Storm Season by Erica Spindler

lifted. The engine noise reduced to a hum, fading fast. And then it was swallowed up in the reverberation of the storm.
    Their lifeline. Gone.

Chapter 7
    TULLY TRIED TO PAY ATTENTION to the street signs – at least the ones he could make out through the downpour – even though he followed Senator Delanor-Ramos’s directions. They had gone over two long bridges in blinding rain while the water churned below. Traffic had slowed down to twenty miles per hour. Tully tight-fisted the SUV’s steering wheel, fighting against the wind gusts. They were on Scenic Highway now, a long winding two-lane that ran parallel to one of the bays.
    “This associate,” Tully said, “we couldn’t just call him?” He had to raise his voice over the accelerated squeak-and-slash of the windshield wipers. The rain pelted the vehicle’s roof.
    “I tried. It went directly to voice mail.”
    In the streetlights and headlights Tully could see water rushing over the highway. Red taillights winked up ahead and he pumped the brakes slowly to avoid locking them up. It looked like there were broken branches covering one lane of traffic. Huge live oaks grew on the bluffs, the area between the highway and the water. Branches overhung the road in places.
    “Tell me about this business associate,” Tully said. He felt like he was yelling over the pounding of rain.
    “They used to be partners.”
    “Building boats?”
    “Yes. But Ricardo isn’t a builder. Or a designer. I doubt that he could build a doghouse.”
    She was wringing her hands again. Glanced at her wristwatch and checked her cell phone. Just the reminder of Ricardo’s incompetence – or maybe it was only the debris in the road – seemed to make her restless.
    He could tell she was trying to decide how much to tell him.
    “He helped with the financing.” Another pause. “Building boats is expensive – materials, labor. Sometimes clients pay at different stages of completion. Sometimes they pay upon delivery.”
    There was something about the way she talked about her husband’s business, and not just Ricardo, that made Tully realize she didn’t approve.
    “So Ricardo is rich?” he asked.
    The Senator burst out laughing. She had to wipe tears from her eyes and shook her head as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.
    “No,” she finally managed. “Ricardo is not rich. He’s a big talker. He missed his calling. Ricardo should have been a politician.”
    “You don’t sound like you approved of their partnership.”
    “No, I didn’t. They grew up together in the slums of Bogotá. Ricardo’s not even family, but George is constantly looking after him. Bailing him out. Whenever there’s trouble I know where to look, because it usually has something to do with Ricardo.”
    It was their turn to use the single lane, and Tully eased the SUV around the debris. The branch had taken some electrical lines with it. Water was running across the highway, almost to the chassis of the sedan in front of him. He was grateful he’d insisted on an SUV. Still, it was crazy to be out visiting old partners. He wanted to be back at the air station waiting for word on Maggie and her crew. Maybe they had already found the houseboat. How far out could a boat like that go in weather like this?
    “How much farther is it?” he asked her, not bothering to keep his impatience from his voice.
    “Not far. About another mile and then a left on Creighton. It’s just a few blocks up from there.”
    The bungalow sat back from the street. The detached garage was obviously added, almost as large as the house. Up and down the street Tully could see house lights on, families staying inside and taking shelter from the storm. The storm drains couldn’t keep up with the rain that still came down in sheets. Water gushed over the curbs, flooding lawns and driveways.
    Tully pulled the SUV as close to the house as possible, but there was already a Jeep parked in front of the garage. It would