“Yep. After all, we’ve run out of animal crackers.” As Tim reduced his speed for the no-wake zone, they both focused on the marina directly ahead, for different reasons.
“USUALLY WITH A FLOATER, they float.” His thermal diving suit rolled down to the waist, the burly young firefighter from the marine unit showed no sign of being impressed, either by the orange body bag being lifted out of the large idling aluminum-hulled cruiser or by the cedar-strip runabout that swung gently from the cantilevered arm above the stern deck.
“This guy was tethered, and not just by the neck to the motor lock. His feet were tied to the oarlocks. I can’t tell you whether he drowned or was strangled, but when that ten-inch hole got punched in the bottom, that boat just floated down with him in it. As for the waving that freaked out the dad, that was caused by the current coming around the island. His other arm was pinned behind him by the gas hose, or it would have been waving too.” He made a crazy stop-the-train, two-arm wave to mimic what Tim and Aidan Bookner might have seen had both arms been free.
“It pretty much did the same for the diver who went down first. He’s in the cabin forward, sucking up ginger ale and trying not to puke.” He motioned with his head to the bag being laid on a rolling stretcher by the paramedics. “That guy had his eyes open, looking up and waving.”
Vertesi closed his notebook and climbed onboard, steadied by the firefighter’s grip on his arm. He walked aft and stood directly under the cedar hull. Just off the left side of the beam in the centre of the boat was a neat hole with blue sky showing through. It wasn’t a bashed-out “oh shit, we hit a rock” hole but looked as if it had been cut by a very large drill.
“What do you think made that hole?” He turned to the firefighter standing beside him, hands on his neoprene hips, squinting as he looked up at the underside of the boat.
“No fuckin’ idea, pal. But it wasn’t anything out there.” He nodded in the direction of the lake, as if lifting his massive arm would take too much effort. They both looked up at the hole again. “You see, it went right down through the floorboards.” He pointed to the edges of the hole. “The only thing I know that could do that is a circular jig, but I’ve never seen one that big—other than the ones they use for ice fishing, and I’ve never seen one of ’em for real, only on the fishing channel.”
“How can I get up there to take a picture of the edges of the cut?” Vertesi was looking around the deck and saw there was nothing to stand on. “Can you bring it down a few feet?”
“No can do. The marine cops over there can do that, but I can’t. Not even for a cop.” He smiled. Seeing that Vertesi was still looking for a way to get up there and that the method he’d likely choose would be to stand on the rail in his loafers, the firefighter said, “Get your camera ready, pal.”
Within seconds he had grabbed Vertesi below the knees and was lifting him straight up towards the hull. Vertesi struggled to hold his balance; though he could hear laughter and wisecracks from the cops and paramedics onshore, he aimed his tiny camera and took several shots of the cut edges of the hole. He was close enough to see the interior ribs of the boat and to smell something stronger than cut cedar.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Vertesi tapped him on the shoulder and the firefighter let him down gently and stood up.
“Get what you wanted?” He smiled at Vertesi, who tried to relax his body enough to recapture his dignity.
“Yeah, and then some. Weird smells.”
“Oh, for sure. The guy had been in there a day or so. He’d evacuated, he’d begun to rot, and that shit all smells—well, like shit.”
With that the firefighter gave him a hand getting back on shore. Vertesi thanked him and made his way past the marine cops, who eyed him the way territorial animals do. One said as he went by, “Enjoy the ride, Detective?”
Vertesi stopped. “Yeah, actually I did. It’s only ten in the morning and I’ve already been to the circus. Did you get anything from the guy who found him?”
“No, not really. We’ll send you what we have, but basically he was just a dad out fishing with his kid.”
“Was the kid freaked?”
“Anything but. I think he loved it. Apparently his father”—he looked down at his notebook—“Tim Bookner, started swearing like a bastard and cranked up that Limestone so he came howling around the head of the island, and the kid loved it—the swearing and the going fast.”
“But did he see anything else out there?”
