Metro Girl

  The huge cranes that serviced container ships off-loading at the Port of Miami were visible directly across the channel. Because I’d studied the map, I knew Fisher Island sat offshore, at the mouth of the harbor. From where I stood I could see the clusters of white stucco high-rise condos on Fisher. The orange Spanish tile roofs sparkled in the sunlight, the ground floors were obscured by palms and assorted Florida greenery.

  There were white metal gates at the entrance to each of the marina docks. The signs on the gates read NO ROLLERBLADING, SKATEBOARDING, BICYCLE RIDING, FISHING, OR SWIMMING. OWNERS AND GUESTS ONLY.

  A small round two-story structure perched at the end of one of the docks. The building had good visibility from the second floor, with green awnings shading large windows. The sign on the gate for that dock told me this was Pier E, the dockmaster’s office. The gate was closed, and yellow crime scene tape cordoned off an area around the dockmaster’s building. A couple cops stood flat-footed at the end of the dock. A crime scene police van was parked on the concrete sidewalk in front of the white metal gate.

  Ordinarily this sort of thing would generate morbid curiosity in me. Today, the crime scene tape at the dockmaster’s office made me uneasy. I was looking for my missing brother, last heard from on board a boat.

  I watched a guy leave the dockmaster’s office and walk toward the gate. He was midthirties, dressed in khakis and a blue button-down shirt with sleeves rolled. He was carrying something that looked like a toolbox, and I guessed he belonged to the crime scene van. He pushed through the closed gate and our eyes made contact. Then his eyes dropped to my chest and my short pink skirt.

  Thanks to my Miracle Bra there was an inch of cleavage peeking out from the scoop neck of my tank top, encouraging the plainclothes cop guy to stop and chat.

  “What’s going on out there?” I asked him.

  “Homicide,” he said. “Happened Monday night. Actually around three AM on Tuesday. I’m surprised you didn’t see it in the paper. It was splashed all over the front page this morning.”

  “I never read the paper. It’s too depressing. War, famine, homicides.”

  He looked like he was trying hard not to grimace.

  “Who was killed?” I asked.

  “A security guard working the night shift.”

  Thank God, not Bill. “I’m looking for the Calflex boat,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d know where it is?”

  His gaze shifted to the water and focused one dock down. “Everyone knows the Calflex boat,” he said. “It’s the one at the end of the pier with the helicopter on deck.”

  That was the boat Bill was working? It was the largest boat at the marina. It was gleaming white and had two full decks above water. The top deck held a little blue-and-white helicopter.

  I thanked the cop guy and headed for Flex II. I ignored the gate and the sign that said owners and guests, and I walked out onto the wood-planked pier. A guy was standing two slips down from Flex II, hands on hips, looking royally pissed off, staring into an empty slip. He was wearing khaki shorts and a ratty, faded blue T-shirt. He had a nice body. Muscular without being chunky. My age. His hair was sun-bleached blond and a month overdue for a cut. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. He turned when I approached and lowered his glasses to better see me.

  I grew up in a garage in the company of men obsessed with cars. I raced stocks for two years. And I regularly sat through family dinners where the entire conversation consisted of NASCAR statistics. So I recognized Mr. Sun-bleached Blond. He was Sam Hooker. The guy Bill had said could kiss his exhaust pipe. Sam Hooker drove NASCAR. He’d won twice at Daytona. And I guess he’d won a bunch of other races, too, but I didn’t pay close attention to NASCAR anymore. Mostly what I knew about Sam Hooker I knew from the dinner table conversation. He was a good ol’ boy from Texas. A man’s man. A ladies’ man. A damn good driver. And a jerk. In other words, according to my family, Sam Hooker was typical NASCAR. And my family loved him. Except for Bill, apparently.

  I wasn’t surprised to find that Bill knew Hooker. Bill was the kind of guy who eventually knew everybody. I was surprised to find that they weren’t getting along. Wild Bill and Happy Hour Hooker were cut from the same cloth.

