Two Down (5 page)

R
osco was leaving his office when the phone rang. He decided to let his answering machine take the call, but when he recognized Belle’s shaky voice, he grabbed the receiver.

“Hi. I’m here. Are you all right?”

“Did you hear the news?”

“Two hours ago. Tom Pepper called me right after the Coast Guard notified him. He was already on board his plane, flying back from his hunting cabin. He asked me to meet him at his home.”

“It’s horrible, Rosco, I . . . I just talked to those women Saturday . . . Genie seemed so . . . She seemed so nice . . .”

“And she probably still is, Belle. Let’s not assume the worst. The boat was badly burned but afloat, and the Coast Guard hasn’t located the
Orion
’s inflatable tender yet. Besides, the women were known to be excellent sailors; they should have been able to handle almost any situation.”

“But what if the tender tore loose in the blaze and they couldn’t escape?”

“Then the Coast Guard would have found two bodies aboard the
Orion
—which they did not, meaning the women and the dinghy have to be somewhere . . . There’s a full search-and-rescue operation under way, Belle. We have to give it a little time.”

Belle remained quiet for a long moment. “Why does Pepper want to see you?”

“He’s very upset . . . which is natural. And he’s a guy who’s accustomed to getting things done quickly—and calling all the shots. Obviously, the Coast Guard has no answers presently. So . . . he’s not a happy man.”

“You mean he’s
hiring
you? To investigate this?”

“Like I said, he’s upset. I’ll just have to talk to him. See what he has in mind. I’ve investigated maritime loss in the past. He knows that.”

“Well, he must be thinking the fire’s a result of foul play.” Rosco could almost hear Belle’s brain whirring with this new piece of information.

“I doubt that. Most likely, he just wants to make sure the Coast Guard is giving the situation one hundred percent . . . Which you can bet they are; they don’t go into these things halfheartedly.”

“You really believe Genie and Jamaica are all right?”

“Absolutely.”

Another unhappy pause. “I’d been thinking some terrible things about Jamaica . . . I wish I hadn’t . . . It makes me feel so guilty . . .” Then Belle’s practical side kicked in; she was a person addicted to finding solutions. Ambiguity and doubt were two sensations she abhorred. “Why didn’t the women radio for help—or even phone? I can’t imagine Jamaica going
anywhere
without a cell phone.”

“I’ll check with Pepper. Maybe he knows.” Rosco
glanced at his watch. “Look, I should be going. I told him I’d be there by five-thirty. Are you all right?”

“. . . Yes.”

“You’re sure? You don’t sound it.”

“I’m okay . . .”

“I’ll stop by after I leave Pepper’s, how’s that?”

“Thanks.”

“I almost forgot . . . How was tea?”

“We’re still having it . . . Sara says hello . . .”

Rosco smiled into the receiver. “Sara?”

“I’ll be home at six,” Belle said in answer. “Get there when you can.”

The drive from Rosco’s office to the Pepper home took about twenty minutes. It was five or six miles south of the Yacht Club on a high bluff. On a clear day the property would have had a commanding view of the coastline and the sea beyond, but a thick bank of burly gray clouds had suddenly swept in from the east, bringing with it a squally rain that stung Rosco’s face as he stepped from his Jeep. He turned up his coat collar, trotted over to a broad entry portico, and rapped three swift times with the polished brass knocker. The door was opened by a short, beefy man in his sixties. He was dressed in the formal black suit of a butler, but his build was more like that of an aging bodyguard.

“You must be Mr. Polycrates.” The accent was vaguely British, although Rosco guessed England wasn’t the man’s country of origin.

“Yes.”

“Come in, please. Mr. Pepper is expecting you.”

From over the butler’s shoulder Rosco heard Pepper call out an irritable: “That’s all, Anson. No . . . Wait! Take the man’s coat. Hang it up.”

After Rosco had shed his soggy coat, Pepper approached. A rocks glass filled with Scotch was in his left hand. He offered his right to Rosco. “I appreciate the hell out of you coming here on such short notice . . . The weather’s certainly turned foul . . . Scotch?”

“I think I’ll pass. Thanks.”

Tom stared down at the glass. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s early . . . Sorry, I just needed to calm myself down. I’m a wreck . . . Why don’t we step into my office. I’ve set up a command post there.”

Rosco followed Pepper down a corridor whose walls were covered with oil paintings and hunting prints, and they entered a spacious corner room lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. A pair of wide bay windows overlooked the bluffs, and the two men stood watching as six-foot swells pounded the rocky coast. The storm was definitely building.

“I can sit in this room and stare at the sea for hours at a time. It fascinates me. I wouldn’t go out on it on a dare, mind you, but it’s something to look at.” As if suddenly aware of the significance of this speech, Pepper sighed heavily.

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 mean it, Rosco.”

“I know.”