Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

least I’d have the pleasure of putting their dumb asses in the holding tank overnight. So Merlynn, that boat with the two guys you met would have been in slip one-ninety-eight on the end, right? And the winner is . . .” He ran his finger down the list.

“Are you kidding me?” he howled. “The fucking Progressive Conservative Party?” He took his hat off and hurled it across the deck, then lurched across to retrieve it. “Sorry, Merlynn,” he muttered sheepishly.

“No need to apologize. I often refer to them that way.”

“That can’t be right,” Clarke said.

“I didn’t know that, but it kind of makes sense.” Merlynn said. “There are quite a few corporations that lease slips from the club. For PR work mainly. An out-of-town group of clients fly in, they bring them down here for drinks and dinner, and follow up with a tour around the harbour. It’s something different and a nice treat for them, especially those people from Eastern Canada or the Prairies who’ve never been out here. Most of the companies have a specific boat attached to the slip, but that’s not always the case. This could be one of those instances where it’s just a slip lease and not attached to any one particular boat. The party pays the rent and slots different boats into it at different times.” She nodded her head, excited now, and continued.

“I’ll bet you that’s it. I’ve seen other yachts in there over the past month, smaller and with the types aboard you’d expect to find. You know, cargo shorts and deck shoes, drinks in hand. Just your typical boat crowd out for a good time. Slip is paid for by the party, tax deductible goodies for the faithful. As long as the club knows about it and the moorage is paid up, why would they care? It’s good business for them, not to mention the political influence they earn. Always nice to have friends in high places when you’re renegotiating the foreshore leases and that sort of thing.”

“I’m not looking forward to interviewing all those people who had access to the computer files,” Clarke said glumly. “Goddam bunch of yuppies, I can just imagine the looks on their faces when they see me.”

He gestured at his rumpled brown suit and wrinkled tie. The crushed hat sat low on his forehead. They gazed at him without comment. He flushed. “And this is a porkpie for your information, not a fedora. Been around forever and worn by Hackman in The French Connection, the movie about the great Popeye Doyle.”

“Did we say anything?” Jared asked.

“No, but I know what you were thinking,” Clarke growled.

“It suits you,” Merlynn said. “And you do kind of remind me of Gene, a little bit. As for the research and interviews, I can help with that,” she continued. “Ralph was elected commodore a few years back, and as the commodore’s wife I was given full access to all the records. Probably still have the password for that matter, I doubt anything has changed. Most of the files are still on my computer, and we can work here in private. You can be sure the club won’t object. They’ll want to keep a low profile, the less fuss the better as far as they’re concerned. I’m sure I can eliminate a lot of people right off the bat. A fair number of them will be dead or in rest homes by now for starters.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clarke said. “I’ll mix the martinis.”

Chapter 12

“I have to go up to the house and see Annie first off,” Danny said. “You want to come along?”

“That depends. What’s second off?” Jared asked.

“Oh, you know, go out for a few drinks at some of the clubs, ask a few questions perhaps, that sort of thing.”

Jared said, “You mean stumble around in the dark until we piss someone off and get our legs broken or worse like that private investigator?”

“You think my plan isn’t subtle enough?”

Jared threw up his hands. “Why don’t we just take out an ad in the newspaper? Get the police sketch artist to do up composite drawings of the two guys from the club video and say we’re looking for them regarding a series of sexual assaults. We could highlight our names and addresses and offer a hand-delivered reward for any useful information.”

“That’s a great idea, but I’m not a hundred percent sure Clarke would approve,” Danny said.

“I was being sarcastic,” Jared said.

“You’re just too subtle for me sometimes,” Danny said.

Annie’s house was in the heart of East End Vancouver where even the humblest property was now worth a small fortune. Realtors kept coming by and offering to list it for silly amounts of money. For a time Danny’s mother entertained herself by agreeing to sell on condition that they changed absolutely nothing about the house or lot for thirty years or until she passed, as the property had great sentimental value for her. When Annie grew bored with this her father, Joseph, cut a hole in the fence through to the backyard where the dog resided and spoke to him. Nobody knew what was said, but after that Sinbad considered it part of his duties to greet strangers at the front gate. Word spread and visits from realtors ceased.

Sinbad was the dog Joseph had picked up from a pound during a stopover in Santa Barbara a few years earlier when Jared’s boat, Arrow, was being harried down the West Coast by lethal men in a motor yacht. Sinbad had been raised as a village dog in the Tuamotus and adopted by an offshore cruiser who took him aboard his sailboat when he departed the island. When the sailor’s trip was over and he returned stateside, he left the dog at a charity pound in Santa Barbara with money to support him for a few months in the hope that during that time he might find another owner. Given Sinbad’s looks and temperament the odds