Death in Deep Water

by Paul Kemprecos

  “I came across Schiller’s name in the news clips. You’re right, he’s got some strong views about Oceanus.”

  “If any of these guys is your boy, I’d guess it’s Schiller.”

  “I’ll remember that. The Shaughnessy gut instinct kept us from getting killed a couple of times back in the old days.”

  “Gut’s a lot bigger than it used to be, Soc, and it’s telling me something about this case.”

  “What do you mean, Ed?”

  “You remember those times we’d be knocking on doors in some old three-decker in Dorchester never knowing if there was a acid head with a .357 Magnum on the other side. I’ve got the same feeling on this. You knock on any doors, make sure you stand off to the side.”

  “I’ll do better than that, Ed. I won’t knock.”

  We made small talk for a few minutes before hanging up. Then I called Sam to let him know I was home and working on a case. We have an arrangement. I try to sandwich my detecting in between fishing trips, but if I can’t, then I line up a replacement. Sam said not to bother. The marine mechanic said it would take a couple of days to fix the Millie D. And that was only if the parts were in stock. The way things looked, Sam said glumly we might not get back fishing until after Labor Day. I tried to cheer Sam up, but he was enjoying his melancholia, so I said goodbye.

  Talking to Sam got me thinking about Uncle Constantine. He and Sam were a lot alike. True, Sam was a lean and flinty Methodist who wouldn’t touch a drop of liquor if you threatened him with a gun. His idea of an emotional outburst was a muttered Jeepers Crow. Uncle Constantine was a powerful man who could laugh and cry in the same breath. Constantine saw life as a joke perpetrated on mankind by a mischievous Creator. But both men had been shaped by the sea.

  Working the water is the most dangerous of occupations, more hazardous than coal mining. Both of them had been closer to death than most men and realized life is as ephemeral as a castle built in the sand. Their experience gave them a sense of proportion about what is important and what is not. There was something else. They both had eyes of piercing blue.

  I picked up the phone to call my mother in Lowell for an update on Uncle Constantine, but chickened out. Ma would give me hell for not calling her earlier. I sighed. It’s a vicious circle. I don’t call because I might get scolded. Then I get scolded when I call. I put the phone back and looked up the telephone number for Lew Atwood, the former trainer at Oceanus, whose name Shaughnessy gave me. Atwood’s telephone rang ten times with no answer, so I hung up.

  I decided to blow off an interview with Walden Schiller for now. Judging from the comments in the news clips, I figured Schiller was smart and tough, probably not someone who could be conned, buffaloed, or threatened, my usual approaches with a potential suspect. Schiller would require a special strategy I had yet to divine. That left Phil Hanley, the fired public-relations man. It was late afternoon. He lived about twenty minutes from the boathouse. Since he was no longer gainfully employed, he might be home. I decided to drive over to see him.

  The white one-and-a-half-story Cape Cod house was in a neat subdivision. I parked in front, went up the walk, and rang the doorbell. What was I going to ask this guy? Okay, Hanley, fess up, we know you killed Eddy Byron and framed Rocky. Okay, so you didn’t pull the trigger, you got the whale to do it, bribed him with a box of herring, but you’re just as guilty and you’re going to fry if you don’t turn state’s evidence.

  Soft footsteps were approaching. I wiped the ugly cop sneer off my face just as the door opened.

  Chapter 6

  The lady standing in the doorway had short black hair, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and a nice smile that didn’t match her sad eyes. I asked if I could speak to Phil Hanley. The smile melted from her lips.

  “He’s not home right now.”

  I gave her my business card. “I’ll be in this evening if he wants to reach me.”

  She read the card and looked up at me with a worried expression. “A private investigator? Is Phil in some sort of trouble?”

  “No,” I said. “I just need some information having to do with his old job at Oceanus. It’s pretty routine insurance stuff, but he might be able to help.”

  She held the card in two hands and shook her head. “He’s living on his boat on Bass River. He calls me from a pay phone every night for messages. I’ll tell him you came by.”

