"Casey, we’re trying to help solve your friend’s murder," I said.
After a pause, she said, "You need to talk to Ethan."
"Who's Ethan?”
"A friend of ours. He had a hopeless crush on Ivy. It took a lot to get it out of him, but he just told me they hacked Valterion. That's why they came to visit her at school. That's why they offered her a job."
"A job?" I said with a wrinkled brow.
"They were going to pay her a shit-ton of money. Of course, the job came with a non-disclosure agreement. They wanted to shut her up. She told them to screw off. So, they killed her. It all makes sense now."
"Why? What did Ivy find during the hack?"
"I don't understand it all. Something about the weather. Ethan can explain it better than I can. But you don't think this is natural, do you? The floods, droughts, and cold weather in the Keys. Never in my life has it been this cold here. Never.”
"Where's Ethan?”
"Scared shitless, hiding out. They’ve been by his house, too.”
"Where is he hiding?”
Casey paused. "I don't want to say. I'm not gonna rat him out. Let me call him and see if he's willing to talk to you.”
She ended the call, and we waited for a reply.
50
“Were you followed?” Casey asked with nervous eyes that darted around.
We met her at Salt Point Harbor.
“No,” I said, almost amused. “Were you?”
“No. Of course not,” she said with a crinkled brow, like it was a silly question. “I know what I’m doing.”
Casey was, perhaps, a little overconfident in that department. At 17, she had no training.
Her frantic eyes glanced around the parking lot again before leading us down the dock to Ethan. He was hiding out aboard his uncle’s boat.
The Barnacle Palace was a 1969 trawler yacht that had been completely refurbished. With a royal blue hull and an Arctic white wheelhouse, it was in great shape. No bubbling rust. No weathered patina. Clean and seaworthy. I don't know how much money Ethan's uncle had dropped into the recondition, but it wasn't cheap.
As we approached the boat, Ethan stepped onto the side deck from the wheelhouse. His nervous eyes glanced around, then he motioned us aboard.
Ethan was 17 years old with shaggy dark hair, dark eyes, and a slim build. With the starboard side moored against the dock, we climbed over the gunwale. He led us into the wheelhouse, wanting to get out of sight quickly.
There was a small galley with stainless steel countertops, large windows, and all the appliances you might need—a refrigerator, dishwasher, and induction stove. The space had been converted to a small living area with a couch, a U-shaped settee for dining, and a flatscreen display. Forward and up a companionway was the helm station. There were berths and day heads aft. Below deck, the engine room waited for marching orders. With a beam of 5.9 meters and a length overall of 22 meters, the boat was quite spacious. If you liked the old-world aesthetics and could live with its quirky charms, this was a boat that could handle just about anything the sea could throw at it. It had already proven itself in the North Sea before the refurb.
Casey introduced us to Ethan and his uncle Nate. We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
Nate was a barrel-chested guy with a bushy beard and curly dark hair. He had a swarthy tan from days in the sun, and he had those crazed, icy eyes of a man who craved adventure.
Ethan shifted, nervous at first. It was understandable. He didn't know us from Adam.
"They're okay," Casey said. "I checked them out. Besides, if they wanted me dead, they could have done it by now."
A stainless steel .45 ACP was holstered on Nate's hip for all to see. I had no doubt the man knew how to use it. He wasn't taking any chances with his nephew.
Ethan moved to the window and looked down the dock again, just to make sure we weren't followed.
