“That karate stuff works, huh?”
“You bet.” Terry straightened up and stared at Ridge. “Whoa. Kate told me it was bad, but you look like shit.”
“Thanks, pal. What else did Kate tell you?”
“About the Hulk, the Harbor Patrol rescue, and that I should get you to an internist.”
Ridge frowned. “Ain’t happenin’. But we need to figure out what case that maniac is fired up about. He said ‘a new one’. And last night, someone shoved a note under my door saying, ‘We’re watching. Do it or die.’” He shook his head and looked down at the rod and reel in his hand. “A guy could get beaucoup paranoid around here.”
“No shit.” Terry shed his blazer and walked to the stern to peer over the rear wall. “Your swim step is burnt toast.”
“It can be fixed.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
“Then, how about some coffee?” Terry took a seat at the shiny white outside table near the cabin door.
“Hang on.” Ridge ducked into the cabin and switched on the pot he had readied the night before. 100% Kona. When had he become a coffee snob? Ridge picked out two small plates and selected two large ceramic mugs. “Here,” he said, handing them to Terry, “while you’re doin’ nothing, set the table. And think—think about what case could’ve caused that psycho to come after me.”
“Well, we usually have a dozen cases going at any one time. But he said a new one, right?”
“Yeah,” said Ridge from the cabin.
“With moving the offices, we’ve only brought in two new cases recently. And we haven’t had a chance to work up either. But that’s where we should start.”
“Agreed.”
“The first is a wrongful death. A judge, I believe. Strange circumstances. We’ll meet with family members on Thursday. More, I just don’t know.”
Ridge came out of the cabin with a plate of bagels, some butter, and a knife. “Do you know what judge?”
“No. But it’s down in Orange County.”
“Talking about OC, wasn’t the other new case for your Uncle Cho—who lost his lawyer?”
“Right. That one I know something about. Last Wednesday you had Kate file a substitution of attorney on-line. Then I met with Uncle Cho in Orange County, for lunch, a couple of days later—on Friday.”
Ridge ducked back into the cabin, saying over his shoulder, “Anything for a free lunch, right?”
“Hell, I ended up paying. But as always, if Uncle needs help, nephew travels. It’s the Laotian way. At least in my family.”
“Speaking of family, didn’t you have a date recently? How’d that go? At 42, you ain’t getting any younger.”
“Most of us don’t luck into a Jayne in high school.”
Ridge brought out a carafe of coffee and a small carton of half and half and poured. “Maybe it’s just you can’t give up freedom—doing what you want when you want.”
Terry grimaced. “Can we not have this discussion? Finding a soulmate ain’t easy for most of us.”
“After twenty years as an investigator, you think you’d have an advantage. But try slowing down. Not running a thousand miles an hour. Sometimes by slowing down, you catch up to yourself.”
“OK Yoda. I’ll think on it. But right now, let’s get back to Uncle Cho.”
Ridge took a swig of coffee. “We were talking about lunch in Orange County.”
“Yeah. When I arrived at the Vietnamese restaurant he chose, he was super upset again. Didn’t calm down until the shrimp pho. You know—hard to fling the arms around, eat soup, and tell your story at the same time.”
Ridge smiled. “I get it. Uncle Cho is a bit short-fused. I know we usually look before we leap, but helping relatives and friends has always been the exception.”
“And we usually live to regret it, but I hope not this time.”
“We’ll see.” Ridge started scraping butter over one half of a bagel. “What’s it all about?”
“Well, Uncle Cho, he of the short fuse, told me—”
A loud splash, like a body slapping water. Close. Both men froze. Ridge looked up and out. Then something whacked the back of the boat. Shook it. Both men bolted to their feet and then stood, stock still, listening. Heard nothing. Not even the squawking of seagulls. Ridge stared hard at the rear of the boat. Still nothing. Just glare from the morning sun. The vibrating stopped and Ridge stepped out from behind the table and moved, cautiously, toward the stern. Terry held up a hand, then reached down, released the button and pulled his .38 snub nose from its ankle holster. He looked at Ridge and nodded. “Now.”
CHAPTER 8
Ridge sucked in a deep breath and stepped slowly forward, looking, listening, waiting to feel something. But nothing. He finally reached the stern, stopped. Looked over the rail.
“Tommy?”
The nine-year-old, from two boats south, sat upright in his yellow plastic kayak just below Ridge. “Sorry Mr. Ridge. Derek jumped from the kayak. I couldn’t stop it from hitting your boat. But wow, it’s really a mess back here.”
Ridge exhaled and smiled. “We’re gonna get it fixed.” Then he turned to Terry. Ridge moved his hand up and down, palm to ground, like dribbling a basketball. Terry slipped the .38 back into its holster and secured it. Then Ridge looked south of the boat. There was Derek, Tommy’s eight-year-old brother, ten yards out. Floating on a body board.
