Thicker Than Water (A Leo Waterman Mystery) by G.M. Ford Page B

impossible to move from a commercial to a residential property designation, which, as far as I could see, was the only reason why this particular piece of property hadn’t morphed into thirty or forty luxury condo units at a million-three a pop.
    I parked my car in front of the Tides Tavern, crossed Shilshole Avenue, and walked east along the fence line with the sky the color of slate and the icy onshore flow fromPuget Sound jabbing at the back of my neck. I shuddered inside my coat and turned up the collar.
    At the far end of the boatyard, almost in the neighbor’s parking lot, I found an overturned oil drum nestled among the weeds, rolled it from the bottom side up, climbed on, and boosted myself to the top bar of the fence.
    Jumping from heights is one of those moments where you first notice you’re getting older, that the balance isn’t quite what it used to be, and the knees aren’t as nearly as accommodating about absorbing shocks as they once were.
    My body acted as if I’d jumped off the Space Needle. I staggered forward on impact and nearly turned an ankle, stumbling spastically through knee-high brush and brambles until I was able to regain some semblance of balance and composure.
    I took a minute to count body parts and make sure nobody had seen me staggering around like a drunk. My ear throbbed to the beat of my heart. The impact with the ground had aggravated my shoulder. I cradled myself until it calmed down. I was grateful for something else to think about when out in the street an eighteen-wheeler came growling by. Moving slowly up through the gears until it finally blended into the general hum of the city.
    As I saw it, I didn’t have the luxury of being surreptitious. If somebody saw me, then they saw me. I’d burn that bridge when I came to it. Nobody had seen Rebecca in something like a week and, even presuming she was out there somewhere mucking around on her own, whatever she was doing, she was doing without her cell phone, driver’s license, and credit cards. My gut felt as if it was full of nails.
    I cut left around the stern of an old wooden fishing vessel. The
Cheryl Anne
. Blue and white up top, black beneath the waterline. Didn’t take a marine engineer to see that the old girl wouldn’t be going anywhere. The entire transom had fallen off, exposing her nautical ass in a most unseemly manner.
    The yard arrangement was classic. Little boat shed for little vessels with little money. Big boat shed for bigger vessels with serious folding cash. Everybody else was propped up on jack stands outside in the yard, “on the hard” as they liked to say.
    Out in the ship canal, an enormous red and white Crowley tug was motoring its way out toward Puget Sound. I watched as whoever was at the helm of the
Response
raised his hand. I thought he was waving hello, as boaties are inclined to do, and was about give the obligatory return wave when the sudden blast of his air horn shook me to my core. I shuddered again and hunched my shoulders against the chill.
    What looked to be an eighty-ton travel lift straddled the haulout slip like a giant blue mantis, its polyethylene lifting straps hanging lank above the inky water. If I recalled correctly, a lift that size was good for at least eighty-footers. Maybe as big as a hundred, depending on the make and model.
    I followed the “office” arrows around the south side of the building. Twenty feet of old twelve-pane windows and a peeling green door looked out over the yard. The glass was filthy, inside and out, the glazier’s putty so dissolute it had fallen out in many places. A single arm of blackberryvine, bristling with thorns and thick as my wrist, wandered unimpeded over the front wall.
    I checked the area immediately around the door. No stickers or decals. Apparently, not Zagat rated. No “this business is protected by” such and such security company either. I checked the door and didn’t see any obvious alarm wiring, but then again, you’re not