by Merry Jones
IT WAS DARK WHEN I GOT THERE; MOST EVENING ROWERS HAD already come off the water. Just a few pairs of shoes littered the dock; a couple of people moved around the bays, putting away boats and oars. I looked around, feeling conspicuous, but nobody noticed me climbing the stairs to Tony’s attic apartment. And nobody answered when I knocked on his door. I stood there motionless, listening, half expecting the door to fly open and arms to grab me, but nothing happened. Slowly, silently, I tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge. The door was locked. No surprise. But I wasn’t about to give up. There had to be a way to get in. If not through the door, then how? A window? I leaned out the window outside Tony’s door and saw another window, just a yard away. The window of Tony’s apartment was open wide. Not stopping to consider dangers or legalities, I climbed out onto the ledge, clutched the drainpipe for support, and swung first one, then the other leg over Tony’s windowsill. Before I had time to think about what I was doing, I’d slid under the raised sash and, with a graceless thunk, I was in.
The room stank of sweaty sheets and stale man. And of something sour. Fear? The air hung motionless, festering, and I felt faint, almost unable to breathe. Looking for a light switch, stumbling over scattered clothes, I turned on a lamp, saw upheaval. An unmade bed, towels strewn over crumpled, graying sheets. An empty pizza box. Empty bottles from water and beer. A cluttered desk, a laptop computer, a dresser. A closet. I hurried, searching, not knowing for what. Not knowing where Tony was or when he’d return. Quickly, listening for feet on the steps, afraid to get caught, I opened drawers, sifted through clumps of socks and underwear, finding nothing hidden among them. In the closet, I found empty luggage, a sport coat and slacks. On the desk, scattered bills for his cell phone, his credit cards. Receipts for pizza, for Chinese food. A handful of loose change. Nothing else. Maybe there was something important in the computer. But if there was, I’d never find it. As far as I could tell, Tony was guilty of nothing except being a slob.
And then, breathing the stifling claustrophobia of Tony’s room, it hit me: Of course there was nothing here. I was looking in the wrong place. Turning out the light, peeking into the hallway, I crept out of Tony’s attic apartment and down the stairs. I knocked on the door to the men’s locker room, listened for running showers or male voices. When I was sure no one was inside, I opened the door and went in, heading for the lockers, the argument between Tony and the coach echoing in my mind. “You want it?” the coach repeated. “Pay for it.”
Tony didn’t have what I was looking for. Whatever it was, the person who had it was Coach Everett.
SIXTY-FIVE
THE FIRST THING I NOTICED WAS HOW NICE THE LOCKER ROOM was. Much nicer than the women’s. Not only was it larger, there was also a lavish sauna/steam room. Towels were stacked neatly, ready for use. The showers were individual, with cream-colored tile walls separating each from the others. Women had to shower around a cluster of nozzles spraying from the center of a large single stall. Not only that. Forget urinals. Each toilet had not only its own stall, but its own entire room. The main room was lined with sinks, supplied with shaving cream, disposable razors, aftershave, deodorant—the place was a veritable spa compared to the paltry little space designated to women. Even the lockers were better; the men’s were wooden, their doors carved, each with a bronze plate naming the member assigned to it. It was outrageous. Women paid the same dues as men; we should receive at least similar amenities. But what was I thinking of? Who cared about saunas or wooden doors? I was there to search. Poised to dash into a private toilet if anyone came in, I scanned the names on the lockers. Found Nick’s. And Tony’s. Finally, near the door to the sauna room, I found the one belonging to Preston Everett.
Of course I didn’t have a key. I tried, knowing it would be futile, to pry the door open with my nails. Then I looked around, trying to find something that could help me get into the locker. Think, I told myself. This is a boathouse. It’s full of tools. There would be wrenches and screwdrivers downstairs in the boat bays. I’d run down and look. I started for the door, passing the sinks. And I saw what I needed lying on a countertop among Q-tips and mouthwash. It wasn’t as good as a hairpin might have been, but the nail file worked perfectly, popping the lock on the very first try.
