Shipwrecked-Chapter 7

Paul Drake paced the length of Perry's office. He kept walking in a circle from the door to the balcony, then to the private entrance and back. Each time he passed Perry's desk, he glared at the telephone, trying to keep from throwing the offending instrument through the balcony window.

Call, damn it! He kept wondering why someone, anyone, didn't return his calls. Breathe, Drake, breathe. They aren't that overdo. Just a day. But a day can be a lifetime if something has gone wrong. He pictured Perry and Della aboard a sailboat, smiling and laughing and toasting each other and Jack Danvers. It wasn't a convincing picture. Although he knew Jack Danvers was an excellent sailor and Perry was no slouch when it came to handling a sailboat, he also knew the reports of the storm that had blown across the Baja peninsula were worrisome. Maybe they stopped along the way to…

The ringing of the phone jarred him from his thoughts. He grabbed the receiver before the second ring. "Drake!"

"Drake, it's Tragg." Even over the phone Paul could almost see the deep frown the older police lieutenant wore.

"Any word?" While he waited for Tragg to sigh, he perched on the edge of the desk and selected a cigarette from Perry's humidor. He had just put a light to the tip and inhaled when he heard the gruff voice answer.

"No. Took me a solid two hours of fighting red tape before I got through to the head federale. No sign of the boat or passengers. And the Mexican government won't give us any help as far as a search party."

"WHAT?! Why the hell not?" Paul nearly dropped the receiver. He was on his feet, the cigarette tossed into the ashtray.

"Easy Paul. I'm trying to get in touch with our Coast Guard to see what they can do. But you have to understand they can't cross into Mexican waters without permission and it doesn't sound like that's going to happen."

Paul crushed out his cigarette and ran his hand through his thick silver hair. "Tragg, we can't just sit here and do nothing. We—"

Tragg's exasperation sounded through the wire. "Paul, listen to me. We don't know that anything bad has happened. Sure, it's been longer than anticipated for you to hear from them, but they are on vacation. They are adults. Didn't you tell me Mason took Della Street with him?"

"Yeah."

Tragg's growl, although smothered, was loud enough. "I'm doing everything in my power to find out what happened. But I can only do so much. My hands are tied."

"But mine aren't. I follow my own rules and I'm going to find them."

"Drake—Paul—you can't rush headlong into international waters searching for one tiny boat. Hell, you don't even have enough information for a feasible search quadrant. Sometimes not doing something is more important than doing the wrong thing. What if someone in an official capacity tries to reach you, only to find you are just as off the grid as Perry and Della? No, better to leave it…"

But Paul had already slammed the receiver down and was headed out the door.

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In his office, Lt. Tragg was on the phone with the office of the U.S. Coast Guard, 11th District. After running the gamut of junior officers, he had finally reached the Commander.

Captain James Harrington seemed to be genuinely concerned and entirely sympathetic upon hearing that Perry Mason was missing. Concerned and sympathetic, yes, but also definite.

"But you have to understand, Lieutenant, my hands are tied. What I can do is have one of our cutters search the waters from the marina to the border, and I will order an air search. But I must be brutally honest; unless we find some sign, the chances are slim to none we will be able to broaden our search into foreign waters."

"I know the problems you face, Captain. And I appreciate your help. Might I also ask if you have any connections in the Mexican government which could help grease the wheels?" he tempered his voice to mask his frustration.

The captain hesitated, no doubt rubbing a hand over his forehead, before admitting, "I do, but your best bet would be to go through the state department channels. Still, I promise I'll do my best. But it will take time. I ask that you please have some patience."

Tragg growled. "Time, I have in abundance. Patience . . . Well, that's something else again. You know how it is, Captain. Still, do your best. Do you have my direct number if something is found?"

"I do," he confirmed. "Lt. Tragg, don't lose hope. There are all sorts of islands out there. And any seasoned sailor worth his salt checks weather reports."

"That describes Danvers," Tragg grunted, then growled again. "But stupidity afflicts even the brightest minds every once in a while."

The captain smiled at the man's voice, thinking he'd like to meet him someday. "I'm going to get the air and water searches started and you have my word I will keep in touch with any and all developments."

"Thank you, Captain." Tragg dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

He looked around his office. Paperwork, manilla folders, filing cabinets all surrounded him, vying for dominance in his thoughts and attention. Murders, especially in Los Angeles, did not take sailing holidays. They demanded oversight and guidance. But none of these cases featured the totally delightful, beautiful, enchanting Miss Street. Or the sometimes aggravating, but always challenging Perry Mason. And the sooner they were back in L.A., the better for him, the better for crime fighting, and the better for mankind.

He reviewed what the captain had said. Then, with one last growl, he repeated the takeaway: "Patience."

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Paul Drake was standing on the tarmac at the Van Nuys Airport watching as the Bell 47 helicopter came in for a landing. When the rotors finally slowed, the door to the cockpit opened and the tall, lanky pilot stepped out and headed to where Paul stood.

"Well if y'all ain't a sight for sore eyes. Damn boy, when did ya turn gray on me?"

Paul laughed and took the man's outstretched hand. "Ethan, I don't have your easy lifestyle. I have to work for a living. How have you been?"

Ethan Taylor stood at 6-foot 5-inches, towering over Paul's 6-foot-3 frame. His heeled cowboy boots added to the imposing figure he cut, as did the straw cowboy hat. Paul was almost dwarfed by his friend.

"Fair to middlin'. So, Paul, what can this ol' Texas boy do for you?" His jovial manner sobered when he saw Paul's expression.

"Let's get out of the sun and I'll tell you the whole story."

Ethan slung his arm around Paul's shoulders. "As long as there's a cold brew in it for me, you can tell me anything y'all want."