Wildfire (32 page)

"Son," Bobby LaGrange said after the laughter and side comments had died down, "if we're going to get out of this place before oh-five-hundred, you'd probably better go give Mo-Jo a hand storing all that food and gear."

"Yes, sir."

Looking only mildly disappointed, the youth quickly disappeared out the sliding glass door leading to the aft deck.

"Quite a kid you got there." Larry Paxton nodded approvingly. "How'd you get him to turn out that polite and hardworking?"

"Real simple." Bobby LaGrange shrugged. "I told him it was either going to be 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and working his ass off the entire weekend or I'd leave him at home with his mom and sister to help with chores."

"Which might not have been a bad idea anyway," Henry Lightstone said hesitantly.

"Yeah, I know, I remembered you said something about you guys getting into some kind of trouble." LaGrange nodded. "Anything new on all that?"

"Not that we know of, but we're keeping our eyes open."

"Okay, well, I figured we'll take Justin along on the first trip, spend a couple of days giving him a chance to show you guys some of the ropes, and then put him back on shore when we get down to serious business. Besides, he's got to be back in school Monday anyway. What do you think?"

"I guess that sounds okay," Lightstone said uneasily.

"Henry's always been a worry wart." LaGrange smiled, winking at the surrounding agent team. "He was like that every single day we worked together. Don't know how you guys put up with him."

"We generally don't," Larry Paxton said. "But before we start asking you personal questions about our wild-card buddy here, Ah want to hear some more about Kleinfelter and his lawyer."

"Oh, yeah, Kleinfelter." Bobby LaGrange nodded, looking ruefully down at the numerous scars that covered both of his hands and bared arms. Similar scars were visible on the retired homicide investigator's face and neck—reminders of the severe and nearly fatal beating he had received from Brendon Kleinfelter and the members of his outlaw motorcycle gang. "I don't have many fond memories of the gentleman, but I do remember somebody at the hospital telling me that some federal wildlife agent managed to rearrange his ugly face with a bat."

"You can thank Stoner for that," Henry Lightstone said, motioning with his head in the direction of the huge agent who had discovered that he was much more comfortable sitting on the thickly padded carpeting with his massive back and arms propped against the extended couch. "He was the one with the oversized strike zone. Also managed to save my butt at the same time,
after
he put it into jeopardy in the first place," Lightstone added.

"Just happened to be at the right place at the right time." Dwight Stoner shrugged modestly.

"With a Louisville slugger and a love of the game," Paxton reminded.

"Well, yeah, I guess that probably helped some too." The huge agent grinned.

"Stoner, I want you to know that you have my undying gratitude," Bobby LaGrange said seriously. "Far as I'm concerned, from this day on, any time you set foot on the
Lone Granger,
the beer and the grub are on the house. Beyond that, I'm going to see what I can do about hooking you up with a walk-in freezer full of big blues, some night dives off Bimini and The Wall, and maybe even a pretty young native gal to run off and make babies with in your declining years. How's that for a start?"

"Gawd
damn,
LaGrange, don't treat him
that
nice," Larry Paxton protested. "The man's a dedicated government employee. You're gonna ruin him! Besides," the acting team leader warned, "if you're planning on feeding him for free for the rest of his life, you might as well go out and sell this thing right now for whatever cash you can get, 'cause you're gonna need it."

"And speaking of money, not that we're nosy or anything," Mike Takahara said, looking up from the bridge control station where he was deeply involved in exploring the
Lone Granger's
computer-controlled electronics systems.

"Ask away." Bobby LaGrange shrugged. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, for a start, what kind of boat is this, and how much?"

"Well," LaGrange said after a moment's thought, "technically, she's an eighty-two-foot luxury cruiser that got converted over into what you might call a custom sports fishing yacht. In addition to all the stuff you already saw, she's got dual props, upgrade engines, a computer-designed racing hull, dual stabilizers, a matched set of fighting chairs we can mount in place on the aft lower deck, refrigerated bait tank, holding freezers, extended swim platform, radar, loran, top-of-the-line electronics package—which I assume Snoopy over there knows a whole lot more about by now than I do—and probably a couple of torpedo tubes I haven't discovered yet." The retired homicide detective grinned. "Guy who paid the bill spent a little over one-point-eight million to rig this gal for deep-sea fishing and pleasure cruising. Apparently, he had more money than he knew what to do with. Or at least he did until he ran across Kleinfelter and his boys." LaGrange shook his head sadly.

