Free Donovans 01 - Amber Beach by authors_sort Page B

gas.”
    “Is that supposed to worry me?”
    He eyed the half-empty gas gauges. “It will. Until then, listen up. Under good to fair water conditions, the most efficient ratio of speed to gas consumption for this boat is about thirty-four hundred rpm. At that speed, the boat is very responsive to the helm. There’s a direct ratio between speed, trim, and . . .”
    Jake headed back for the dock at a sedate speed, talking the whole time. He kept at it long after Honor’s eyes glazed over, burying her in facts and figures and nautical terms, demonstrating with every relentless word how much he knew about the SeaSport and how little she did.
    It was a lousy way of teaching her how to run the boat. But it was a great way of teaching even a stubborn Donovan female how much she needed one J. Jacob Mallory to help her do what she really wanted to do—find a fortune in stolen amber.

5
    T HE SALTY LOG was an old hangout for the loggers, fishermen, and crabbers of Anacortes. The fortunes of the place had declined along with the local fish stocks, the discovery of the spotted owl, and the rise of Native American fishermen who worked according to tribal rules rather than federal or state regulations. Never an upscale place to begin with, the Salty Log could most kindly be described as “atmospheric.”
    When Jake walked in the atmosphere was stale smoke and old complaints about know-nothing Fisheries bureaucrats, city-born tree huggers, and greedy Natives. The rants were as old as the reality of declining resources and much easier to understand. Jake had heard each of the arguments before, believed in some of them at one time or another, and now took a sour view of all of them.
    Conroy was waiting at a small table in the far corner, away from toilet traffic. Off-duty, he wore gray work pants and a flannel shirt with colors as muted as the bar itself. He looked tired and irritated. The beer in front of him hadn’t been touched.
    Jake picked up a beer at the bar and went over to the table. No one took note of him beyond the uninterested glances regular patrons gave folks who looked local but weren’t part of the Salty Log’s hard drinking fraternity.
    “I told you I was buying,” Jake said, sitting down.
    Neither man had his back to the room. The bar might be long in the tooth but the teeth were still sharp. Fights were common, brutal, and ignored by the local law unless guns or fishing knives were involved.
    Conroy lifted his beer in ironic salute. “Evening, buddy. I’ll buy my own, thanks. From what I can see, you’re way out from shore in a leaky skiff and small craft warnings are flying all over the place.”
    “It could be worse.”
    “How?”
    “So far it’s just warnings.”
    “What the hell have you done?” Conroy asked bluntly.
    “Nothing.”
    “Bullshit. I’ve been told to keep the Tomorrow in sight.”
    “I don’t own the boat, remember?”
    “Then stay off it.”
    “Is that official?” Jake asked.
    “No. It’s a hangover from the days we used to fish and tear up bars together.”
    “This whole talk is unofficial?”
    “You have my word.”
    Jake nodded, settled more comfortably, and took a sip of his beer. In the background he heard cigarette-roughened voices arguing over which was worse, tree huggers in penthouses or morons who thought a man could survive fishing seasons that were only open for four hours once every three months.
    “Did your superiors mention Kyle Donovan?” Jake asked in a voice too soft to be overheard.
    “Just as the owner of the Tomorrow.”
    “Did they say what you’re supposed to be looking for when you board us?”
    “Nothing specific, so I assume Donovan is smuggling cigarettes north to Canada or Chinese south to the U.S., or dope both ways, or a combination of all three. Or worse. There are a lot of unsolved murders in Anacortes, particularly for a town this size.”
    “Murder? Is that what the local newspaper is saying now?”
    “Dead man floating facedown