“The rest of us will help with police interviews, see if we can’t get some more leads,” added Nate Prudhoe.
“I’m on that task as well.” Ethan James, the investigator, who’d been propping himself against the wall, gave Tristan a little nod.
“It’s thanks to Ethan that we know about the woman in the coat,” explained Maya. “We’re pulling out all the stops. The Feds are monitoring the situation too.”
“We’re here to help too,” a familiar voice called from the doorway. Tristan turned around to see Bash Rivers—his best friend and his sister’s fiancé—and a gaggle of high-school-age kids. This must be his first batch of fight camp students. “Put us to work wherever you need us.”
He met Tristan’s gaze with a slight smile. Bash was a force in and out of the ring. With him on the hunt for Antonov, their chances just went up.
“If you ask me, it’s all a waste of time.” Shipp—State Trooper Shipp—scratched at his chin. “How well do we know this girl, anyway? Maybe she just up and left. She’s not local. She’s not even American.” He was an intimidatingly large man, but even so, Tristan wanted to knock his teeth out.
“I know her,” he said firmly. “She’s definitely missing. No doubt about that. Maya, your plan is fine, but you left out something important.”
Trooper Shipp scoffed at him as he hooked his thumbs on his belt. “You’re gonna jump in and save the day, son? You couldn’t even last a week in the mayor’s race.”
Tristan’s anger flared at his patronizing tone. “We got the right mayor in the end, and that’s all that matters.”
The former mayor bared his teeth at that dig.
Maya ignored the back-and-forth. “What are we leaving out, Tristan?”
“The ocean.”
As a ring of blank faces gazed back at him, he gestured widely with one arm, indicating Misty Bay.
“I studied up on Antonov while I was on the plane from Chile. He has a pattern. He always goes for the ocean when he’s trying to hide out. That’s why he was on the Northern Princess to start with.”
“Damn Northern Princess,” Nate complained. “Always was trouble.”
The others all murmured their agreement.
Maya narrowed her eyes at Tristan. “My cruisers aren’t the oceangoing kind. Do you have a plan?”
“I do.”
She assessed him for another long moment, then gave him a nod. “Then go. You’re in charge of the ocean search.”
In charge. For a moment, he hesitated. When people followed his lead, they got hurt. Then, just as quickly, his doubt evaporated. Lulu needed him. That was what mattered right now. “On it,” he said crisply.
“Let me know what you need, and stay in touch. No confrontations with Antonov. That goes for everyone except law enforcement. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Everyone else, get to work.”
Tristan strode out of the station and fired off a text, then another and another, to everyone on his harbor phone list. Urgent meeting at the Olde Salt in fifteen minutes.
Half an hour later, the entire Lost Harbor fishing fleet had assembled in the weather-beaten old saloon. About twenty-five boat captains, four times that many crew members, and a fair number of “harbor rats,” the workers who kept the boardwalk running in the summer and had lots of time on their hands in the winter.
Tristan rang the old bell that hung over the bar. In the old days, when someone rang the bell it meant drinks for everyone in the place. Celebrations, extra-big catches, lost bets, that kind of thing. His sister had ended that practice after too many young fishermen had spent their entire payout on one round of drinks.
But the heavy bronze bell still brought back memories of the wild old days.
“We have a missing person to find,” he told the group. “This is Lost Harbor, and we don’t let people disappear on us. She’s someone you might not know, but she’s someone I care for. She risked her life for a little boy and she needs our help. Are you with me?”
Pedro Davila, one of the most old-timey of the old-timers, spoke up. “Who’s missing?”
“Lulu. The woman from the cruise ship.”
“Lulu? Damn, we know Lulu. Helluva dancer. Good kid. Where’d she go?” asked Davila.
“That’s the part I don’t know. But I know something’s wrong.”
Should he mention her text? It was nothing but a bunch of letters that didn’t make sense, but it started with an “h” and that was enough for him—combined with Raul’s warning and the fact that she’d vanished. And that selfie looked like something she’d probably retake if she had time.
He scanned the motley collection of weathered, stoic faces before him. Most were men, but there were some women in the group as well. They were experienced, skilled, self-reliant, gutsy, hardworking people. And right now they were looking back at him with expressions ranging from expectant to reserved.
And he realized that he couldn’t ask anything of anyone until he got something out of the way first.
“I need to say something to you all. I’m sorry I dumped out of the mayor’s race. My heart wasn’t in it, but I need to be accountable. I should have given you all a heads up first.”
“Why’d you run if you didn’t want to?” Deke Armstrong crossed his arms over his chest.
“Make my father proud,” he said after a moment. “Live up to the legend.”
“Victor always stood up for us,” Pedro grumbled.
Ouch. “I know he did. But this town didn’t need me for mayor. We needed Malcolm.”
Old Crow, who didn’t fish anymore but was still an essential part of the community—and Malcolm’s cousin—nodded along. “He’s right. Give Malcolm a chance. There’s more than just fishermen in this town.”
With that support, Tristan gained even more confidence. “I dropped out because I thought it was the right thing for me and for Lost Harbor. But I’ll always stand up for the fishing fleet. You all know me. You know where my heart is. Right here, in this harbor, this town, this room. That’s the whole reason I let you talk me into running for mayor. I mean, before I came to my senses.”
Laughter broke out and he knew they were coming back around to him.
“I love my dad,” he continued. “I’ve always looked up to him. But I’m my own person.”
“You gotta be your own man,” Yakov agreed. “That’s why I switched from salmon to crab-fishing. Nearly broke my papa’s heart.”
Others in the group murmured their agreement. Tristan felt like laughing. What was this, a fishermen’s meeting or a group therapy session? Sometimes they weren’t too far apart, especially when you added in enough rum.
A sense of love swelled his heart. He knew these guys—and women—so well. They’d seen each other through all kinds of hell—divorces, deaths, drinking problems, any kind of drama you could think of. Feuds, brawls, the occasional bar knifing…the stories went on.
And of course it worked both ways. They’d watched him grow up. Even the younger ones had seen him go from carefree harbor kid to driven fishing boat captain to the man he was today. Older and wiser and ready to get back in the game.