Read Online Venom: A Thriller in Paradise (The Thriller in Paradise Series Book 3) by Rob Swigart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rob Swigart
Tags: detective, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Action, Police Procedural, Contemporary Fiction, Men's Adventure, Medical Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Detective Series, mystery series, Hawaii, technothriller, thriller and suspense, literature and fiction, Charlie Chan, Hawaii fiction
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cool drizzle of Vancouver. He waited, his maroon nylon garment bag slumped at his feet like a pet hit by a car.
Vincent was overweight. He knew that and struggled with it, with his spreading waist and the time-consuming demands of his job. He mopped the constantly renewed band of sweat that had formed on his forehead and looked up the airport road for the car, which steadfastly failed to arrive.
There was no place to sit down out here by the curb. He could retreat back under the shelter of the roof and get out of the sun, but then he might miss Carrie. Besides, the sunlight slanted in at such a long, horizontal angle that it touched most of the airport lobby’s interior with its reddish glow.
Other passengers flowed around him, purposeful, intent, comfortable with the climate and the lackadaisical attitude of both the visitors and the Hawaiian natives. Vincent was an intense man, and found such a lack of commitment repugnant.
Out of the glare to the southwest the small car appeared like a venomous insect emerging from a chrysalis of light and heat. The brakes shrilled, and the driver leaned across the front seat and said, “Mr. Meissner?” Vincent scraped his knuckles opening the rear door. He threw the bag inside and settled into the front seat with a deep sigh. Finally, he turned to the woman. “Yeah. Gaia Foundation. Carrie?” He did not offer to shake hands.
She nodded, eager to make her impression. She was younger than he expected, mid twenties perhaps, and very tan. A goddamn surfer liberal. He hated this whole affair.
“Let’s go,” he said, looking straight ahead. She stopped smiling and put the car in gear.
Ten minutes later she stopped beside the County Building. “Did you want to go to the hotel first, or see the police?” Her voice had lost its eager warmth.
Vincent did not look at her. “Police,” he said. “I had to leave on short notice. It’s a good thing there was a direct flight. Christ, it’s bedtime at home.” The tone of his voice gave no indication of whining. It was as if he were reciting the stock quotations.
He waited without moving. “It’s over there,” she said, pointing to the two-story building across from the seat of county government. He climbed heavily from the car and went inside.
A uniformed sergeant was on duty. A small nameplate said “Hirogawa.” Hirogawa, if the man behind the desk owned that name, was reading a
Newsweek
magazine. Vincent waited a moment. From where he was in the magazine, Vincent guessed he was reading the movie reviews. Vincent cleared his throat.
Sergeant Hirogawa lowered the magazine slowly and looked over the top at Vincent. “May I help you?” he asked politely. He had a very faint Japanese accent.
“There was a ship,” Vincent said. Sergeant Hirogawa waited politely, but Vincent said nothing further, as if that statement explained everything.
After a moment Hirogawa said, “Yes?”
“The
Ocean Mother
,” Vincent said shortly. “Registered out of Vancouver.”
Hirogawa nodded with understanding. “Coast Guard. Nawiliwili Harbor office. They take care of ships.” He started to raise the magazine again.
“There was some kind of trouble,” Vincent persisted. He couldn’t yet say anything about deaths. Not aloud. He still couldn’t believe it. Jacquie. Jeff, Tracy Ann, Clarence. The others he did not know, but the report said they were all dead.
Hirogawa said nothing,
Newsweek
halfway elevated. “An accident?” The first hint of uncertainty crept into Vincent’s voice. “Your interest in the matter?” Sergeant Hirogawa asked, putting the magazine down deliberately and dragging a pen and yellow legal pad toward him on the otherwise empty surface of his desk. The magazine slid to the floor.
“Vincent Meissner. I am the director of the Gaia Foundation.” Hirogawa wrote that down, looked up expectantly. “We own the vessel, the
Ocean Mother
.”
Hirogawa shook his head. “Better talk to the Coast Guard.
Vincent was overweight. He knew that and struggled with it, with his spreading waist and the time-consuming demands of his job. He mopped the constantly renewed band of sweat that had formed on his forehead and looked up the airport road for the car, which steadfastly failed to arrive.
There was no place to sit down out here by the curb. He could retreat back under the shelter of the roof and get out of the sun, but then he might miss Carrie. Besides, the sunlight slanted in at such a long, horizontal angle that it touched most of the airport lobby’s interior with its reddish glow.
Other passengers flowed around him, purposeful, intent, comfortable with the climate and the lackadaisical attitude of both the visitors and the Hawaiian natives. Vincent was an intense man, and found such a lack of commitment repugnant.
Out of the glare to the southwest the small car appeared like a venomous insect emerging from a chrysalis of light and heat. The brakes shrilled, and the driver leaned across the front seat and said, “Mr. Meissner?” Vincent scraped his knuckles opening the rear door. He threw the bag inside and settled into the front seat with a deep sigh. Finally, he turned to the woman. “Yeah. Gaia Foundation. Carrie?” He did not offer to shake hands.
She nodded, eager to make her impression. She was younger than he expected, mid twenties perhaps, and very tan. A goddamn surfer liberal. He hated this whole affair.
“Let’s go,” he said, looking straight ahead. She stopped smiling and put the car in gear.
Ten minutes later she stopped beside the County Building. “Did you want to go to the hotel first, or see the police?” Her voice had lost its eager warmth.
Vincent did not look at her. “Police,” he said. “I had to leave on short notice. It’s a good thing there was a direct flight. Christ, it’s bedtime at home.” The tone of his voice gave no indication of whining. It was as if he were reciting the stock quotations.
He waited without moving. “It’s over there,” she said, pointing to the two-story building across from the seat of county government. He climbed heavily from the car and went inside.
A uniformed sergeant was on duty. A small nameplate said “Hirogawa.” Hirogawa, if the man behind the desk owned that name, was reading a
Newsweek
magazine. Vincent waited a moment. From where he was in the magazine, Vincent guessed he was reading the movie reviews. Vincent cleared his throat.
Sergeant Hirogawa lowered the magazine slowly and looked over the top at Vincent. “May I help you?” he asked politely. He had a very faint Japanese accent.
“There was a ship,” Vincent said. Sergeant Hirogawa waited politely, but Vincent said nothing further, as if that statement explained everything.
After a moment Hirogawa said, “Yes?”
“The
Ocean Mother
,” Vincent said shortly. “Registered out of Vancouver.”
Hirogawa nodded with understanding. “Coast Guard. Nawiliwili Harbor office. They take care of ships.” He started to raise the magazine again.
“There was some kind of trouble,” Vincent persisted. He couldn’t yet say anything about deaths. Not aloud. He still couldn’t believe it. Jacquie. Jeff, Tracy Ann, Clarence. The others he did not know, but the report said they were all dead.
Hirogawa said nothing,
Newsweek
halfway elevated. “An accident?” The first hint of uncertainty crept into Vincent’s voice. “Your interest in the matter?” Sergeant Hirogawa asked, putting the magazine down deliberately and dragging a pen and yellow legal pad toward him on the otherwise empty surface of his desk. The magazine slid to the floor.
“Vincent Meissner. I am the director of the Gaia Foundation.” Hirogawa wrote that down, looked up expectantly. “We own the vessel, the
Ocean Mother
.”
Hirogawa shook his head. “Better talk to the Coast Guard.
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