Page 61 of Z For Butterfly Man
Tristan appears at the stairs. He’s in his jacket, collar turned up, and there’s something on the knees of his pants. Dirt, maybe. Or sand.
He stops when he sees me. His expression doesn’t change, but something passes behind his eyes, quick as a shutter. “You’re up early.”
“You didn’t wake me. It’s way past a couple of hours.”
“I tried to wake you, but you were completely out.”
“Yeah? I see. Where have you been?”
“Checking the perimeter.” He shrugs out of his jacket and drops it over the back of the desk chair. “The motion sensor on the north camera flagged an anomaly. Turned out to be a deer. How’s the shoulder?”
“Good.” I look at his boots. There’s wet sand caked along the outer edge of the left sole. You don’t get sand like that from the tree line. You get it from the cove.
I don’t say anything about it. He’s my boss, and he’s dealing with a grave situation in whatever cold, controlled way men like Tristan Morra do. Maybe he went down to the water to think. Maybe I’d do the same if I failed to protect the woman I loved.
“Where is our gear?” I ask.
“Boston, packed with the rest of it.” He pulls the desk chair out and drops into it. “Equipment is expensive, and, in case you forgot, I was in New York setting up a new base. That means new safehouses that need the gear. I wasn’t exactly planning on setting foot on that fucking island again for a job or otherwise. I only kept a few things like the cameras, router, jammer and a few weapons. I had to hook up my own laptop to get to work.”
“And where are the guns you kept?”
“Moved them upstairs. There is no need to have them down here anymore.” He moves the secondary stool and gestures for me to sit beside him. Then he hits the keyboard and the surveillance screens are replaced with open documents. “I’ve been through Ashford’s financials for the last four hours. It’s basically a dead end. No shell companies, property trusts, LLCsregistered in Delaware or the Cayman Islands. He only owns one house in Miami, and he shares it with his sister.”
“He hasn’t sold off any property in the last eighteen months?”
“None. I’ve checked under his alias, Jacob Torrance, as well. Marcus ran the same search and hit the same wall.”
“Well, he must have her here somewhere.”
“What makes you think he keeps her on the Vineyard?”
“To get off this island, you can’t just drive to the next city or smuggle someone across the border. You need a ferry or a plane. Now, she didn’t go with him willingly, right? My guess is he had to drug her to kidnap her. He took her yesterday evening. That means no ferries, assuming you can sneak an unconscious person onto a ferry in the first place. That leaves planes, which is almost impossible unless it’s a private jet.”
“He could have chartered one, off the books, or used a water taxi or a fishing boat.”
“And then come back here for optics? That doesn’t make any sense. The timeframe doesn’t work either. He drove her car to Aquinnah. He took the ferry to Boston this morning and back to the Vineyard, and then he stayed the whole day. What would be his plan B if he got caught here, which almost happened? Leave her to die? His partner is dead. He works solo.”
I look straight into his eyes. “If you kidnapped someone, nailed them down on a display table and kept them immobile, someone you’re supposedly obsessed with, wouldn’t you stay close to them? To feed them, cater to their basic needs, watch them for your sick pleasure?”
He holds my gaze for a while. I don’t break eye contact because I know, so does he, I’m on to something.
Tristan brings out his phone. “The photo he sent was from a burner in Aquinnah. I doubt it was live. It would be stupid to go back to where he was keeping her when half the city’s police were hunting him.”
“I agree. That means he’s had that photo ready to send to mess with you.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to comb the area just to be sure. I’ve sent some of our men on the task already.”
“Okay. What can I do?”
He hits more keys and angles the laptop monitor toward me. “I need eyes on the harbor at Oak Bluffs. I don’t agree Birdie is on the Vineyard, but she must be close. One thing you got right, though, is that the best way to move her is by sea, so I looked into recent purchases and rentals of boats. Nothing caught my attention. Same old rich white folks selling their boats. That’s when I went through insurance databases and Coast Guard registration changes, and guess what?”
I study the boat insurance document opened on the screen, and then Oak Bluffs Harbor transient dock records and marina receipts. “There’s a Beneteau forty-two that arrived at Oak Bluffs Harbor from Miami about two months ago. That boat has been re-registered in Massachusetts to a man named Zachary Castille, and the seller’s name is?”
“I can’t find the sale record of that boat. All I got is the insurance re-registration, but I’m guessing it’s Ashford, and that name Zachary Castille is another alias of his.” He stands and pulls his jacket back on. “I could be wrong, but it’s all we have right now. I want it ruled out.”
“Yeah. I’ll get to it.”
“You’re not cleared to go alone.”
