by Nero Blanc
Rosco turned to face him. “I’m like you . . . I don’t do well on the water.”
“It just drives me crazy thinking that my Genie could be floating around lost somewhere . . . I mean, look at this stuff . . . How long do you think it would take before—”
“I have a lot of confidence in the Coast Guard, Mr. Pepper,” Rosco interrupted gently. “I’ve seen them handle similar situations in the past. If your wife is out there, they’ll find her.”
Pepper’s response was close to explosive. “I don’t want to hear about the damn Coast Guard! I tried to maintain an open line to those SOBs and some ‘chief petty officer’ cut me off. Told me he’d call when he got something. That’s why I phoned you. I don’t know where to turn at this point.”
“These rescue situations can be a communications nightmare for the Guard. They need every phone line they have.”
“What the hell good does that do me?”
“Well, sir—”
“Cut the ‘sir’ bunk, Rosco. I want my wife back. And I want the man who rented her that damn boat drawn and quartered . . .” He finished his drink and glanced down at the shrunken ice cubes. “You know, she had a premonition . . . And I . . . I laughed at it . . . Laughed at her! . . . My little Genie . . . !” His voice cracked with emotion while he struggled to pull himself together. “She’s an excellent sailor, you know . . . She and Jamaica both are . . .” Pepper poured himself another hefty Scotch and dropped his tall frame into a dark green leather club chair. His eyes were bloodshot, and his jaw so tightly clenched his face muscles popped dramatically from under his skin.
“What should I do, Rosco?”
“Do you mind if I sit?” Rosco asked.
“Do whatever you want. Get a drink if you’d like it . . .”
Rosco sat on a couch covered in the same dark leather as the chair. The hide creaked, giving off the luxuriant aroma of an expensive car’s interior or of matched luggage in an upscale shop. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to push the Coast Guard, Mr. Pepper,” Rosco said as he pulled a small pad of paper and a pen from his breast pocket. “But why don’t you fill me in on this trip your wife planned. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You’re a member of the Yacht Club . . . I take it you own a boat?”
“Genie does.”
“Why did she charter one, then?”
Pepper sighed deeply. “Hers is a racing sloop. It’s stripped for speed. The barest galley, boards for berths . . . It’s not for pleasure cruising . . . Not Jamaica’s style.”
“Who did your wife charter it from?”
“Mystic Isle Yachts.” Pepper sat up straight in his chair, his eyes fiery and hot. “That’s where I want you to start. I want blood from Mystic’s owner. I want him to rot! He set my wife up in a death trap, and I want him to pay big time.”
“What exactly happened, do you know?”
“How could I . . . ? All I know is that some fishermen found the Orion somewhere in Buzzards Bay. They towed what was left of the boat back to Mystic Isle Yachts . . . Then someone phoned the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard called me. Apparently the Orion’s inflatable tender hasn’t been found.”
“I know this is tough, Mr. Pepper, but I wouldn’t give up hope. Until they find that tender, there’s a very strong, very strong possibility that the women are still alive.”
Pepper stood and pointed at the bay window. “Look at those swells, Rosco. The water temperature’s already down to fifty degrees. Could you hang on in a four-foot rubber boat? Huh? Could you? Look at the size of those damn waves! Look at them!”
The telephone rang, and Pepper jumped like a jack-rabbit.
“Yes . . . Pepper here,” he bellowed into the mouthpiece.
Rosco watched as Tom listened for thirty seconds. He didn’t say a word, and finally slammed the receiver down into its cradle.
“That was the damn Coast Guard. They’ve suspended the air portion of their search because of the weather. They’ll pick it up again when this thing blows out. Visibility’s down to nothing.”
Pepper drained what remained of his Scotch while Rosco pondered the news and allowed the frightened husband a moment of silence. Rosco avoided glancing at the bay windows and growing surf.
“What about a cell phone?” he finally asked. “Does your wife carry one? Did she have it with her?”
