Nero Blanc - Two Down

Dedicated to
Blake Hawkins
and
Bill Herndon
Friends and mentors of the highest order

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Two Down would not have been possible without the
generous contributions of
Lt. Matthew J. Gimple & C.W.O. Bob Booth of the
United States Coast Guard Cutter Sturgeon Bay,
and
Dick Hale of Pirates Cove Marina, Fishers Island,
New York.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

TWO DOWN

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2000 by Nero Blanc

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 1-101-19191-0

A BERKLEY PRIME CRIME BOOK

Berkley Prime Crime Books first published by The Berkley Prime Crime Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

First edition (electronic): September 2001

W heres Jamaica?

The question was posed by a self-confident male voice, and it raced upward to the second floor of the Pepper home by way of a curving staircase dominated by a spacious Palladian window. All the trappings of wealth and power appeared framed by this window: the manicured gardens grown dusky silver in autumns evening light, the impeccable view of the Massachusetts coast, the sculpted trees and marble benches arranged artfully beside a reflecting pool. No lesser house, no distant light or neighborly noise disturbed this perfect scene.

The question was repeated. The male voice had become more insistent.

A woman responded from the second-floor master suite. In the Caribbean where its always been. There was an edginess to the tone that could have indicated either anxiety or anger, but it was quickly supplanted by a conciliatory: Sorry, darling, I just couldnt resist. Jamaica must be still dressing... You know how we women are...

Indeed I do! The first voice reverberated with smug robustness. You wear half the clothes we males are forced to don for these eventsand you still take twice as long.

I thought you said we had plenty of time... Although still attempting humor, the timbre had turned crisp.

We did before you two started staring into your closets...

But cocktails dont begin until seven-thirty

Do you want to arrive at the same moment as every other guest and wait in an interminable line at the entry gate? You know what its like getting into the club for this party...

Im not going to be rushed... And you know Jamaica wont be...

The words continued to collide mid-landing and mid-step caroming across the antique Persian carpet, the elegant English landscape paintings, the crystal sconces with their rose silk shades, and the chandelier that hung in their midst like a gigantic, multifaceted diamond.

In a chintz-swagged guest room, the person who had inspired this domestic unease smiled as she walked toward her half-open door. Ill be down in five, dear ones, she sang out in a rich contralto, ten minutes at the very most... Dont squabble now, darlings; youre my best friends in the entire universe, and were going to have a perfectly glorious evening.

She smiled again, then caught her reflection in the mirror. For a split second the radiant expression froze, transforming itself into something neither pleasant nor happy. Then, as rapidly, the speaker resumed her buoyant facade and tone. You dont know how much good it does me to be here with you both. I feel positively reborn. Ill never miss Los Angeles. Never. Never!

Say that after you experience one of our New England winters, Jamaica, the mans voice called back.

Nothing you say can scare me. Im here to stay. A new life. A new me!

Jamaica Nevissonor Cassandra Lovett, as she was better known to a legion of adoring fans addicted to the daytime drama Crescent Heightshad spent thirteen years in the City of Angels creating, inhabiting, and eventually becoming the raven-haired, emerald-eyed, conniving femme fatale of the show. Jamaica had been wearing Cassandras jet-black wig and emerald-tinted contact lenses so long shed almost forgotten what she looked like without them.

I really should thank my lucky stars for that odious photographer, she continued. I needed a catalyst. I needed to reexamine my priorities!

No more disembodied chat, Jamaica. The man called up the stairs again. I have some very good champagne sitting in ice down here. Two more minutes alone, and Ill be forced to pop the cork.

Aye aye, sir, was Jamaicas amused response. No sound came from the master suite.

Jamaica finished dressing by pushing a strand of her own short, sandy-brown locks beneath Cassandras black wig. She shook her head slightly, giving the false hair a totally natural appearance, then strolled to a Louis XV dressing table surmounted by a matching mirror. Forty-five, she murmured. Almost forty-six. It wasnt a joyful sound.

She smoothed the flesh-colored lines of a skintight, floor-length sheath that had been constructed to appear as if only the random pattern of sequins concealed her bodys secrets. From five feet away, Jamaica Nevisson might have been wearing nothing more than a sparse and shiny bouquet. Then she applied a final coat of black mascara to her pale brown lashes, outlined her lips in the dense, carmine color for which Cassandra Lovett was famed. While working, she tossed around the words shed heard moments before: Wheres Jamaica?, and her serene expression darkened into an angry glare.

How many times had some wandering-palmed director or overweight stage manager mangled the same phrase? How many predawn hours had she endured, dragging herself to that wretched studio in the godforsaken San Fernando Valley only to be greeted by a bevy of backbiting scriptwriters armed with clever quips about the stupidity of actors and the brilliance of their own art? And how many evenings had she finished taping at eight, or even nine oclock at nightonly to find twenty pages of new dialogue shoved toward her weary chest with a dismissive: Lets try to get it right tomorrow, huh, babe? For a changeCassie, babe?

Jamaica glowered at the mirror, shook her raven hair again, and attempted a more winsome pose, but her wrathful expression seemed permanently stuck. Embittered, middle-aged female, it all but shrieked. Stalled career, no permanent relationship, no true and loving home.

Jamaicas shoulders sagged, and her back, always held so proud and straightand youthfuldrooped in despair. Forty-five, she thought again, with all the wrinkles, lines, and blotchy skin to show it. Forty-five in an industry where twenty was considered seasoned.

When had her age begun to betray her? she wondered, although she already knew the answer. It had been when one particular paparazzo had decided to make her his moving target. Catching Cassandra Lovett with her proverbial pants down had become his obsession. Jamaica hadnt been able to shop at Neimans or dine in a Santa Monica bistro without encountering this demon with a Leica. She hadnt been able to approach her home in Holmby Hills without finding him encamped by the gatesor lurking in the neighbors bougainvilleawaiting for her to take her daily swim, then squeezing off a roll that had ended up as CASSANDRA BARES ALL according to