The Hunted Girls by Jenna Kernan (best book club books for discussion txt) 📕

no leads, they returned to the minivan and headed to another marina, which held private boats, as the sun lifted over the horizon, gilding the shiny exterior of the vessels still in their moorings. Inside the cab, Tina asked Clint to have a look at her computer.

“What’s this?”

“Social media feed,” she said.

“I thought the Bureau checked that. Decristofaro doesn’t have any accounts.”

“That’s true, but his older brother, Leonard Jr., does. He and Decristofaro Sr. are in business together.” She tilted the screen toward him giving him a view of two men, arms about each other’s shoulders, dressed in the high-bibbed pants and suspenders worn by commercial fishermen.

“Where are they?” asked Demko.

“Louisiana. They’re shrimpers.”

“You think he’s on a shrimp boat?” he asked.

“I think the son of a shrimper knows about shrimping.”

“Where do they dock?” he asked.

“All over the Gulf of Mexico,” said Tina. “Tampa has a shrimp dock. He could sell their catch but…”

“What?” he asked.

“The closest place for commercial fishermen to fuel up is here in Crystal River.”

“She’s on a shrimp boat,” said Demko. “We need to find out the name of his family’s boat.”

Demko spoke to the owner of the commercial marina a little after seven in the morning. The docks were empty except for the piles of ropes and nets, shipping containers and dollies.

Demko ran up the empty dock, his footsteps pounding on the wood decking. Behind him, a paunchy man stepped from the office, on the concrete pier.

“Son, this is private property,” he said.

“Where are all the shrimp boats?” asked Demko.

“They leave at three in the morning. Dawn and dusk are the best time for catching shrimp.”

Demko raked a hand through his hair and retraced his path.

“I’m Detective Clinton Demko. And you are?”

The man adjusted his belt, tugging his trousers up farther on his extended belly. Dressed in a workman’s shirt and jeans, only the man’s age distinguished him from the two men coiling rope farther down the pier.

“I’m Andy McGrail. This here dock and boat repair belongs to me and my boys.”

“You have any boats here last night from Louisiana?”

“Yes, indeed. What’s this about?”

“Kidnapping.”

McGrail’s hands slid from his hips. “Kidnapping?”

“Yes. A federal officer.”

“You best come into the office.”

They followed him, pausing before a crowded counter littered with papers and logbooks. A huge rubber shrimp acted as a paperweight, despite having lost one of its antenna.

McGrail checked a log. “Thought so.” He glanced up to Demko. “You got some identification?”

Demko provided it.

“Sarasota. You’re a bit out of your territory.”

“I’m on a federal task force. You know about the serial killer in Ocala?”

He nodded. “Been following the story. My missus is obsessed with it.”

“He might be on one of those shrimp boats. Louisiana?” Demko said, repeating his query.

“Yes. We had a shrimper out of there. Docked two nights. That’s unusual, unless something needs fixing. Then add to that, he didn’t motor out of here until after four in the morning.”

“This morning?” asked Demko.

“That’s right.”

“Four hours ago,” said Juliette.

“What’s the name of the boat?” asked Demko.

“Let’s see,” said McGrail.

“It’s Miss Faro,” said Tina, turning her phone to show the Instagram feed of Leonard Decristofaro.

“All these boys are like family. Talk to each other on the radio, know each other for years, though mostly they never actually meet. Heck, we got shrimpers from Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, all over the Gulf Coast. They’ll know where to find Miss Faro.” McGrail lifted his radio. “You want me to call this boat?”

“No!” Demko stayed his hand. “Don’t want him to know someone is looking for them.”

“Okay. No radio,” said McGrail, placing the handset back on the cradle.

“How far out could a boat that size get?”

“Little ones like that?” He motioned to Tina’s social media stream and the image of Miss Faro. “Sixty miles offshore. International waters. Course, they go slow when they’ve got the butterfly nets out, say two knots.”

“And you saw them at four?”

McGrail nodded.

“How many on board?”

“Two men or three men, I think. One real little. Had something wrong with his head.”

“What?”

“Looked… I don’t know. Misshaped, shiny.”

“Mr. McGrath, could that have been a woman wearing something, like a mask?”

He scratched his knuckles over the white whiskers coming in on his cheek.

“Now that you mention it. The walk, the size… maybe.”

“How far could that boat get by now?” asked Juliette.

“Top speed on a boat like that? Sixteen knots. Don’t figure they’d push much faster. Older trawler, you know.”

“In miles?” asked Juliette.

“Twenty an hour,” supplied Tina.

“Correct, in calm seas, like this.” He waved toward the window. “But they’d have their towing booms out and bags in the water.”

“So we’re looking for a shrimper not shrimping,” said Demko. “We need a boat and captain. Something that can catch that shrimper and someone who knows how to operate a boat.”

“I got friends who run fishing charters out of Sarasota,” said Juliette. “I’ll call around.”

“No. I’ll call Sarasota PD,” said Demko, referring to his own department some one hundred miles south. “They’ve got a marine unit. They’ll find us a vessel.”

“With a Zodiac and scuba gear,” said Juliette.

“I don’t know how to scuba,” said Demko.

“I do,” said Juliette.

“Shouldn’t we call the coast guard?” asked Tina.

“Decristofaro sees the coast guard and he’ll kill her and dump her in the Gulf.”

Thirty-One

The chopper swept them from Crystal River to Sarasota where, with the help of the Sarasota Marine unit, they had a charter fishing boat waiting for them. With luck they’d be just ahead of the shrimper. The thirty-five-foot offshore fishing boat had three outboard motors and four hundred gallons of fuel. Better yet, the captain was a narcotics detective who headed the marine patrol and his copilot was an experienced drone operator. Once Demko explained the situation, he was all in.

Demko planned to leave Tina and Juliette. But Juliette reminded him that she was the one with the medical training. Tina agreed to scout from the air in the police helicopter, and to coordinate with their ground support, engaging the FBI after they’d spotted their target.

Tina and her pilot were in the air before they’d left the