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I turned to her, expecting a fiery reply.
Her gaze flicked between my eyes and my mouth, and a glint of mischief curled across her expression. Progress. But it vanished just as quickly.
An elderly man shuffled toward us, scratching his bare chest. “Good to see the bastards finally let you out.”
Indiana swiveled to him. “Hey, Dad. You okay?”
He stepped into the shadow of the covered area, and I adjusted my assumption of his age down a couple of decades.
“Dad, this is Officer Tyler?—”
I offered my hand. “Detective Tyler Kingsley,” I said, correcting her. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
“They call me Old Smithy.” He sneered at my outstretched hand before he wrapped his calloused fingers around mine and squeezed much harder than he needed to, then dropped it like I’d handed him dogshit. “What do you want?”
“I had to make a deal to get out of jail,” Indiana said.
“What kind of deal?” He pinned his pale eyes on me.
“We need to salvage Chui’s sunken yacht.”
His brows drilled together, and when he turned to his daughter, I could practically see the cogs turning in his mind. Old Smithy’s bones seemed to sag, and his rubbery skin was weather-beaten, but there was nothing wrong with his cognitive skills. “And if we refuse?”
“Then I go back to jail,” Indiana said, so matter of fact, I had the impression she really didn’t care.
“What’re you here for?” He eyeballed me.
“To protect you.”
He released a noise that may have been a chuckle.
He glanced at my coffee machine, and his scowl deepened. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes,” I said.
He wriggled his finger in his ear. “Guess you better take my room then. I’ll bunk up here.”
“No, that’s not?—”
“Take him up on the offer, Kingsley.” Indiana rolled her eyes. “We don’t need to hear you bitching all day and all night.
“You don’t know me, Indiana.”
“You’re a cop. That’s all I need to know.” She turned her back on me, and as she walked away, she said, “Dad, take him downstairs and show him around. I’ll get us out of here.”
Grumbling, Old Smithy strolled in the opposite direction.
I pulled one of my three packets of coffee pods from my duffle bag, put it next to my Nespresso machine, and shoved the food I’d brought to last me four days into the fridge, then I grabbed my two bags and chased after Old Smithy.
As I followed him, I counted seven decent-sized scars crisscrossing his back that looked like he’d been whipped.
He climbed down the ladder we’d stopped at earlier, and I followed him into a narrow passage.
“Shower and shitter are that way.” He pointed in the direction behind me. “I piss overboard.”
At the end of the passage was an open door where half a toilet was visible. It looked clean enough. I’d had worse, that was for sure.
“The water pressure is shithouse, and the hot water system sucks. So, unless you’re covered in fish guts, don’t bother.”