  The closer I got to Flex II, the more impressive it became. It dominated the pier. There were two other boats that came close to the Flex in size, but none could match it for beauty of line. And Flex II was the only one with a helicopter. Next time I had a billion dollars to throw away I was going to get a boat like Flex. And of course it would have a helicopter. I wouldn’t ride in the helicopter. The very thought scared the bejesus out of me. Still, I’d have it because it looked so darned good sitting there on the top deck.

  There was a small battery-operated truck at the end of the pier, and people were carting produce and boxes of food off the truck and onto the boat. Most of the navy blue and white–uniformed crew was young. An older man, also in navy blue and white, stood to the side, watching the worker bees.

  I approached the older man and introduced myself. I’m not sure why, but I decided right off that I’d fib a little.

  “I’m looking for my brother, Bill Barnaby,” I said. “I believe he works on this boat.”

  “He did,” the man said. “But he called in a couple days ago and quit.”

  I did my best at looking shocked. “I didn’t know,” I said. “I just flew in from Baltimore. I was going to surprise him. I went to his apartment, but he wasn’t there, so I thought I’d catch him working.”

  “I’m the ship’s purser, Stuart Moran. I took the call. Bill didn’t say much. Just that he had to leave on short notice.”

  “Was he having problems?”

  “Not on board. We’re sorry to lose him. I don’t know about his personal life.”

  I turned my attention to the boat. “It looks like you’re getting ready to leave.”

  “We don’t have any immediate plans, but we try to stay prepared to go when the call comes in.”

  I thought it might be helpful to talk to the crew, but I couldn’t do it with Moran standing watch. I turned away from the boat and bumped into Sam Hooker.

  Hooker was just under six foot. Not a huge guy, but big for NASCAR and built solid. I slammed into him and bounced back a couple inches.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, on an intake of breath. “Shit.”

  “Cute little blonds wearing pink skirts aren’t allowed to take the Lord’s name in vain,” Hooker said, wrapping his hand around my arm, encouraging me to walk with him. “Not that it matters, you’re going to hell for lying to Moran.”

  “How do you know I was lying to Moran?”

  “I was listening. You’re a really crappy liar.” He stopped at the empty slip. “Guess what goes here?”

  “A boat?”

  “My boat. My sixty-five-foot Hatteras Convertible.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s gone. Do you see a boat here? No. Do you know who took it? Do you know where it is?”

  The guy was deranged. One too many crashes. NASCAR drivers weren’t known for being all that smart to begin with. Rattle their brains around a couple times and probably there’s not much left.

  I made a show of looking at my watch. “Gee, look at the time. I have to go. I have an appointment.”

  “Your brother took my goddamn boat,” Hooker said. “And I want it back. I have exactly two weeks off before I have to start getting ready for the season, and I want to spend it on my boat. Two weeks. Is that too much to ask? Two friggin’ weeks.”

  “What makes you think my brother took your boat?”

  “He told me!” Hooker’s face was flushing under his tan. He had his glasses off, and his eyes were narrowed. “And I’m guessing he told you, too. You two are probably in this together, going around ripping off boats, selling them on the black market.”

  “You’re a nutcase.”

  “Maybe selling them on the black market was pushing it.”

  “And you have ange
r management issues.”

  “People keep saying that to me. I think I’m a pretty reasonable guy. The truth is I was born under a conflicting sign. I’m on the cusp of Capricorn and Sagittarius.”

  “Which means?”

  “I’m a sensitive asshole. Whatcha gonna do?”

  It was a great line, and I really wanted to smile, but I didn’t want to encourage Hooker, so I squashed the smile.

  “Do you follow NASCAR?” he asked.

  “No.” I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder and headed for the concrete walk.

  Hooker ambled after me. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want an autograph?”

  “No!”

  He caught up with me and walked beside me, hands in his pockets. “Now what?”

  “I want a newspaper. I want to see what they said about the guy who was murdered.”

