A selection of the Doubleday Book Club
An Editor's Choice selection with Mystery Guild
An alternate of the Literary Guild
Published in three countries with additional pending
"Mimi
Latt has captured the glamour, power struggles and sordidness of the political, legal and
law enforcement arenas. A real "Who Done It." Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
A six
piece band played as Rebecca Brownstein Morland and her husband, Ryan, danced on the top
deck of the huge private motor yacht. The boat, called the Majorca, was covered with
tiny twinkling lights that reflected back off the inky water, lending the scene a magical
aura. Night had fallen a short time ago and over Ryan's shoulder, Rebecca watched
the lights of Santa Monica receding as the yacht motored further into the San Pedro
Channel, away from the breakwater of Marina del Rey and the California coastline.
In spite of the music, the raucous laughter
emanating from the various decks, and the hum of the large diesels, Rebecca found it
peaceful to be out on the water. With Ryan's arms wrapped around her, she tried to
make believe that the last three weeks had never happened and that their life was still
perfect.
She glanced around. Tonight's party
was a political fundraiser and the yacht was packed with the most powerful men and women
in the state. The men, looking handsome in dark dinner jackets, and the women,
elegantly clad in fancy cocktail dresses and magnificent jewelry, all added to the glamour
of the event.
Brandon Taylor, the stately managing partner of Taylor, Dennison &
Evans, the law firm at which Ryan recently had been named a partner, was making his way
around the deck, shaking hands and stroking egos. As a high-profile lawyer as well
as the son and grandson of two former United States Senators, Brandon was intent on
becoming his party's candidate for the next Senate race. So far, no one of any
importance had chosen to oppose him for the nomination and Brandon was busy ensuring that
no one would, especially Paul Worthington, the multi-millionaire owner of this magnificent
yacht.
Rebecca tossed back her head of red
hair which cascaded over her shoulders in a mass of curls, and nudged closer to Ryan.
"I love you," he whispered in
her ear, his breath warm against her cheek.
"I love you too," she murmured.
When the music stopped, Ryan pulled away
and immediately began to glance around. Watching him, Rebecca could see that the
haunted look was back on his face. He was a handsome man and she particularly loved
the way his light blond hair had a boyish way of falling forward over his brow. But
tonight, Ryan's face was lined with exhaustion. Gone too was the devilish sparkle in
his blue eyes.
His gaze still focused on the crowd of people
around them, he leaned against the rail, and his tall, muscular body slumped forward as if
the air had been let out of his chest. Ryan usually appeared younger than his
thirty-five years, but not tonight.
"You look so tired," Rebecca said, gently
admonishing him.
Ryan's mouth twisted into the crooked
grin that when she first met him had melted her heart. In spite of his weight loss
and his pale, gaunt face, that smile reminded her of the man with whom she had fallen in
love.
How could things have changed so drastically
and so fast?
A mere three weeks ago everything in their
lives had been wonderful. They were in love and trying to have a baby. They
were both excelling in their legal careers. At twenty-nine, Rebecca had a
responsible and fulfilling job as a staff lawyer in a legal clinic for lower-income
people. Ryan's life-long passion had been politics and he'd recently been thrilled
when, recently, Brandon Taylor had asked him to join his campaign staff. Rebecca and
Ryan were amused by the fact that their only arguments were not about the differences in
their religions, which didn't seem to pose a problem, but about politics--she was a
Democrat while he was a Republican. Then something had happened. Without
warning, she had begun to live in a nightmare.
Memories of the last several weeks came
crashing into her head. The nights Ryan hadn't been able to sleep--his almost
hostile silences, his moodiness, the abrupt flashes of temper. It was clear to
Rebecca that he was deeply troubled. Yet he'd told her virtually nothing, insisting
that what was bothering him was work related and therefore confidential. She'd
sensed that wasn't completely true. During their two year marriage--without
divulging any specifics that would violate their ethical obligations--they'd always
discussed everything, including their legal cases. Besides, his eyes gave him
away--he was hiding something from her. Well, if she was going to help him, she had
to find out what it was.
