The Girl on the Yacht by Thomas Donahue, Karen Donahue Read Free Book Online

upstairs––Gym, Open 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. Mystery solved . The building remained open for the boaters seeking exercise.
    He examined the interior of the spacious lobby and focused on the set of glass doors at the back that led into the marina office. He glanced around the empty facility and moved toward the doors while pulling a lock pick from his pocket. The cheap doorknob mechanism sprung in a few seconds, and he was inside the three-desk office. Michael’s eyes fell upon a door at the back that resembled the entrance to a closet. From his extensive training, he knew that the solid wooden door and more substantial deadbolt identified it as the security room.
    Once inside the tiny, windowless space, he sat down at the desk and examined the digital equipment. A simple system, not too old, but adequate. On the monitor, there appeared eight small images of the cameras on site––three that he knew about kept watch on the sidewalks outside of the dock ramps to the boats, another two covered the 800-car parking lot, and the final three were dedicated to the inside of the clubhouse.
    He picked up the remote to the digital video recorder and tapped the high-speed reverse to eight o’clock that morning. When had she arrived? His target appeared on the monitor with the time stamp of 10:26 a.m. It was definitely the woman, but she wasn’t coming from the parking lot to the gate as he had expected. She was walking toward the restroom building next to the clubhouse from the boat slips. She was already on her boat. I need to go back earlier .Before he rewound further, he watched her move on the screen—her casual stroll up to the restroom—her fumbling with the keycard—her unlocking the bathroom door and entering.
    A question came to him, Why go to the restroom on shore? These yachts all have heads. It came to him––the waste holding tank on the boat would fill quickly if she were staying aboard. Then she’d have to take the boat to a waste station and dump it. It’s just easier to walk up the ramp.
    He reversed the video and studied the previous night’s footage. When 9:22 p.m. posted on the upper right of the screen, he spotted the uniformed guard near A-dock. Michael concentrated on the man’s anomalies, habits, patterns, and random activities. One thing stood out––during his single route patrol, the young man never went down any ramp leading to the boats. There’s that yacht owner’s privacy thing again .
    One loop complete, the guard strolled over to an old VW van at the far corner of the parking lot, opened the side door, and disappeared inside the vehicle. Michael focused on the rickety van while continuing on fast forward. At sunrise, the guy reappeared to the world from his restful hibernation. The newly refreshed rent-a-cop entered the clubhouse. Another camera view showed him in the office, time-stamping his card before leaving the building. He strolled back to his van and drove away.
    Michael checked his dive watch. The hours had slipped away, and it was getting close to midnight. He leaned back in the office chair and gave the information a few minutes to percolate. I can’t do it here during the daytime––too many people. His plan began to formulate. The night guard doesn’t go near the boats or anywhere else after he puts himself to bed around ten. The target uses the restrooms on shore, and she’s been drinking at the party for hours. She’ll have to use the toilet sometime during the night or early morning.
    He scanned the small office to do what he came in there to accomplish. He began pulling out the cables from the recording machine. Nobody will come in this locked room until tomorrow. With the guard’s bedtime well into its second hour, he picked up the slim recording unit and headed out the door. Minutes later, he strolled along the embankment until he reached the end of the docks. With a mighty heave, he flung the unit like a large, flat stone into the quiet bay. The single skip on the