  Hooker cut his eyes to the dockmaster’s office. “I can tell you more than the paper. The victim was a forty-five-year-old security guard named Victor Sanchez. He was a nice guy with a wife and two kids. I knew him. They found his body when he didn’t check in as scheduled. Someone slashed his throat just outside the dockmaster’s building, and then the struggle got dragged inside. The office wasn’t totally trashed, but logbooks and computers were wrecked. I guess the guard didn’t go down easy.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “Not at first look, but they’re still going through everything.” He grinned. “I got that information from the cops. Cops love NASCAR drivers. I’m a celebrity.”

  Not too full of himself, eh?

  Hooker ignored my eye roll. “Do you want to know what I think? I think the guard saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. Like maybe someone was smuggling in drugs. All right, I didn’t think of that all by myself. That’s what the cops told me.”

  I’d reached the path at the water’s edge. The marina stretched on either side of me. There were several high-rises in the distance. They were across from Fisher Island, looking over the harbor entrance. I turned and walked toward the high-rises. Hooker walked with me.

  “Are there really boats bringing drugs in here?” I asked him.

  Hooker shrugged. “Anything could come in here. Drugs, illegal aliens, art, Cuban cigars.”

  “I thought the Coast Guard intercepted that stuff.”

  “It’s a big ocean.”

  “Okay, so tell me about my brother.”

  “I met him a couple months ago. I was in Miami for the last race of the season. When the race was over I hung around for a while, and I met Bill in Monty’s.”

  “Monty’s?”

  “It’s a bar. We just passed it. It’s the place with the thatched roof and the pool. Anyway, we got to talking, and I needed someone to captain the boat for me down to the Grenadines. Bill had the week off and volunteered.”

  “I didn’t know Bill was a boat captain.”

  “He’d just gotten his certification. It turns out Bill can do lots of things…captain a boat, steal a boat.”

  “Bill wouldn’t steal a boat.”

  “Face it, sugar pie. He stole my boat. He called me up. He said he needed to use the boat. I said ‘no way.’ I told him I needed the boat. And now my boat’s gone. Who do you think took it?”

  “That’s borrowing. And don’t call me sugar pie.”

  The wind had picked up. Palm fronds were clattering above us, and the water was choppy.

  “A front’s moving in,” Hooker said. “We’re supposed to get rain tonight. Wouldn’t have been great fishing anyway.” He looked over at me. “What’s wrong with sugar pie?”

  I gave him a raised eyebrow.

  “Hey, I’m from Texas. Cut me some slack,” he said. “What am I supposed to call you? I don’t know your name. Bill only mentioned his brother Barney.”

  I did a mental teeth-clench thing. “Bill doesn’t have a brother. I’m Barney.”

  Hooker grinned at me. “You’re Barney?” He gave a bark of laughter and ruffled my hair. “I like it. Sort of Mayberry, but on you it’s sexy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. I’m getting turned on.”

  I suspected NASCAR drivers woke up turned on. “My name is Alexandra. My family started calling me Barney when I was a kid, and it stuck.”

  We’d reached one of the high-rises. Thirty-five to forty floors of condos, all with balconies, all with to-die-for views. All significantly beyond my budget. I tipped my head back and stared up at the building.

  “Wow,” I said. “Can you imagine living here?”

  “I do live here. Thirty-second floor. Want to come up and see my view?”

  “Maybe some other time. Places to go. Things to do.” Small fear of heights. Distrust of NASCAR drivers…especially ones that are turned on.

  The first drops of rain plopped down. Big fat drops that soaked into my pink skirt and splashed off my shoulders. Damn. No umbrella. No car. Four long blocks between me and Bill’s apartment.

  “Where’s your car parked?” Hooker wanted to know.

  “I don’t have a car. I walked here from my brother’s apartment.”

  “He’s on Fourth and Meridian, right?”

  “Right.”

  I looked at Hooker, and I wondered if he was the one who had trashed the apartment.

