Protector S.o.s.. Susan Kearney
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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 rarely slept in past dawn. However, she needed her afternoon nap, and often turned cranky late at night.
He’d bet she hadn’t slept since Ellie’s disappearance and, with the hour close to midnight, she had to be ready to drop. Yet, she hadn’t complained once about her exhaustion. After she gave him 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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