La Guardia Airport. To get there, they’d used Holly’s car rather than a taxi because, after checking out of the Dorset, they didn’t want to attract attention by leaving her car in the hotel’s garage for an indefinite period. At the airport’s parking ramp, however, it wasn’t unusual for cars to be left for quite a while.
They’d been forced to rush. They had needed luck with reservations and traffic. Nonetheless, they’d managed to get two tickets on the last flight out of La Guardia for Miami, and although they got to the boarding gate with only seconds to spare, that didn’t matter. The point was, they were on the plane.
During the flight, both were too tense to sleep. They had no appetite. Still, they ate the lasagna the airline served, needing to maintain their strength.
“Your itinerary. Cancun, Merida, and Fort Lauderdale,” Holly said.
“I’ve never admitted to being in any of those places,” Buchanan told her.
“But the rest aren’t in doubt. Washington, New Orleans, San Antonio, Washington again, New York, now Miami and points south. All in two weeks. Hanging around with you could be exhausting. And this is normal for you.”
“Better get used to it.”
“I think I’d like that.”
Back at the Dorset, Buchanan had wondered if the home port for Drummond’s yacht would be the same as the city where Drummond’s corporate headquarters were located. Knowing that all large vessels were required to file a float plan indicating the length and itinerary of an intended voyage, he had phoned the Coast Guard in San Francisco. However, the officer on duty told him that the yacht was based somewhere else-they didn’t have a float plan for it. Buchanan had then phoned the National Association of Insurance Underwriters at its main offices in Long Beach, California. Eight P.M. eastern time had been 5:00 P.M. Pacific time. He made contact just before the office closed.
“My name’s Albert Drake.” He pretended to be agitated. “My brother, Rick, works on. . God, I can’t remember. . The Poseidon. That’s it.” Buchanan knew the name from the research Holly had given him. “Alistair Drummond owns it. A two-hundred-foot yacht. But Rick didn’t leave an itinerary. Our mother’s had a stroke. I have to get in touch with him, but I don’t know how else. . The Coast Guard suggested. .”
Large vessels require such large amounts of insurance that the underwriters for the insurance companies insist on knowing where those vessels are at all times. As soon as Drummond’s yacht reached a new berth, its captain was obligated to report his location to the insurance officials.