Deadly Pursuit Read Free Page A

through the mangrove swamp ... Is the boardwalk still there?”
    “Fully repaired, and good as new.”
    “Glad to hear it. It’s important to me—the whole island, I mean. We had some great times on Pelican Key.” Steve felt wistful sadness welling in him. “Some great times.”
    “Now he’s bent on recapturing his lost youth,” Kirstie said, aiming for a tone of playful banter, but just missing.
    Steve felt a flush of embarrassment. “That’s not it. Or not ... not exactly.”
    “Then what, exactly?” she pressed. “What are you really trying to find?”
    “Nothing. I mean ... Pelican Key is a special place, that’s all. I wanted to see it again.” His answer sounded lame even to him.
    Pice cut in with a diplomat’s poise. “This friend of yours—what was his name, anyhow? Maybe I knew him.”
    “I doubt it. He was a kid like me.”
    “His pappy, then. You said he liked to hoist a glass. I’ve been known to frequent the local groggeries myself on rare occasions.”
    “Albert Dance was his name. His son was Jack.”
    “No, doesn’t ring a bell. Unusual name, Dance. I’m sure I’d remember it. Was this the marina where you tied up?”
    “As a matter of fact, it was.”
    “There might be some folks here who’d know you.”
    “I imagine so. Mickey Cotter, for one. He was a security guard at the time.”
    “And he still is. He’s an old man now—older than me, if you young folks can imagine such a thing—but he keeps on working. Mans the guardhouse from midnight to seven.”
    Steve was pleased to hear that. “Well, if you see him, let him know that Steve Gardner is here for a visit. He might not recall the name, but he’ll remember Mr. Dance’s boat. Twenty-five-foot flybridge cruiser called the Light Fantastic . Mickey has a memory for boats.”
    “That he does.” Pice smiled. “You know, it’s comical. Here I’ve been sounding off about Pelican Key like you’re a pair of ordinary tourists, and you know the island better than I do.”
    “Steve knows it,” Kirstie said. “I don’t. I’ve never even been to Florida before.”
    Pice picked up the suitcase again. “Well, you beautify the landscape, ma’am. Believe me, you do.”
    He boarded the boat, lugging the suitcase and whistling.
    “What do you think?” Steve asked Kirstie once Pice was out of earshot.
    She smiled. “I think he is Black Caesar, reincarnated. All he’s missing is a peg leg and a parrot on his shoulder.”
    “You never know. He just might have that parrot around someplace.” He took her hand. “Our captain is right about one thing. You do beautify the landscape.”
    “Oh, stop,” she whispered, turning away.
    The trip got under way a few minutes later. Anastasia stretched out in the cockpit. Pice took the helm seat on the flying bridge, and Kirstie settled into the bench behind him. Steve remained on the dock long enough to cast off the bow and stern lines, then jumped aboard.
    Pice started the twin diesel engines, engaged the astern gears with a double clunk, and carefully throttled back, easing the boat out of its berth. When the bow was clear of the dock, he swung toward the channel, shifted to the ahead gears, and nursed the paired throttle levers forward. The Black Caesar chugged into the entrance channel at a cautious speed.
    Steve climbed the ladder to the flying bridge and sat down beside Kirstie.
    “Seasick yet?” he inquired.
    She showed him her tongue. “Does it look green?”
    “No more than usual.”
    They passed between the buoys marking the harbor entrance. Pice headed southwest, past Shell Key, then motored under a bridge festooned with fishing lines into Hawk Channel, the waterway between the Keys and the reef.
    They were running east now, toward the sun. Pelican Key was ahead somewhere in the brassy glare.
    Steve was too fidgety to stay seated. He rose, bracing himself against a stainless-steel safety rail, and drew deep breaths of the briny sea air, swallowing it like food.
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