Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

match. He didn’t recognize the men with her, other than that the guy driving the boat was a clean-shaven, close-cut, squared-away generic military type. And Conroy was right—the driver looked too young to be a captain in anyone’s navy.
    Jake wondered which of the Whidbey Island NAS boys had been pressed into service as a fishing guide for Uncle Sam’s entry into the amber treasure hunt. Whoever it was, he knew how to fish. The rods made a clean arc against the gray-blue water. Each rod tip moved in slow rhythms that told of a flasher turning beneath the surface of the sea, luring fish to come up, have a look, and stay for dinner.
    The man with Ellen might have been a sport fisherman in his spare time, but he was working now. He didn’t even glance at the rods arching off to port and starboard of the stern. The man had a pair of binoculars against his eyes and he was memorizing everything about the Tomorrow.
    Jake gave him a casual, one-finger salute and lowered the glasses. Honor snatched them up, adjusted them for her own eyes, and looked at the first of the two boats.
    “You sure that’s Snake Eyes?” she asked. “I can’t see much beneath that miserable cap he’s wearing.”
    “I’m sure.”
    She started to object that she wasn’t that good an artist—her sketch and a glance through binoculars at forty yards weren’t enough for certain identification. Then she looked again. What she could see of the man was unappetizing enough to go with her memory of Snake Eyes. Clothes that were as cheap as they were ill fitting. A hat that should have been burned as a health hazard. Hands that were allergic to soap.
    Not that she was a fashion queen herself in her black jeans, blue-green sweater, blue-green wind jacket, white deck shoes, and hair combed by the playful wind. But at least she was clean. Snake Eyes wasn’t.
    “Yuck,” Honor summed up, and focused on the next boat.
    “He’s a regular Prince Alarming,” Jake agreed. “Recognize anyone in the second boat?”
    “Nope. The woman looks a bit overdressed for fishing. Nice jacket, though. Red that clear is hard to find.”
    Jake preferred Honor’s sleek, sea-colored wind shell and sweater to Ellen’s expensive red jacket, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t help wondering if the rest of Ellen’s clothes would catch up with her before she ruined the ones she had. Obviously she had been yanked out of whatever office job she had been working on and shot into Anacortes to seduce one J. Jacob Mallory. No time to pack. No time to say good-bye. Just grab a cab and blast off to the next brushfire.
    He had enjoyed that kind of life once. Now he didn’t miss it at all.
    A glance over his shoulder told Jake that nothing was happening with the fishing rods. He wasn’t surprised. None of the other circling boats had dropped out of line to fight a fish. He glanced at the fish finder. Nothing was returning a sonar echo except the flat bottom of the bay.
    “Nobody’s catching anything,” Honor said.
    “Tide won’t change for half an hour.”
    “So?”
    “There’s a saying around here that ninety-five percent of fish are caught during the ten-minute bites at tide change.”
    “Then what are all these people doing here now?”
    “Praying for the other five percent.”
    “I was right the first time. They’re crazy.”
    “Relax. The best-kept secret about fishing is that it’s a grand excuse to do nothing.”
    Honor didn’t look convinced. Or relaxed.
    He switched the screen to the chart plotter and called up the Secret Harbor route Kyle had stored. For the moment he was assuming that the dashed route on the chart was simply a preferred trolling route and the cross marks along that route were places where Kyle had caught fish.
    “What’s that?” she asked.
    “A chart showing Secret Harbor. That’s Cypress Island. Across the channel is Guemes Island.”
    She leaned into the narrow aisle to get a better look at the screen. “What’s the dotted line that loops around?”
    “I’m assuming it’s the trolling route Kyle preferred. It’s real close to the contours of a little rise that shows on the charts.”
    “What are these marks?”
    “Probably places where he caught fish.”
    “But you’re not sure?”
    “No. That’s why I’m retracing this route.”
    “How will doing this help us find Kyle?”
    Jake hesitated. Even his quick mind didn’t see a useful way of ducking the question. Besides, the sooner Honor accepted that