“Foul play, I can do. Lost at sea, that might a problem.”

  “I understand. But maybe you’ll think of something.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say, already thinking of many somethings... and who might be able to help me.

  “Are you going to take the case?” she asks hesitantly, though with hope in her voice.

  Damn, I can’t dash that hope.

  “I think so, yes.”

  She reaches in her purse, looks up at me. “Do you take credit cards?”

  “I do, but the card reader is broken.”

  “I can Venmo.”

  “My Venmo is blocked.”

  “PayPal?”

  “Same.”

  “I can go get you cash. Private eyes need a retainer, right?”

  “Some do, yeah.”

  “Ms. Moon, are you purposely not taking my money?”

  “Bingo,” I say, and shoot her with a finger gun.

  “But... why?”

  “First, let’s find your brother, then we can talk about payment, cool?”

  She agrees, and I’m officially on the clock.

  As soon as she leaves, I make a call. Then another call. A third call lands me at the desk of the man I need.

  He’s the Coast Guard Search Leader. Each search and rescue case is assigned one, and they often juggle a few cases at once. They organize the searches and they call them off, too. I tell him who I am, who’s hired me, and I can veritably see him grimace on his end of the line. I suspect, though his heart might go out to Roxy, he’s had enough of her woo-woo shenanigans.

  He agrees to meet me, and I grab my keys, wallet, and jacket. When I’m working a case, a purse is the last thing I want to drag around.

  That done, I exit my downtown office, head to the rear of the building, and find my trusty old minivan... and away I go.

  Chapter Two

  It’s midday, hot, and even a tad humid, which is rare for Southern California. The humidity part, that is.

  SoCal gets what we call a dry heat. Having been to New Orleans in both our present time and in pre-Civil War time (long story), I very much prefer a dry heat over the wetter variety. Gah. I barely breathe air and the humidity in ‘Nawlins’ had been torture.

  Seriously, guys, how do you live in that humidity?

  Moving on...

  First and foremost, my best resource for any missing person case is my witchy friend Allison. Not only did she used to work for the Psychic Hotline as a real psychic back in the day, she would often ‘see’ the client in the very room they were talking to her in. That’s called distance viewing, and it’s a crazy skill that just might help me here. I check the time. She should be getting up now after her night gig.

  “Hey, Sammy,” she says in a groggy voice. “What’s shaking?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Been up for a few minutes. Still in bed.”

  “Too early to tell you about a case I might need your help on?”

  “Naw. I’m getting up now. Gonna make some coffee.”

  “Should I wait until you’ve had your first cup?”

  “You can fill me in while I’m making it.”

  I do just that, and by the time her coffee is brewed and she’s downed about half of that, I conclude my rundown by asking what she needs to get a bead on a person’s location. I already know a personal item is ideal.

  “Ah, the poor guy,” she says, making a slight clucking sound over the phone. “Yeah, a personal item is best. A picture sometimes helps. Personal writings, maybe.”

  I think for a moment. “Hang on.”

  I look up Roy’s books on swimming on Amazon, snap a screenshot of the author profile, and then send it to Allison. No one can say you can’t teach this old dog new tricks. I hear her phone bleat on her end of the line.

  “Got a text from you,” she reports. “Oh, there he is. A handsome guy.”

  “He’s also a missing guy. Feel anything?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Hang on.”

  I know her apartment like the back of my hand. Located on the sixth floor in the heart of Beverly Hills, she has a nice view of other similar apartment buildings. Allison is not rich. She just happened to find a good deal on the apartment. I imagine her there on her couch, dark hair askew, holding a coffee cup in one hand, her phone with the picture on it in the other, all while trying to pick up a psychic signal from this guy.

  “It’s faint, Sam. I’m afraid to tell you what that might mean.”

  “Hit me. I’m a big girl.”

  “He’s either dead or dying. I’m sorry, Sammy.”

  I nod as I drive. “Any idea where he is?”

  “None that I can see. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, that’s okay. I’ll hit this case the old-fashioned way.”

  “Good luck, Sam.”

