The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(37)

“Screw you,” I shoot back.

He ignores me and takes a last look at the area. “Any idea what Winston was doing out here?”

“I thought you had all the answers.” I’m still pissed at the thought that he’s been following me.

“You knew the man. You knew about this place.”

“Barely. And I only know about this place because . . .” I stop myself from mentioning Carolina. “. . . I did some research. It seems like Winston was outfitting boats with secret compartments for smuggling.”

Solar shakes his head. “He didn’t need a place like this for that. Besides, you’d have to trailer boats in. Too inconvenient.”

“What are you saying?” I ask.

He points to the crane and spare parts. “What are you seeing? Seems to me it would be easier to do this kind of work back in a marina. I don’t get it. Nobody’s been busted with a Winston Special in years.”

“A Winston Special?” I ask as we slip back through the gate.

“That was the task force’s name for boats he outfitted with secret compartments. Ask your uncle.”

“I get it. I saw him two days ago.” I look for Solar’s reaction.

“I know.”

Why am I not surprised? “Can you clear something up for me? Why the hell are you even here? Aren’t you retired?”

“Just because the paycheck stops doesn’t mean the job does.”

“I get it. You’re a nutjob. You fucked up in the past, and now you’re easing your conscience? Or maybe you’re after the money?”

“Believe whatever you want.” He unties my kayak and fastens it to a cleat at the back of his boat.

“What are you doing?”

“Towing you.”

“I’m not going with you.”

Solar groans. “Fine.” He hands me the plastic cork thing from Winston’s pocket. “Then go find out what this is and let me know.” He undoes my rope and tosses it back to me.

After stowing the shotgun, he revs his engine and nods to me. “Later.”

He starts to back up his boat so he can turn around in the canal. From somewhere under the canopy of mangroves, something large slides into the water.

Seriously?

“Wait!” I call out to Solar.

He throws the boat into neutral. “What?”

“Let me tell my friend where I’m going.” I want to see his reaction to me telling Run where I am. If he tries to shoot me, I’ll take it as a bad sign.

“Great. But you don’t know where you’re going.”

I look up from my iPhone as I text Run, Going somewhere with George Solar. Details later.

I look back to Solar. “Where are we going?”

“A friend’s place,” he replies.

“Uh, that sounds rapey.”

Solar shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “For crying out loud. It’s my girlfriend’s place on the water. It’s where I dock this boat.”

Blue lights begin to splash treetops as a police car races down the road. Solar nods to the direction of the sound. “You want to wait for that? I’m sure they’re going to have all kinds of questions for you.”

“Um . . . no.” I toss him back the rope to my kayak and hop aboard his boat.

Solar pulls us away from the ramp as a Broward Sheriff’s Office car rolls into the shipyard. With the boat’s running lights off, we’re effectively invisible as we glide away.

Once we’re back on the main canal, Solar throws me a beach towel from the center console.

I take it but can’t help wondering why he’s acting so helpful.

What is he up to?





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SEASIDE

Solar and I exchange few words as he navigates the canals to an older residential neighborhood in a suburb of Fort Lauderdale. We pass a marine-patrol boat, and I casually wave and receive one in return. It would seem the arriving police never saw us leave.

I’m still trying to figure George Solar out. His interest in the case is suspicious. Either he’s after the money, or he’s really a retired lawman vigilante trying to right unfinished business.

The latter I find hard to believe. Sure, I could be looked upon as a vigilante of sorts, but that’s only because my life is on the line.

Or is it?

I started my own little side investigation when I realized I had a connection to Stacey. While my own personal safety is a factor, I’m also motivated by my own sense of justice—I guess. Or maybe it’s my way of dealing with the fact that Stacey may have sought me out for help when she knew she was in trouble.

We reach a long wooden dock, where a pack of mutts of questionable breeding come yapping and barking at us as Solar ties off the boat. I step onto the dock and am surrounded by a mass of fur, sniffing and inspecting me.

“Don’t mind the hounds,” says Solar. “Cindy’s into rescues.”

The yard has been torn up by the marauding dogs, but the wooden deck and house are in nice condition. It’s a large one-floor design with rows of windows and sliding glass doors overlooking a pool and expansive view.

“Nice place,” I say. It’s something you could afford on a cop salary if you got into real estate back in the 1980s. It would take me thirty years and ramen-only dinners to buy something like this.