Two Down (7 page)

Before leaving the marina, Rosco made one last visit to the
Orion
. He stared at the burned-out hulk as if waiting for the silent shell to speak. Then his glance traveled to the
Dixie-Jack
and slowly returned to the
Orion
. He found himself wondering not only how a fire of that magnitude had started, but how it had been extinguished—and by whom.

R
osco glanced at his pad of paper, double-checking the address. Fifty-five Duxbury Court was the last in a straggling line of permanently affixed mobile homes in the seedy enclave of Warren, at Newcastle’s westernmost edge. He flipped the pad shut, looked at his watch, automatically noting that one in the afternoon was probably an optimal hour for exploring Duxbury Court. Later on, the weary residents would be coping with hungry kids and hard-worked tempers; earlier, those without steady employment would be staring blearily at another dismal day.

He knocked on the trailer’s screen door. The latch had been broken, and the door rattled in its frame, making more noise than he’d anticipated. After a few seconds the main door was cautiously opened by a wiry woman in her forties with wheat-colored hair and deep-set eyes. Although her features seemed harsh initially, she was solid New England and not unattractive—the type of person
given to few, but genuine smiles. Instinctively, she drew back into her home’s dark interior. She seemed uneasy at finding a stranger on her front steps.

“Yes?” The accent was blue-collar Boston, the tone defensive and hostile.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Rosco tried for a reassuring smile. “I’m looking for Moe Quick. Do I have the right address?”

“Who wants him?”

Rosco pulled his identification from his jacket as he spoke. “My name’s Rosco Polycrates, ma’am. I’m a private investigator looking into the fire on that sailboat Sunday night . . . the one with those women aboard . . . I just wanted to ask Mr. Quick a few questions. Apparently, he towed the boat in . . . Are you his wife?”

“I don’t know anything about no women.”

“Yes, ma’am . . . Are you his wife?”

“I—I shouldn’t be answering questions like this.”

“No, ma’am, you’re right. It’s good policy to be careful with strangers. If I could talk to Mr. Quick . . .”

“He’s not here.”

“I see. When do you expect him home?”

“Don’t know.”

“You are his wife? Am I correct?”

“Yep.” The word came out like a short, barked
Yip
.

“Well, Mrs. Quick—”

“Doris. Call me Doris, I don’t like Missus. It makes me feel old.” She smiled suddenly, and the expression shed years from her face and stern demeanor. Rosco could almost see her as a twenty-year-old facing a hope-filled future.

“All right, Doris. Maybe you could tell me where your husband’s place of work is—”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why is that, ma’am?” Rosco could feel his reasonable manner deserting him.

“He works all over. That’s why I never know when he’ll be home. He doesn’t like to check in . . .” Something troublesome momentarily weighted the words, but Doris dispensed with the emotion with a determined shake of her head.

Rosco’s voice turned gentler. “He works all over?”

“Yep. [
Yip.
] Him and Bob . . . They’re truckers. Long distance.”

“Bob? Would that be Bob
Stingo
? The man your husband went fishing with this past weekend?”

“Yep. And Vic. Vic Fogram . . . Owns the Red Admiral down near the docks . . . He went, too . . . Got some nice tuna.”

“I see. So, Mr. Stingo and your husband are off on a run, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yep. They’re partners in the rig. Left this morning. St. Pete.”

“Florida? They’re on a run to St. Petersburg?”

Doris took a small step backward. “Look, mister, I don’t think I should be talking anymore. I don’t know nothin’ about that boat business. Moe Quick’s who you want to talk to, not me. I don’t answer for him; he don’t answer for me. We’re one of them ‘modern couples’ you hear about.” She laughed briefly as if this term were a wry private joke, then started to close the door.

Rosco stopped her. “Fine . . . that’s fine, Doris, but how can I contact your husband?”

“You can’t.” Again, the door edged shut.

Rosco gritted his teeth and tried again. “When do you expect him . . . Doris?”

“No telling . . . four, five days . . . ‘I expect him when I see him’—that’s what they say.” Doris smiled at this
second witticism, and again, her stony image was transformed. The metamorphosis was so rapid and so eerie that Rosco found himself wondering if there were more to this woman than the underprivileged, undereducated person she presented.

