Last shot

Chapter 48

The scent of brine, damp wood, and seaweed brought Walker back to exotic ports of missions past and made him crave the burn of tobacco in his lungs. Crouched at the dark brink of land, he kept his gaze fixed way at the end of the floating dock, where a houseboat rocked in its slip. The sole point of living movement, a man stooped and shuffled, waxing his deck with hand-slip brushes. Unseen crabs scuttled on the throw of black rocks at the water's edge. The slips were dotted with weekend sailboats, Bayliner cruisers, and motor yachts too spit-polished to be more than vanity possessions. A quiet place to live, undisturbed among the playthings of the rich.

The dock was well positioned at the edge of the two-mile channel off the harbor that gave Marina del Rey its name, a good distance up from Fisherman's Village with its rip-off New England buildings, cobblestone paths, and landlubber tourists wielding ice cream cones. The village's boutiques were long closed, but the eateries still threw wobbly streaks of light across the black water. When the wind shifted just so, it carried a few rueful notes from the seafood restaurant's bad string quartet. A plane rumbled overhead, three dots of light blurred by the thin August clouds, still climbing from the LAX runway it had left behind five miles south.

The strip-planked houseboat was good and light, with enough salt in its wounds to lend it a cranky, rustic character. A white life preserver, flaked into a mosaic on the pilothouse wall, announced The Jeeves-a dead giveaway. As was its owner's air of strained dignity; he was a service-industry lackey if Walker had ever seen one.

An afternoon intel-gathering trip to an Internet cafe had yielded a wealth of data, including the address of the mail drop in the boatyard deckhouse ten yards from Walker's back. There between the laundry room and coin-accessed showers for the live-aboards was the name Walker sought, rendered on a blue sticky band cranked out of an old twist-top label maker.

The man rose from all fours, stretched his back with a hands-on-hips arch, and settled on a bench with an Amstel and a cigarette.

Walker headed for the boat, minding the bob of the dock beneath his feet. The man watched him as he passed through one spill of lamplight and then another.

Walker stopped on the dock at the edge of the thirty-five-foot slip, the man rocking out of time with his own rise and fall. The trusty ropes creaked, straining against their moorings. The man took a pull from his beer, not yet fearful.

"Chuck Hannigan?"

"That's right."

Walker stepped up onto the houseboat.

Hannigan set down his beer and rose quickly. "You're supposed to ask permission to come aboard."

Walker strode to the triangular hatch at the bow. The just-waxed deck was slick. No grime, no oxidation. Chuck Hannigan made a fine swabbie.

Walker pulled the anchor onto the deck, throwing the toggle so the windlass fed chain out into a puddle at his feet. He dragged the anchor to the prow, the crown raising peels of epoxy varnish, the chain rattling behind. Hannigan looked scared now, his body bladed to hide one arm. Walker dropped the anchor at Hannigan's feet and was not surprised to look up into the barrel of a flare gun.

Walker's hands blurred, and then both of Hannigan's arms were twisted back on themselves, the muzzle pressed into the soft pouch of flesh beneath his chin. Walker's face was inches from Hannigan's, so close he felt the heat of the cigarette cherry against his cheek. He nodded, and then Hannigan nodded, and Walker pried the flare gun free and released him. Hannigan let out a shaky breath. Walker tossed the flare gun overboard, then kicked open the rail gate. Removing a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, Walker secured one end to the anchor chain, the other to Hannigan's ankle. Hannigan looked down, eyes glazed, just now seeming to comprehend that Walker had cuffed him to the anchor. The cigarette, now long on ash, dangled from the corner of his mouth.

"You know who I am?"

Hannigan said, "I just figured it out."

Walker toed the anchor toward the open rail gate, and it coasted a few inches on the waxy deck. Some water lapped up, beading on the wood.

Hannigan said, "Don't."

A trilevel yacht drifted past, couples twirling with champagne glasses on the upper deck. It passed swiftly, trailing laughter and the smell of weed, and the wake rocked The Jeeves, causing the anchor to slide about a foot toward the rail gate. Hannigan let out a little cry, ash falling across his chest.

Walker held up the handcuff key between his thumb and forefinger like a photo slide.

"If I tell you everything, will you let me live?"

Walker gave a nod.

"I've been waiting to tell someone. Waiting for someone to come, I guess. Hell, maybe I was waiting for you." Hannigan flicked his butt overboard and tapped the pack in his pocket, waiting for Walker's approval before he removed and lit another cigarette. "It was at this commercial shoot, right? I'd picked up your sister and your-I guess it'd be your nephew? — at their house. Nice lady, your sister. I really liked her. Mr. Kagan-"

"Chase?"

"That's right. He was in the limo, too. I drove them to the shoot and waited in the limo bay in the garage. It's an underground garage, real private, you know? No one was there." His voice grew strained. "I stay with the car always, right? So Ms. Jameson comes out to get something-her purse, maybe-and Chase followed. He ducked inside. Started flirting heavy. She didn't want any. A nice lady, like I said. So he, you know…"

"He what?"

Hannigan's lips quivered. A drop of sweat rolled down his right cheek, staining his shirt. "He forced himself on her."

"Who was there?"

"Just Mr. Kagan-Chaisson Kagan. But this other fellow came out-Hawaiian shirt? — to check on things. The windows were tinted, but he must've heard…"

Walker nodded him on.

"…something. He knocked on the window, then Chase rolled it down a bit, and…well, then the guy sort of stood guard."

Walker started to talk but had to clear his throat. "Anyone else?"

"Dolan Kagan came out also. He saw from a distance, maybe. I don't know what he saw. The other guy told him to go away."

"So Chase could finish."

Hannigan wiped his cheek. "I guess so."

"And you sat there."

"I did. I sat there." A defeated pause, and then Hannigan rallied to his own defense. "I'm not a bad man. I've not slept, barely, since it happened. Like I said, she was a nice lady. But what was I gonna do? Look, guys like that, they pay my rent, right? I can barely afford to live out here on this square of water. They got fancy lawyers and press agents and publicists in their back pocket. I'm gonna…what? Press charges?" Hannigan wept silently into the fold of his hand. "I've had all order of things happen when I'm up front, behind the divider, but never anything like that. Never anything like that. Never."

"You were in the car. The whole time."

"I was," Hannigan said. "I was."

Walker stared out at the world's largest man-made marina. Then he kicked the anchor off the boat. It plunked into the water, the chain grinding across the deck's edge as it paid out, kicking up chips and splinters.

Hannigan's voice came high with disbelief. "You said you wouldn't kill me if I told you!"

"Changed my mind."

"Give me the key! Please, God, give it to me!"

Walker flipped the key in the water. He and Hannigan stared at each other, and then the chain pulled tight and Hannigan slammed to the deck and skidded off into the water with a splash. His cigarette, still lit, remained behind on the deck where it had been jerked from his mouth or he from it.

His churning was barely audible among the groan of the boats, the slap of water against the pilings, the cry of the night birds; he was just a few feet below the surface. After a minute or so, Walker sensed only the regular sigh and heave of the sea.

He picked up Hannigan's cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and headed along the dock for land, the orange dot moving through the mist like a firefly.