How to Catch a Cat (3 page)

WEST COAST DIVA

OSCAR CONTINUED HIS
labored walk along the Embarcadero, stopping every couple of blocks to catch his breath until he reached the flagged entrance to the America’s Cup pavilion.

Located about a mile from the Ferry Building, the event staging area had taken over piers Twenty-seven and Twenty-nine on the city’s north shore. It was a massive enterprise, one that had transformed the abandoned platforms into a festive sports venue.

The pavilion piers stretched several hundred meters out into the bay. Spectators could enjoy jaw-dropping views of the Bay and Golden Gate bridges, Alcatraz, Angel Island, and a gorgeous backdrop of the city.

Inland from the event entrance, San Francisco’s steep hills rose up like bleacher seating. Directly south of the pavilion, Telegraph Hill hoisted Coit Tower’s concrete nozzle up onto its shoulders, as if giving the landmark a boost to look out over the venue piers.

Oscar squinted up at the tower as a swarm of green parrots circled it, chattered at the activity on the shoreline below, and then settled back into the surrounding trees.

Given the distance, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognized one of the redheaded birds in the flock.

With a grunt, Oscar turned toward the entrance and joined the queue of spectators waiting to be admitted to the event piers.

Security personnel in matching red shirts inspected everyone who entered the pavilion. Most visitors received a diligent screening, but they gave the old man in the navy blue shirt stained with cooking grease just a quick glance before waving him through the gates. He had no bags to search, no bulky pockets to pat down. All he carried was the wooden cane that he clearly needed to keep himself upright.

The nearest attendant called out cheerfully, “Enjoy the race, sir.”

Oscar nodded weakly, trying to ignore the constricting pain in his chest. The walk had depleted him and drained his meager energy reserves.

He had but one concern—and it wasn’t watching the race.

He only hoped he could hang on long enough to catch the Ninja.

—

PAST THE SECURITY
station, Oscar hobbled down the pavilion’s main walkway lining the pier’s east edge. Most of the regatta infrastructure was located at the far end of the platform, where it jutted out over the water to offer the best racing views.

Oscar soon paused for another break. Propping his cane against the walkway’s side railing, he reached up to adjust his cap. His thinning white hair covered less and less of the bald spot on his crown, and he needed the cap’s extra coverage to prevent sunburn.

Pulling the rim down over his eyes, he stared at the high-end boats docked along the pier and shook his head in amazement.

San Francisco was accustomed to glamour and glitz. She had hosted the world’s finest royalty, fêted the grandest moguls of business. She proudly claimed some of the country’s most elite hotels and restaurants. The West Coast diva was no stranger to ostentatious display. She knew how to show off while still maintaining a sense of elegant refinement.

As for maritime interests, the city had plenty of experience as a global hub. Starting with the swarm of boats that swamped the bay during the Gold Rush and continuing to modern day where massive container ships routinely bellowed through the fog, her waters had rarely been vacant.

But San Francisco had never seen anything quite like this.

Oscar gazed at the lineup of flashy multimillion-dollar yachts tethered next to the walkway. The ships varied in size, but even the smallest was large enough to comfortably house several dozen people. They were luxurious homes on water, lavishly designed to entertain their wealthy owners and any number of lucky invited guests. One ship even had a helipad—complete with the requisite helicopter. The collection of vessels lined up along this once-abandoned pier would have fit right in at Monte Carlo, St. Barths, or any other exclusive yachting location around the globe.

A formal placard affixed to the security railing listed each boat’s name, point of origin, size, and unique features. Oscar skimmed the nearest summary and then tilted his head to watch the onboard activity.

It took a lot of manpower to keep these vanity vessels in showroom shape. Workers scurried about on deck and inside the living quarters, cleaning and polishing every square inch of wood, chrome, and Plexiglas.

San Francisco’s inaugural hosting of the age-old regatta had attracted a sizeable crowd, he mused, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin.

Millionaires, sailing enthusiasts, countless support staff, hordes of casual spectators—and, he feared, the Ninja.

—

GRIMLY, OSCAR RESUMED
his walk, shifting his attention from the docked ships to the various structures spread across the pier’s wide platform.

Several gourmet food stalls were set up around the grounds, some inside large tented structures that had been constructed to provide shelter from the elements, be it sun, wind, or rain. Oscar let his nose sift through the decadent smells wafting up from the eating areas.

Here, the yachting crowd and San Francisco’s regular citizens shared a common interest, he thought as he spied several patrons sipping wine and champagne. No matter how casual the venue, only the finest food would do.

He detected roasted, barbecued, and curried meat dishes—but, he noted with disappointment, no fried chicken.