  TWO

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me,” Hooker said.

  “I was wondering what you’re capable of doing.”

  The grin was back. “Most anything.”

  From what I knew of him, I thought this was probably true. He’d started driving on the dirt tracks of the Texas panhandle, scratching and clawing his way to the top. He had a reputation for being a fearless driver, but I didn’t buy into the fearless thing. Everyone knew fear. It was the reaction that made the difference. Some people hated fear and avoided the experience. Some people endured it as a necessity. And some people became addicted to the rush. I was betting Hooker fell into the last category.

  The wind picked up, the rain slanted into us, and we ran to the building for cover.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to visit the casa de Hooker?” Hooker asked. “It’s not raining in the casa.”

  “Pass. I need to get back to the apartment.”

  “Okay,” Hooker said. “We’ll go back to the apartment.”

  “There’s no we.”

  “Wrong. Until I get my boat back we are definitely we. Not that I don’t trust you…but I don’t trust you.”

  I was speechless. I felt my mouth involuntarily drop open and my nose wrinkle.

  “Cute,” Hooker said. “I like the nose wrinkle.”

  “If you’re so convinced my brother stole your boat maybe you should report it to the police.”

  “I did report it to the police. I flew in yesterday and discovered the boat was missing. I tried calling your worthless brother, but of course he isn’t answering. I asked for him at Flex II and found out he’d quit. I tried the dockmaster, but they have no freaking records left. Blood on everything. How inconvenient is that? I called the police this morning and they took my statement. I expect that’s as far as it’ll go.”

  “Maybe someone else took your boat. Maybe the guy who killed the night guard took your boat.”

  “Maybe your brother killed the night guard.”

  “Maybe you’d like a broken nose.”

  “Just what I’d expect from a woman named Barney,” Hooker said.

  I turned on my heel, crossed the lobby, and exited through the door to the parking lot. I put my head down and slogged through the wind and the rain, walking in the direction of Fourth Street. Just for the hell of it, I pointed Bill’s car remote in a couple directions, but nothing beeped or flashed lights.

  I heard a car engine rumble behind me, and Hooker rolled alongside in a silver Porsche Carrera.

  The driver’s-side window slid down. “Want a ride?” Hooker asked.

  “I’m wet. I’ll ruin your l
eather upholstery.”

  “No problem. The leather will wipe dry. Besides, I’m thinking of trading up to a Turbo.”

  I scurried around to the passenger side and wrenched the door open. “What do you expect to gain by following me around?”

  “Sooner or later, your brother’s going to get in touch with you. I want to be there.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s gonna happen. Anyway, I haven’t got anything better to do. I was supposed to be out on my boat this week.”

  I wanted to get rid of Hooker, but I didn’t have a plan. Truth is, I didn’t have a plan for anything. Alexandra Barnaby Girl Detective was stumped. Just pretend it’s a transmission, I thought. You take it apart. You see what’s broken. You put it back together. Really go through the apartment. Bill was friendly. He didn’t have a well-developed sense of secret. Surely, he talked to someone. You have to find that someone. You found the key in the dog poop pile, right? You can find more.

  Hooker made a U-turn on Meridian and pulled into a spot in front of Bill’s building.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, and I hit the ground running. Okay, not exactly running, but I was moving right along. I was hoping to get into the apartment and close and lock the door before Hooker could elbow his way past me.

  I got one foot on the sidewalk, and I was yanked back by my purse strap.

  “Wait for me,” Hooker said.

  “Here’s the thing,” I told him. “You’re not invited in.”

  “Here’s the thing about driving NASCAR,” Hooker said. “You learn not to wait for an invitation.”

  When I reached the front door I tried opening it without the key. If the door had opened, I would have sent Hooker in first. The door didn’t open, so I unlocked it and stepped inside.

  “Someone broke into this apartment,” I told Hooker. “You can see where they pried the door open. It was unlocked when I got here this afternoon. I don’t suppose it was you?”