Ryan started searching his pockets, looking for
a cigarette. "It was your idea to stop smoking when we started trying to have a
baby," she reminded him wryly, the corners of her mouth turning upwards.
"Please, babe." He took
the pack out and removed one. "I'm at least trying to keep it down to two a
day."
Rebecca decided not to press him.
He still had a lot of mingling to do tonight, locking up as much support as possible
for Taylor's candidacy. She'd wait until they were in the car on their way home to
press him for what it was that was disturbing him so much.
A crew person dressed in a crisp white
uniform with epaulets, approached Rebecca and Ryan. He nodded to them and smiled.
"Your host has asked that any smoking be confined to the stern of the boat, in
the fishing cockpit. May I show you the way?"
Ryan glanced at her, a question in his eyes.
"Go ahead," Rebecca said softly.
"I've got to fix my contact lens. I'll meet you back up here in a little
while."
"Okay." He looked at her
lovingly, then brushed his lips against her forehead. "See you soon."
Rebecca watched him follow the crew person to
the circular stairway that led to the lower levels of the boat. Just before Ryan's
head disappeared from view, their eyes met and he gave her a smile. It sent a rush
of warmth and hope through her. Somehow they would work things out.
*
*
*
Rebecca checked her contacts, covered the
few freckles on her nose with powder, and put a touch of mascara on the lashes of her
green eyes. Then, satisfied with her repair job, she closed her purse. Gazing
at her image in the mirror, she thought her simple black sheath complemented her tall,
lithe figure. Yet compared to the other guests, she felt slightly under-dressed.
Shopping had never been Rebecca's
favorite activity. She'd bought this dress off-the-rack at Loehmann's, a discount
clothing store not far from the legal clinic, without even trying it on. If she
worked at a firm like Taylor, Dennison & Evans, where appearance counted as much as
performance, she'd be forced to have, as Ryan did, a closet full of finely tailored suits.
"Oh well, c'est la vie!" she murmured as she left the powder room.
Heading back to meet Ryan, Rebecca was
struck by the opulence of her surroundings. Everything shrieked of money from the
crystal chandeliers and the ornate mirrors to the plush carpeting and the furnishings
upholstered in shades of white and beige, shot through with threads of silver and gold.
The Worthington yacht was a world apart from the sailboats and small powerboats she
was used to.
On the upper deck, Rebecca quickly surveyed the
crowd, but couldn't spot Ryan. Checking her watch, she realized that fixing her
contact lens had taken longer than she'd anticipated. She decided to explore the
lower decks. As she made her way through the crowd of people she became aware that
someone was watching her. It was Maxwell Holmes, a political insider, whose
behind-the-scene support was said to be vital to winning any and all elections in the
state of California. Rebecca thought Holmes slightly attractive in a rough,
unpolished sort of way, but she was repelled by the man. His unwelcome attention to
her earlier in the evening had clearly upset Ryan, who ordinarily would have laughed
something like that off.
She heard someone calling her name and she
glanced around. It was Jeremy Rogers, an old law school chum of hers, beckoning her
to join him at the rail where he was standing with two other people. While she was
anxious to find Ryan, she didn't want to seem unfriendly.
"Hello, Jeremy," she said.
"Rebecca, it's great to see you."
He introduced her to his companions, both lawyers, a woman with a lively face and a
stiff looking young man. He then explained to his friends that Rebecca and he had
attended law school together.
As Rebecca shook hands with Jeremy's friends,
her eyes continued to roam the crowd, searching for her husband.
"Do you go by Brownstein or Morland
now?" inquired Jeremy.
"Both," she nodded, smiling.
"Brownstein," said the other
man, turning to Jeremy with a smug grin on his face. "Isn't she the one who
beat you out for editor-in-Chief of Law Review?"
Jeremy's neck grew red with
embarrassment. "Yeah."
Wanting to ease his discomfort, Rebecca
quickly interjected, "If the truth be known, I think it was decided by the toss of a
coin."
Her old classmate flashed her a grateful
smile.
