The sound of angry voices rose from below, Jung’s and Spada’s. I couldn’t make out much, but I had a good idea what was going on. The knob on the door turned freely in my hand. Still, I drew my hand away and stepped back. It was narrow below deck, confined, too easy to get cornered with no way out, certainly not a place for a confrontation. I needed Spada to come out here instead, preferably without Jung.

I eyed the pilot’s chair. I didn’t know how to drive a yacht, but how hard could it be? There was nothing out here to run into, except fish. I zipped up the ladder and ran for the controls. I would drive the boat back to the slips and deliver Spada into the arms of the police. When the engine fired, Spada would, of course, try to stop me, but I’d deal with that when it happened.

The big silver steering wheel looked easy enough. The gauges and dials meant nothing to me, but how much did I need to understand in order to make a big loop in the water and head back? To the right of the wheel was a slot where a key would go, just like a car. Got it. But there was no key. I checked the chair. No key. No key on the massive dashboard. I hauled off and whacked the wheel, cursing it, and then scanned the water. No police boats. No helicopter. Seriously? What were they waiting for? An invitation?

The door below me burst open and I flinched, ducked, and ran for the shadows, sliding across the overhang, my body flat against the wet fiberglass. Jung appeared, and Spada right behind him, one hand gripping him by the back of his T-shirt, prodding him along roughly, the other holding an empty Scotch bottle. I rose up on hands and knees, readying myself to move. Spada stopped for a moment, reared back, and tossed the bottle into the lake, then pulled a gun from his waistband and jabbed it into Jung’s back. I recognized the gun. I’d seen it in Spada’s desk drawer.

Dammit. The gun raised the stakes. I eased down again; pouncing was no longer an option.

“March,” Spada ordered. “Hurry up.”

Jung tried pulling himself free. “Let go of me, you lousy murderer. I know you killed him . . . I know it. You . . . I . . .”

What did Jung think he was doing? He needed to comply, buy time. He needed to shut the hell up. And what was wrong with him, anyway?

“I said march.”