Arrow's Rest, Joel Scott [best book club books TXT] 📗

The exterior video showed a cab pulling up to the curb, Cat’s sister getting into the back seat with the two men, and driving off. A cartoonish picture of a smiling man with arm outstretched for a handshake on the door — the Courtesy Cabs logo.

“Can’t see the licence plate, but it should be easy enough to find out where it dropped them off. Good thing it wasn’t an Uber.” Jared pulled out the yellow pages and ran his hand down the columns. “Here we go, Courtesy has their office on East Hastings just past Main. A brisk fifteen-minute walk from here.”

“First let’s see if we can spot them entering the club.”

They spent a half hour searching back and forth through the video, but couldn’t pick out the two men on their way in.

“The hell with it. Let’s hit the taxicab company.” Danny stood up to leave.

“Perhaps a quick Caesar to dull the sunshine before we head out.” Jared said.

Chapter 8

It was a beautiful late autumn day with a perfect fifteen-knot sailing breeze out of the west and Jared wondered why in the hell he didn’t just phone Clarke and pass on what they’d learned from the videos. Let the big detective handle it from here on in. That was what the police were paid for, and Clarke was very good at his job. Jared figured he and Danny could have Arrow out and sailing in Georgia Strait in under an hour if they hustled. But he knew his friend would never let the matter drop, no matter what he might say. He would absolutely agree with every reason produced for non-involvement, solemnly swear to Jared on a stack of bibles to stay clear of the matter, and then he would press on regardless. That was who Danny was. He’d never met Lauren, but her relationship to Jared through Cat made her family. In Danny’s world, family took care of family. Period. End of discussion.

Jared sighed and followed Danny along the street until they came to the underground parking station and adjacent office that housed the taxi operation. The premises were bright and clean, and a smiling secretary ushered them through to the back office where a harassed man was giving and receiving instruction over the phone. Dots were moving slowly across a grid map on the screen in front of him. It seemed safe to assume the lit ones were carrying fares.

The dispatcher was not helpful. He said that the taxi logs were private and they would need a warrant in order to see them. He was sorry, he would really like to help them out, but surely they could understand it was impossible. It was an issue of trust and confidentiality between the business and the client. Their request was highly improper and perhaps even against the law.

The dispatcher was a big man of Middle Eastern heritage, and clearly relishing this opportunity to exert his authority. Jared pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet and laid it on the desktop.

The man brushed it onto the floor and said, “I’m not bought that easily.”

Jared flushed and was halfway around the desk before Danny collared him and dragged him back. The dispatcher reached down and pressed a button under the desk and two more men appeared from the back. Large men. They came and stood on each side of the desk, arms folded across their chests.

Danny held up his hands. “No need to get excited here,” he said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a card and handed it to the dispatcher.

“That’s Detective Clarke. Feel free to phone him and ask about the two of us. Danny MacLean and Jared Kane. He’ll vouch for me and my partner, and he’ll want to come down here with a warrant and a subpoena for the records and then you’ll be on his radar.”

“Maybe not the best idea,” Jared added.

Danny said, “On the other hand, I could give you another fifty dollars and you could show us the driver’s log for the night in question. We just want to check the one entry, we have the date and time of the pick-up already, no big deal. We just need to see where the cab dropped its passengers off. A couple of guys were a little rough with my sister, and we’d like to have a chat with them.”

One of the men leaned down and whispered into the dispatcher’s ear and he nodded his head.

“Family is important,” the dispatcher said. “Fifty for each of us.”

Jared said, “I was hoping for a house, or even an apartment at worst.”

The two men were standing in front of the locked steel gate of the Queens Own Yacht Club gazing at the hundreds of boats moored inside along the fingers.

“Looking on the bright side,” Jared continued, “at least we know they must have gone in here. There are no other buildings within three hundred yards in either direction, and they wouldn’t have wanted to drag a woman along the waterfront at that time of night. They’d want to get her off the street as quickly as possible before they were seen. Plus, we’re in the heart of the West End, and Lauren was laid out on that park bench not half a mile from where we are standing. So the attack in all likelihood happened on the other side of this gate. Inside the yacht club.” Jared paused. “You know, Lauren told Cat she thought she heard an engine running steadily in the background. That could have been a boat engine or even an onboard generator, which would make sense if she was on a big boat. Some of the larger ones can’t tap enough power from the shore hook-ups and have to generate their own.”

Danny said, “I’m just a poor fisherman, you’re the guy with the yacht, so what’s the deal here? Are any live-aboards allowed?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess there are probably a few