“Nothin’. That’s him over there in the white job—Book’s Boat. His wife got here just after we arrived, seriously pissed, like he was the one who put the fucker down there. She grabbed the kid and tore outta here spitting gravel as she went. I’m thinking, Hell, the fun never stops for this kid. Dad was here when they brought in the cedar-strip, but he’s not showing any signs of interest. I suspect he’s had enough for one day.”
“You guys cool if I speak to him?”
“Be my guest, brother. He won’t tell you much. He’s probably scared shitless that he’ll head home, get everything smoothed over—like, ‘Hey, babe, what a day that was’—and the kid sits down to dinner and lights it up with a stream of ‘fuck, fuck, cocksucker.’ Explain that, sailor.”
VERTESI STEPPED DOWN ONTO THE floating dock and tried to walk naturally on the slightly pitching deck.
“Tim Bookner?”
The young father was sitting on the stern bench, trying to unravel a mess of fishing line caught in his reel.
“That your son’s?”
“Actually, no. I got his in okay; this is mine. I was too freaked and …” His voice trailed off and he turned his attention back to the reel.
“Mind if I come aboard?”
“No. Yeah, sure. Sorry, who are you?” Bookner stood up to meet him as he stepped onto the deck.
“Detective Inspector Michael Vertesi. I’m with Homicide in the city.”
“I told the marine unit everything that happened, Officer—”
“Detective.”
“Yes, well, there’s nothing I can tell you that I haven’t already said, and to be honest, I’m really confused myself.”
“No doubt. You go out with your kid—what’s his name?”
“Oh, Aidan. His name’s Aidan. It’s Irish. And you can call me Book—almost everybody does.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do they call you Book?”
“Well, besides its being my name, I’m an accountant.”
“Right.… So you just want to go fishing with your kid, land a big one, and suddenly it’s all gone to hell.” Vertesi moved into the wheelhouse and looked into the cuddy cabin below. “Can you do overnights in this thing?”
“Sure, there’s a head down there and the bed’s fine if you don’t mind the hum of mosquitoes all night.”
“I do. Mind, I mean.”
“Yeah, me too. Worse, my wife. She kept me up all night the one time we tried it. That burn in the decking underneath you was the result—a mosquito coil fell over and burned the fibreglass.”
“Are you heading home now, Book?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know why she blames me for this but she does, and I think I just need to let her chill out. You know what I mean?”
“I’m not married but I think I know.”
“Yeah, well, it’s great, really. But boy, around Aidan this is, like, freakin’ unforgivable or something. Like he’s going to be scarred for life.”
“From what I’ve heard, he had a blast.”
“I’ve been sitting here thinking exactly that. I was freaked, but Aidan—shit, he was laughing and waving his hands around like it was all fireworks and candyfloss.”
The Limestone rocked slightly as a boat passed, coming into the marina. Vertesi held on to the wheelhouse door frame. “If you’re up to it, I’d appreciate it if you could take me out there, to where you saw the guy in the boat.”
“Seriously? Like, right now?”
“We
ll, yeah. You see, this guy may have had something to do with another death, Friday night, up the lake. I want to see just where this site is in relationship to that.”
“Somebody else died on the water?”
“No, this was in a cottage. So what do you say, are you up for it? I’ll understand if you’re not, and maybe I can get the marine unit to take me out.”
“Naw. No, this is perfect. I can tell my wife that I haven’t just been sitting here untangling a fucking fishing line; I’ve been assisting a detective from the city. Do you want to go now?” He dropped the rod into its slot and let the knotted line dangle down beside it.
“Yes, now’s a good time.”
Tim Bookner pulled up his white shorts a bit and moved into the wheelhouse to turn on the engine compartment exhaust fan. He went to the stern and undid the mooring line, then asked Vertesi to unhitch the bowline. Within five minutes they were out of the no-wake zone and headed back to the far end of the lake where Bookner’s morning had begun.
