Hot Schemes by Sherryl Woods Page B

boys. Miguel is an old man. And I saw for myself that his provisions remained on his boat. More and more I am convinced he was forced onto that raft. Perhaps he was intentionally cast adrift to die.”
    “But why?”
    “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice tight with frustration. “But I would bet my life that Paredes is the key.”
    “Maybe Felipe and Ken will have some answers,” Molly said as they turned into Michael’s townhouse development.
    Sure enough, both policemen were sitting on the front steps of Michael’s condominium. For the first time Molly had a chance to study them more closely. In the chaos of the previous night she had gathered only vague impressions.
    Ken Marshall looked to be in his late thirties, though there was already a lot of gray in his curly brown hair. His hazel eyes were unflinching. She had seen for herself that it was a quietly intelligent gaze that could be both compassionate and unnerving. Perhaps that intensity was what made him such an outstanding evidence technician. She could believe that absolutely nothing got past him.
    Felipe Domínguez was his opposite in many ways. Short, while Ken was tall, mischievous, while Ken was serious, Felipe had the square build of a boxer and the attitude of a street fighter.
    At the moment they were engaged in an obviously intense discussion. Their expressions turned even more sober at the sight of Michael. Inside, over the promised pizza and beer, they offered little new information.
    “We have bits and pieces from the boat,” Ken said. “But nothing at all of the bomb.” He glanced at Molly. “Felipe and I have been trying to remember any details from that quick look we took. We’re coming up blank. Can you recall anything at all about what you saw?”
    “I heard it. I didn’t get a good look at it. It sounded like a standard wind-up clock.”
    Ken’s gaze narrowed. “Why wind-up?”
    “The ticking,” she said immediately and without a doubt. “When I was a kid, I had an inexpensive clock that made that same sound by my bed. Electric and digital clocks make a quieter sound, if they make any noise at all.”
    “She’s right,” Felipe said. “It sounded like the clock I picked up at the drugstore when our electric clock died a few weeks ago.” He paused a minute, then added, “Like that clock the crocodile swallowed in
Peter Pan.”
    “Terrific,” Michael muttered. “The timing device could have been bought in any one of hundreds of chain drugstores around town. That really narrows things way the hell down.”
    Ken regarded him sympathetically. “Hey, pal, I know you’re frustrated, but what Molly said comes as no surprise. For all the talk of training exercises and stuff, we’re not talking a high-tech military operation here. We’re probably not even talking about professional international terrorists. I’d guess this was somebody with an ax to grind and one of those primitive but effective how-to-stir-up-insurrection manuals. Back when people were bombing the hell out of the homes and businesses of anyone they thought was soft on Fidel, they weren’t using plastique and that fancy garbage. What they came up with was crude, but it did the job.”
    “Which brings us back to Paredes and people like him,” Michael said, glancing at Felipe. “What did you learn on the streets?”
    “I got a lot of shock, a lot of outrage, and not one single lead. When I mentioned Paredes and his organization, a few people looked very nervous but denied knowing of any connection.”
    “Were they lying?” Michael asked.
    Felipe shrugged. “My gut tells me yes. Could I prove it? No way.”
    Michael shoved his hands through his hair and exchanged a look with the two policemen. “So where the hell does that leave us?”
    Ken leaned forward. “I do have one idea. I’ve got some time coming.”
    “Forget it,” Michael said.
    Ken continued as if he hadn’t spoken, his expression determined. “I could take leave for the next day