by Allen Eskens
“It's amazing what kind of hired help you can find these days,” Billie said. “Well, back in ’01, the two leaders of those banshees leased a yacht called the Domuscuta and took it for a spin out into the Lower Bay. Around one in the morning, the Coast Guard gets a Mayday call; there's been an accident. A couple guys are in the water, missing—a passenger named Richard Ashton and the first mate, Jericho Pope. Coast Guard went out and searched for hours—found nothing.”
“Besides Pope and Ashton, who was on board?”
The captain and two passengers: a Mr. Wayne Garland—that was Ashton's business partner, and this guy named John Prather. It says he worked for Patrio as a security consultant.”
“A security consultant for a defense contractor, huh?”
“One of the banshees?” Billie raised an eyebrow. “According to the reports, they think Ashton decided to go to shore, so he woke Pope up to drive the dinghy. The captain said he woke up when he heard the dinghy start.”
“Did the captain see the explosion?”
“No, but Wayne Garland claimed to have seen it. He told the investigator that he and Prather were watching the dinghy make its way toward Coney Island, and it just exploded.”
“Did they see Ashton and Pope on the dinghy?”
“According to this report, they did. The captain said he came up on deck just in time to see the last pieces of the burning debris disappear underwater. They did a search of the area, but didn't find anything except a few pieces of rubber and an oil slick.”
“How far out to sea were they?”
“Four miles.”
“Four miles?” Alexander rubbed his chin. “Jesus. How did Pope make it back to land?”
“That's what I want to know,” Billie said. “He wasn't on that boat when it pulled into port.”
“So…he swam to shore?”
“People swim the English Channel, and that's at least twenty-one miles across. It's possible.”
“Man, that's a long ways.”
“And why swim to shore and not back to the yacht?” Billie asked.
“More importantly, after completing this amazing feat of swimming to shore, why go into hiding? Why disappear like that?”
“Because he wanted to get as far away from whatever happened on that yacht,” Billie said. “That would be my guess.”
“Which leads us to the next obvious question.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and cracked the knuckle on both of his middle fingers. “What happened on that yacht?”
“Something bad enough to make a man swim four miles and go into hiding.”
Alexander nodded his agreement.
“I think the best way to find out what happened is to go back and talk to the people who were there,” she said. “Maybe track down the captain. Now that we know Jericho Pope didn't die—at least not back then—we might be able to rattle a better story out of him.”
“Can I come along?” Alexander asked.
“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Billie said.
Captain Ham Rodgers answered the door in a bathrobe and slippers, his copy of the TV Guide in one hand and a remote control in the other. Apparently not one for missing a meal, the belt of his robe held in a waddling gut, where he stored much of his three-hundred-plus pounds of girth. When they told him why they were there, he shrugged and invited them in.
“I thought that stuff was all done,” Rodgers said.
Billie replied, “We're doing a follow-up on some inconsistencies. You don't mind, do you?”
“‘Follow-up’? Don't you mean archeology?” he said. He stuck his pinky in his ear and dug at something until his finger was knuckle deep. Then he pulled it out, inspected it, and wiped the offending muck on his robe. “That was a lifetime ago.” He shooed a couple dachshunds off of the couch to give the detectives a place to sit.
“We're trying to take care of some questions that never got answered back then,” Alexander said. Maybe you could tell us what you remember? It's important.”
“Why's it important now? It's been so long, I don't even think about it anymore, not like before. It used to keep me up at night. Jericho was a good kid. Worked with me to pay his way through college at Pace.”
“Let's start from the beginning,” Billie said.
“Sure,” Rodgers acquiesced. “Why not. That trip was strange from the very beginning.”
“Strange? In what way?” Billie asked.
“On most of our excursions, we'd spend the day idling around Manhattan with a bunch of snobby rich people. You know, folks who want to impress their friends, so they rent a yacht for their birthday party or anniversary. This one was different. We only had three passengers. There was Mr. Ashton—he's the guy who died with Jericho—and another guy, Ashton's business partner. I can't remember his name.”