  I thanked her, and drove back to the boathouse. It was suppertime. I rummaged through the refrigerator and gingerly threw out some gooey black lumps wrapped in cellophane. The two white eggs in the door rack must be ready to hatch, but I wasn’t in an omelet mood anyway. I opened a can of tuna. The can-opener noise attracted Kojak. He bolted out of the bedroom, having forgotten I just fed him.

  Pushing him aside with one foot, I boiled some Kraft cheese and noodles, mixed in the orange cheeselike powder, folded in some Velveeta, added half a Vidalia onion for texture and half a wilted red pepper for color. Then I blended in the tuna and sprinkled the whole splendid creation with grated parmesan cheese and Italian bread crumbs. I took the noodles off the stove too soon and they came out undercooked and gummy. I persuaded myself they were al dente, pried the yellowish blob onto a willow pattern plate, and brought it over to the table to join a cold can of Bud.

  Kojak was lying on the table imitating a furry place mat. I scraped some of the mess from my plate into his kitty dish He jumped off the table, gave my offering a patrician sniff, cast a dirty look in my direction, and went into the bedroom for a snooze. I was at the sink trying to chisel the cheese off the plate and pans when the telephone rang. It was Phil Hanley, and he was angry.

  “What the hell is Oceanus doing sending a private detective to harass me?” he shouted.

  “It’s not like that at all, Mr. Hanley.”

  He wasn’t listening. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I stole a ballpoint pen. I’ll give it back. Just don’t press charges.”

  “You can keep the pen, Mr. Hanley. Any paper clips you took, too. I want to talk to you about Eddy Byron.”

  “Eddy? What the hell for? My area was public relations.”

  “I know. Your PR work must have given you a good overview of the park. There are some insurance claims.”

  “Why should I give that frigging place the time of day? They dumped me without notice.”

  “Look, Mr. Hanley, I’m sorry to hear you were fired, and if you don’t want to talk to me, I can’t make you. But I can give you a chance to set the record straight. My report goes directly to the top brass at Oceanus.”

  “Simon Otis?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Otis. MiGod! That would be sweet.” Silence. Hanley was thinking. “Okay,” he said decisively. “Otis may give me my job back after he hears what I’ve got to say.”

  The operator cut in and asked for more money. Hanley cursed. “Look, Socarides, I’m out of change. Meet me at my boat around ten-thirty tonight. It’s a white sloop named the Mariah in Bass River. Come to the windmill park off River Street and grab a skiff from the beach. Head straight out about fifty feet and a little north. I’ll have the mast, deck, and bow lights on.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up. The dunning voice came on the phone again. New England Bell gets impatient when the coins don’t drop.

  A few minutes past 10:00 P.M. I turned off Route 28 near a motel that had a plaster old salt smoking a plaster pipe in front of a plaster lighthouse and drove past maple, oak, and catalpa trees, low-slung bow-roofed Cape Cod cottages, gambrels and two-story captain’s houses, picket fences and private hedges. The river was on my left, mostly cut off from view by the shorefront house, but accessible from short dead-end streets.

  Windmill Park overlooked a small public beach served by a dirt rectangle with room for a dozen cars. I parked near a sign with a picture of a goose inside of a barred circle. The Canada geese used
to go south for the winter, but since people started feeding them, the big birds have become panhandlers who foul the waters. I took a pair of oars from the back of the pickup and followed a short path toward the river. The old Judah Baker windmill loomed like a four-armed monster from an H.P. Lovecraft tale.

  At the edge of a seawall, I paused and listened to the wet gurgle of the tide, the melancholy squawk of a seabird and the insistent chang-chang of a halyard slapping against an aluminum mast. Fragments of laughter and music, caught momentarily on the damp breeze, came from a big waterfront house.

  Bass River almost slices the Cape in half. It starts in a series of linking salt ponds north of the Mid-Cape Highway and flows six miles to Nantucket Sound. Leif Eriksson and his Viking longboat may have cruised up the river a thousand years ago. With the moon’s veiled light filtering through a curtain of fast-moving clouds, I could almost see the silhouette of a dragon prow, hear the wind snapping in a big square sail and the nervous muttering of tired oarsmen straining against the strong river current.

