“So, Nix Nash is straight and you’re happy to be working for him.”
“I’d rather be playing golf, but since I shank every other shot, my game won’t support me. As far as private gigs go, this one ain’t half-bad. Give him a chance. You might be surprised.”
Half an hour later, the mooring lines were thrown from the dock up to the deck crew, all of whom wore British navy uniforms, circa 1800. Then with two 375-horsepower John Deere diesel engines chugging stoutly beneath us, the magnificent vessel motored out of Marina del Rey at a stately four knots. We turned south, passing the Coast Guard station, then the UCLA Marine Aquatic Center, before finally clearing the breakwater and heading into open water.
I watched as the crew scaled rope ladders and unfurled the topsails on both masts. With 20 percent of the canvas up, you could feel the wind begin to take the boat, heeling it over slightly as we continued out.
I was here to collect intel, so I went looking for former FBI agent J. J. Blunt, Judge Web Russell, or Marcia Breen.
I found Marcia in the middle of a group of people. She spotted me and winked. A few minutes later she found a way to break free and joined me by the rail.
“You look really great,” she said. “It’s nice to see a little beige cotton mixed in with all these sequins.”
“My sparkle comes from inside.” I smiled and said, “You look pretty great yourself.”
She nodded demurely to accept my compliment. “So how’s the marriage going?” Holding my gaze longer than was necessary. “That working out like you wanted?”
“It’s great. We’re very happy.”
“As an old friend, I guess I should be glad,” she answered. “Unfortunately, I’m not.”
“We had our shot, Marcia. It didn’t gel. We’ve both moved on. Besides, when I was at the studio, I saw the way Nix looked at you.”
“The things some of us are willing to do for what’s left of our careers.” She smiled ruefully, then turned her gaze toward Nash, who was mingling with guests about twenty feet away on the far side of the deck.
“We won’t be able to talk for long because Nix doesn’t quite trust me with you,” she said. “He knows we used to date. He’s afraid I might get all giggly and accidentally let a few show secrets slip. You, on the other hand, know what a hard-ass I can be, so that’s never gonna happen.” She toyed with the plastic swizzle stick in her drink.
“Frank thinks Nash is a good guy,” I prodded.
She was silent for a few seconds. “I guess we all see what we want to.” Then she leaned slightly closer and lowered her voice: “Be very careful, Shane.”
“You want to give me something a little more definitive?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just can’t. If you knew why, you’d understand. All I can tell you is watch your back, ’cause what’s coming will probably hit you hard.”
“There you are,” Nix Nash enthused as he moved up.
Now that we were at sea, he had added a white captain’s hat with gold braid on the visor. The snazzy lid was taking his already over-the-top costume to the edge of comedy. I would have said it made him look ridiculous, but I’ve learned any committed adversary, even one wearing a tutu, should command your complete undivided attention.
He looked at Marcia and said, “Would you excuse us, honey?”
“Of course,” she said brightly. “I was just on my way to talk to Brad and Larry about the script for next week’s show.” She smiled at me again and left.
“You have scripts?” I asked, in mock surprise.
Nash was shorter now because he was wearing boat shoes, not risking the three-inch Cuban heels on this rolling deck. He laughed good-naturedly and said, “I’m going to view your being here as a hopeful sign, Shane. Come on; I want to introduce you to a new, potentially exciting concept.”
I walked with him across the deck, then followed him down a narrow ladder to the crew quarters below.
I had no idea where we were going or what would happen next.
CHAPTER 35
Nash led me aft through a dim, lamp-lit corridor to the stern area and stopped in front of a large mahogany door. The gentle roll of the ship was pleasant as we crossed the mostly calm bay outside the jetty. I could hear the faint sounds of laughter along with the string quartet on the fantail directly above us. Nix took out a key to the captain’s quarters.
“I’ve kept this cabin off-limits,” he said as he worked a key into the lock. “Because of who I’ve become, I’ve found of late I need to have my chances to get away, create some distance between myself and the fawning public.”
Nothing too humble there.
We stepped inside; then he closed the door and turned the latch. The cabin was richly appointed in red leather with plenty of teak and oak. Across the entire stern was a row of mutton-bar windows, which provided light while affording a view of the frothy white wake stretching out behind us as we rolled along.
“Drink?” Nash asked, smiling congenially.
By way of an answer, I held up my bottle of water.
“Not taking any chances, are you?”
“You go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll use any advantage I can get.”
He poured himself a drink from a bar setup on the port side of the room while I checked out the rest of the magnificent cabin. The area ran the entire width of the ship and included a large table and seating, which I guess was designed to duplicate the captain’s mess where William Bligh entertained fellow officers while at sea.
Nash turned, drink now in hand, and studied me carefully. “You’re making a huge mistake not joining up with us,” he said. “We’ve got a good team.”
“I’m sort of a loner.”
“I don’t mind loners. I’m sort of one myself. There’re all kinds of ways to fight this fight, Shane. For instance, I’m no longer a cop or a lawyer, but right now I’m making an even bigger contribution to the legal system than ever before. If you join me you can also be more effective. We have right on our side and we have a powerful electronic megaphone, so people actually hear what we say. It’s important work. I won’t keep asking. This is sort of it. Last call.”
The ship lurched in a trough. I was braced, but Nix grabbed for the edge of the captain’s table. He regained his balance as the ship steadied its roll.
“Was this last-call concept the exciting idea you wanted to expose me to?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He took a moment to study me. “I wanted to expose you to a negative civic phenomenon, which you’ve been participating in. I’m going to try to get you to stop. It’s something called the broken-window theory. Ever heard of it?”
“Never.”
“Pretty simple, really. All it says is, in troubled neighborhoods when a window gets broken you must fix it immediately, because when people see broken windows they tend to lose hope and that loss of hope causes anger and anger causes more broken windows. I know you see me as some sort of anti-police spokesperson, but all I’m doing is going around fixing broken windows.”
“So am I.”
“Not so. You’re actually the guy breaking them. Arresting the Sanchezes was a broken window. Hannah Trumbull’s blown murder investigation, another.”
“Look, Nix, in the interest of not spoiling your premiere party, I don’t want to get into that whole Edwin Chavaria snipe hunt. Let’s just leave that and move on.” He held my gaze, looked speculative for a moment, and said nothing.
“I spent some time reading about you on the Internet,” I continued. “Made some calls to departments in Atlanta and Florida. I’m trying to understand why you have such a hard-on for cops. That’s the primary reason I accepted this invitation.”