“Wayne Garland?” Billie interjected.
“Yeah, that's it. And then there was Mr. Prather. I remember him.”
“Why do you remember Prather?” Alexander asked.
“Prather was off-the-charts creepy. He had these cold, dark eyes and a scar on one of his cheeks that ran from his ear to his chin. Physically speaking, he looked young, maybe early twenties, but he carried himself like he was older than his years. Sometimes I got the feeling that he was the muscle behind the operation. He walked around on that yacht like he owned it. And by the way, I don't think his real name was Prather.”
“Why do you say that?” Alexander asked.
“I heard Garland call him something else, something like Dragon…or…give me a second…Drago. That's what he called him. Called him that two or three times when he thought I wasn't around.”
“Could Drago have been a nickname?” Billie asked.
“I don't think so. I called him Mr. Prather once and he acted like he didn't hear me, kind of like he didn't recognize his own name.”
“What was the purpose of the trip?” Alexander asked.
“That's what was strange about it. It seemed like that Garland fellow was trying to convince Ashton that they should buy the Domuscuta, or a yacht like it. He kept saying stuff like ‘We could have a yacht like this someday if we play our cards right.’ I got the feeling he was buttering Ashton up for something—you know, the way a kid tells his parents about all the wonderful things he did just before he hands over the bad report card. The trip seemed like a sales job.”
“What about Prather?” Billie asked. “Was he part of the sales job?”
“Prather stayed off by himself most of the time. He wasn't a man of many words.”
“For how long did they lease the yacht?” Billie asked.
“A weekend. We left port on Friday and were due back on Sunday. The accident happened late Saturday night.”
“Did anything unusual happen that Saturday?” Alexander asked. “I mean, other than the accident, of course.”
“Lots of stuff goes on out at sea,” Rodgers said, his yellow teeth forming one of those smarmy smiles that begs to be slapped. “You'll need to be more specific because I could tell you stories.”
“Captain,” Billie said, her face showing a seriousness that wilted the smile from Rodgers's face. “You know what he's talking about.”
“Alright,” Rodgers said. “No need to get pissy, missy.” The captain turned his attention to Alexander and continued. “On the second day of the trip, on Saturday, Prather asks if Jericho could take him to Coney Island in the dinghy. Says he needed to get something from shore. I'm fine with that. Jericho's handled the dinghy a thousand times. Like I said, he was a good kid. They take off about noon or so, and when they came back, they had…I guess they call themselves ‘escorts’ these days.”
“Hookers?” Alexander asked. “He went to shore to pick up hookers. How many?”
“Two of them, one looked to be midtwenties, red hair and tall and I mean hot. The other looked to be younger, dark hair, a bit…I don't think ‘shy’ is the right word, but I could tell that the redhead was the more experienced of the two, and the brunette
was more like a tagalong.”
“And what did these girls do?” Billie asked.
“You know.” Rodgers shrugged. “They did what girls like that do. They spent the day hanging out in skimpy clothes, eating, drinking, dancing, sitting on Garland's and Ashton's laps, getting them all worked up, stroking their egos. That kind of stuff.”
“Did they ever consummate the arrangement?” Alexander asked.
“Did they what?” Rodgers asked.
Billie chimed in, “He wants to know if the geezers fucked the prostitutes.”
Alexander had to bite his cheeks to keep from grinning.
“Well, yeah, I'm sure they did. About eleven o’clock that night, Mr. Prather told Jericho and me to go to our quarters.”
“Prather sent you to bed—on your own boat?”
“I told you he was a scary guy. He had a way of asking for things that made you feel like he wasn't asking, if you know what I mean. I figured whatever was going on up top was none of my business. They were consenting adults, right? As I passed the salon, I saw Ashton with the redhead. He looked pretty hammered or happy or both. The redhead was giving him a lap dance. The other girl was with Garland. She was trying to imitate the redhead, but it seemed that Garland was more interested in watching the redhead and Ashton. To each their own, I figured.”
