the directions, he tuned the radio to a local easy-listening station. Elevator music, as she called it. Music that would put her to sleep.
“Why don’t you close your eyes,” he suggested.
“You’ll wake me when we arrive?”
“Yeah.”
Sandy bunched her sweater against the door to pillow her head, but despite his effort to drive smoothly, she couldn’t relax. After fifteen minutes, she opened her eyes and flicked the radio to hard rock. The sounds of Jimi Hendrix filled the car, bringing back memories of loud beach parties, roasting marshmallows over an open fire, skinny-dipping and lusty sex. The one good thing about all of Sandy and Travis’s fights had been when they made up, the sex was always fantastic.
“Travis?” Sandy’s voice was low and throaty.
“Yeah?”
“You think there’s any chance Ellie could be with the boat’s owner?”
“It’s possible—but unlikely. Before we knock on the door, I need to stop and use the pay phone. By now, I’m hoping we have some background intel on the boat’s owner, Kevin Baine.”
Travis would have preferred to use his cell phone. But headlights in his rearview mirror kept him antsy. The car never drew close enough for him to see a driver. And when he pulled over, the vehicle kept going. But Travis knew a good tail wouldn’t blow his cover by stopping. Instead, he’d hide up ahead, turn off his lights and—once they’d passed by—jump back on their tail.
He pulled off the road at a convenience store, dialed the pay phone and waited for the connection. “It’s Travis.”
Ryker Stevens, a friend of Travis, and Kincaid’s best intel specialist, took the call. “Kevin Baine. U.S. citizen. He’s an army veteran. Honorably discharged. He makes his living driving a truck. No arrests. No suspicious activity. He looks clean, but I’ll keep digging.”
“Thanks.”
Travis got back into the car. For three miles, the road behind him remained empty. They had passed no rest stops or crossroads. And then headlights appeared behind them again, as if someone had been waiting for them.
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