by Gerry Boyle
Based on her story, Crawford Rawlings was charged with murder, attempted murder, reckless conduct with a firearm. The indictment was secret but Interpol was notified on the chance that one day, he’d leave Moldova.
Brandon Blake, among others, would be waiting.
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Page Ahead for an Excerpt From:
PORT CITY RAT TRAP
Port City Rat Trap
A Brandon Blake Mystery, Book 2
Almost seven on Sunday morning, January 4. A long night, the latest robbery in a long string called in at 3:45.
The Pop-In store on outer Congress Street. Same description, tall thin man with a calm, almost soothing voice. Same silver gun. Brandon on scene at 4:01, the second unit. Circle the block, see no one. Check parked cars, all cold as ice. Units converge so fast that the area has to be choked off.
Nobody and nothing moving. The patrol sergeant pissed off, everyone frustrated. K-9 on track around the corner and down the side street, losing the guy in the middle of the snow-covered sidewalk. Detectives to follow up with security camera footage, which always made it look like the photos were taken from Mars, not from six feet over the perp’s head.
It was dark, cold, the sun just a pale gray glow to the east, as Brandon made his way down the icy float, the water black, the plastic-shrouded boats still. He climbed aboard Bay Witch, ice crackling against the hull. Opened the door in the plastic canopy and slipped inside his icy cocoon, then into the cabin and down.
His gun went into the starboard cupboard. His radio went on the table by his berth. He sat and took off his boots, hung his uniform trousers and shirt in the tiny closet. Put on jeans and was buttoning his flannel shirt—when he heard a woman scream.
He tugged on a pair of running shoes, heard her again, this time the scream turning into a shout, the woman saying, “Oh, my god. Oh, my god.”
It was on the float, only two other live-aboards this winter. Evie from Canada, her partner overboard? Then Sadie, the partner shouting, too, saying, “No, don’t lean over. Wait. They’re coming.”
Brandon grabbed his gun and radio, leaned back for a flashlight. He plunged through the plastic door, stumbled and turned, then scrambled toward the floating T. At the intersection of the floating dock, he went left. Saw the two women on the float near the bow of their sailboat, both peering into the water.
He slowed to a trot on the ice and snow, said, “Guys, what’s the matter?”
They didn’t turn to him, just stared down at the water, Evie leaning on the dock line. Sadie standing with her hands on her knees.
Brandon moved close, said, “Back away.”
They did, eyes still transfixed. Brandon moved between them and the edge of the dock and flicked the light on, played the beam on the oil-black water. At first he saw nothing. And then the pale gray shape came into focus.
A woman, head down, her parka buoyed above her, her hair floating on the surface.
He put the radio to his mouth, reported a subject in the water, So-Po Marina. Not moving.
“Boat hook,” he said, and Sadie ran to get one off the boat.
“Did you hear someone go in?” he said.
Evie shook her head.
“No. I just got up and was checking the lines.”
Sadie was back with the pole and Brandon hooked it onto the back of the woman’s parka and eased her closer to the edge of the dock. He leaned down and grabbed the neck of the jacket, then the woman’s wrist. It was cold and slippery, like thawing chicken.
He lifted and the woman raised from the water, the smell of fish and salt and diesel wafting from her. He dragged her onto the float and she lay there, face down, water streaming from her jacket, her jeans, her high-heeled shoes. He turned her over and she stared up at him, eyes wide open like she was about to speak. Sea water was running from her open mouth. Her hair was dark and stuck to her forehead. Her face was oval shaped, her nose bobbed in a way that made her look surprised.
He started pumping her chest, counting to ten. Then another set. Then he took a deep breath and leaned down, sealed her mouth and blew. Nothing.
He blew again. Nothing. Told himself he’d do ten of those, too.
He was on eight when he heard an approaching siren, leaned back and started CPR again. The South Portland cruiser was skidding into the marina lot when he fell back.
Looked at her, frozen in time, staring like she’d died in middle of a thought. And then he noticed something entangled in her hair. It was gold, a wire headband. He pulled her hair aside and stared.
Sadie said, “Oh, no.” Evie said, “Oh, good lord.”
The headband was a sort of tiara. In twisted cursive, the wire said, “Bride.”
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Also by Gerry Boyle
Port City Crossfire
Port City Rat Trap
About the Author
Gerry Boyle is the author of more than a dozen acclaimed crime novels. His work, including the Jack McMorrow mystery series, has been translated into six languages.
A former newspaper reporter and columnist, Boyle lives in a small town in Maine. He is at work on the next Brandon Blake novel. Many of his novels are inspired by his own crime reporting.
gerryboyle.com