He amended his last comment: the finest food—with one notable omission.

With a dismissive
snort
, Oscar turned his attention to the main stage. Spectators had filled in around the raised platform, blocking his view. Using the cane for leverage, he straightened his posture, but there were too many taller heads blocking his line of sight.

Giving up on the stage, he pivoted toward a video screen positioned on the far side of the commons. The screen broadcast footage from a live feed of the prerace ceremonies, offering additional viewing for those not able to get close enough to the stage to watch the events directly.

Oscar peeled off from the crowd and headed for the seating area in front of the screen. By the time he had crossed the commons, the screen had shifted to a stunt plane swirling through the air above the pavilion. The pilot performed a number of daredevil maneuvers that caused the crowd to gasp and applaud.

Oscar gripped his cane, frowning at the close-up image of the smiling man hanging upside down in the cockpit. In Oscar’s view, the pilot was a darn fool.

After tracking the plane’s last white plume across the sky, the video returned its focus to the center stage. The figure standing on the podium was instantly recognizable to almost everyone who lived in the Bay Area.

It was the wealthy entrepreneur responsible for bringing the regatta to San Francisco.

The Baron of Silicon Valley.

THE BARON

THE BARON GAZED
out at the crowd of spectators and beamed with satisfaction. The late-morning sun shone on his peppered mustache and beard. Both had been cropped in an eccentric style that gave him the appearance of an eighteenth-century nobleman.

It had been a long and gritty ride to reach this critical last race, but he couldn’t have asked for a more dramatic story line.

He was either on the verge of a prize greater than all of his entrepreneurial triumphs combined—or he was about to suffer a crippling loss that would wound him far deeper than the sharpest blow from his strongest business competitor.

He felt his pulse quicken with the thrill of competition. After years of preparation, training, and investment, this was the moment for which he had been waiting.

“Welcome to the grand finale of San Francisco’s America’s Cup!”

—

AN ICON OF
the computer world and one of the top-earning CEOs of Silicon Valley, the Baron had dedicated a sizeable portion of his vast wealth to the sport of competitive sailing. It was his sponsorship of the sailing team from the local yacht club that had brought the America’s Cup to San Francisco. Winner of the last competition in Valencia, Spain, the Baron’s team was the official defender of the cup and, consequently, the host of the current event.

The Baron had applied the same relentless mind-set to sailing as he had to his business empire. He took a hands-on approach to his sponsorship. He was actively involved in the team’s race strategy, directly participating in the optimization of the boat’s streamlined design as well as specific gear choices and personnel decisions.

The Baron’s ambitious agenda extended far beyond defending the cup title. He had his sights set on modernizing the age-old regatta and making sailing a spectator-friendly sport.

As the reigning champions, the Baron and his team had the privilege of setting the rules for this year’s race. He had taken a number of measures to ensure the competition would be more accessible—and exciting—to lay viewers with no nautical expertise.

First off, the San Francisco race format was dramatically different than any America’s Cup that had come before. Instead of traditional long-haul segments, the Baron had devised a short sprint course that took advantage of the bay’s natural amphitheater.

Each race started with a high-speed launch on the bay’s west end heading toward the Golden Gate, followed by a blitz back along the San Francisco shoreline toward the Bay Bridge. Sharp tacking skills were required to flip the boats around at the east side of the course, just south of Alcatraz. The teams then charged once more across the length of the course, before taking a last leg along the waterfront and a final tacking pivot at the eastern boundary. From there, it was a short sprint into the finish, near the event pavilion off the Embarcadero.

From start to finish, no race could exceed a preset forty-minute time limit. In the sixteen successful heats that had been completed over the course of the last two weeks, most of the races had taken less than twenty-five minutes.

The head-to-head battles had included several heart-stopping down-to-the-wire finishes, leaving fans breathless and clamoring for more.

The racing boats, too, had been souped up for mass appeal. The craft designed for this year’s regatta were much faster than any that had ever faced off in the competition.

The sailboats were specially built catamarans with forty-meter-high sails that balanced on a pair of streamlined canoe-shaped hulls. The lightweight contraptions were built for speed, flashing across the bay at previously unheard-of velocities. On tight turns or in heavy gusts, one or even both of the hulls lifted completely out of the water. In this elevated hydrofoiling posture, the pronged rudders and lone daggerboard that extended from the bottom of the craft were all that kept it stabilized on the water.

The distinctive boats could be spotted from almost every viewing angle in and around the bay. From Coit Tower to the Marina Green, the enormous triangular-shaped sails moved like chess pieces as they circled the buoys that demarcated the race route. Of course, the swooping helicopters hovering in the air just above the craft were also hard to miss.

