Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [40]
“Shall we go somewhere to talk?” she asked, eager to get on with it.
Walking side-by-side, chatting casually, they crossed the brick-paved causeway to Barnes and Noble, the ho-hum of its chaindom somewhat mitigated by being sandwiched between its trendier cousins, the ESPN Zone and Hard Rock Cafe. Once inside, they wound through smokestacks tattooed with rivets, rode up the industrial-style escalators to Starbucks.
“My treat,” Jack said, and bought them each a mocha frappuccino.
“Do you want to see the boat now, before you make up your mind?” he asked, sitting down at the table opposite her.
“How about the other guy?” She jammed a straw into her drink.
“What other guy?”
“The guy I saw riding in on the dinghy.”
Jack actually blushed. “You must mean Tim. He works for the yacht broker.”
“Tim, then.”
“He installed a self-steerer in the Sabre. Wanted to make sure it worked.”
“Self-steering will come in handy on the ocean,” Angie commented, taking a sip from her mocha frappe. “So, tell me about the trip.”
While Jack extracted a map from his fanny pack and smoothed it out on the table, Angie studied his face. The eyes were right, and so were the ears, but the nose and chin bothered her. Plastic surgery? If so, the scars were hidden in the tiny creases of his well-tanned skin.
Jack anchored a corner of the map with his drink. His finger traced a line from the Abacos to Eleuthera, down the long Exumas chain to Great Exuma. Angie smiled and nodded and asked all the right questions—about sending and receiving mail, about satellite phones and how they’d divide up the duties and the costs—but knew it was time to move on.
She leaned over the map. “I’d like to see the boat now, Jack.”
His eyes, dark as cinnamon, locked on hers, and something went ka-plump in her chest. Goddamn. She hoped that wouldn’t be a problem.
Minutes later, opposite the aquarium, Angie held back. “Wait a minute!” she said, grabbing Jack by the arm and dragging him along. “You have to see the seals!” She led him to the seal pool, where they stood side-by-side, leaning against the railing, the crowds pressing in around them.
Ike and Lady eeled soundlessly through the water in their idyllic, 70,000-gallon world. Mounted on the railing was a sign—Caution: Throwing coins or objects in the pool can kill the seals. Well, not so idyllic, maybe.
They watched in companionable silence for a while, then Jack turned to face her.
“Mandy,” he said. His eyes seemed to drink her down. “This’ll probably not sit too well, but you could be the figurehead on my ship of life.”
“That’s bullshit,” she said, smiling.
“No,” he said. “Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“About the figurehead. I don’t think so … Bill “ Her voice dropped an octave on his name, like a late night DJ. Her smile evaporated and she waited, giving him time to let the significance of her words sink in.
“Shitfuckdamn.” He blinked slowly. “How the hell did you find me?”
“We’re betrayed by our buying habits, Jack. Take me, for example.” She plucked at the collar of her gauzy shirt. “If I wanted to disappear, I’d have to stop shopping at Chicos.”
Jack relaxed against the railing. Perhaps he was relieved. “So what gave away?”
“The West Marine catalog.”
“No way.” He actually grinned.
She slipped a hand into her tote, easing it down deep along the side. “I called their 800-number to complain that we hadn’t received our catalog since we moved, and were they still sending it to the Providence address.” She shrugged. “‘Oh, no,’ the woman told me, ‘it’s going to your new address in North Carolina.’” Angie smiled. “Of course she confirmed that for me.”
Jack laid a hand on her shoulder, and again she felt it, like a jolt of electricity straight to her heart. “But why you?” he asked.
“Not me,” she said, leaning closer, so close that her nose was filled with the Tide-washed freshness of his shirt. “It’s Michael Cirelli who’s looking for you. He wasn’t amused when you ratted. When your testimony sent his son to