“I’m not here to tell you I told you so, but…”
That’s exactly why they were here. They had wanted me to spy on Catalina.
I just gave him a look and continued toward the dock, not really in the mood to watch them gloat.
Jennings and Beckett followed.
“You blew an opportunity,” Jennings said.
“I stopped an assassination.”
“She’s going to get out.”
“I know.”
“If she reaches out, let us know. There may be an opportunity there.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “She’s not going to reach out, and there is no opportunity.”
“Don’t lose sight of the goal.”
“What goal is that?”
“Bringing down Diego Navarro and the cartel.”
“Then we’re in perfect alignment.”
“I hope so,” Jennings said.
He shared a look with Beckett before turning around and walking back toward their SUV.
I crossed the passerelle to the aft deck of the superyacht. Buddy waited eagerly for me at the salon door. I slid it open, knelt down, and petted the little Jack Russell.
Ginger and Cinnamon had helped Jack get situated after his discharge from the hospital. They’d been nursing him back to health. He sat on the sofa in the salon with the girls, his arm in a sling. He was on a 6-8 week recovery program.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Great.”
Still dosed up on pain meds, the full extent hadn’t quite hit him yet. The vest had kept him alive, but the force of impact fractured his collarbone and deflected the slug into the soft tissue of his shoulder. He’d be just fine, but it would take time.
I caught him up to speed on the situation with Miguel Gomez. Jack certainly wasn’t in any condition to take on the cartel. But I knew that wouldn’t stop him from trying. We were both stubborn like that.
My phone buzzed with a call from the sheriff. “I need you to look into something.”
“What is it?”
2
JD and I didn't normally handle this kind of thing. We were Special Crimes. But since Jack wasn't in a position to handle much of anything at the moment, the sheriff handed us something that wasn't typically in our wheelhouse. Something I could handle on my own.
I hopped on my bike and zipped across town to the posh neighborhood of Stingray Bay. Zoe Martin stood at the curb at 1124 Crystal Court. She had a high-end digital SLR dangling around her neck with a long lens that looked heavy enough to cause back pain after years of use.
Zoe was a good-looking woman, about 26 or 27. Her sculpted raven hair was long on top and shorter on the sides. With elegant cheekbones and full lips, modelesque features, and smoky eyes, she looked like she could have been in front of the lens. I suspected at one point in her career she had been.
The for-sale sign in the yard told me exactly what she was doing here.
I pulled up, parked the bike, and killed the engine.