“This is the night that Ashton died?”
“Ashton and Jericho,” Captain Rodgers corrected. “I'm getting to that. Around midnight, Prather came below to get Jericho to take the ladies back to shore in the dinghy. He told Jericho to drop them off at a pier on Coney Island. Ashton and Garland were sitting in the salon, chatting, enjoying the afterglow. I watched Jericho until the lights of the dinghy disappeared, then I went to bed.”
“None of this was in the original report,” Alexander said.
“There's a kind of unwritten rule that we don't talk about the dalliances of the guests. It didn't seem important, because it had nothing to do with Jericho's death or that other guy.”
“Shouldn't we be the ones making that call?” Billie said. “You tell us that this trip is strange, yet when your passenger dies, you think you can choose what facts we should know?”
“I lost a good friend that night,” Rodgers said, his cheeks starting to turn red. “Jericho Pope was my responsibility. He worked for me, but he was also my friend. Don't forget that. If I thought those shenanigans played a part, I would have been the first one to say so.”
Billie looked at Alexander, who gave a slight nod back. Then Billie said, “Jericho Pope didn't die that night.”
Captain Rodgers stopped moving, his jaw seeming to rust up like an old hinge as his eyes searched Billie's eyes for an explanation.
“That's why we're here,” Alexander said. “Jericho survived the explosion on the dinghy that night. He's been living in Minnesota, at least until about a month ago, when he got killed in a car accident.”
“You sure?” Rodgers asked.
“There's no question,” Alexander said.
“Well.” The captain leaned back in his Barcalounger, a broad smile creasing his face, giving way to a chuckle. “Good for him. Way to go, Jericho, you son of a bitch.”
“You don't seem surprised,” Billie said.
“Oh, I'm surprised, but at the same time I'm not. You see, Jericho was a hell of a swimmer. He used to compete in those Ironman Triathlons. He could swim two and a half miles and still run a marathon. I just figured the explosion got him. Don't matter what kind of swimmer you are if you have a hole in your chest.”
“Let's talk about that explosion,” Billie said. “You went to bed and…”
“Jericho survived…what do you know?”
“Captain…the explosion?” Billie prodded.
“Sure. Let's see…I heard the dinghy come back. I was half asleep. I sleep with one of those CPAP machines, so I don't hear everything, but I heard the dinghy come back, and I heard that Prather fellow tell Jericho to leave it tied to the side of the boat and go below. Normally we secure it on deck with an on-board crane. But, we had calm seas in the forecast, so I didn't see the need to get out of bed to tell Prather to shut his piehole. And I went back to sleep.”
“Why did Ashton and Pope take the dinghy out after that?” Alexander asked.
“No one knows. Like I said, I fell back asleep. I guess it must have been about half an hour later when I woke up; I heard the dinghy taking off to beat hell. I put on my uniform and was about to head topside when I heard the explosion and saw a flash of light coming in through the porthole in my quarters. But I didn't actually see the dinghy blow up. I ran out to the swim deck just in time to see the last couple flames die into the sea. When I looked topside, I saw Mr. Garland and Mr. Prather watching the flames as well.”
“How did they seem to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean did they seem upset, happy, what?”
The captain thought for a moment, his eyes drifting down to stare at the worn toes of his slippers, his fingers weaving together at the edge of his lips. “They were standing a deck above me, looking around and whispering to each other. You don't think…did they have something to do with the dinghy blowing up?”
“We're looking into everything,” Billie said. “Was there anything else you remember that seemed odd?”
“The rest is in the report. Except…there was this wire or a cable or something in the wheelhouse that shouldn't have been there.”
“A wire?” Alexander asked.
“Yes. I saw it when I went to pull the Domuscuta around to search for Jericho and Mr. Ashton. Someone had stretched a thick wire from the wheelhouse, out the window, and into a window of the salon.”
