Diamond Bay Read online

  The water traffic was heavier than he’d expected, given that this was a weekday—­maybe. He was halfway certain this was . . . Wednesday? Thursday? Damn. If this was Friday, he’d seriously lost track of when

  he was. Changing time zones was one thing, but when you backtracked across the IDL a ­couple of times, everything kind of went twilight-­zone on you, when tomorrow became yesterday, and today hadn’t happened yet. Stretching out his leg, he fished his cell phone out of the cargo pocket and swiftly glanced down to check the day. Thursday. Okay. He’d been in the ballpark, which was all he asked after a long mission.

  The Potomac was a big river, almost eleven miles wide in places as it worked its way southeast to the Chesapeake Bay. Avoiding the other boats should have been easy, but it seemed as if most of the ­people out today had no idea what the rules of the road—­or river, in this case—­were. Boats ran at angles, cutting in front of other boats, some deliberately throwing up water on other boaters. Wet-­suit-­wearing idiots on WaveRunners darted back and forth, in and out, seemingly oblivious to the topography of the river and whether the boats they were meeting had a choice of either hitting them or running aground. The wonder was that someone hadn’t gotten shot. After two close calls—­and the second time, having discarded the idea of doing some shooting himself, he almost chose hitting the idiot on the WaveRunner over scraping the bottom of his lower unit in the mud—­he gave up and took to the middle of the river. To hell with it; let everyone else steer around him. He might earn some dirty looks and cuss words, but at least he wasn’t in danger of tearing up the Shark.

  Because he was in the middle of the river instead of running along the right side, when he glanced at a cabin cruiser anchored about a hundred yards to his left, his sharp eyesight picked up the sun glinting on a shock of silver-­white hair as the wind blew back the hood of a black rain jacket. There were a ­couple of ­people on the deck, one in a blue shirt, and the other in the black jacket. The hair struck a chord of recognition with him, and on impulse he turned the wheel of the Shark toward the cabin cruiser; if the person with the silver-­white hair was who he thought it was, he wanted to make certain everything was all right.

  The hull bounced across the water; as he got closer he saw the person in the blue shirt go below decks. Then the woman—­because it was a woman—­with the silver-­white hair started waving at him, big, side-­to-­side enthusiastic come-­here waves, and he knew he’d guessed right.

  He waved in return, then a few moments later throttled back and eased the Shark alongside the cabin cruiser; he cut the engine off and moved up to lower the electric trolling motor into the water so he could hold his position. “Congresswoman,” he said in greeting to Joan Kingsley, twelve-­term member of the House of Representatives and a leading member of the House Armed Ser­vices Committee. They’d initially crossed paths the memorable time when the Kingsleys’ son had been kidnapped in Venezuela, and Morgan’s GO-­Team had been dispatched to rescue him. Congresswoman Kingsley had insisted on personally thanking all the men involved in saving her son’s life and had even thrown a lavish backyard barbecue at a private location for the team. Normally, acceptance wouldn’t have been possible, but because she was on the HASC, an exception had been made. You didn’t snub someone who held the strings to the money bags; Mac, the head of the GO-­Teams, was way too savvy for that, so he’d given the go-­ahead.

  To Morgan’s surprise, he’d liked her. She was undoubtedly a politician, alert to all angles, but she’d also struck him as not just grateful, but genuinely friendly. She had a warm, open smile and seemed to meet everyone on the same level. Her husband, a D.C. lawyer, was friendly enough, but unlike hers, his friendliness came across as more calculated. Well, hell, given that he was a D.C. lawyer, what else could be expected?

  “I didn’t recognize you at first,” she said, leaning over the railing and smiling down at him. “I wondered who on earth was barreling toward us.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” she said, and laughed. “After all, my boat is bigger than yours.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it certainly is” was all he allowed himself to say as his sharp gaze roved over the boat. Everything seemed to be okay, and given that no one else was on deck, she could have given him some kind of sign if there was any trouble.

  She was an important person in Congress; she should have exercised better security, but he wasn’t about to lecture her on that. He’d satisfied himself that there wasn’t any trouble, which was what he’d set out to do.

  “Come aboard and have a drink with us,” she invited. “We’re just having a relaxing day.” She turned her head as the man wearing the blue shirt re-­emerged from the cabin. “Dex, it’s Morgan Yancy.”

  “So I see.” Dexter Kingsley was buttoning up his shirt over his white tee shirt as he approached the rail. A practiced smile was on his evenly tanned face—­a tan that said it was either sprayed on or he’d been in a tanning bed. “It’s a good day to be on the water. Want to come up for a drink?” The invitation was the same as his wife’s, but somehow lacked the underlying sincerity.

  Morgan wasn’t even remotely tempted. Making polite small talk wasn’t his strong suit, even if he hadn’t had the prospect of fishing pulling at him. “Thanks, but I’m heading to one of my fishing spots. When I saw the congresswoman, I just came over to say hello.” He pulled the trolling motor out of the water and leaned over to put his hand on the side of the cabin cruiser and push himself away, then settled himself in the driver’s seat. “Y’all have a good day.”

  “You too,” Congresswoman Kingsley said and turned away from the railing with a smile and a wave.

  Morgan turned the ignition key, his big motor roared to life, and he idled away from the cabin cruiser until he was far enough away that his wake wouldn’t violently rock their boat. He lifted his head into the wind and let the combination of water and leisure time pull him in.

  IT WAS DARK, the other side of nine-­thirty, when he pulled into his parking slot at the condo. It had been late when he’d docked the Shark, then he’d cleaned his tackle and locked it away before heading home. He’d also made a brief stop at a grocery to cover his basic food needs; he hooked the plastic bags on his fingers and dragged them with him as he slid out of the seat. A click of the remote locked the truck.

  The condos were at least thirty years old, six rows of two-­story buildings made of brick and pebbled concrete. He supposed the effect was supposed to be modern and uncluttered—­and maybe it had been thirty years ago, but now it was nothing more than butt-­ugly. Each ground-­floor unit, like his, had its own little patio, while the upper-­story condos had balconies that struck him as fairly useless but that were used a lot during the summer for grilling and such.

  The plastic bags rustled and banged against his left leg with every step, reminding him of why he hated buying groceries. After the fact, he always thought that he should throw a backpack in his truck and leave it there for hauling in what few groceries he bought, but he wasn’t home often enough for it to be a habit so he’d forget about the backpack. He’d also almost forgotten he didn’t have any coffee left, but the grocery’s sign had caught his eye and he’d whipped into the parking lot without time to signal, resulting in a few indignant horn blasts. Couldn’t be helped; he had to have coffee.

  A concrete support pillar and some tall shrubbery partially blocked his view of the condo building, something that grated but the homeowners association wasn’t willing to do away with part of its mature landscaping and shady trees just because he didn’t like it. He couldn’t explain that the greenery provided points of ambush because civilians simply didn’t get shit like that, so he dealt with it. It wasn’t as if he had a lot to worry about; the crime rate in these units was very low, and was in fact a selling point for the young families who made up the majority of residents.

  Still—­habits were a