Coach Everett’s locker was jam-packed with gear for all seasons. A dozen pairs of sweats and underwear, twice as many hats. A yellow rain suit. A tool kit. Night-lights. Energy snack bars. Batteries. A few copies of Rowing News, a clipboard with various workout regimens. A megaphone. His shaving kit was in there, as well as a couple of polo shirts and a pair of khakis. What couldn’t be hung was folded or stacked neatly, but every inch of the locker was filled. And nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
So what had he been selling to Tony? And, if it wasn’t in his locker, where could it be? Maybe I was wasting my time. Whatever it was might be anywhere. Stashed at his house. Or in a safe-deposit box somewhere. I closed the locker, disappointed; I’d been so sure, almost certain that I’d find a clue to what Coach Everett had been up to. But if not in his locker, where?
Slowly, quietly, I peeked out the men’s locker-room door, and seeing no one, hurried into the hall and down the steps to the lounge. Think, I told myself. If you were Coach Everett and you wanted to hide something, where would you hide it? What places did the coach have access to? I began listing them, realizing how many potential hiding places Humberton had; Molly had already demonstrated that, hiding all over the boat racks. But the racks were just one possibility. The boathouse was huge, a compilation of dark corners and shadowy nooks. There might be floorboards that lifted, wall panels that came loose. Something could be tucked into a cabinet or alcove, or stuffed inside a sofa cushion or slid beneath the carpet in the lounge. Or taped under a drawer in the kitchen. Or hidden right out in the open, maybe among boat parts piled under the boat-bay stairs—invisible amid seats, shoes, oarlocks, even oars. And then there was the gasoline shed where launch fuel was kept. And inside the launches themselves.
Okay, I was wasting my time. If Coach Everett had wanted to hide something, Humberton Barge offered endless possibilities. I wandered downstairs into the now abandoned boat bays, replaying over and over the lines of his argument with Tony. “You want it? Pay for it.”
What was “it”? And where? In the dim light, I stood among the rows of shells, hearing Tony’s frantic warning: “You want us both to get hammered?” Or was it “skinned alive?” Or both? I wandered to the dock door where they’d stood as they fought, but nothing more came back to me. It was useless. Time to give up and go.
Leaving, I turned once more to scan the empty bays. And halfway up the steps, I stopped, came back downstairs and looked again. Right beside the boat-bay steps, at about eye level, was a rack labeled PRESTON EVERETT. Which meant that the rack was reserved for Coach Everett’s own personal single shell. I stood beside his dusty old Filippi, a remnant of his glory years. Eyeing it, I wondered why he kept it; everyone knew he hadn’t rowed in years, that he’d become way too stocky to start again. And rack space was precious; Nick had complained about the price more than once.
Before I knew it I was standing among boat riggers, reaching up and under, feeling inside and behind and under the shoes for I-didn’t-know-what. I stuck my hand into the hole under the seat where the tracks can be adjusted. Nothing was there, not even a spiderweb. Nothing. Whatever the coach had hidden, it wasn’t there. I’d never find it. Giving up, I started to leave again. In fact, I’d made it all the way up the steps before I realized what was wrong. I remembered our lessons, heard him yelling at Susan. “What have you forgotten, Cummings?”
The hatches. Coach Everett was always reminding us about them. When you took a boat out, you closed the hatches so the hull would be airtight. But when you put it away, you had to leave them open to let air in and keep the interior dry.
But I was sure: Coach Everett’s shell’s hatches had both been closed. Of all people, Coach Everett would have been a stickler for boat maintenance
. I ran back down to his single, opened the forward hatch and reached inside. And felt nothing but air. Okay I’d been wrong. Even so, I tried the stern hatch. The lid was stuck at first, but, grunting and turning, I finally managed to twist it off.
Slowly, standing in the shadows, I reached inside and pulled out a zipped plastic bag filled with papers and a bunch of little booklets that looked like bankbooks, or maybe passports.
SIXTY-SIX
I SCANNED THE PAPERS, FOUND CODED LISTS. NICKNAMES OF
people and places with dates. “Trashcan, Cherry Tree, 1, 18.” “Skipper, Swamp, 13, 20.” “Tamale, Towers, 17, 16.”
When the door to the boat bays opened, I knew it was Tony before I saw him; the evening rowers had gone home. Nobody but Tony would be in the boathouse this late. Shoving the papers back into the bag with the booklets, I spun around, looking for a place to hide, realizing too late that I had no reason to do so. I was a member of Humberton Barge, had a right to be in the boathouse, whatever the hour. I didn’t need to hide; I needed to act relaxed. Normal. But Tony had already sensed my panic and zeroed in on it, like a predator on prey.