Sitting behind his desk, Tom angled the chair to face the wall of bookcases. He lowered his head, brought his hands to his face, and rubbed hard at his eye sockets. Rosco wasn’t certain if he’d been heard or not, but as he opened his mouth to repeat he questions, Pepper spoke in a strangely subdued tone. “Her cell phone . . . that’s right . . . she should have had it with her. Yes . . . Yes . . . !”
“I can check transmissions for you.” Rosco walked to the desk. He felt such empathy for Pepper, it was hard to remain detached and professional. “I’m afraid this is a waiting game, Mr. Pepper. But I’m an optimist. I only met your wife and Jamaica the other night, but I have a strong feeling they’ll come out of this alive. They’re survivors.” He cleared his throat slightly. “There is another problem that’s bound to come up . . . If it hasn’t already . . .”
“What’s that?”
“The press. Have they called?”
“Not yet.”
“They will . . . Jamaica Nevisson’s an international celebrity. They’ll be camped out in front of your house by tomorrow morning. Do you have any staff? Someone to handle your phone? Someone who can keep them at least out of your drive?”
Pepper gritted his teeth. “Dammit! I didn’t consider those miserable bloodsuckers . . . Jamaica . . . Dammit! Those creeps will stop at nothing!” Both men were obviously conjuring up Jamaica’s unfortunate coverage in The Hollywood Globe. “I’ll bring my secretary here for a few days.”
“What about out front?” Rosco continued. “I know a guy. He’s big; he can handle just about anything . . . And be professional about it. I work with him all the time.”
Tom considered the suggestion for what seemed an excruciatingly long time. Eventually he answered with an even: “No. I’ll get an acquaintance of mine to do the job. He knows his way around the house . . . And he’s persuasive—if you get my drift.” Pepper whipped open the desk’s center drawer, removed a checkbook, and scribbled furiously in it. “I assume three thousand dollars will cover things for now?”
“I usually don’t expect to get paid if I don’t produce, Mr. Pepper . . . Why don’t we wait and see what’s out there?”
“Just get me something on Mystic Isle Yachts. Get my wife back. I don’t give a damn what you do with that check . . . You don’t want to cash it, don’t.”
The temperature had lowered markedly by the time Rosco left, and the air had a raw, cruel feel. As soon as the Jeep’s engine warmed up, he turned on the heater, then set the wipers at their highest speed while he navigated the long, deserted drive. Water descended in torrential sheets, making visibility difficult. Then, true to form, the windshield’s interior steamed up, forcing Rosco to rub at it with the cuff of his coat. He drove with a single circle of clear glass, like a ship’s porthole.
Another person might have been put off by Tom Pepper’s abrasive behavior, but Rosco had recognized that the man’s reaction was due to raw emotion. He desperately wanted to take control of a situation over which he had no power, and was exercising the only option he could find—go after the individual who had chartered the boat to his wife. The disaster had to be somebody’s fault.
Rosco picked up his car phone, punched in star-1, and waited for Belle to answer.
“It’s me,” he said. “Can I come over?”
“Of course . . . What did Pepper want?”
“I’ll fill you in. See you in twenty minutes or so . . . Maybe a little longer . . . The weather’s filthy.”
Concern tinged Belle’s voice. “Drive carefully.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“I know.”
Rain descended diagonally onto Belle’s front porch, streaking the lower halves of the windows and pounding the white-painted clapboard siding. By the time Rosco rang the bell, daylight had vanished totally, leaving the stormy evening black and desolate. He scraped his feet on the sodden mat, but a squelch of water merely resaturated his soles.
“Hi,” Belle said, opening the door and then immediately slamming it shut when Rosco hurried in. Her worried smile and anxious demeanor exuded domestic peace. For a moment he felt as if he were returning home rather than paying a visit. The sensation engendered a complex reaction that was partly happiness and partly concern that he and Belle might be moving too fast. To mask his thoughts Rosco studied the floor; his shoes had made puddles on the bare wood.
“Don’t you think a carpet might be a nice touch, Belle?” he said in an attempted jest. He couldn’t bring himself to verbalize his feelings, while immediately embarking on a discussion of his interview with Pepper seemed absurdly businesslike.
