled with his whining. The man raised the handle, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
Lucy wasn’t going to sit here and watch a dog get hurt. “Hey, stop that” she yelled. The handle paused. She started forward.
Galen was around her and off at a run. “Stay here,” he growled.
“No, Galen!” He was in no shape to take on a guy like that. She hurried after Galen.
The father raised the handle again. Galen leaped aboard the boat and strode over to catch the handle with his left hand before it came down on the dog. He wrenched it away easily, holding it by the hook end, as his adversary had. The kid looked like Martians had just landed.
The father staggered back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You will not beat my hund.”
“Not your hound. Not your business. Get off my boat.”
“I take my hund now.” Galen held out the hand of his bad shoulder to the kid for the rope.
“Like hell you will.” The man straightened up. The shock had sobered him. He wasn’t swaying anymore. Oh, this was bad. The kid took a step back, eyes frightened.
“Galen,” she called, not knowing quite what she wanted to say but sure she had to stop what might happen here.
He ignored her. Instead he just tossed the fishhook into the air and caught it by the handle, so the hook end was available for business. He grinned, his eyes glittering. A kind of sureness radiated from him. He swung the hook backward without looking and put it through a port in the cabin. Glass shattered. Shards tinkled to the deck. “You come now. We fight.”
The guy’s eyes shifted around, looking for a weapon. He thought about reaching for a pole lying on the deck. Lucy saw his changing mind reflected in his face. He held up his hands, palms out. “Dude, take the damned dog. He’s a shit-ass dog anyway. We’re better off without him.”
Galen looked to the kid. Lucy saw the fear in the kid’s eyes replaced by sadness. He handed over the rope. “He’s a good dog, purebred and all,” the kid whispered. “He just chews socks.”
The dog didn’t move. Galen didn’t pull on the rope. He just held it. Keeping one eye on the father, Galen spoke to the kid. “You are like him?” He indicated the father with his head.
“No,” the kid said hastily. Then a spasm crossed his face. “I don’t know.”
Galen nodded. “I understand. How many years you have?”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Enough.” Galen nodded to the hatch. “Get clothes. You go from here. Or not. You choose.” She’d never taught him the word “choose,” so it must be a lucky confluence of the language. Who knew how he was spelling it in his mind. Galen’s accent was a little thick, but the kid got the idea.