Sailing purists had railed against the Baron’s changes, decrying the speedy course, the flashy merchandizing, and the dangerously unstable new boats.

But as each day of racing progressed, the event drew increasing numbers of spectators. Now, with the competition tied up and everything riding on the results of the final segment, the whole city was mesmerized.

While the Baron desperately wanted to win, the regatta was already a phenomenal success.

He could hardly contain his excitement.

“Let’s introduce the two teams and get them out there on the water!”

THERE, AMONG THE SPECTATORS

OSCAR GRIMACED AT
the scene on the stage.

He didn’t have anything against the Baron—or rather, that wasn’t the primary reason for his negative reaction. Oscar could think of several worthy causes that would have been a better use of the Baron’s money than some snooty sailboating competition.

Nor was his objection directed to the event’s nautical theme. He liked boats well enough—just not these flashy, flimsy contraptions that were zooming around the bay. He preferred a far more solid craft, one that could brave the waves of the Pacific on a long-haul voyage.

It was the brazen politicization of the event that had drawn Oscar’s scorn.

The Baron had just introduced San Francisco’s interim mayor. After an overzealous handshake with the Baron, Mayor Montgomery Carmichael had taken control of the podium and was now in the midst of lengthy self-promoting remarks (to which no one was listening).

Perhaps noting the widespread yawns and overall boredom in the crowd, the Baron cut in and, with difficulty, ushered Monty to the rear of the stage.

“For that act of mercy, Baron, I’ve upped your standing,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

While the mayor was being (somewhat forcibly) repositioned, the camera widened its lens and turned its focus to the crowd.

Near the far right side of the stage, Oscar spied his niece standing next to a green nylon carriage. While not visible from the video feed, Oscar knew that inside the carriage’s mesh-covered passenger compartment, a plump orange and white cat had curled himself up into a tight ball. Rupert had likely snoozed through the performance of the daredevil pilot, the thirty-piece military band that played before the Baron’s speech, and the rest of the prerace ceremony.

Oscar smiled. Rupert was a champion sleeper.

The wind whipped the woman’s long brown hair as she watched the proceedings on stage. In her arms, she held Rupert’s sister, a sleeker, more slender Siamese mix. Isabella trained her focus on the crowd. Her ice blue eyes scanned the assembled spectators.

The niece winced as Isabella extended her claws.

Oscar sucked in his breath, startled by the expression on the cat’s face. The feline had detected an ominous presence.

His hunch had been right.

The Ninja was lurking somewhere in the audience.

—

GRIPPING HIS CANE,
Oscar leaned toward the Jumbotron. He stared intensely at the screen as the camera panned the crowd.

A number of colorful characters had gathered near the pavilion stage. There were racing fans from New Zealand, easily identified by their painted faces, fuzzy stovepipe hats, and the emblems of their country’s flag. Still new to the sport, the American counterparts were somewhat more muted in dress, but just as vocal in shouting for their team.

Beyond the partisan supporters, the crowd also included the regular handful of bizarrely dressed individuals that one frequently saw on the streets of San Francisco, including a woman dressed up in a Marilyn Monroe costume.

The Jumbotron feed flashed briefly back to the stage. Mayor Carmichael had apparently forgotten to mention a critical point in his remarks, and he was attempting to return to the podium’s microphone. The camera caught a glimpse of the Baron and his security team tackling the mayor, before swinging once more to the crowd.

Oscar groaned at Monty’s antics, but he kept his eyes focused on the video screen.

He recognized more faces in the audience.

Reporter Hoxton Finn scribbled on the pocket-sized notepad that he carried everywhere he went. As the commotion at the podium continued, Hox glanced up from his notes and scowled at the spectacle of the mayor being dragged from the front of the stage.

The camera slid a few feet over, capturing an image of Humphrey, the news station’s stylist and the reporter’s ever-present sidekick. Humphrey appeared more concerned with Hox’s hair, which had been ruffled by the wind blowing across the pier, than the scuffle involving the mayor.

Keep moving
, Oscar urged the cameraman.

He stared intensely at the television screen, seeking confirmation of the warning he’d read in Isabella’s expression.

The video passed over the contingent from City Hall, capturing the president of the board of supervisors, who looked bemused at the mayor’s antics, and several members of his administrative staff . . .

And there, in a passing frame, Oscar spotted her. It was just a fleeting glimpse, but he knew her in an instant.

It was the woman he’d been tracking for the last six months.

In that brief moment, he saw through the disguise that had hidden her identity.

Mabel.

Aka, the Knitting Needle Ninja.