I nodded.
“I want to be there when you do it.”
I gave her a look.
“Don’t even think about telling me it’s too dangerous.”
I wasn’t about to tell her that. There was no point.
I pulled myself out of bed, showered, dressed, then headed down to the galley. Jack had made it back to the boat and was already up and had fixed breakfast.
We dished up plates and ate on the sky deck. I caught Jack up to speed on the latest events.
"You went over to Stingray Bay last night by yourself?" he said, mildly annoyed. "You should have let me know. Never go into a situation like that without backup.”
"I know, I know. It was a stupid move. I was just going to ask him some questions.”
"You know better than that.”
I had to admit, I probably still wasn't firing on all cylinders after our brush with the bends. At least, that's the excuse I told myself.
“I figured you were busy.”
He frowned at me.
After breakfast, Ariel gathered her belongings and took her boat back to the marina at the Coronado. The last few days had been fun, but she had a life and obligations to get back to, and so didI. She made me promise to let her know the minute we planned to do anything regarding the shark.
It was time to make some headway on the case.
I called Isabella and had her track Marguerite Talbot’s cell phone. With a few taps of the keys, she told me Mark’s assistant was at a hot yoga class. At least, that's where her cell phone was at the moment.
JD and I left the boat, hopped into the Porsche, and drove to the yoga studio. It wasn’t a bad spot to visit, especially on the weekend. We stepped into the steamy session and watched the patrons contort themselves into all kinds of mesmerizing positions. Tight leggings, flat midriffs, and toned bodies. Sports bras pushed ample endowments together, and the heat slicked skin with sweat.
It was a compelling argument for getting a membership and routinely attending class.
At over 100°, it didn't take long to break a sweat. But some of these ladies could induce sweating even without the heat turned up.
I'm sure Marguerite was a great assistant. I'm sure Mark Weaver hired her for a number of reasons other than the way she looked in yoga pants. But that didn't hurt.
At the end of class, the patrons gathered their mats, rolled them up, and replaced them in the corner of the room. Marguerite toweled off and chatted with friends for a moment as the other patrons filtered out of the yoga studio.
JD and I made our approach.
I flashed my badge as a reminder. "I hate to interrupt.”
A sudden wave of concern filled the eyes of her companions. It wasn't every day that cops approached someone in the yoga studio to question them about multiple deaths.
"You have a minute?" I asked. "We just have a few questions."
Marguerite looked a little flustered. She told her friends she'd catch up with them later, then said to us, "Sure. What's going on?"
"I don't know if you heard the latest, but there was another shark attack. A few college students are dead.”
Her face tensed with empathy. "That's terrible. I'm sorry to hear that. How can I help?”
"I'm glad you asked.”
53