  Thirty minutes later, I arrive at the Coast Guard station in Newport Beach. Unlike a Navy base, there isn’t a lot of pomp and circumstance here. No gate security. I park before the main building, show my driver’s license at the front desk, and step through a metal detector. From there, I’m ushered into the office of the mission coordinator, Chuck Peterson, who sits behind an expensive desk, wearing what appears to be Coast Guard casual: a short-sleeved polo shirt with embroidered insignia. Besides being the lead searcher, Chuck is also the captain. His skin is tan, his hair is blond, and he looks very much the part of a seagoing captain. Also, he’s kind of cute. Shh. Our secret.

  “You’re a private eye,” he says by way of introduction. I take the proffered seat in front of the big, leather-top desk. Okay, now I know where my tax money is going. His announcement held no judgment. A hint of curiosity, maybe.

  “I am. Previously with the feds.”

  “I looked you up; saw that.” He must have seen the surprise in my eyes, and added, “Sorry, it seemed an atypical case for a private eye, unless you have aquatic search-and-rescue experience, which is one of the few things that doesn’t seem to be listed on your website.”

  “Depending on how this turns out, I might just add it to my resume. And yeah, I’m as surprised as you.”

  He waits. I wait. All of this waiting probably doesn’t help the man missing at sea, for whom time was of the essence. What he’s waiting for from me, I’m not entirely sure. Admittedly, since losing my everyday telepathy, I’ve had to relearn how to read people.

  “Okay, I’ll just ask,” he says. “Why did she hire a private investigator with no sea search experience to look for her missing brother?”

  “Because she’s not ready to give up. Also, she wants me to look into the possibility of foul play.”

  “His body is likely lodged in some rocks at the bottom of the ocean, or—and I would never tell a distraught family member this—digesting inside any number of predators or sea-floor scavengers.”

  I nod. I get it. After six days, there’s not a lot of hope left. But...

  “If you had a twin that you felt psychically connected to,” I say, “wouldn’t you try everything in your power to help find your missing sibling, even hiring a private eye on the off chance there might be something criminal going on?”

  “Well, it’s a first for me,” he says, shrugging.

  “I think it’s more about being able to move on and knowing she did everything she could.”

  “I assure you, we did everything possible to find her brother, even extending the search parameters. This past week, there was no greater priority in this office than finding her brother.”

  “Oh, she’s very appreciative of your efforts. She’s just not ready to let go of him.”

  He rubs his chin. “That ESP crap again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Tell me, how in the hell is that guy still alive, when every model we’ve run shows him as deceased three days ago? The triathlon wet suit only gave him an additional day. Ms. Moon, he’s been lost at sea for six days. No food, no water, no flotation device. We covered every square inch of sea from San Diego to Long Beach.”

  “A Herculean effort, I know. And she understands it doesn’t make sense, but she feels her brother is still alive... somehow.”

  He nods, both distraught and irritated. He’s a good man who recently had to call off the search for another human being. Not an easy thing to do. “I’ve heard all about it. She feels he’s somehow moving, too.”

  “With the tide?” I suggested.

  “Maybe what’s left of him.” He paused to give me a compassionate look. “Ms. Moon, I’m just being realistic. At this point, decomposition is happening.”

  “Could he have been rescued at sea?” I ask.

  “Sure, except most boats would have taken him to the nearest port and called the authorities.”

  “Unless,” I say, holding up an unusually long index finger for someone so short. I can thank my mom for my long fingers. “He ran into some foul play.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned foul play. Like, what? Drug runners who plucked him out of the water and deposited him in Mexico?”

  “Stranger things have occurred.”

  “Maybe, though none stranger than that.”

  I pucker my lips and make a silent whistle. I have, of course, seen far, far stranger. But I keep my whistling silent. “Or maybe he never disappeared at sea at all, and is presently starting a new life somewhere.”

  “A single guy with no kids, no known health issues, no mental issues, or legal issues or any known extracurricular issues.... that’s doubtful. You and I both know that. No reason for him to run from a life that, by all accounts, is pretty easy.”

