Key. Some windsailers found the Grady-White on a sand bar. She washed in with the tide. We’re meeting the Coast Guard and a forensic team there.”
Forensic team? Her knees buckled and Sandy clutched Travis’s arm. “Oh, God. Are there bodies?”
TRAVIS CURSED HIMSELF as he stared down at Sandy’s pale face and quivering lower lip. “No bodies. The forensic team will comb the boat for clues to who stole the boat then sank her.”
“Ellie?” Sandy still clutched him, but her death grip had lightened somewhat.
“We don’t know where she is.” Right now that was good news to Sandy, who’d believed that Ellie’s body might have been on the sunken boat. Travis had no excuse for scaring her. His mind had been on Kincaid’s news, and he’d stupidly frightened Sandy when he knew better. She’d been on edge all day. Exhaustion darkened her eyes and guilt stabbed him. She was worried out of her mind, and his carelessness could have sent her over the edge into hysteria. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”
Travis took Sandy into his arms, and it seemed the most natural move in the world. She needed solid reassurance. He had to insure she wouldn’t go to pieces on him. However, as her fresh scent—a pine shampoo she favored—drifted into his system with the potency of bubbling wine, he ached to hold her for longer than was necessary. When the smooth texture of her cheek brushed his jaw, it took all his self-control not to slant his lips over hers. Like a powerful high tide rushing in during a full moon, his elemental reaction to her almost swept him under. He simply wasn’t prepared to want her—not with all the years that had passed. Not with all the bad memories. Not with Ellie out there somewhere, waiting for them to rescue her. Stunned how Sandy affected him, Travis refrained from dipping his head to sip a taste of her mouth.
Already her color was returning, and her lower lip ceased quivering. “I should slap you upside the head for scaring me like that.”
She didn’t mean it. The tough talk was to cover up her momentary panic. He squeezed her tightly, then released her and stepped back. “If hitting me will make you feel better, go ahead.”
“Naw. I’d only hurt my hand on that stubborn jaw of yours.” She straightened. “But if you ever do that to me again, I swear I’ll deck you.”
“And I’d deserve it.” Not that she could hurt him. His reflexes had been honed from years of hand-to-hand practice in a half dozen martial arts. Travis held out his hand for the keys. “You’re tired. Why don’t you let me drive?”
She’d always claimed that he drove too fast to be trusted with her vehicle, but she handed over the keys with only minor hesitation. The truth was, he did drive too fast. But he had great reflexes. And he knew this road as well as he knew the expressions on Sandy’s face. He’d spent his youth driving up and down this coast, and could anticipate every curve, every light, fork and town. And he damn well wouldn’t risk an accident when Ellie’s life hung in the balance.
He kept his speed down to five miles over the limit, but it seemed to take forever before they reached Pine Key. Once a one-lane, covered wooden bridge for horse-drawn carriages, the bridge had been renovated several times over the past century. Now, two lanes of concrete, asphalt and steel, the bridge was high enough for smaller boats to pass under. The island beyond, with its protected cove, was a favorite anchorage for pleasure craft. Tonight, a police helicopter, several Coast Guard patrol boats and a barge with a crane disrupted the darkness and peace of the isolated spot.
Travis crossed the short bridge and parked. As he and Sandy exited, the crane roared to life and pulled a boat from the water. Lights from the surrounding craft and automobiles focused on the hull, and four holes in the bottom could clearly be seen where water spouted out.
“Those holes are perfectly round,” Sandy muttered. “They sank her on purpose.”
After Travis identified himself to a cop, he and Sandy strode up a long gangplank and boarded the barge where the crane operator gently lowered the damaged boat to the deck. A team of gloved forensic people immediately went to work, crawling through the hull in search of evidence. Since the boat had been underwater for hours, the sea would likely have washed away microscopic clues. But maybe they’d luck out and find a jacket lodged in a seat back, keys or identification coated in plastic.
Several people on shore watched the proceedings, and Travis wondered if any were taking undue notice of his and Sandy’s actions. Several times today, he’d thought someone might be following them. But despite his vigilance, he’d never spotted the same stranger twice. Which meant either he was suffering from paranoia, or the people watching them were switching off, indicating a coordinated effort and professional action that required substantial economic means.
Travis and Sandy joined the investigators, who’d carefully set an anchor and line inside a clear plastic bag. In other bags, Travis spied several life jackets, a flare, a screwdriver and an extra portable gas tank. No one bothered dusting for prints. Each item would be examined for DNA evidence, but it was unlikely blood, hair, or even a fingernail would have survived the assault of the sea.
The lead investigator, a pudgy, pleasant-face man with piercing eyes, joined Travis and Sandy as if he’d been expecting them. “I’m chief investigator George Foster.”
“Travis Cantrel and Sandy Vale.” Travis, then Sandy, shook George’s hand.
The amenities done, George went right to business. “The plastic serial numbers on the hull were removed before they sank her, but we lucked out. Whoever scraped off the plastic was in a hurry. We’ve matched the serial numbers to the ones Sandy remembered, so we don’t have to wait on a match from the engine’s manufacturer. This is definitely your boat. Logan Kincaid said that you’d want to contact the owner yourself.” George slipped a piece of paper into Travis’s hand. “I’ll give you a thirty-minute head start before I turn that information over to the local cops.”
“Thanks.” Travis tried to control his impatience. While there was a chance the owner of this boat knew where Ellie was, they might have difficulty finding him. Still, they might drive to the boat owner’s house, luck out and find both him and Ellie there.
George Foster seemed to understand Travis’s immediate need to track down their next lead. “Go. Your boss, Kincaid, is a good man. My number’s on that paper, too. Anything else I can do, let me know.”
“Appreciate it.” Travis nodded. “If you find more on the boat—”
“You’ll be the first to know. Kincaid gave me your cell number. But don’t expect us to find much. She’s been submerged almost twenty-four hours.”
“I understand.” Travis took Sandy’s hand and they hurried toward the car. He slipped into the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt and handed her the address. “Which way?”
“Let me check the map.” She reached into the glove compartment and turned on an interior light. Although every nerve in him screamed to drive fast, until he had a direction, he restrained his impatience.
Sandy had a great sense of direction. If he gave her a moment to orient herself, she’d find the fastest route. Gazing down at the map, her lips pursed in concentration and she focused intently. He recalled that, despite all her laid-back ways, she usually got the job done, working at her own pace.
Turning the marina into a profitable enterprise had taken both hard work and good business sense. It also fit Sandy’s need for freedom. A nonconformist, she liked to set her own hours and wear whatever fashion struck her. She