Henry Lightstone turned to Thomas Woeshack, who still seemed to have trouble accepting the fact that he was actually on a boat that had cost somebody one-point-eight-million dollars.

"So how many walrus hides did you figure now?" he asked.

"I don't know, might have to pick up a couple dozen moose and bearskins too," Woeshack replied cheerfully. "This boat's a whole lot bigger inside than I thought it was."

Bobby LaGrange looked as if he were tempted to ask one or both of the agents what the hell they were talking about when Larry Paxton interrupted.

"So who was this ex-owner character, one of Kleinfelter's Florida connections?"

"That's what it sounded like." Bobby LaGrange nodded. "I don't know what all happened, and apparently nobody else does either. Or at least nobody who's willing to talk. All I know is the guy signed the pink slip over to Kleinfelter, and then sometime shortly thereafter disappeared off the face of this earth."

"Convenient."

"Yeah, no kidding. I figure by now he's probably bouncing along the bottom of one of those deep water canyons off the Bahamas with three or four hundred pounds of anchor chain wrapped around his neck. Anyway, my lawyer spotted the boat when he filed a discovery motion looking for Kleinfelter's assets, and got a copy of all the papers you guys seized out of . . . what was it, some place called the High Horse Bar up in Anchorage?"

"You mean to tell me Brendon Kleinfelter just
gave
you this thing, willingly?" Henry Lightstone blinked.

"Well, actually, it was his lawyer and my lawyer who cut the deal." Bobby LaGrange shrugged. "Apparently, it was either that or go back to court and risk losing the bar, the chateau, and a couple of other big pieces of property just north of Anchorage along with it. Guess he figured he could always strong-arm some poor slob out of another boat. Of course, the fact that you guys already had him nailed on attempted murder of a federal officer—not to mention watering down the draft beer in that bar—probably helped some too."

"Probably didn't figure he had much hope of finding a sympathetic judge or jury in Anchorage, especially after his beer policy came to light," Lightstone chuckled. "Man, would I have loved to have seen ol' Brendon's face when he signed that pink slip."

"He still had his jaw all wired together at the time, so I never got to hear what he really thought of the deal"—LaGrange grinned—"but he didn't look too happy. Didn't look all that pretty either," the ex-homicide detective added. "Never saw a man that black-and-blue before."

"Which is probably a real good reason you and Henry shouldn't do too much traveling up in Alaska for the next few years," Larry Paxton suggested.

"Yeah, I reckon you're right." LaGrange nodded. "Which is just fine with me. No sense going all the way up there and freezing to death, just to make myself feel better hunting the son of a bitch down, when I can make a real nice living down here where it's sunny and warm."

"Speaking of which, how
do
you make a living with this thing?" Mike Takahara asked, looking up from one of the thick owner's manuals. "Just filling up those diesel tanks alone must cost a small fortune."

"Yeah, it does," LaGrange said, "but you'd be surprised what some of these New York, Boston, and Washington, D.C., types will pay for a week out on the water with a couple of their buddies. No troubles, no cares. Just eat, drink, fish, drink, and sleep."

"Eskimo way of life." Woeshack nodded approvingly.

"'Course, it always helps when you latch on to one of the big boys," LaGrange added.

"What'd you do, find yourself a repeat customer? One of them sugar-daddy types?" Paxton asked.

"I got a couple of good ones, including one character that we're going to work when we get out to the islands." The retired homicide investigator nodded. "But when it comes down to sugar daddies, there's nothing quite like hooking up with the federal government if you really want to make a killing in this business."

If it had been physically possible, Larry Paxton's dark complexion would have turned a pale white. "Oh, my God . . ." he whispered.

"Hey, that's right, Larry," Henry Lightstone said. "I bet Halahan's gonna be real surprised when he finds out you signed—what was that you and Snoopy were faxing back and forth yesterday?"

"Uh ... I don't exactly remember," the acting team leader tried hopefully.