Sharing Rosco’s mixture of emotions, Belle followed his bantering vein. “I don’t know . . . I think I’m getting fond of the bare-bones look . . . It reminds me of my footloose college days. Besides, the house used to look so . . . well, you know, decorated . . . I’m glad Garet took all the stuff.” Then she grew pensive. “What did Pepper say?”
Rosco sighed. He didn’t answer for a moment, then finally said, “It’s a tough situation, Belle . . . The man’s frantic with worry.”
“I would be, too.”
Both were silent while around them the little house creaked and groaned under the violent attack of the wind-driven rain. The fact that the entry and living room had been nearly denuded of furniture following Belle’s divorce made each sound echo dolefully. Her eyes drifted across her new thrift-shop decor: an overstuffed chair covered in green cretonne printed with cabbage roses, a standing lamp, and a good-sized hinged wooden box she’d snagged from a local junk hauler transporting it to the dump. Faded block letters claimed the box to have once belonged to CRUZ BROS. DAIRIES, SANTA ROSARIO, CALIF; how it had arrived in Newcastle, Mass., remained a mystery that Belle found intriguing. At the moment, however, none of these objects brought pleasure or solace.
“Has Pepper heard anything?” she asked at length.
Again, Rosco sidestepped the question with a noncommittal: “Is there anything to eat?”
“Besides my famous deviled eggs, you mean?” Belle matched his mood, and forced a bemused smile.
“That’s what I was hoping.”
Belle thought for a second. Deviled eggs were her one and only culinary specialty—as well as being a food she treated with both reverence and relish. Her other staple was licorice—which fortunately needed no cooking. “There might be a can of soup . . . cream of something . . . broccoli, maybe?”
This time Rosco smiled genuinely; he found Belle’s quirky view of nutrition endearing. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“It might have cheese in it . . . or something exotic like that.”
“Most people don’t consider cheese in the ‘exotic’ category, Belle.”
“Anything you don’t have to cook yourself is extra special,” she countered, before turning serious again. “So, tell me about your conversation with Pepper.”
Rosco didn’t respond for a long minute. “The Coast Guard has suspended the air portion of their search until the weather improves.”
Belle shut her eyes, then opened them wide and stared at the rain-drenched windows. “I was afraid they might.” Then she looked at Rosco; her gray eyes swam with concern. “Could anyone survive in an open boat in a squall like this?”
Rosco didn’t answer. After a moment, he pulled her into his arms. “Look at you and me, Belle . . . Anything’s possible . . .”
6
The storm had moved off about three A.M., and the morning revealed crystal-clear weather, warmed to a comfortable sixty degrees. Shafts of reflected sunlight ricocheted wildly through the black-tarred harbor pilings as Rosco angled his Jeep into Mystic Isle Yachts’ gravel parking lot and studied the picturesque scene. The marina water was cobalt blue, and the seas still running high and fresh in the storm’s wake. Whitecaps sent feathery plumes of salt spray spiraling into the air or jouncing against the sun-spattered pilings and wood-decked walkway. The tang of ocean, wet teak, and hot tar pervaded the air. A perfect day for anyone who loved the sea.
Rosco eyed the waves with nervous distaste, then stepped out of the car and chugged toward the docks. He hadn’t set foot in the marina or seen the owner, Ed Colberg, in over two years. The occasion had not been a happy one; Rosco had been investigating a suspected insurance fraud.
Colberg had been a professional surfer, “until the knees went.” Rail thin, mid-fifties, six-foot-five or a little more, his height was disguised by the slouch of a man trying to hide himself from the world. He moved with a jerky, spasmodic energy, and kept his long, sandy hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail because he believed time was money; barbershops, “stylists,” even combs were a waste of his precious minutes. In Colberg’s book, everything, and everyone, had a price. His failure to achieve megabuck status was due to poor timing, ill luck, the weather, fate—anything other than his own bad judgment.
On two previous instances Rosco had been hired to investigate Mystic Isle Yachts. Shore Line Mutual, the largest maritime insurance carrier in Newcastle, had paid for his services. In each case, Colberg had reported boats stolen from his marina. Valued at eighty thousand dollars apiece, the yachts were never recovered. There’d been no doubt in Rosco’s mind that Colberg had scuttled them, but the detective hadn’t been able to assemble conclusive evidence to support the theory. Shore Line had been forced to pay Colberg’s claim.
