Dead Heat by Caroline Carver Read Free Book Online Page B

bother staying in Nulgarra with Port Douglas on the other side of the Daintree. Port Douglas had boutique
     hotels, motels, countless pubs and cocktail bars, a yacht club, a marina filled with millions of dollars’ worth of oceangoing
     yachts, and supermarkets that never closed their doors. If their mother had taken them to Port Douglas instead of Nulgarra,
     Georgia wondered whether her sister would have stayed instead of hightailing it to Vancouver, away from the relentless humidity
     and hordes of insects. Maybe, she thought. Maybe not.
    Mrs. Scutchings jabbed the brakes as they approached the harbor, preparing for the sharp, right-hand bend at the end of Ocean
     Road, and Georgia looked left, hoping to catch a glimpse of Three Mile Beach through the mangroves, but instead her gaze was
     riveted to the mega-yacht moored in deep water at the end of the southern pontoon.
    Instantly she was back at Tom’s funeral, looking at the vines creeping across the roof of Nulgarra’s crematorium and listening
     to heated gossip all around her. She felt a debt of gratitude to the boat, which had enabled her to distract those who pressed
     her about her marital status.
    “You hitched yet?” asked some guy in his fifties, wearing an ill-fitting suit and an aggressive expression.
    She’d said, “You seen that boat in the harbor?”
    “It belongs to some gangster,” the man said in an authoritative tone, knowing exactly which boat she meant.
    “A Triad,” another man added firmly, as though he’d met the Triad personally.
    Then Bridie piped up, almost breathless with excitement. “I’ve heard it’s got gold fittings in the bathrooms and bidets in
     every one!”
    Considering some folk in Nulgarra didn’t even have an inside toilet, just the dunny out the back of the house, Georgia had
     bet Bridie’s rose-dotted knickers that the bidets on the boat would be the only ones in town.
    As Mrs. Scutchings rocketed past the Shipshape Chandlery, Georgia gazed at the gleaming white monster dwarfing its neighbors.
     Who owned the thing? How much had it cost? Squillions, no doubt. Just filling the fuel tanks had to cost over five thousand
     bucks, and she guessed the mooring fees were three times her annual rent.
    She studied the large saloon window shaped like an almond and reckoned she could probably fit her whole house inside the one
     room. No doubt it would be equipped with all modern conveniences, full air-conditioning, a bridge with an array of dials and
     dozens of satellite phones. Global Positioning System, radar, compass, depth monitor, perimeter monitor, and probably a video
     to oversee the engines. It was seriously over the top, and seriously out of place.
    “Unreal,” murmured Georgia.
    Mrs. Scutchings swung her head around. “Oh, that. Hideous. Just hideous. The sooner we get rid of it the better. Word going
     round town says it belongs to some Chinese gangster, but nobody really knows as such and it’s racking up mooring costs like
     you wouldn’t believe. The harbormaster, Pete Dunning—he’ll be new to you—has his lip well and truly buttoned, believe you
     me.”
    “Surely somebody must have seen it being moored and the crew disembark?”
    “It turned up during the night a couple of days back, before the storm hit. Whole town was asleep.”
    With a little lurch Georgia recalled India Kane and her questions about the man whose body had been found on nearby Kee Beach,
     with a bullet in the back of his head, who should have been on the plane. What was his name? Chen. Ronnie Chen.
    “What’s with the police boats?” she asked. “Are they anything to do with it?”
    “Oh, no. They’ll be dealing with illegal immigrants trying to sneak in by boat. The police are trying to intercept them before
     they land but they’re having the very devil of a job. They’ve missed two lots this month, boats
heaving
with Afghans, Iraqis, the whole Middle East from the sound of it. How they managed to miss the last lot