Read Online Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online
Authors: Dane Hartman
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dimness. But he was reasonably sure that it would be purplish in hue—hyacinth.
That might or might not constitute definitive proof. In any case, he wanted to see more. He decided to go below deck. The door to the cabin offered little resistance when he tugged at it; the boat’s most recent owners had been careless about securing it. Darkness greeted him, and a series of steps was barely discernible. Though Harry’s hand found a toggle switch on the wall to his right, one which would probably give him light to see by, he resisted using it. The last thing he needed was to attract unnecessary attention if there were a guard patrolling the slips.
Carefully, to keep from tripping and tumbling into the murk, Harry proceeded down the steps. When he reached bottom his shoes became partially submerged in a soft carpet. He advanced another few paces and promptly bumped into something sharp that caused him to wince and mutter a curse against inanimate objects. Turned out it was a table with metal corners that could prove lethal. God knows what else awaited him in his reconnaissance, but sooner or later he was going to have to risk a light. Otherwise this whole expedition would be futile.
Now the substance underfoot changed consistency. No longer was it carpet, rather it was dirt, sod. Something leafy brushed against his face, something else with nettles attached raked his arms. For all he knew he could be back in Golden Gate Park again. What the hell was he doing amidst this vegetation? Keepnews, he recalled, liked rare tropical plants and gardening, but he hadn’t told Harry to expect a small jungle—must have slipped his mind.
Harry drew back, finding surer footing on the carpet again. He turned and moved in the other direction, his arms in front of him to give him a sense of what came next. There was, on his left side, a long narrow couch with lots of cushions stacked on it. He kept going and plowed right into something hard. “Shit,” he said pronouncing judgment on this exploration.
What he’d come up against was a bulkhead. Directly below it was a passageway intended for people who needed another four inches or so before they reached Harry’s height. Kneading his bruised forehead, he stooped and made his way through the passageway. He now found himself in the kitchen. There was a small oval window here. It looked out upon the Pacific, not the docks. If a light was possible any place it would be here. All he had to do was find it. After some substantial groping he located the switch. A lamp above the counter eagerly responded, bathing the area in a warm, faintly amber light.
This was sufficient for him to see into the rest of the cabin beyond the passageway. The table was much larger than he’d imagined, the artificial garden, situated midway across the room, much smaller.
He began methodically to open up everything there was to be opened, cabinets, bulkheads, drawers, not certain of exactly what he expected to find but expecting to find something.
What he found, at first, was the sort of paraphernalia he’d have figured a boat like this would be stocked with: utensils, heaters, life preservers, blankets, a weather chart recorder, cans of biochemical gel, a digital depth sounder, a refrigerator cluttered with beer and champagne, tins of coffee. But nothing that could convince a judge that all these things had once belonged to Keepnews. You could fingerprint them of course, but you’d need a warrant simply to get onto the boat. And a warrant would require grounds for reasonable suspicion. Keepnews didn’t have those grounds. Harry had yet to find them.
He abandoned the kitchen, then the cabin because they refused to yield anything useful. He did, however, discover another passageway he hadn’t seen before. This led to what seemed to be a utility area. Here he also lacked more than a trickle of light and ended up stepping on something rubber. It was a dinghy with webbing for seats, with both hand and foot pumps
That might or might not constitute definitive proof. In any case, he wanted to see more. He decided to go below deck. The door to the cabin offered little resistance when he tugged at it; the boat’s most recent owners had been careless about securing it. Darkness greeted him, and a series of steps was barely discernible. Though Harry’s hand found a toggle switch on the wall to his right, one which would probably give him light to see by, he resisted using it. The last thing he needed was to attract unnecessary attention if there were a guard patrolling the slips.
Carefully, to keep from tripping and tumbling into the murk, Harry proceeded down the steps. When he reached bottom his shoes became partially submerged in a soft carpet. He advanced another few paces and promptly bumped into something sharp that caused him to wince and mutter a curse against inanimate objects. Turned out it was a table with metal corners that could prove lethal. God knows what else awaited him in his reconnaissance, but sooner or later he was going to have to risk a light. Otherwise this whole expedition would be futile.
Now the substance underfoot changed consistency. No longer was it carpet, rather it was dirt, sod. Something leafy brushed against his face, something else with nettles attached raked his arms. For all he knew he could be back in Golden Gate Park again. What the hell was he doing amidst this vegetation? Keepnews, he recalled, liked rare tropical plants and gardening, but he hadn’t told Harry to expect a small jungle—must have slipped his mind.
Harry drew back, finding surer footing on the carpet again. He turned and moved in the other direction, his arms in front of him to give him a sense of what came next. There was, on his left side, a long narrow couch with lots of cushions stacked on it. He kept going and plowed right into something hard. “Shit,” he said pronouncing judgment on this exploration.
What he’d come up against was a bulkhead. Directly below it was a passageway intended for people who needed another four inches or so before they reached Harry’s height. Kneading his bruised forehead, he stooped and made his way through the passageway. He now found himself in the kitchen. There was a small oval window here. It looked out upon the Pacific, not the docks. If a light was possible any place it would be here. All he had to do was find it. After some substantial groping he located the switch. A lamp above the counter eagerly responded, bathing the area in a warm, faintly amber light.
This was sufficient for him to see into the rest of the cabin beyond the passageway. The table was much larger than he’d imagined, the artificial garden, situated midway across the room, much smaller.
He began methodically to open up everything there was to be opened, cabinets, bulkheads, drawers, not certain of exactly what he expected to find but expecting to find something.
What he found, at first, was the sort of paraphernalia he’d have figured a boat like this would be stocked with: utensils, heaters, life preservers, blankets, a weather chart recorder, cans of biochemical gel, a digital depth sounder, a refrigerator cluttered with beer and champagne, tins of coffee. But nothing that could convince a judge that all these things had once belonged to Keepnews. You could fingerprint them of course, but you’d need a warrant simply to get onto the boat. And a warrant would require grounds for reasonable suspicion. Keepnews didn’t have those grounds. Harry had yet to find them.
He abandoned the kitchen, then the cabin because they refused to yield anything useful. He did, however, discover another passageway he hadn’t seen before. This led to what seemed to be a utility area. Here he also lacked more than a trickle of light and ended up stepping on something rubber. It was a dinghy with webbing for seats, with both hand and foot pumps
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