“Why?” Billie asked.
“You got me. I didn't put it there. I didn't get a good look at it, either. I was panicking. I was trying to get a rescue operation going. It takes a while to power up and turn an eighty-two-foot yacht. I pulled up to the debris field, and all I found were scraps of the dinghy. No bodies. I spent an hour shining spotlights and waiting for the Coast Guard. When I went back to the wheelhouse, the wire was gone.”
“You didn't mention that to the investigators, either,” Billie said.
“I never lost a soul at sea, in all my years. That night I lost two…or so I thought at the time. I wasn't thinking about wires.”
“Did you ever shine your spotlight toward shore?” Billie asked.
“Toward shore?”
“To see if Jericho might be swimming that way.”
“It never occurred to me to look for Jericho swimming for shore. Probably wouldn't have seen him in that darkness, anyway.”
Alexander said, “So the big question we have is, why would he swim for shore and not just go back to the boat?”
Captain Rodgers pondered that question with a serious grimace before shaking his head. “Guys, I have no earthly idea.”
As they headed back to the precinct, Billie and Alexander discussed the muddle of facts they had in their heads, none of which made much sense. Billie suggested stopping off in Hell's Kitchen for a cold one. “I sometimes think better with a longneck in my hand,” she said.
“You'll get no argument from me,” Alexander said.
He expected Hell's Kitchen to be the gritty, tough neighborhood he knew from the movies and was a bit surprised to find a vibrant and upscale village with walkups and stores and offices. Billie led them to a pub on West Forty-Sixth Street, quiet, no televisions, no band, just food and a large selection of beer. “What's good here?” Alexander asked.
Billie flagged down a waitress and said, “We'll have a couple Brooklyn Lagers…and some wings.” Looking at Alexander, she confirmed, “You like wings don't you?”
“Love ’em,” Alexander said. The waitress gave them both a nod and left.
“I don't think I've ever met an Alexander before,” Billie said. “I've known a few Alexes and a lot of Als, but no Alexander. You ever go by a nickname?”
Alexander ro
lled his eyes and chuckled, “No.”
“Oh, now you're lying to me,” she said. “So what was it?”
He contemplated the odds of this information ever making its way back to Minnesota. In the end, he told Billie his nickname for no reason beyond the fact that he liked talking to her. “When I was a kid,” he said, “my older brother, Max, started calling me Festus.”
“Festus.” She said the name slowly, letting it breathe. “I like it. Festus. You should use it. I mean, Festus is the kind of guy I could have a cold beer with.”
“And not Alexander?” he said.
“Alexander is a nice name and all, but it sounds a bit…I don't know…stiff.”
“And you don't like stiff ?”
Billie grinned. “I'm a woman of many moods, Festus. Sometimes stiff just isn't my thing.” Then she leaned forward and the corners of her grin took a wicked upturn. “But then again,” she said, “sometimes stiff is exactly what I'm looking for.”
Alexander snickered at the innuendo. “So a guy just needs to catch you in the right mood?”
She shook her head. “Slow down there. You may be my type—I mean you're cute as hell and have both a pulse and a job, but I'm a detective, remember? I spotted that ring on your finger a long time ago.”
“I'm not thinking about me,” Alexander said. “I was thinking about my brother, Max, back home.”
“The guy who named you Festus?”
“That's the one. He's like a better version of me, if you can believe that. Kind of an Alexander 2.0.”
“A better version, huh?” she said. “And it's what, a thousand miles from here to Minneapolis?”
“Give or take. But if you're ever in the neighborhood, you should look him up. He likes women with that I-don't-give-a-shit attitude.”
“So what's his problem that he can't find a woman? He have a third eye in the middle of his forehead?”
“He used to have a woman…a wife. She died three years ago—a hit-and-run. They never caught the driver. All we know is that it was a 2008 Toyota Corolla because they left part of a headlight behind. And the worst part is…my brother's a homicide detective.”
