The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(54)

“Del, be honest with me, are you afraid of the water?”

Del swallowed hard and kept his gaze fixed on the catwalk. It was only ten feet long and spanned just a few feet between the dock and land, but he was staring as if it were a rickety rope bridge spanning a gorge over the Colorado River.

“I can’t swim,” he said, voice soft.

“What d’you mean, you can’t swim?”

“I mean I sink,” Del said, now sounding both agitated and embarrassed. “I mean like a stone. I go straight to the bottom.”

“You never took lessons as a kid?” Faz asked.

“My parents tried, but I couldn’t get near the water.”

“You afraid of sharks or something?”

“No, just the water surrounding the sharks.”

Faz had no phobias, but his mother had been deathly afraid of even the thought of snakes. “You want to wait in the car?”

Del shifted his gaze from the catwalk to Faz. He looked to be seriously considering the offer, but Faz knew Del wouldn’t let him do an unauthorized interview alone.

Del took a deep breath. “Just tell me the inside is more like a house than a boat.”

“Absolutely,” Faz said. “Floors and walls and everything. You don’t have to go anywhere near the water.”

“Except to cross that bridge and floating sidewalk,” Del said, his gaze again fixed on the catwalk.

“I’ll go first, okay? You just take your time.” Faz stepped onto the metal grate and proceeded across. He looked back at Del as if to demonstrate there was nothing to it. Del shuffled his feet like a man testing ice on a frozen pond, uncertain it would bear his weight. He paused when he reached the short step down to the floating dock. Faz thought it a strong possibility Del was going to turn back, but his partner mustered the courage to lower one leg, then the other.

Thankfully, the dark-stained cedar-shake home was anchored two slips from the end of the pier. Faz suspected he would have needed a towline to get Del any farther.

Outside the front door, a dozen potted plants seemed to have wilted beyond saving in the unseasonably warm weather. The houses on Lake Union were not like what most people thought of when they heard the term “houseboat.” Built on massive logs anchored to piers, the homes were not large in terms of square footage but had every luxury of a home, some exquisite. Their real value, however, came from spectacular views of Seattle. Some sold for as much as a couple million dollars.

“You want to have some fun?” Faz asked.

“Not really, no.” Del sounded hoarse and swayed like a drunkard fighting to keep his balance.

Faz banged hard on the front door. “Open up. Police!” He banged hard again. “Police. Open the door!”

Faz heard pounding footsteps and muffled voices from inside the house. He stepped to his right and looked between the house and its floating neighbor. A man stepped out onto the upper-story deck at the back of the house and flung the contents of a bucket—likely several prepaid phones and credit cards—into the lake. Inside, Faz could imagine Ian Nikolic’s wife getting ready to destroy their laptop computer. He hurried back to the door, banged again, and yelled, “April Fool’s!”

Seconds later the door ripped open and Nikolic looked at them with a bewildered and angry expression. Barefoot, he remained as Faz remembered him, though older now. Reed thin, he wore shorts and a ripped T-shirt. He looked like he’d been struck by lightning, his gray hair frazzled as if electrified.

“Damn it, Fazio! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“How much time you got?” Faz laughed. “You weren’t doing anything illegal, were you, Nik?”

Nikolic eyed Del with suspicion. “I just threw three perfectly good phones into the lake, and Marta was about to destroy my laptop.”

“You can afford it.”

Nikolic had once told Faz the police came banging on his door on a tip he’d helped a fugitive slip away. Anyone who knew Nikolic knew it to be a ruse. Nikolic refused to work with fugitives, members of organized crime, or people he suspected of stalking. Many of his clients were well known, and the information he possessed, sensitive. He made a healthy six-figure income, and the first number was not a one.

“I can afford a Ferrari too, but that doesn’t mean I want to drive it into the lake. What the hell do you want?”

“Need to talk to you about the woman we pulled from Puget Sound in a crab pot.”

“She wasn’t mine, if that’s what you want to know.”

“That’s where I was going to start. You heard anything about it?”

“Come on in. You got me out of bed; I haven’t even had my coffee yet and I can’t think without caffeine.” Nikolic looked again to Del. “Is this your bodyguard?”

“Partner. Del, meet Nik.”

Del offered a tentative hand, as if any movement would throw him off balance. Nikolic took it, then stepped back, leaving the door open.

“What’s wrong with him?” Nikolic asked.

“He’s not much of a water person,” Faz said.

The bottom floor of the house was Nikolic’s office, the upper floor his personal residence. At the end of a narrow, wood-paneled hallway, they entered a room with three desks, multiple computer terminals, printers, and assorted clutter. Filing cabinets lined the back wall. Above them hung a colored print of a man standing in the doorway of a lighthouse built on a rock that looked to be in the middle of an angry ocean, a massive wave bearing down on him. Below the lighthouse it said, “Want to get away?”