"Actually, I think Larry's just being modest." Bobby LaGrange smiled. "But as a matter of record, I distinctly remember that it was a six-month lease—with a verifying co-signature from some little purchasing clerk in Washington, D.C.—for full-time use of the
Lone Granger,
as is, not including all fuel and docking charges, which Larry generously agreed to pay separately," the retired homicide detective added with undisguised cheerfulness.

"Yeah, that's right, I remember now," Lightstone nodded. "A six-month lease for a one-point-eight-million-dollar yacht. Man, oh, man, wait until the United States government hears about this one."

"Actually, I believe the lease described the
Lone Granger
as a midsized sports fishing boat," LaGrange corrected.

"Which might have been halfway accurate if you were comparing her to a goddamned commercial trawler," Paxton grumbled accusingly.

"But if we'd gone out and leased a trawler, then we wouldn't have all those guest and owner staterooms," Lightstone reminded, "not to mention a salon
and
a galley, complete with entertainment packages."

"And also not to mention all those fuel and docking charges," Mike Takahara added, "which, based on my initial rough estimates, ought to cost us a small fortune, even at government rates."

"Which is really pretty cheap when you consider that you're talking about experiencing the true Eskimo way of life," Woeshack put in.

"That's right, Paxton." Lightstone grinned. "Don't forget to tell Halahan about that. The Eskimo way of life. He's gonna
love
that part."

Special Agent Dwight Stoner simply leaned back against the overstuffed salon couch and stared at Paxton with what might have passed for a sympathetic expression on his meaty and scarred face.

"Halahan's gonna kill you for sure this time," he offered.

Bobby LaGrange turned to his ex-police homicide partner. "So who's this Halahan character you guys are talking about?"

"Our real boss," Lightstone said, "as opposed to the dip-shit commodore over here."

"Oh, yeah, so what's he like?"

Lightstone thought about the question for a moment. "First, picture Gengis Khan with a suit and a shave."

"Okay." LaGrange nodded agreeably.

"Then give him an attitude problem."

"I see. In other words, your standard-issue law enforcement brass."

"Pretty much."

"Except Henry forgot to mention that he's actually said, 'Yes, sir,' to Halahan twice this week already," Mike Takahara corrected.

"Oh, really?"

Bobby LaGrange looked back at Lightstone with a disbelieving expression on his suntanned face. "What's going on here, Henry? You starting to go soft on me now that you've become a fed?"

Lightstone smiled. "Nah, just trying to get in good with the new management."

"Yeah, I'll bet." Bobby LaGrange nodded knowingly. He seemed to consider the whole situation for a couple of moments, then smiled to himself and turned his attention back to Paxton, who still appeared to be in a state of mild shock.

"So, Larry, if I understand the situation correctly, not only do you get to have a modern version of the Mad Cossack for a boss; but as a bonus they made you responsible for all Henry's shit too. Sounds like one hell of a deal." The ex-homicide investigator shook his head sympathetically. "So who'd you piss off?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Larry Paxton grumbled. 'You got anything stronger to add to this coffee?"

"As a rule, I usually don't let my clients start dipping into the sauce until at least oh-nine-hundred hours," LaGrange said as he levered himself up out of the comfortable chair, walked over to the galley, reached into a cupboard, and pulled out a corked bottle. "However, taking into account the nature and the magnitude of the responsibilities that you are about to undertake, and all the support you're likely to get from your crew, I think we can make an exception on this fine Saturday morning. How about some cognac?"

"It any good?" Paxton inquired.

"Costs me seventy-nine a bottle, wholesale." LaGrange shrugged. "I keep it around for my real picky customers."

"Shit, that's me," Paxton said, extending his mug.

"Probably ought to give him the whole bottle," Henry Lightstone suggested. "Might keep him quiet for a while."

Larry Paxton accepted a generous slug of the expensive brandy from Bobby LaGrange, sniffed cautiously, and then took a sip of the potent mixture. The other agents observed the blissful smile that suddenly broke out on their acting leader's face and immediately extended their own mugs. LaGrange complied and then added about a quarter slug to his own mug. After returning the bottie to the dubious security of the unlocked cupboard, LaGrange held up his mug in a toast. "To good buddies."