  Of course, he’s talking about gambling debts, drug addictions, affairs, etc. “That we know of,” I add.

  The captain shrugs defensively. “That’s according to his sister. We try to cover all bases early in our search, to know what we’re dealing with or what we might expect. We didn’t actually look into any of her claims since we didn’t have any evidence of foul play. We’re not homicide detectives at this station, though we do have the Coast Guard Investigative Service, when we have a good reason for a criminal investigation referral. That’s not our job here. A swimmer went missing, and we didn’t find him, and believe me, we looked. Hard. Which is where, I suppose, you come in.”

  “Thank you. I know you did. I’ll look into his background, sure. But mostly I wanted to talk to you and, if you’re feeling generous, ask for a copy of the search report.”

  “That’s not normally available to the public.” He sits back and shimmies in his chair a bit, turning it this way and that, studying me. “But you were a fed once.”

  He waits. He needs more from me. I’m happy to oblige.

  “I had a medical issue, was forced to retire and work my own hours.”

  He nods. He’s not a total douche; he doesn’t need to know more than that and doesn’t ask. “Sorry to hear that. Sure, I’ll print you out a copy and ask that you keep it to yourself, please. Been some reporters sniffing around, too. Don’t want to give them anything to latch their teeth into, though I know we did everything we could.”

  I thank him as he taps a few keys on his keyboard. A moment later, the boxy printer behind him comes to life.

  As the report prints, he looks out his big window at the busy harbor, portions of which are clearly off-limits to the general public. “It’s hard writing someone off, Ms. Moon. We don’t do it lightly. In the end, it’s my decision, and I have to live with that.”

  “Can’t be easy.”

  He shakes his head. “I feel for her. I really do, but...” He shakes his head.

  He doesn’t need to finish. I know where he’s going with that. He doesn’t believe all the woo-woo psychic connection stuff and believes Roy is dead.

  “I’m not taking her money,” I say when he hands me the report, which he was kind enough to staple for me. He nods grimly. I could see that aspect had not been sitting well with him: a private eye taking advantage of a grieving twin. “Unless I find him. Then, she and I can talk.”

  He exhales loudly as I head out of the office.

  Chapter Three

  Roy has been lost at sea for six days, and the longer today stretches, it will soon be seven days.

  It wasn’t like he’d been miles offshore swimming. He’d only been about fifty yards offshore, though the riptides could carry him out to sea. Should he have run into trouble, he was close enough for someone to hear him calling for help. Had a shark bitten off a leg or arm, he likely would have bled out and washed to shore. Or been consumed by said shark or sharks.

  Except Roxy is sure she senses him alive.

  Had he cramped up and drowned, he likely would have washed up on shore or been spotted by the Coast Guard. Of course, he could have been torn to bits by sharks. All likely scenarios for 99% of the people lost at sea for nearly a week.

  Except Roxy is pretty sure he’s alive.

  His ‘aliveness’ is making me think outside of the box here. Far outside the box. How in the hell could he still be alive? The easy answer is, of course, he swam to shore and disappeared into a new life.

  Except he had nothing to disappear from.

  That we know of, at least.

  Another scenario is that he could have been wounded, washed to shore, and taken to a nearby hospital where he doesn’t remember who he is. Or, my original idea is still plausible. Granted, plausible is used here to try to explain how he might be alive and yet somehow moving. Yes, he might have been picked up by a boat... to where, I don’t know. A party boat full of drunks on a one-week binge? Or captive on a smuggler’s boat? We don’t have legit pirates out here, that I know of.

  My logical side tells me he swam to shore, hitchhiked out of here, and is presently starting a new life with a married woman he’s been having a secret affair with... leaving behind his Jeep, his condo, his cute little career as a cover designer, and a sister who loves him and with whom he’s psychically connected.

  Grr. Nothing makes sense.

  That said, I doubt a quick smoothie would hurt anyone.

