Two Down (6 page)

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 . . .”

T
he 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 jabbed 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.”

Colberg started to walk off, but Rosco stopped him. “What about communication gear? What kind of stuff did she have?”

“Hey, Mrs. Pepper pays top dollar, she gets a top-dollar boat. The
Orion
was loaded. You name it, she had it. Radar, depth finder, weather fax, SSB, VHF, and shortwave.”

“What about one of those emergency beacons?”

“An EPRIB? Every boat in this yard has an EPRIB. Check ’em out if you want. But people have to activate them or they don’t do much good.”

“Aren’t they activated as soon as they hit water?”

“Yeah . . . But they gotta be turned on. There’s a switch.”

“Would she have known to do that? Turn it on?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her? Hey, Polycrates, all EPRIBs are on when a boat leaves my marina. The question you gotta ask those babes is, why did they turn it
off
—not on.”

Rosco could feel his jaw tighten. “What about the dinghy?” He corrected himself in an attempt to sound more professional: “The inflatable tender?”

“Yep, that was insured, too . . . A 290 VS . . . nice little unit . . . eight-horsepower outboard, too . . . Damn! I don’t think I insured the motor separately.”

Rosco found himself fighting a strong temptation to belt Colberg. The man seemed to have little regard for the fact that two women had been aboard the
Orion
—two women who were now missing. “All right,” Rosco said after taking a long breath, “what I want to know is, could the dingy have carried Mrs. Pepper and her friend to landfall?”

“Where’s that concern A.M.I.? They doin’ life insurance now?”

Rosco shook his head. “It doesn’t concern A.M.I. It’s
my
question. Call me softhearted. I just wondered if they might still be alive . . . If you think about it, a witness could make your claim go a lot quicker . . . On the other hand, a witness might also blow your claim right out of the water . . .”

“Give it up, Polycrates,” Colberg snapped. “If they haven’t found those babes by now, they ain’t gonna . . . Sorry, but that’s the law of the sea . . . If it makes you feel any better, though, the inflatable’s motor was gassed up. I’d say they could have got two hours from it . . . It depends how far out they were . . . The clowns who towed in the
Orion
were so boozed when they hooked up the boat they didn’t take a bearing. That’s why the Coast Guard’s having such a tough time—”

“Doesn’t procedure call for a rescue craft to remain with a wreck? Radio the Coast Guard, and wait for their arrival?”

Colberg let out a short, mean laugh. “Go look at the
Dixie-Jack,
buddy. Then tell me what those three turkeys knew about ‘procedure.’ ”

Rosco glanced across to the next dock and the fishing boat rocking in the waves. “You don’t mind if I inspect it, then?”

“Suit yourself. I haven’t touched her. I got a gal who cleans these charters for me, but she didn’t come in yesterday. Her kid’s sick or something. Good thing it rained last night. Kept the fish blood from drying up on her.” Colberg pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, struck a match, and lit it. His hands shook almost uncontrollably, and his eyes darted around the marina as if unwilling to rest on a single object. He tossed the match into the water, then turned and loped toward his office with his too-tall, bent-kneed, awkward gait.

Rosco watched him leave, then walked to the
Dixie-Jack
.

Ed Colberg had been correct. The aft deck was a disaster, awash in a dark pinkish liquid that sloshed back and forth with sickening speed. Fifteen or twenty empty Budweiser cans floated in the bloody muck, tapping against the bases of two aluminum sport-fishing chairs anchored to the deck. Scattered among the cans were empty potato-chip packages, plastic sandwich bags, cigarette wrappers, and stubbed-out butts. Four seagulls perched on the gunwales fighting over hotdog shards and unidentifiable tuna entrails. The smell of rotting fish was undeniable.

Forward, the captain’s seat and helm were protected from the elements by a large overhanging blue canvas Bimini top. Although the decking there was also deep in garbage, the chair and nautical gauges had been shielded from the rain, and had remained dry.

Not caring to ruin his shoes, Rosco stood on the gunwales, supporting himself by holding the Bimini top. He studied the array of gauges. The tachometer, fuel indicator, oil-pressure gauge, and throttle handle were caked with a brownish substance he identified as dried blood. Upon closer examination, he noticed there was a slight differentiation in the shades of brown. The dried blood on the gauges was a hint lighter than the blood on the throttle.

He swung himself forward to sit in the captain’s chair, then removed two small Ziploc plastic bags from his coat, took samples of the blood types, marking one bag
throttle
and the other
gauges
. After that, he leaned down and attempted to open the Plexiglas hatch leading to the cabin. It had been locked. Rosco shielded the sun’s reflection with his hand and peered in.

Although the interior of the boat was dry, it was also littered with the beer cans, food wrappers, and cigarettes. A
dirty towel lay near the entrance to the head. It had clearly been used to clean blood. Rosco jumped off of the
Dixie-Jack
and headed toward Colberg’s office.

“There’s an awful lot of blood on that boat,” he said as he entered.

Colberg jerked his head up from his newspaper. He’d been working the
Crier
’s daily crossword puzzle, and he tossed his pencil onto the desk. “The guys were out for tuna . . . Don’t make it into a federal case . . . Happens all the time . . . Fishermen don’t want to bring back heads, bones, and guts, so they fillet their catch at sea . . . They only have room in their coolers for meat.”

“What did these guys haul?”

“A couple of two-hundred-and fifty-pounders . . . that’s what they said . . .”

“Fogram and company . . . You remember those names yet, Ed?”

Colberg only shrugged. The hand holding the newspaper shivered wildly.

“Come on, Ed, you let someone take a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of your property all the way to the trench, and you don’t get their names?”

Ed sat stony-faced.

“Okay,” Rosco continued, “it’s your insurance claim . . . not mine.” He turned to leave.

“Hold on, Polycrates.” Colberg turned in his chair, removed two cards from a file drawer, and placed them on his desk. “Stingo and Quick . . . Home addresses are all I got.”

“Thanks,
buddy
.” Rosco copied the information into his notepad. “Any idea where they work?”

“Nah.”

Rosco smiled thinly, but didn’t speak.

“I’m dead serious . . . I’ve never seen these two guys
before in my life. And I’ll be a happy man if I never see them again.”