Vertesi held on tight to the roof of the wheelhouse. He was enjoying the wind through his hair and even the noise of the engine and the slight bounce, but every time Bookner corrected his course, the boat’s sideways pitch made him uneasy. He was also aware that his jacket was flapping in the breeze, exposing his holster and service weapon. He wasn’t sure why but he was embarrassed about it, but not embarrassed enough to let go of the frame long enough to button up his jacket.
When Bookner moved the throttle forward to glide into the area where he’d sighted the body, Vertesi hit his forehead on the edge of the wheelhouse roof. The moment the boat had stabilized, he ran his palm over the skin to see if there was blood. There wasn’t.
“When we’re exactly where you were early this morning, can you drop your anchors just as they were, more or less?”
“Sure thing.”
Within a few minutes Bookner had cut the engine. Moving with great agility in the still rocking boat, he dropped the stern anchor and then scampered along to the bow, where he tossed the second anchor some distance away from the hull. He returned to the rear deck to stand next to Vertesi, hands on hips, looking fore and aft. “This is it. Well, pretty much exactly.”
“You got binoculars, Book?”
“Sure do, Detective.” He leaned over the captain’s chair and opened a small teak door to retrieve them.
Focusing on the far shore, Vertesi could see several cottages sandwiched between the dark treeline and the lake, but it was the yellow police tape that caught his eye. Scanning in both directions from the cottage, he could see clearly the distance between them. “They’re very private beach houses. I’m surprised there aren’t more jammed in there, the way they are on other lakes in the area.”
“Yeah, well, that whole beachfront belonged to one guy, William Ingram. He built a meat-packing plant in the late 1800s, and by the time he died he’d locked up most of what you’re looking at. His family, who own that huge summer house in the small bay to the left—well, they’ve parcelled out bits of it over the years, but not much.”
Vertesi followed Bookner’s line of sight with the binoculars until he could pick out a dock shimmering in the reflected light of the lake, an aluminum mast and a low-slung hull partly obscured by the dock.
“What do you figure the distance is from here to that shore?” With the hand holding the binoculars, he pointed in the direction of the police tape.
“Oh, it’s gotta be a half-mile or so, give or take.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured too.”
“What happened there?” Bookner sat on the blue cushion and took up the knotted fishing line.
“I can’t tell you much, but a young woman was murdered in that cottage.”
“Whoa, that’s harsh.” He asked no more questions.
Truth was, Vertesi could have told him pretty much everything, but he wanted to stay focused on what he was doing, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that was. “Do you know anything about that cottage, Book?”
“I think it’s an investment property, but I’ve never seen anyone in or around it, ever.”
“Where’s your cottage from here?”
“We’re way down the other end of the lake, past the second marina. Our place is part of another grandfather clause. It was an asparagus farm my great-granddad had in the 1920s before the crash. He had four vegetable markets in the city, and while he lost three to the market collapse, he managed to keep one—the big one—and the land up here as well.”
“And the asparagus?”
“Naw. He died in the late forties, and the kids—my dad and his three brothers—decided they’d build cottages here instead, so now we go to the store for asparagus like everyone else.”
“Why don’t you moor your boat at the second marina? It’s closer to your place.”
“Yeah, it’s closer, but Gibbs, the owner, is a pain in the butt and a cheat. I’m not the only one who thinks so. I come here to get away from the hassles, not to run into them.”
“How’s the fishing?” Vertesi looked over the side, as if expecting to see a fish swim by.
“It goes up and down. I think this year will be good, but the kids at the Ingram place are hell-bent on destroying it.”
“How’s that?” Vertesi looked through the binoculars at the dock.
“They’ve got at least three, maybe more, jet boats. That mast you’re lookin’ at? That was Old Man Ingram’s pride and joy. I mean, that’s what he called it—Pride and Joy. Since he had a mild stroke a couple of seasons ago, Pride and Joy is just for show.”
“That’s a shame.”
“No shit. They tear around here in the jet boats and a couple of Sea-Doos for the younger kids, and there’s no way a fish can find a minnow for all the racket.” Bookner gave up on the line again and put the whole rig back in its slot.
“I should let you get back home … to face the music.”