He retrieved a business card from his wallet. “See that your husband gets this, Mrs. Quick.”

“
When
I see him . . . And
if
I remember,” she announced regally. “And the name is
Doris
 . . . as in Doris Day.” Then she slammed the door without another word.

Arriving at his office, Rosco called the Coast Guard. Their full search-and-rescue operation had resumed, but, as yet, they could supply no updated report on the missing women. Lieutenant Evans, the “on-scene commander” in charge of the operation, was as abrupt with Rosco as his CPO had been with Tom Pepper; clearly, his level of frustration was also rising. “We’ll contact Pepper the moment we spot anything,” he said, and Rosco got the message.
Don’t call us; we’ll call you
.

He hung up with a polite, “Thank you, sir,” then checked his contact at the phone company, who informed him that Genie’s cell phone had not been activated since the day of the dinner dance. Finally, Rosco punched in Tom Pepper’s number, and brought him up to speed, summing up his report with an earnest:

“I know it’s not much, Mr. Pepper, but until they locate that dinghy, you can’t give up hope. Survivors have lasted weeks in open boats . . . As far as instigating a lawsuit against Mystic Isle Yachts, there may be possibilities of negligence, but it’s too early to tell . . . We’ll have to wait for forensics to issue a report on the cause of the fire . . .”

The monologue was received in total silence. At its
conclusion, Rosco wondered if the line had gone dead, and said so. A strangled “I’m still here,” was Pepper’s pained reply, after which Rosco heard a heavy breath that meant the man was finally marshaling his forces. It was the sound of a person accustomed to fighting numerous battles.

Pepper began asking pointed, intelligent questions, and repeating the responses as if writing rapid notes on a legal pad. He requested the name and manufacturer of the inflatable tender, the type of outboard motor with which it was equipped, the fire-extinguishing system aboard the
Orion,
and the maker of the vessel’s propane stove. Some of these facts Rosco supplied; others he promised to deliver.

Pepper ended the conversation with a falsely robust: “Keep up the good work, Rosco . . . Oh, and by the way, you were right about the press. It looks like World War Three is being assembled in my drive . . . steadi-cams, satellite trucks, the works; they sure do love a disaster . . . There are a lot of sick people out there in TV land.”

“Let me know if you need additional help,” Rosco said as the line went dead. Then he sat pondering the situation for several moody minutes. The deeper he delved into the case, the more complex it seemed to become. He couldn’t help feeling as if he’d been handed a bucketful of eels.
Stingo
, he doodled on a pad,
Quick, Fogram, Colberg, Dixie-Jack, blood . . . St. Pete
.

Then he grabbed the phone again, called star-1, and gave Belle an abbreviated version of the day’s events. His recitation was finally broken by a gentle:

“You’re doing everything you can, Rosco . . . If Genie and Jamaica are still alive, the Coast Guard will find them . . . We have to
believe
that . . .” Then she assumed a brighter mood. “What are you doing now?”

Rosco recognized the question as an invitation to come to her home. It was one of the many things he liked about her: the ability to say one thing and mean something else.

“I can’t, Belle, I’ve still got work to do.”

“Can’t what?”

“Come over.”

“Who asked you to?”

He smiled into the phone. “Never mind.”

“Besides, why can’t you come over? We could have an early dinner.”

“I have to check out the Red Admiral, and this Vic Fogram character.”

“I could meet you there—”

“I don’t think so, Belle. The place doesn’t really cater to women.”

“It’s a gay bar?”

Rosco laughed. “No . . . It’s on Water Street, across from the fishing docks . . . Obviously, women do patronize it . . . just not your type of female, that’s all.”

Rosco heard a sigh; it meant Belle’s brain was racing to come up with a retort.

“Look . . . it’s a tough, shot-and-a-beer-chaser fisherman’s bar . . . a place for regulars . . . Women don’t go there unless they can beat guys at arm wrestling and harpoon slinging.”

Again, Belle sighed. “Take care of yourself,” she finally said.