Because he was downwind, Rosco smelled the Orion before he saw her. The combination of burned fiberglass, plastic, nylon rope, and melted Styrofoam had combined to create a grim, distinctive stench. It forced Rosco to snap his head in the direction of the boat that was moored at the end of a short dock. He walked down the pier and stopped. A boat burned to the waterline is a troubling sight.
The Orion’s hull appeared scooped out as if gutted by some huge and ravening beast. Fragments of molten metal shone through the sodden ashes; everything else had been charred brown black while the aluminum mast had collapsed onto the stern and baked within the intense heat. A few seat cushions made from “fireproof” material had retained their shape, giving them the look of gigantic charcoal briquettes.
“You didn’t see the sign over there, Polycrates? This is a private dock. Owners only.” Ed Colberg’s voice was a snarl as he stepped up behind Rosco.
Rosco didn’t bother to turn. “This is a mess, Eddie. What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you she wasn’t insured by Shore Line, thanks to you, buddy-boy. They dropped me like a hot potato after your report on those ‘stolen’ boats.” Ed put a meaningful spin on the word “stolen.”
“Yeah . . . well, speaking of hot potatoes . . .” Rosco glanced at Colberg, and cocked his head back toward the Orion. “What gives on this one?”
“You working for those ambulance chasers at A.M.I. now, or what? What happened to Mr. High-and-Mighty? Shore Line dump you? Can’t blame ’em much.”
Rosco had never worked for American Marine Insurance, but if it would get Colberg to talk, he saw no point in relinquishing the truth. “You know me, Ed, I’m not picky when it comes to employers. Get ’em where you can, that’s my motto.”
“What you see is what you get with this one, buddy.” Colberg spat into the Orion’s charred remains.
“Any idea what caused it?”
“Couldn’t tell ya. The Coast Guard’s sending investigators. So it’s ‘lookie but no touchie’ . . . got it?”
“Right. Who pulled her in?”
“Sport fishermen on their way back from a tuna run. They chartered that Hatteras over there for three days.” Colberg ja
bbed a grease-streaked thumb toward a forty-three-foot fishing trawler berthed at a neighboring dock. The name Dixie-Jack streaked across the stern in red-and-gold letters. “The bums brought it back a mess . . . Beer cans and tuna blood all over the place . . . Not to mention them towing this piece of bad news home for me.” Once again, Colberg spat into the Orion.
“These fishermen have names?”
“They might . . .”
Rosco chuckled. “Look, Eddie, you know how these insurance companies are; if they think you’re hiding something, they’ll put on the full-court press. You don’t have to like me—or what I do—but I suggest you play ball. If those women turn up dead, things are going to get nasty.”
Colberg seemed to ponder this. Then he shrugged and said, “The guy who chartered it’s named Vic Fogram. I don’t know the other two.”
“Does he have a number—this Fogram?”
“He owns a bar called the Red Admiral. Down on Water Street near the old docks . . . It’s a place for regulars. No tourists. Know what I mean?”
Rosco eyed the Orion from stem to stern. “What else can you tell me that might interest an insurance company?”
“Look, Polycrates, this boat was clean . . . damn near brand-new . . . no oily rags lyin’ around . . . no loose wires . . . no nothin’ that wouldn’t pass the white glove test . . . The engine had less than twenty hours on it. I’ve chartered to Mrs. Pepper before—not this vessel, but others . . . She’s a better sailor than ninety percent of those bozos at the Yacht Club. Why do you think she comes back here? She knows what she’s getting, that’s why . . . So, what happened? I don’t know.” Colberg pointed at the base of the mast, his hand trembling noticeably. “See the way that mast is buckled? The propane tank from the galley stove did that when it blew. But it was a good unit. I checked it myself. All connections were solid.”
“It could have blown after the fire started.”
“Yeah . . . I suppose.” He studied the Orion a little longer, then said, “Look, I got work to do. Don’t touch anything.”