"And where do you practice?" The
other man's arrogant tone of voice told Rebecca that he was probably a lawyer at a stuffy
firm in downtown L.A., the kind of place where they checked your pedigree before offering
you a job.
"I'm a senior staff attorney at the
Fairfax Neighborhood Legal Clinic."
"A legal clinic?" The man
raised one eyebrow, clearly surprised. "I would have thought with your class
standing and other qualifications you could have had your pick of any firm in the
country?"
"I did," Rebecca replied with a
smile. "And I chose exactly where I wanted to be." She was about to
excuse herself, when the woman, who was standing next to her, spoke.
"I just figured out where I've seen you.
Aren't you the lawyer who was profiled a few weeks ago in the Daily Journal?
Something about tackling a bunch of developers on behalf of an elderly woman?"
"Yes," Rebecca responded.
"Going up against all those powerful
law firms took a lot of guts," the woman said, looking at Rebecca admiringly.
"I'm just glad it worked out,"
Rebecca replied, scanning the group of people who were passing in front of them.
"Looking for someone?" Jeremy
asked.
"Yes. My husband. I was
supposed to meet with him on the upper deck, but we seem to have missed each other.
I really need to find him. It was nice meeting you both." She
nodded. "Take care, Jeremy."
Crossing the main deck, Rebecca saw that
a lavish buffet dinner was being served. She gazed at the huge silver trays of fresh
clams, oysters and muscles. Other silver trays were filled with shrimp and
crab, poached salmon surrounded by boiled new potatoes and mounds of steamed fresh
vegetables. There were all sorts of sauces too, along with lots of fresh fruit, hot
bread and rolls. Inhaling the delicious aroma, she realized she was hungry. As
she hurried off to find Ryan, she wondered if he might still be smoking in the cockpit.
*
*
*
Pacing back and forth in the salon behind
the bridge, Rebecca kept glancing at her watch. Almost an hour had passed since
she'd last seen her husband. Having become extremely concerned, she'd finally asked
the crew for help and was now waiting for them to locate Ryan. The owner of the
yacht, Paul Worthington, had also been by to reassure her that his crew would be thorough
and that she shouldn't worry.
"Ryan Morland please report to the pilothouse."
She heard the loudspeaker paging him again.
Why was he taking so long to respond? Was it possible he had not heard the
announcement?
Glancing through the windscreen, she saw
that the party was still in full swing. It didn't appear that anyone was even paying
attention to the loudspeaker. Trying to squelch the uneasy feeling in her stomach,
she assured herself the crew would find Ryan before long.
Abruptly, the boat slowed, then began to turn.
She heard voices approaching. A man with weathered skin, dressed in a white
uniform and wearing a cap with insignia, strode into the salon. "Mrs.
Morland?"
"Yes."
"I'm Captain Henry." He
straightened his shoulders, his feet planted firmly apart as he spoke to her.
"My crew has searched the entire yacht and we can't locate your husband."
Every nerve ending in her body sprang to
alert. "How can that be?" She waved her arm in a wide arc.
"A boat this big must have a million nooks and crannies you haven't yet
checked."
"It's large," he admitted with a nod
of his head. "But I guarantee you, ma'am, we've covered it all."
Rebecca fought the feeling of dread
welling up inside her. "Please ask the crew to give it another try," she
said, forcing herself to remain composed. "It might also be wise to see if
anyone else is missing."
"That was our next step, ma'am," he
acknowledged. In the meantime, we've turned the yacht around." Captain
Henry paused before adding, "We've also notified the Coast Guard and the sheriff's
department. They should be arriving shortly."
"The Coast Guard?" A
chill ran up Rebecca's spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily. "Why the
Coast Guard?"
"When someone is missing at sea, we always
notify the Coast Guard as well as the sheriff's department."
His words startled her. "You
don't mean you think he's in the water?"
"There's a good possibility," he
replied, his mouth compressed into a thin line. "You see, the transom gate to
the swim step is open."
"The what?"
"The swim step is aft of the fishing
cockpit," he explained. "It's a platform that goes across the stern of the
boat a little bit above the water line. It's used to transfer to a dinghy or a shore
boat--also to go into the water for a swim."