The closet in Rosco’s office contained a smattering of disguises: a navy-blue suit (poorly fitting enough to resemble an unsuccessful accountant or an undertaker’s assistant), a green windbreaker that looked vaguely DEA, torn jeans, scuffed work boots, a hooded black sweatshirt faded to a mottled gray, and a variety of baseball caps. For the Red
Admiral, Rosco opted for a “commercial-fisherman look”: jeans, sweatshirt, boots; the hat he chose was orange and black, and sported the Baltimore Orioles logo. It made him look like a definite out-of-towner. Dressed in this outfit, he studied himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved all day, and an appropriate amount of stubble appeared on his chin. He passed his left hand across his face, nodded approval, then checked the time.

“Four-thirty . . . Must be nearing happy hour down at the docks.”

On the way to the Red Admiral, he made one detour to drop off the blood samples for analysis at TX Bio-Lab. “Thursday’s the best we can do,” he was told. “Wednesday night, maybe, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

Although Rosco had never entered the Red Admiral, he’d driven past it, and had had the opportunity to observe the arrivals and exits of its clientele. Almost all appeared to be commercial fishermen: men accustomed to spending a month chasing cod on the outer banks, running through their earnings in a weekend, and then shipping back out, broke and hungover. Their brief hours on land were dedicated to consuming the tavern’s inventory of alcohol. Lacking any permanent home, some men even used the Admiral as a mailing address; for them, it was all they knew of stability. There were, of course, fishermen in Newcastle with families, houses with mortgages, kids in school, and wives holding regular jobs. However, these men did not frequent the bars on Water Street.

From the sidewalk, it was impossible to see into the Admiral. The door was solid if battered; the two small, grimy windows bracketing it were curtained with dense beige cloth. Displayed in the left window was a neon Miller Lite sign; the right held a blinking Budweiser sign.
When Rosco stepped through the door, all conversation ceased; the eight customers—all of whom were men—swiveled their eyes, although not their heads and bar stools, in his direction.

Rosco opted to sit on the right side of the horseshoe-shaped bar. He noticed that no one sat with their back to the door, and followed suit, leaving two empty stools between himself and the next customer. Then he spun around slowly on the stool, appearing to study a collection of neon domestic beer signs littering the walls while he waited for the bartender to amble over—an event that took a good five minutes.

The man was balding, in his late forties or early fifties with a hefty build, bulging gut, and arms that were preternaturally long, giving him a decidedly apelike appearance. He hadn’t shaved for several days; suspicion was etched in his scruffy face. “Are you from down Baltimore way, or just looking to get your neck broke? This is Red Sox country, pal.”

Rosco removed his hat and pretended to ponder the black-and-orange oriole. “I work out of Maryland a lot. Don’t pay much attention to baseball. It’s functional.” He placed the hat back on his head.

“What kind of work.”

“Chesapeake stuff. Stripers and blues, mostly. Crabs when those slack off.”

“What brings you to Newcastle?”

“On my way to Maine.”

“Yeah? What’s in Maine?”

Rosco shook his head slightly. “Death in the family . . . Not that it’s any of your damn business.”

They exchanged an icy stare that lasted until the man to Rosco’s right tossed a five-dollar bill toward the bartender.

“Hell, Vic,” he said, “give the Oriole a beer on me. Closest I’m ever gonna get to Cal Ripkin.”

With a show of dismissal, Vic reached below the bar, uncapped a Budweiser long neck, and slid it toward Rosco. No glass was offered. As he turned to the cash drawer, the front door of the Red Admiral flew open and a huge man strode in. He was thick-shouldered, bullnecked, ham-fisted, and padded with as much fat and muscle as a prime steer; he was also probably only twenty-one years old. A toothy smile was pasted to his blubbery face, and a wad of cash stuck in his upraised left hand. He slammed the money down on the bar. “The
Sally-B
is back, and Charlie Yarnell’s buying the beers.”

For the next two hours the atmosphere resembled that of a stag party. It took Rosco that long to get the patrons to accept him—without noticing he wasn’t keeping pace with their alcohol consumption—and another hour before the subject of the
Orion
was introduced. Naturally, it was the newly returned Charlie who instigated the discussion; despite being a regular customer, Yarnell’s questions elicited only the most evasive answers from Vic Fogram. “I don’t know more than they’re saying on TV,” the tavern owner kept repeating.