Kent Bowen parked his Jimmy and walked up a long slope toward the hotel entrance. The Hyatt Regency occupied a prime site in Fort Lauderdale, on the west side of the Seventeenth Street Causeway Bridge. From its revolving Pier Top cocktail bar you could see for miles around and Bowen had good reason to remember the place with special affection. It was in the Pier Top, last St Valentine's Day, while drinking delicious Margaritas, that he had asked Zola to marry him. On her accepting his proposal they had adjourned to a beach motel on Bayside Drive where they had taken a room for the night to consummate their love. A Scot by descent, and thus, by his own estimation a thrifty, hard-headed man, Bowen had never been the kind to throw money around. But that ranked as one of the most perfect evenings of his life.
He walked in the door of the hotel and made for the elevator, pausing only to buy a copy of Luxury Florida Homes in the gift shop. There was nothing like seeing how the other half lived on Florida's premier real estate to encourage the dreams he had when he bought his weekly lottery ticket. Not that he would ever throw his wealth around if he did win. Bowen liked to think of himself using his as yet unfound wealth with discretion. Enjoyment with anonymity. Dressed from head to toe in Tilley Endurables, he felt as anonymous as the situation now required, mixing unnoticed with the guests who were staying in the hotel.
Bowen rode the elevator up to the floor below the Pier Top, and walked round the hall to the east-facing suite where the stakeout was located. Standing in front of the door, he glanced one way and then the other before knocking carefully. A few seconds passed and then the door opened on the chain.
Kate Furey almost laughed. Most of all it was the hat that got to her.
'Hi, it's me,' he said, as if he had been wearing a Santa Claus outfit.
'Of course it is,' she said and let him in.
Bowen advanced through the door and glanced around the suite before she ushered him into the bedroom.
'Hi there.'
At the window, behind an arsenal of high-powered lenses mounted on tripods, two bored-looking men grunted back. A third, wearing headphones and facing a whole sound stage of eavesdropping equipment, remained silent, unaware that someone had come into the room. Kate left all three unidentified. She knew that Bowen wasn't looking for introductions. More than likely he had driven up from Miami in search of a free lunch.
'Nice room,' he remarked. 'Very nice indeed.'
Kate shrugged as if she herself didn't much care for it and said, 'Actually, this is supposed to be a suite.'
'A suite? Jesus, Kate, how much is that costing?'
'Same as a room. I got a rate.'
'How come?'
'My can't-happen-soon-enough-ex-husband acted for the hotel in a personal injury suit. I seem to remember it was some dim-witted dork who injured himself in the revolving bar upstairs. It's really tacky, but a great view. I guess that's why they go there. The airheads.' Kate laughed with undisguised contempt. 'Give them something to talk about when they think they're being romantic. You want to take a look at it before you go.'
Bowen said stiffly, 'Thanks, I already did.'
Kate giggled. 'I guess they think it's pretty soigne, but I thought it was like being inside a really cheap sports watch.'
'Hardly that cheap, I'd have thought,' bristled Bowen.
'Damn right,' said one of the men on the cameras. 'Last night I paid ten bucks for the worst goddamn Margarita I ever tasted.'
Kate looked at Bowen. 'There's not much you can see up here when it gets dark,' she offered by way of an excuse.
'I guess not.'
Kate said, 'I could show you some pictures, but right now you can see the live action.'
Bowen clapped his hands together purposefully. 'Then let's take a lookee-see what we can I-spy, shall we?'
The big lenses were focused on the opposite side of the Stranahan River and the Portside Yacht Club where some of the biggest and most expensive boats in Fort Lauderdale were moored. The cameraman who reckoned he knew a good Margarita when he tasted one, took Bowen through the cameras like a salesman in a Sharper Image store.
'This one, the 500-mill, gives you a pretty good view of the whole boat and what's happening on the mooring.'
Bowen swept off his Tilley hat and pressed his eye close to the viewfinder. At 110 feet long the Britannia was hardly the biggest vessel in the harbor. Not with Trump about. And she was dwarfed by the 150-foot triple storey moored alongside. But with her large flying bridge and elegant lines she was a graceful-looking boat. Fun too, if the small speedboat, Wet Bikes, Jetskis, and Hobiecat she had on board were anything to go by. Not to mention the naked female occupant of the Jacuzzi on the bridge.
Bowen grinned and said, 'I'll have me some of that. Who's the little lady with the bubbles?'
Kate sighed wearily and said, 'So far as we can tell her name is Gay Gilmore.'