  A dark puddle marked a low grassy mud flat called Marsh Island. Moored nearby was a sailboat with all its deck and mast lights on.

  Descending a short set of stairs to the beach, I walked over to a half-dozen dinghies upended against a grassy banking like sleeping turtles. Most looked as if they predated the Vikings. No wise sailor keeps a dinghy worth stealing on the beach. I dragged out a battered fiberglass pram that looked as if it might float to the water’s edge, set the oars in the locks and pushed off.

  I rowed into the channel, fighting a double combination of river current and outgoing tide that pushed me toward the mouth of the river. I put my back into each stroke. After a few minutes of strenuous rowing, I drew close enough to read the name on the sailboat’s stern. Mariah.

  The white-hulled fiberglass sloop was about thirty feet long. She had pretty lines, with a tapering stem and a sharp bow to slice through the Nantucket Sound chop. Yet she was wide enough to provide room to stretch. I could think of worse places to go if my wife kicked me out of the house. If I had a wife.

  A skiff was tied up to the sloop, but there was no sign of anybody on deck. Hanley must be below mixing a cocktail. That’s what I would be doing. About a yard from the boat I shipped my oars, grabbed the rail, and with the other hand, took the pram’s bowline and wrapped a figure eight around a deck cleat.

  “Ahoy aboard the Mariah,” I called.

  There was only the soft burble of the current against the hull and the distant chang of that slack halyard.

  I yelled, louder. “Hey, anybody home?”

  The skiff bumped against the dinghy. I stared at it, wondering. The skiff didn’t get there by itself.

  Deciding not to wait for an invitation, I climbed on board and stepped into the roomy cockpit. The wooden cover was in place on the hatch leading below. I pushed it up and slid it off. The unlit cabin was a black hole. I reached around to the right and found a switch. The cabin was bathed in light.

  It was a roomy living space with cushioned seats that could be made into bunks, a kitchenette, table, and sink. There was a Yachting magazine on the table and rinsed but unwashed glasses and plate in the sink. The boat was remarkably neat considering it was being used as a bachelor pad. I thought of the Marie Celeste, the old sailing vessel found adrift, table set for dinner, with nary a soul on board.

  I descended into the cabin and went over to the louvered door leading to the head and forward bunk. It was shut.

  “Hanley?” Maybe he was sleeping.

  I pulled the door open and the light from the cabin fell on a wide bunk tapered into a triangle to fit the bow. Something lay on the bunk covered by a Scotch-plaid blanket. The green wool pattern was flawed by an irregular dark stain. I reached forward and pulled back a corner. A man’s face stared blindly back at me. His blond hair was matted with blood.

  I felt his neck. His skin was still warm, but there was no sign of a pulse, which didn’t surprise me. He had been shot in the head.

  I covered the face, backed into the cabin, and shut the door. There was a marine radio near the companionway. I flicked it to Channel 16 and barked into the microphone.

  “Mariah to harbor patrol. Do you read me?”

  No answer. The harbor cops must have quit hours ago. I called the boatyard.

  “Come in, river marina. This is an emergency.” No one there either.

  Next, I pressed the button on the microphone to call the Coast Guard.

  An outboard motor buzzed in the distance. I cocked my head. The sound grew louder. I didn’t like this. Maybe the guy who wasted Hanley was coming back.

  The bulkhead walls seems to squeeze in on me. I hung up the microphone and grabbed an aerosol horn off a shelf. It would give somebody a deaf ear, but it wouldn’t stop him. I threw the horn back onto the shelf and rummaged in a drawer for a flare gun. No success.

  There was a soft thud against the hull, then another, and the putt-putting of idling motors. Crap, there were two boats.

  My eye fell on a gaff, a telescoping aluminum tube with a hook at one end. I stretched the sections out, locked them with a twist, and shut off the interior lights. The boat tilted from somebody coming aboard. A hand with a flashlight poked into the cabin. I stood to the side and whipped the gaff handle down about a foot behind the light. Someone shrieked with pain and the flashlight fell to the floor.

