Page 18 of Wild Fever
"I think he was here about once or twice a week. The walls are pretty thin. For the rent we pay, you’d think they would have built this place out a little better.” She frowned. “At least she was getting regular sex.”
I thanked her for the information and gave her a card. "Is she in some kind of trouble?”
I smiled. "We just need to talk to her. If you see her again, please call me.”
She nodded and said she would.
JD and I headed down the hallway toward the elevator.
Isabella buzzed my phone. "The only cell phone I have on Preston's boat at the time of his death is Preston’s. That video clip you sent me of the woman on the bicycle is not great. Even with upscaling, I can't get a clear view of her face. But those are Chinese characters on her back. I can't make out what it says.I can tell you this… Preston made calls and texts to a burner phone that pings the tower from the Nautilus. This has been going on for a couple of months. I don't have any cellular data that puts Preston at the Nautilus, but his phone does go off the grid a few times a week. I think he's smart enough to know he needs to turn off his device before going over to his girlfriend's apartment. It's safe to say that burner phone he calls belongs to Molly Lewis.”
"Where's that burner phone now?”
"It's off the grid. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say it's not gonna pop up again,” she said dryly.
"You think she was a setup?”
"This is starting to look like she was a honeypot for a foreign intel agency. But I'm sure you already considered that.”
"See what else you can find—financial transactions, emails, etc.”
"Preston might not have been getting paid for sharing classified information. He might have been doing it for love. Who knows?”
"Why kill himself?"
"Maybe he realized Molly was just using him and he'd thrown his life away.”
It was as good a theory as any.
I thanked her for the information and ended the call before we stepped onto the elevator.
We headed back to the station and filled out paperwork, then caught the tail end of happy hour at Shipwreck. It was a chill restaurant and bar that resembled the remains of a tattered fishing boat. Inside, there were reclaimed wood walls, lifepreservers, nets, barrels, and bits of Americana. There were road signs, old gas pumps, and license plates. Plenty of Polaroids were stapled to the wall of drunken idiots having a great time at the Wreck. Thursday through Saturday, there was a live band on the deck—mostly covers. The place was known for the Wrecked Rita, served in a 32-ounce mason jar, rimmed with salt. One was enough to put you at the bottom of the ocean.
We grabbed a high-top table by the bar and kicked around theories about the case while we chowed down on appetizers and sipped fine whiskey. Cute waitresses pranced around in skimpy sailor costumes that highlighted toned legs, pert attributes, and deep valleys. It was enough to make you want to enlist in the Shipwreck Navy.
Jack ordered the mahi-mahi tacos, and I went with the crab patty melt. It seemed to tame the burn from the Diablo burger—at least for now. We filled our bellies and enjoyed the sights, then caught up with the guys in the band a little later at Red November. It was kind of tame, and it wasn’t crowded for a change. I think everyone was over at Sonar—they were havingnickel beer night.
We’d been going full steam ahead all through Halloween, and we were all kind of worn out. It was time to chill out, relax, and take it easy. I had a feeling the next few days would be anything but easy.
We called it an early night. I took Buddy out for a walk when we got back to the Avventura, then settled in for bed.
In the morning, I got an unusual phone call.
I was in the galley, grilling up breakfast, watching the news, when my phone buzzed.
"Is this Tyson Wild?" a worried woman asked.
The call was from an unknown number, which I was always hesitant about taking. It was usually some scammer trying to sell me a home warranty, give me a loan, or claim they were from the IRS.
I paid my taxes, didn't own a house, and didn’t need a loan.
"What can I do for you?”
"I need your help. I've been murdered, and I need you to figure out how and why.”
That hung there for a moment.
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