The gregarious Zavala was much in demand by many of the single women around Washington who were attracted by his charm, his soulful dark brown eyes and Latin good looks.
"I'll admit that life can get interesting when I run into an old date when I'm out with a new one, but that's nothing compared to your race. What happened?"
"I'm having dinner with my father, so I'll have to fill you in when I get back in a couple of days."
"Looks like you'll be back in Washington sooner than that. We've been ordered to sail out of Norfolk tomorrow night. Do you know Joe Adler?"
"The name sounds familiar. Isn't he a wave guy out at Scripps?"
"He's one of the foremost ocean wave experts in the world. We're going to help him find the Southern Belle."
"I remember reading about the Belle. She's the big containership that went down last March."
"That's right. Rudi called me. Adler wants you on the project. Apparently, he's got some clout, because Rudi agreed to his request." Rudi Gunn was in charge of NUMA's day-to-day operations.
"That's odd. I've never even met Adler. Sure he didn't make a mistake? There are a dozen guys at NUMA who've worked searches. Why me?"
"Rudi said he didn't have a clue. But Adler has an international reputation, so he went along with his request to help find the ship."
"Interesting. The Belle went down off the mid-Atlantic coast. How close is the search area to where the Trouts are working?" Paul and Gamay Trout, the other members of the Special Assignments Team, were in the midst of an ocean survey.
"Close enough so that we can raft up and have a party," Zavala said. "I've already packed the tequila."
"While you line up a caterer, I'll change my plane reservations, and let you know when I'm coming in."
"I'll meet you at the airport. We'll have a plane waiting to fly us to Norfolk."
They discussed a few more details and hung up. Kurt pondered the request from Adler, then went back to his table to tell his father he would be leaving in the morning. If Austin was annoyed about his son's change in plans, he didn't show it. He thanked Kurt for coming to Seattle for the kayak race, and they vowed to get together again when they had more time.
Kurt caught an early flight out of Seattle the next morning. As the plane took off and headed east, he thought about his father's muted reaction to his change in plans. He wondered if Austin Senior really wanted him to join the family business. To the old man, it would be admitting that he was on the road to retirement. Both men tended to have strong opinions, and it would be like having two captains on a rowboat.
In any case, his father was plain
wrong about Kurt's attachment to his NUMA work. It wasn't the excitement that kept him at the huge ocean science agency. Every opportunity for an adrenaline rush meant many long hours of reports, paperwork and meetings, which he tried to avoid by staying in the field. The siren call that lured him back again and again was the unfathomed mystery of the sea.
Mysteries like the strange encounter with the killer whales. He pondered the incident with the orcas. He wondered, too, about the man with the weird tattoo and the purpose of the electrical setup he'd seen on Barrett's boat. After a few minutes, he put his formless thoughts aside, picked up a pad and a ballpoint pen and began to sketch out specifications for a new kayak.
3
New York CITY
Before Frank Malloy had become a high-priced consultant to the nation's police departments, he'd been the quintessential cop. He loathed disorder of any kind. His uniforms were always pressed and sharply creased. In a holdover from his Marine Corps days, his salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to the scalp military style. Frequent workouts kept his compact body fit and muscular.
Unlike many police officers who found stakeout tedious, Malloy enjoyed sitting for hours in a car, watching the ebb and flow of traffic and pedestrians, ever alert for the slightest rent in the fabric of society. It also helped that he had an iron bladder.
Malloy was parked on Broadway, checking out the steady parade of fast-walking pedestrians and gawking tourists, when a man cut away from the crowd and made his way straight for the unmarked NYPD cruiser.
The man was tall and slim, and looked to be in his thirties. He wore a tan, lightweight suit, wrinkled at the knees, and scuffed New Balance running shoes. He had red hair and beard, and his goatee was cut to a point. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie hung loose. Years as a beat cop had honed Malloy's ability to size up people at a quick glance. Malloy pegged the man as a reporter.
The man came over to the car, bent down so his face was level with the window and flashed his photo ID.
"My name is Lance Barnes. I'm a reporter with the Times. Are you Frank Malloy?"
The question spoiled Malloy's triumph.
"Yeah, I'm Malloy," he said with a frown. "How did you make me, Mr. Barnes?"
"Easy," the reporter said with a shrug of his shoulders. "You're sitting alone in a dark blue Ford in a neighborhood where it's practically impossible to get parking."