  I flicked off the deck lights. Then I sprang up the steps, holding the gaff in front of me with both hands. A dark figure blocked my way. I jabbed the gaff into his midsection, felt it hit something soft and solid and heard a surprised grunt. Another light flashed onto my left. I swung the gaff and the light was gone. I scrambled out of the cockpit, climbed over the cabin cover and stumbled toward the bow. Maybe I could jump overboard, dive deep and swim for it.

  Shouts of “hey!” and “stop him!”

  I slipped and banged my knee on the deck. I gritted my teeth against the pain then bunched my leg under me for a vault overboard.

  But something hard bashed me behind the right ear. A nova exploded in my head and I fell into a deep, black pit.

  Chapter 7

  Angry voices mumbling, as if from afar.

  “Jeezus Christ who . . . Call the rescue . . . On their way . . . The hell happened . . . Bastard went for me . . . Damned arm is broken . . . Holy shit . . . Dead guy in here . . .”

  The slurp of waves, the buzz of a motor. Bright lights and confusion. Then nothing.

  A coolness soothed the searing pain in my head. My eyelids fluttered. A white blur filled my vision, became a face with a mouth that opened, formed sentences.

  “Don’t try to move. Just lie there and enjoy the ride.”

  The face subdivided into facets and diamonds, dragonfly vision, then shattered into a hundred pieces. Black velvet curtains closed in. Time passed. Loud quarrelling voices cut through the fog.

  The first voice was high and strident. “Goddammit, he’s ours. My man nailed him.”

  “Yeah, and your other man almost let him get away.” A harsh voice, mocking in tone and measured in delivery. Half whisper, like someone with a touch of laryngitis. I knew it from somewhere, tried to remember, but my head hurt to think.

  “Don’t give me that. No one knew what the hell to expect. For Chrissake, we called you guys as a frigging courtesy. My department’s got jurisdiction.”

  “Try again, pal.” The gritty voice again. “You called us because you thought you might need help.”

  “That’s crap. We got there first.”

  “But we had the first guy on board. He’s still nursing his frigging arm.”

  “Still doesn’t give you shit. My officer was attacked, too.”

  “Pin a Purple Heart on his chest and tell him he can testify in court. Here’s the bottom line. The boat was moored on our side of the river. The mooring was inspected by our harb
ormaster. The permit came from our town. So the bastard’s ours.”

  “ ’Cause you’re seeing all the headlines. You want to go before the town meeting just like I do and scare the shit out of the old blue hairs. Tell the retired people they’re going to have to vote the cops a fat budget because the town was hit by a big crime wave and we’ve got murderers running wild all over the place. Even on the water where they like to go putt-putt in their Boston Whalers.”

  The tension melted. Laughter. They were pals again. Somebody groaned. The laughter stopped. The groaner was me.

  “Sounds like he’s back in the world of the living.”

  “He may wish he was dead when you get through with him,” the whisperer said. “You can keep an eye on him. We’ll be outside. Tell us when he can talk.”

  A third man, younger, said, “He’s not going anywhere in hurry, but I’ll holler if he gives me any trouble.” Footsteps retreated. A door opened, then shut. A pudgy serious-faced man in a dark blue emergency medical technician uniform leaned over me, holding something to my head.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like twenty miles of bad road,” I croaked.

  He peeled back one of my eyelids. “You’ll be all right. Head’s bandaged up and the cold compress will keep the swelling down.”

  I looked around. I was on a gurney.

  “Is this the morgue?”

  “Naw. Cape Cod Hospital ER. We ran you in here for a checkup. You got whacked pretty hard with a nightstick. Broke the skin and you bled some. You’ll have a headache for a while, and you’ll have to keep ice on it to reduce the swelling, but you’ll be okay. No fracture or permanent damage, just a mild concussion.”

  “I thought I heard people yelling. Was I dreaming?”

  The EMT smiled grimly. “Cops from both sides of the river were fighting over you. The boat was pretty close to the town boundary line that runs right up the middle of the river. Cops in my town won. They want you real bad.”