She shook her head. None of this
was making any sense. "Can you show me what you're talking about?"
"Of course." He guided
her to the rear of the yacht, then down a carpeted passageway, and finally through the
door to the outside cockpit.
Rebecca realized she'd been in this area before
while looking for Ryan, but at the time she'd merely glanced around. An overbearing stench
instantly caused her to feel ill. "What's that terrible odor?" she asked,
holding a hand to her nose.
"We're right over the aft end," the
captain explained. "The smell is the exhaust from the diesel engines that power
the boat." He gestured toward the guard rail. "The swim step is
below there. But be careful."
It was quite chilly now. The cold night
air hit Rebecca like an icy wall. She saw that a hinged half door hung open.
Holding onto the rail for support, she inched close to the stern and peered down.
A platform ran along the back of the boat. Water churned up and over it, at
times obliterating it from view.
She turned to the captain. "Ryan wouldn't have gone out there," she insisted,
loud enough to be heard over the din of the engines. "It's way too
dangerous--wet and slippery too."
His eyes softened. "Yes. But
let's say ma'am, that he did go out there." It was obvious he was trying to be
patient with her. "It's quite easy to accidently slip and then fall into the
water."
"No," she protested, holding up
her hand to ward off his words. There had to be another explanation, she thought as
she struggled to stay calm. "Captain, you mentioned this swim step is used to
transfer to small boats?"
"That's right."
She peered around. "Are there small
boats on this yacht?"
"Oh, yes. We carry three
smaller vessels, a speedboat, a Boston Whaler and a personal watercraft."
"That's our answer," said Rebecca, a
half smile breaking through her terror. "I'm not sure why, but my husband must
have left the yacht in one of them."
"No, ma'am," he countered, his brow
furrowing. "I'm afraid they're all still here."
"Then maybe another boat picked him up?
Can't you get on your radio or whatever you use to communicate between vessels and
see who was near us?" She struggled to keep the panic out of her voice.
"We've sent out a 'Mayday' to all
vessels in the area," he assured her. "When the Coast Guard gets here,
they'll coordinate the rescue operations."
"How long before they get here?" she
asked.
"The helicopters should be here
immediately. We should also see the sheriff's department search-and-rescue
operations soon and the Coast Guard cutter within the hour."
"If you feel my husband could be in the
water, we can't wait." Rebecca's voice was strong, a perfect cover-up for the
horror she felt inside. "Don't you think it would be best if your men took down
the small boats and we started looking ourselves?"
"The Coast Guard and other agencies
are much better qualified than we are to conduct a search of this kind, especially at
night."
She pulled herself up to her full height
and fixed her gaze on him, ready to bend this man to her will by force if need be.
"Captain, if my husband has gone overboard, we must try and find him
ourselves."
He stared at her for several seconds.
Then, as if realizing Rebecca wouldn't be dissuaded, Captain Henry nodded.
"Very well." Turning to one of his crew, he barked out some orders.
His eyes on Rebecca again, he asked, "Is there someone who can wait with you
while I attend to things?"
"I'd rather go with you. Can you get
me some pants and a top, so I can go out in one of the rescue boats?"
"Oh no, ma'am," he said firmly.
"I strongly recommend against that. Way too dangerous out there.
Besides, there will be people arriving and they'll want to talk to you. You'd
be of more help if you stayed here."
Part of her wanted to take immediate
action, convinced that this whole thing was a crazy mix-up and the sooner they found Ryan,
the better. At the same time, she realized the captain could be right.
"Okay. I'll stay. But I
want to speak to the Coast Guard myself on the radio. They've got to dispatch boats
and planes and helicopters. I also want this whole yacht to be searched again
thoroughly."
"Fine. If you would come with me
ma'am--"Captain Henry motioned with his arm--"we'll get started."
Rebecca followed him, her mind racing.
There had to be a sensible explanation for all this--there just had to be. She
shook her head. Obviously, she wasn't thinking very clearly at the moment or she
would have figured it out by now. After all, she told herself, no one just
disappears off a yacht into thin air.
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