“She’ll be fine when she hears I was out on police business. Do you have a card so I can show her it’s for real?”
“No problem.” Vertesi put the binoculars on the blue bench, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thin aluminum cardholder that worked like a Pez dispenser. He slid his thumb across the surface and a card came out. He offered it to Bookner and put the holder away.
“Slick.”
“Yeah, my sister got it for me as a joke but I love it. Used to be my cards would come out all crumpled. One last question: if you were over there”—he pointed to the police-taped cottage—“would you necessarily hear the cedar-strip’s motor if it was in the middle of the lake?”
“Full out, you would. But if he was trollin’, probably not.”
“Why’s that?”
“The wind usually comes across the lake from behind that ridge of trees. We’re in the lee of it here, which is why the fishing’s good, but with the ridge that runs behind that cottage”—he nodded across the lake—“the sound bounces around. It’s tricky and you might not hear it at all.”
“Thanks, Book, you’ve been great. Let’s go home.”
Vertesi sat down in the second chair of the wheelhouse. As Bookner swung the Limestone about, he got a better look at the Ingram dock. He could see two low-riding boats, one green and one red, which he took to be the jet boats feared by the fish. Vertesi stood up and steadied himself, saying, “Tim, do ya mind.… Let’s just swing slowly by the Ingram place and then the murder cottage before we head back. I just wanna get a better sense of the distances.” He stepped outside the wheelhouse and leaned against the door frame.
Bookner nodded, swung the big stainless wheel to the left and powered up so the port side dipped down towards the water. Once he had come within a hundred yards of the dock, he reduced speed and turned in a slow, wide arc to the right. Vertesi staggered back to the blue bench and looked out at the huge summer home. A screened veranda ran along its entire width. At the lake’s edge, a pole bore an unfamiliar flag that flapped lazily in the breeze. He trained the binocula
rs on it and saw a vertical red I-beam with a horizontal band of black railroad tracks running from edge to edge.
The wake from the Limestone hit the dock, and the lines rattled down the length of Pride and Joy’s mast as it rocked awkwardly back and forth. Vertesi turned to see if there was a sightline to the yellow-taped cottage, but a heavily treed spit of land obscured it completely. “Smart piece of planning, Mr. Ingram,” he said.
He turned the glasses back on the summer house just as a young woman in a yellow bikini came out of the screen door carrying what looked like a large plate of burgers in one hand and a barbecue spatula in the other. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun and looked out at the Limestone before waving the spatula. Without hesitation Vertesi waved back, then made his way forward and tapped the window of the wheelhouse. “It’s lunchtime, Book. Let’s get back.”
Bookner drove the red ball down and swung the craft in a graceful arc to head back down the lake towards the marina. Vertesi watched the Ingram estate shrink into the distance. He watched the head of the spit appear and fade, then the cottage with the yellow tape, some of it already broken and flapping freely in the breeze. He watched the foaming wake and listened to the deep hum of the engine and the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of small waves being cut by the bow. Wondering what the fish were thinking, he leaned back and let the wind mess his hair and the sun warm his face. For a moment he closed his eyes and allowed himself to picture the girl in the yellow bikini.
NINE
—
THE YOUNG WOMAN WAS WEARING a housecoat, or maybe it was a bathrobe. It was cream-coloured, or maybe tan. She was cleaning, slowly, a counter or a table, perhaps in a kitchen. She and the place were unfamiliar to him. The light was tinged with yellow—lemon yellow, not sunshine. He didn’t know why he was there. Her hair was long and dark; it was morning hair, not all shiny and styled. As he walked by the doorway she turned to him, and she was naked under the housecoat. He saw the outline of her hip, the soft skin of her belly, the black tuft and puffy lips below. She made no move to cover herself or turn away. Neither of them spoke. He stepped slowly through the doorway, and somewhere a phone rang. As he reached out to touch her, the phone rang again. He put his hand inside the housecoat and let it slide along her hip to the top of her thigh. The phone rang again. He let his palm glide over the thigh and up to her navel, where he gently circled its hollow and bump with his thumb.
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