The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(65)

“Relax,” I say. “I’ll do it.”





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

MAST

Cat, aka XCatalinaCarolinaX, is twenty minutes late to meet me at Rico’s Café on Lincoln Avenue. She greets me with a sincere smile and takes a seat across the booth in the back of the restaurant.

It’s a slow Wednesday afternoon, and we’re the only people here except for two German men sitting at a table near the street.

Cat’s wearing a pale-blue cotton dress under a wide floppy hat, probably intended to keep more freckles from appearing on her tan skin.

She’s pretty but a few years past the point where a modeling career’s likely to break for her. I’ve known a few other women who persist, despite the fact that culture has made us an expendable commodity with a tiny shelf life.

“It’s nice to meet you, Amanda,” she says, using the fake name I gave her via email.

I told her that I worked for a client who was looking to do a photo shoot on his yacht in Bermuda. After talking to one of Run’s friends, this seemed like the most innocuous way to go about meeting her.

Writing the email was easy—sitting across the table from a woman close to my age who is probably hoping that I’m going to help pay her rent is hard.

What somebody wants to do with their body is no business of mine. However, when I get the sense they’d rather be doing something else, I feel bad. I have friends who have married guys because of their paychecks—and guys that used money to attract women seeking stability. This game is the same; it’s only the terms that are different.

I don’t bullshit around about the photo shoot. “My friend is looking to hire some girls to spend two weeks on his yacht.”

“You’re to the point,” Cat replies. “I don’t do that kind of work. I’m a straight-up model.”

Okay. Then why did she meet with me?

She hastily adds, “But if he’s looking for someone to help him with his social media, I can do that. Some guys want photos with hot girls because it helps them meet others.”

Social media consulting? All right, this is the game. I suspect it’s designed to prop up her sense of self-worth as much as to make sure I’m not a cop.

Let’s see where this goes. “My client prefers to avoid the media. Social or otherwise.”

Cat thinks this over. “What can you tell me about him? Is he a banker? Middle Eastern?”

I notice a bit of apprehension about the last part. “He’s more the banker type. Actually, an internet guy. You may have used his technology.”

This gets her attention. I must have accidentally used the code word for ex-husband material.

“Oh really? What can you tell me?”

Hooked. “I can’t. He doesn’t actually know I’m here. He’s very, very shy. One of his investors asked me to set this up. Make it easy for him to have a little fun. He thinks we’re inviting a bunch of model friends.”

“You’ll be there?”

“Of course.”

Now she’s thinking this might be a fun cruise with some other young people and not a bunch of old rapey dudes. I feel worse than horrible.

“This could be cool.”

“Here’s the thing. His company is about to go public, and nobody can know what he’s doing or up to. Partying on a yacht could impact the stock.”

“I get discretion. Trust me.” She looks off to the side for a moment.

“Yeah, Jason said so.”

“Jason?” she asks.

“Jason Bonaventure. He mentioned you when I asked him about this sort of thing.”

“Really?” She seems surprised.

“Yeah. Is everything fine between you and him? I don’t know him that well. He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Yeah, he’s cool,” she says flatly. “I’ve hung out with him on his yacht a couple of times.”

“Which one?”

“Good Fortune. Does he have another?”

“I thought he did. I remember going aboard one in Bimini . . . the . . .” I fake searching my memory.

“The Morning Sun?” She shakes her head. “That’s Gustav’s. I’ve been on it a couple times. Nice. Actually, Jason was there both times. Weird, though. Gustav’s a control freak. We had to leave our phones in the safe. I guess he’s married, and he’s terrified his wife will find out.”

I resist the urge to text Morning Sun to George right now. The mysterious Gustav sounds exactly like a Bonaventure shill.

“Your friend? How well does he know Bonaventure?” There’s a bit of worry in her voice.

“I don’t think he does. Why?”

“Okay. It’s . . . it’s . . . I got a call a week ago about the Morning Sun. I couldn’t do it. They only needed one girl, and it sounded . . . well. I don’t do anything in Miami. Anyway, I haven’t heard from her.”

This could have been around the time the Kraken went missing. Damn. If the Mendezes were asking questions, I’m not sure Bonaventure would want a yacht girl back in Miami talking about a pleasure cruise that suddenly got canceled.

I lean in and lower my voice. “I’ve heard some scary things too. That’s why I had to check you out.”