walkways were mainly fisher-folk and they wore mixed Asian and Western attire. Only one of them, a young man on a pedi-cab greeted them: “Mornin’, Skipper, mornin’, Tombstone.”
Kavanaugh ignored him. Like every other would-be entrepreneur on Little Tamtung, Chou Lai blamed Kavanaugh for the failure of his business—in his case, Cryptozoica pedicabs and sightseeing.
The freighter, Mindanao’s Folly, was gone from the harbor, so either Dai Chinnah’s body had been recovered or Captain Hellstrom decided he wasn’t worth the effort of looking for it and weighed anchor at dawn.
Humidity hung over the waterfront like a shroud, insufferably oppressive. Although the Tamtung islands resembled a pair of mythical Bali Hai paradises from afar, close up they stunk of dead fish, mud and the eternal heat of the tropics. The jungled bulk of Cryptozoica rising from the sea looked beautiful, too, but things with fangs and talons and appetites for blood crept among the colorful flowers.
The building that had housed the headquarters of Cryptozoica Enterprises and Horizons Unlimited Tours had been designed to perform double-duty as a four-star hotel, the entrance of which faced the sea. Augustus Crowe and Jack Kavanaugh entered through the office annex.
All of the furniture had long ago been removed from the big reception area, but glossy framed posters emblazoned with the bright yellow Cryptozoica logo still hung on the walls, each one displaying a different scenario and habitat of the proposed spa and clinic.
The Jacuzzi, pool and steam baths were at the rear of the building.
They heard the murmur of voices from a corner office and they followed the sounds down a short hallway. Howard Flitcroft glanced up from a desk stacked high with papers, from release forms to brochures. Although the window was propped open and a ceiling fan spun, the air smelled musty and old. Flitcroft made an exaggerated show of consulting his platinum Rolex and arched his eyebrows.
“Right on time,” Kavanaugh said blandly. “As usual.”
“I was about to commend you on your punctuality,” Flitcroft retorted dryly. “And also bring to your attention that you look and smell like a walking dog turd.”
Kavanaugh shrugged. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure. Good thing you’ve got personal groomers following you around, right? No telling when a Forbes magazine photographer might jump out at you in a dark boardroom.”
Bertram Pendlebury glared at him over the thick sheaf of papers in his arms. “Keep in mind who you’re talking to, Jack! You owe him big.”
Pendlebury was Flitcroft’s right hand man, a position he secured when Flitcroft married Bertram’s sister, Merriam. A thin man with short dark hair streaked through with badger stripes of gray, he wore a tropical print shirt three sizes too large for him.
“Suck up when you’re ordered to suck, Smithers,” Kavanaugh shot back.
Flitcroft snapped, “Enough of that…from everybody.”
Both Kavanaugh and Pendlebury fell silent. Flitcroft wasn’t a tall man, but he wasn’t small either. Husky of build and in his early fifties, Howard Philips Flitcroft looked more like a high school PE teacher from an Iowa town than a millionaire several times over.
His thinning blond hair was blow-dried, sprayed, moussed, swept back and piled high to cover a sizable bald spot on the crown of his head. His blue eyes gleamed brightly with a challenge. He wore a short-sleeved yellow sport shirt, khaki pants and leather sandals. Sewn on the breast pocket of the shirt was Flitcroft’s monogram—a blue circle with the overlapping letters of HFP.
“Why are you here, Howie?” Crowe asked.
Flitcroft’s eyes narrowed momentarily. Augustus Crowe and Jack Kavanaugh were the only men he permitted to address him as “Howie” and he still didn’t care for it.
“I’m straightening up, airing this place out.”
“Not that it doesn’t need it,” said Kavanaugh, “but why?”
“I own this place,
Kavanaugh ignored him. Like every other would-be entrepreneur on Little Tamtung, Chou Lai blamed Kavanaugh for the failure of his business—in his case, Cryptozoica pedicabs and sightseeing.
The freighter, Mindanao’s Folly, was gone from the harbor, so either Dai Chinnah’s body had been recovered or Captain Hellstrom decided he wasn’t worth the effort of looking for it and weighed anchor at dawn.
Humidity hung over the waterfront like a shroud, insufferably oppressive. Although the Tamtung islands resembled a pair of mythical Bali Hai paradises from afar, close up they stunk of dead fish, mud and the eternal heat of the tropics. The jungled bulk of Cryptozoica rising from the sea looked beautiful, too, but things with fangs and talons and appetites for blood crept among the colorful flowers.
The building that had housed the headquarters of Cryptozoica Enterprises and Horizons Unlimited Tours had been designed to perform double-duty as a four-star hotel, the entrance of which faced the sea. Augustus Crowe and Jack Kavanaugh entered through the office annex.
All of the furniture had long ago been removed from the big reception area, but glossy framed posters emblazoned with the bright yellow Cryptozoica logo still hung on the walls, each one displaying a different scenario and habitat of the proposed spa and clinic.
The Jacuzzi, pool and steam baths were at the rear of the building.
They heard the murmur of voices from a corner office and they followed the sounds down a short hallway. Howard Flitcroft glanced up from a desk stacked high with papers, from release forms to brochures. Although the window was propped open and a ceiling fan spun, the air smelled musty and old. Flitcroft made an exaggerated show of consulting his platinum Rolex and arched his eyebrows.
“Right on time,” Kavanaugh said blandly. “As usual.”
“I was about to commend you on your punctuality,” Flitcroft retorted dryly. “And also bring to your attention that you look and smell like a walking dog turd.”
Kavanaugh shrugged. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure. Good thing you’ve got personal groomers following you around, right? No telling when a Forbes magazine photographer might jump out at you in a dark boardroom.”
Bertram Pendlebury glared at him over the thick sheaf of papers in his arms. “Keep in mind who you’re talking to, Jack! You owe him big.”
Pendlebury was Flitcroft’s right hand man, a position he secured when Flitcroft married Bertram’s sister, Merriam. A thin man with short dark hair streaked through with badger stripes of gray, he wore a tropical print shirt three sizes too large for him.
“Suck up when you’re ordered to suck, Smithers,” Kavanaugh shot back.
Flitcroft snapped, “Enough of that…from everybody.”
Both Kavanaugh and Pendlebury fell silent. Flitcroft wasn’t a tall man, but he wasn’t small either. Husky of build and in his early fifties, Howard Philips Flitcroft looked more like a high school PE teacher from an Iowa town than a millionaire several times over.
His thinning blond hair was blow-dried, sprayed, moussed, swept back and piled high to cover a sizable bald spot on the crown of his head. His blue eyes gleamed brightly with a challenge. He wore a short-sleeved yellow sport shirt, khaki pants and leather sandals. Sewn on the breast pocket of the shirt was Flitcroft’s monogram—a blue circle with the overlapping letters of HFP.
“Why are you here, Howie?” Crowe asked.
Flitcroft’s eyes narrowed momentarily. Augustus Crowe and Jack Kavanaugh were the only men he permitted to address him as “Howie” and he still didn’t care for it.
“I’m straightening up, airing this place out.”
“Not that it doesn’t need it,” said Kavanaugh, “but why?”
“I own this place,
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