“Tony,” I greeted him, trying to look innocent, as if the plastic bag were a purse. Or a bag of pepper spray.
Tony wore a pair of baggy shorts and flip-flops, nothing else. His chest seemed hungry; I could see his ribs and the curly black hair striping his abdomen. He took a step down. Keep going, I told myself. Go up the stairs casually. Pass him. Tell him to have a nice night. But Tony took another step down, eyeing both me and the bag, and I didn’t go up the stairs. I backed away from him, still wearing a stupid, silent smile. We continued that way, Tony descending the stairs, me walking backward, until I’d made it almost to the dock door.
“What are you doing down here?” He glanced at the bag in my hand.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. “I was just …looking for something.” I kept backing up slowly, stalling.
“You find it?” His eyes glowed, overly alert. Feverish?
“Yes.” I smiled lightly, holding on to the bag. “It was right where I dropped it.”
He stepped toward me. “Yeah? What is it?” He eyed the bag.
“This? Oh. Nothing. Just some papers and stuff. Bills, mostly.”
“Really. No shit.” He looked at the plastic bag.
Keep moving, I thought. Get out of here. “I’m always losing things.” I sounded idiotic, but I kept talking, didn’t seem able to stop. “Luckily, most of the time I find what I lose. But while I’m looking for one thing—like my keys, I lose something else—like my credit cards. It never ends.” I giggled stupidly
Tony ignored my chatter. He kept coming, matching my steps with longer ones; unlike me, though, he was moving forward, able to see where he was going. Soon, he’d be within arm’s reach. And I’d be up against the wall. Or the door to the dock.
“Let’s see that.” Tony reached out for the bag, and I dodged, hopping awkwardly across the aisle, bumping noisily into the riggers of a quad.
He watched me recover, apparently in no hurry.
I backed up, clutching the bag, glancing over my shoulder. I was almost at the dock door, near the button that opened the automatic door. Just a few more steps.
“That’s my bag.” Sweat dripped down his forehead, onto his eyebrows. “It belongs to me. Shit, where’d you find it?”
I didn’t answer, didn’t move. He looked around to where I’d been standing when he came in, saw Coach Everett’s boat on the rack. He blinked at it, then rolled his eyes. “Are you shitting me? His Filippi? It was in his stinking boat?” Tony slapped his head, decrying his own stupidity. “Oh, fuck me—it was in his fucking boat!” He rotated, his eyes wide, grasping the idea. His eyes narrowed, menacing.
I didn’t say anything. I just kept moving back, back, step by step. And Tony moved forward. He was mere inches away when I got to the dock door. With nowhere to go, I reached out and slapped the “open” button, and the door began its slow, groaning roll-up. The noise distracted Tony for just an eye blink, but I used it, dashing around the boat racks into another aisle and, clutching the bag, running as fast as I could across the boat-bay floor.
SIXTY-SEVEN
SHEDDING HIS FLIP-FLOPS, TONY TOOK OFF AFTER ME.I COULD hear his bare feet punching the concrete, feel air whirring close behind me. I sped ahead, aware that there really was no escape; the boat bays ended in a wall just yards ahead. My only chance was to zigzag around and over the boats at the end of the aisle. But Tony was too close; he’d catch me before I could get there. So, suddenly, I bent forward and literally took a dive between two stacked boats to my left. Arms outstretched, I flew headfirst over one double and under another and, breaking all the rules of boat care, I shoved the one above me hard so that it lifted off the rack and tottered, slipping off the rack, apparently landing right on Tony.
For once, Tony wasn’t concerned about proper care of Humberton equipment. Instead of catching the boat and reracking it, he let it clatter to the floor and, cursing, climbed through the racks after me. But the falling boat gave me a few seconds; I hurried over another boat rack and darted to the steps. I saw him as I climbed, tearing his way through closely stacked boats, seeming to slather at the mouth, and I flew ahead, scarcely making contact with the stairs as I climbed. At the top, I reached over and flipped off the light switch, sending the boat bays into complete darkness. And, as the door swung shut behind me, I heard a serious thud, then Tony’s distraught curses and a series of nonmusical crescendos from percussion instruments of fiberglass, concrete and metal.
