I went on board, clambering over cables. I unzipped the cover in three places, pushing sections back. The cabin was locked, but I used my penlight to peer through the hatches, sweeping my beam through the galley below. The interior was immaculate: beautiful inlaid woods, muted upholstery in soft sunset hues. Supplies had been laid in, canned goods and bottled water in neatly stacked cardboard boxes, waiting to be stowed. I lifted my head and scanned the houses on either side. I couldn’t see a soul. I checked the houses across the way. There were numerous lights on, occasional glimpses of the residents, but no indication that I was being watched. I crawled along the deck toward the bow until I reached the hatch above the V-berth. The bed was neatly made, and there were personal effects visible: clothing, paperback books, framed photographs that I couldn’t quite make out.

I moved back to the galley and sat on the aft deck, working at the tubular lock that was set into the wood between my knees. A lock of this type usually has seven pins and is best attacked with a commercially available pick tool, which was part of the set I had with me. This small hand-held device is the approximate size of an old-fashioned porcelain faucet handle of the sort where HOT and COLD are printed across the surface in blue. The tool contains seven thin metal fingers that adjust themselves to correspond to the cut depth of a key. An in-and-out motion is applied, while a slight turning force is applied at the same time, a rubber sleeve providing friction that holds the fingers firmly in place. Once the lock opens, the tool can be used as an actual key.

The lock finally yielded, but not without a few well-chosen curses. I tucked the tool in my jeans and slid back the hatch, easing myself down the galley steps. Sometimes I’m sorry I didn’t hang in with the Girl Scouts. I might have qualified for some keen merit badges, breaking and entering being one. I moved through the cabin, using my penlight, searching every drawer and cubbyhole I could find. I’m not even sure what I was looking for. A compleat travel itinerary would have been a boon: passports, visas, charts marked with conspicuous red arrows and asterisks. Confirmation of Wendell’s presence would have been lovely, too. There was nothing of interest. About the time I ran out of steam, I also ran out of luck.

I flipped off the penlight and I was just coming up the galley steps, emerging from the cabin, when Renata appeared. I found myself staring down the barrel of a .357 Magnum revolver. The damn gun was huge and looked like something an old western marshal might carry in a holster hanging halfway to his knees. I stopped in my tracks, instantly aware of the hole a gun like that can make in parts of the anatomy essential to life. I felt my hands come up, the universal gesture of goodwill and cooperation. Renata was apparently unaware of this, as her attitude was hostile and her tone of voice belligerent. “Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator. My ID’s in my handbag, which is out in the car.”

“You know I could kill you for trespassing on this boat.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m kind of hoping you won’t.”

She stared at me, perhaps trying to decipher my tone, which was probably not as respectful as she might have wished. “What were you doing back there?”

I turned my head slightly, as if looking at the “back there” might help me recall. I decided it was the wrong time to bullshit. “I was looking for Wendell Jaffe. His son was released from the Perdido County Jail this morning, and I thought the two might be planning to connect.” I thought we’d have to stop and play out some kind of nonsense along the lines of “Who’s Wendell Jaffe?” but she seemed willing to play the scene the way I’d set it. I didn’t articulate the rest of my suspicion, which was that Wendell, Brian, and Renata probably intended to defect on this very boat. “By the way, just to satisfy my curiosity, was Wendell the one who set up that jail release?”

“Possibly.”

“How’d he manage that?”

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“Viento Negro. Last week. I tracked you to the Hacienda Grande.”

Even in the shadows I saw her eyebrows lift, and I decided to leave her with the impression that it was my superior detecting that unearthed them. Why mention Dick Mills when his spotting Wendell was dumb luck on his part? I wanted her to think of me as Wonder Woman, bullets ricocheting off my wristbands.

“I tell you what,” I said conversationally. “You don’t really need to keep that gun on me. I’m unarmed myself, and I’m not going to do anything rash.” Slowly I lowered my hands. I expected her to protest, but she didn’t seem to notice. She seemed undecided about what to do next. She could, of course, shoot me, but dead bodies are tricky to dispose of and, if not dispatched properly, tend to generate a lot of questions. The last thing she wanted was the sheriff’s deputy at her door. “What do you want with Wendell?”