  So here I am, sipping on my Jamba Juice with its medley of fruits and extras—no wheat grass, blech—and sitting at the edge of the world. Or, at least, the edge of the United States of America. Nearby is the massive Montage Hotel edifice that Kingsley and I quite enjoy dining at; sometimes we stay there, too, but the thousand-dollar price tag pains the heart. Sure, Kingsley pays and spoils me rotten, but lately, every time he suggests staying there after an evening dining at its outdoor restaurant with its glorious views of the setting sun, I tell him to send that thousand dollars instead to the Fullerton YMCA. Get this, he’s taken me up on that both times. Maybe I’ll let him splurge on me next time. The place is the very definition of luxury. At least, it is for me.

  At the moment, my thoughts aren’t on fine dining or Kingsley’s seductive company—yeah, I’m still crazy about the big galoot. No, as I sip the fruit smoothie, my thoughts are on what in the hell to do about this case.

  Before me, the sun is just beginning to sink behind the sea of fire. Not actually fire, but the water is crackling in reds and oranges, intermixed with greens and blues. Wow, the most glorious of canvases. To do what I intend to do, I need full darkness. Or, at least, twilight. Nothing more obvious to the naked eye than a giant winged being flying over the ocean. Sure, the further out I go, the less likely the chance of being seen. But I plan to do a sort of grid search, which will take me close to shore every few minutes.

  So, yeah... I sip and think about where the hell Roy could have gone.

  Another likely scenario is that he got caught on some fishing line under the surface, drowned, and is presently being picked clean by whatever carnivorous critters are down there. Maybe the ‘movement’ Roxy is sensing are the bits of him inside the bellies of any number of sea-dwelling creatures.

  Okay, that’s dark and I really don’t believe that, truth be told.

  After all, she, too, also believes he’s alive. Wishful thinking? Perhaps. Combined with her sense of her brother’s movement... and it’s just all so damn perplexing. Is he on board a vessel somewhere and heading to God knows where? If Roy had been running from the law or the mob, I would believe it. Except the man made ebook covers for crying out loud... in a cozy condo near the beach. No, I haven’t been there, but I found an old listing of it on Zillow and looked around the place. Cozy as heck, with even a sliver of a beach view. He’d purchased it before the housing market went crazy and wasn’t late on his mortgage payments (per his sister). He also doesn’t have an arrest record. I checked that just moments ago. Yes, many of my proprietary databases can be accessed via my phone.

  No arrests, no warrants, nothing on his record. No bankruptcies, no restraining orders—either against him or for him—no recent car accidents or tickets or repossessions.

  The man has a super-clean record.

  I’d already searched his Facebook and Instagram accounts. No pictures of a crazy-looking new girlfriend. No pictures of him with strippers or partying hard in Vegas. No pictures of him with gangster types or suspicious types. No indication that he’d recently made friends with people in low places.

  No, just pictures of the ocean, or him in the ocean, and occasionally pictures of dolphins and seals... all swimming alongside him. There had been a picture of him meeting an old friend from high school that caused me to raise an eyebrow. The gal had been pretty... and married. Yes, I had saved her Facebook page. Might as well give her a call. Maybe a jealous ex-husband had something to do with Roy’s disappearance. Probably not, since the picture had been made public on both Facebook pages. Unless a very public and friendly get-together had turned into a night of passion and regret. Seeing the squeaky-clean nature of Roy’s past and present, I just had a hard time believing he would give it all up for a night of pleasure. Then again, maybe things spun out of control when the booze started flowing.

  Like I said, something to follow up on.

  Of course, that is to suggest that somehow, someway, a jealous ex-husband managed to locate Roy out here in the Pacific and do harm to him in the ocean. I considered the option that he’d been attacked on his way to his morning swim, but Captain Chuck’s report had been thorough. A nearby hotel had footage of Roy parking his Range Rover in his usual spot, exiting the driver’s seat already wearing his wet suit, and heading straight to the beach. The swimmer encountered no one along the way and no one seemed to be following him. The Coast Guard report does not believe Roy met with foul play on the way to the water. It was super early, after all, and the beach was mostly vacant. Had Roy been met with, say, a long-distance rifle shot, his body would have been found on the beach. Had he been kidnapped on the way, a vehicle or abductors would have been seen.