The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(64)

George nods, encouraging me on.

I think about how we took to the sea after Uncle Karl’s trial. “Well, if I could use a boat, I’d do it. You don’t have to deal with TSA or immigration like with air travel. Customs or coast guard might board you, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to slip through—or hide on a big boat if they’re looking for you.”

George considers this for a moment. “So you think Bonaventure has a second boat.”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

“We could search records and look for connections, but if K-Group doesn’t know about it, then you can bet he’s hidden it well.” George leans back and stares at the ceiling. “Okay, McPherson, how do we find Bonaventure’s other boat? Assuming he has one.”

“I don’t know.” I glance around the interior of the Fool, trying to pick out what this boat has in common with all of Dad’s previous ships.

There’s the DVD player with his stack of movies. Some are new, and some he’s watched over and over again, like Last of the Mohicans.

On the bookshelf, the predictable Dad library of Tom Clancy and Brad Thor thrillers.

What else? The cupboards have photos stuck to them. A few are faded, but I can still make out my big teeth as I grin at the camera, wedged between my brothers on a float when I was ten.

Visible through the open door of the cabinet is Dad’s jar of Red Vines and chocolate chip cookies—the soft kind. Bringing any other type aboard is grounds for getting thrown overboard. In the refrigerator will be his favorite Jamaican beer.

“What are you thinking?” asks George.

“Dad always keeps the same foods on board. I’m sure I do the same. I don’t think that’s much help unless we can hack Amazon and see what’s been delivered.”

“In a perfect world. Although . . . interesting.” George thinks something over. “You know, we once had a fugitive and no idea where he went to. He’d fled with a few hundred thousand dollars and could afford to lie low for a long time. His one problem was that he had tons of allergies and needed prescription medications. We tried to subpoena pharmacy records, but that came up empty. Then I decided to follow his mother one day. I watched her go to a pharmacy, then to a mailing store. I went in after her and was able to get a look at a mailing label. It wasn’t on a package yet, so it wasn’t an invasion of privacy . . . whatever. Anyway, the meds were going to a small town in Georgia. I drove up there myself and busted him at a motel.”

“But finding Bonaventure isn’t the problem. At least not right now,” I point out.

“Fair point. Is there anything else he’d need to have on the boat?”

“I don’t know . . .” I take out my phone and connect it to the television. “Let’s take a look.” I do a search for Bonaventure and pull up his Instagram account.

“I’ve been through there,” says George. “Maybe another pair of eyes is a good idea. He only posts a couple of times a year. He’s also careful to turn the location off.”

Most of the photos are of his dogs at his estate, views from the back porch, and a couple of party scenes.

I scroll farther down and find some images on board a yacht and get excited.

“That’s the Good Fortune. I checked,” George says.

I flip through a few other photos on the boat. Some have attractive women sunbathing or smiling next to Bonaventure.

“What about them?”

“Models from South Beach. Party girls.”

“Yacht girls.”

“I don’t think they work on the boat,” George replies.

“Oh, they work the boat. Don’t you know what yacht girls are?”

“I’ve lived a sheltered life.”

“That’s a lie. Yacht girls are models and actresses—aspiring, some professional—that spend part of the season working on boats as . . . well, hanging out in bikinis.”

“You mean hookers,” George says bluntly.

“Not necessarily. Usually the arrangement is that they’re paid to be aboard while the boat’s in the Caribbean, Cannes, Ibiza, wherever. If they hook up with someone, that’s extra work. Some do it. Some don’t. I had a friend who did that. She swears she just sunbathed and danced. Anyway, these women look like yacht girls.”

“And do they get repeat customers?”

“I assume so,” I reply.

“Interesting. I can’t see Bonaventure letting them take photos on the other boat. Or do anything that leads back to him.”

“True. But that might help us. We could talk to some of these women and find out if they’ve ever been on another boat with him where security was extra tight.”

“Okay . . . but how do we find them?”

I roll my eyes like Jackie does when I say something stupid. “You are a caveman.” I scroll up on the photo of the girl. “She tagged herself in the image.” When I click on the photo, her Instagram page loads.

XCatalinaCarolinaX. Available for shoots, fashion & film. #MiamiNewStarsModeling

Miami New Stars Modeling has its own page with an email address.

“Is that her agency?” asks George.

“That’s her pimp.”

“Ugh. Let me guess who’ll have to contact them about hiring her for, um, a . . . session.”