SIXTY-EIGHT
A FEW FALLING BOATS DIDN’TSTOPHIM. I’D CROSSED THE FOYER
and opened the front door but hadn’t quite made it out of the boathouse when Tony burst from the boat bays. He staggered a bit, but he kept after me.
“Hayes—” He was breathless, panting. “You got to give me those. I swear, I’ll—”
I didn’t slow down. I ran. Boathouse Row was quiet after dark; I saw no runners or bike riders, no skaters. Once again I found myself running toward Center City, searching for police, trying to flag down a passing car. It was becoming routine. I had no idea what I was carrying, but whatever it was, I knew it would explain Coach Everett’s murder and Nick’s shooting. I was certain now that the coach had been blackmailing Tony, that Tony had killed him for whatever was in the bag. I ran past boathouses, hoping to see a rower who’d hung around, lingering over a few beers, or a coach who’d stayed late, working on equipment. But nobody was around. I glanced behind me; Tony was lagging, probably injured, but not giving up. Adrenaline flooded my veins, giving me an edge, but I didn’t know how long I could keep it up—my mouth tasted coppery like blood. My wounded head pounded; my entire body was spent.
Don’t stop, I told myself. Go on. You have no choice. Somehow, I kept going. But so did Tony.
I headed to the parking lot behind the Art Museum where I’d found Agent Ellis, hoping that police would be cruising the area.
Ducking through the shrubs, across the grass, between parked cars, I saw a familiar face. Oh, thank God. Harry was there. Harry, the mayor of Boathouse Row. The water-ice man, standing behind his water-ice van. Harry, my salvation. Finished for the day, he’d pulled his van into the lot to pack up, getting ready to go home.
“Harry—” I gasped, breathless. “Harry—”
I looked back; Tony was twenty yards behind me, sprinting. I bolted ahead, shouting.
“Harry—Harry, help—”
Harry looked up, trying to make sense of what was coming at him, a frazzled gasping forty-year-old woman chased by a mostly naked, rabid, barefoot young man.
I barreled into him, grabbed on to him, tried to take cover behind him. Gasping, with no time to explain, I pointed to Tony, who’d suddenly slowed his pace to a jog, then a walk. What was he doing, trying to act nonchalant? If so, it wasn’t working. His eyes were too desperate, his body too taut.
“Harry—” I panted, holding the bag t
o my chest.
“What’s all this?” He looked from me to Tony, Tony to me, frowning. “What’s the trouble?”
“Harry—Tony—I think he killed Coach Everett.” I swallowed air, pointed at Tony. “He shot Nick—”
“What . . . what are you talking about? That’s Tony. From Humberton.”
I nodded, grabbing his arm, panting. “He shot Coach Everett. It was him.”
Harry’s gaze bounced from me to Tony, back again. “Settle down, miss. It’s Zoe Hayes, right? See, I told you I’d remember your name.” He smiled, proud of himself. Not grasping the situation.
“Harry, please. Tony killed the coach.”
“Him? This guy? You got to be kidding. I know this guy.” Harry raised an eyebrow as he regarded Tony. Oh, Lord. Didn’t he believe me? “What the hell, Tony? What’s she talking about?”
Tony stopped just yards away and waited, assessing the situation, uncertain what to do. Harry wasn’t young or big, but he was street-smart. And tough. As he regarded Tony, his expression darkened. Maybe he was beginning to believe me. Harry turned to me, saw the plastic bag I was clutching. “What’s that?”
I held it out. “I’m not sure. It’s papers. I think it’s some kind of code. Coach had it hidden and I think it’s why Tony killed him.”
“Jesus.” Harry scowled at Tony. He took the bag from me. “Coach Everett had this?”
Tony lunged for the bag. “Give me that—”
“Back off, Tony.” Harry pivoted away and took a few papers from the bag. “Let’s see what we have here.”
“Tony. Mercy. ‘Cowboy,’“ he read. “ ‘Rob Roy, seven fourteen. Widower Ebony six twelve.’ What the hell is this, Tony?”
Tony stammered, shifted his weight, ready to take off.
“I’m just guessing,” Harry said. “But it looks like a bunch of code names. And these numbers—what are they? Dates? Are these sales slips? Shipping orders? Looks like some kind of merchandise lists. And—oh my—look what else is here. Passports?” He opened one, another, looking at the photos. “Shit. Yes, sir. That’s what these are. Passports. Of Asian women.”
