“Get Crime Scene on it,” Mike said. “Bust it open. We got things to do.”
The cop gave a halfhearted laugh. “I maybe can get you Crime Scene in a day or two.”
“Then make it a locksmith or a safecracker. Break it open. We’re looking for a woman who’s probably been locked inside there for twenty-four hours.”
The cop seemed shell-shocked by the orders Mike was directing at him.
“We can’t take the chance that Zukov has left Chat behind in there,” I said. “He’s always staged his bodies at a far more dramatic setting. I don’t want to wait till they get this open. We can’t afford to do that if she’s still alive.”
Mike pounded his fist on the side of the truck repeatedly. If Chat was inside it, she wasn’t capable of sending a signal back to him.
He walked to the other side of the truck and called Chat’s name, then turned back to the cop. “Seen anyone around the docks this evening? People you don’t know?”
“Just the regulars. A few old guys fishing for squid off the end. Only thing unusual I saw was a big black duffel bag out on the walkway leading to the dock as I drove through. But by the time I cruised the street and turned around, it was gone. Figured someone was picking it up off his boat.”
Mike looked at me. “Didn’t Luther’s friend—what’s his name? . . .”
“Shaquille.”
“Didn’t Shaquille tell us the killer at Mount Neboh had the body in a large sack, like a duffel bag?”
“Sure he did. I’m telling you, Zukov’s on the move with Chat.”
“I think you’re right.”
“How about boats?” I asked the cop. “You know the harbor well enough to tell me if anything is missing?”
“There’s a twenty-two-foot Grady-White sits right over there most of the time,” he said, pointing to an empty space on the dock between two other motor boats. “She belongs to the guy who owns the liquor store, but he’s not usually on the water at this hour. The Phantom Flyer, he calls it.”
“Put out an APB for that one,” Mike said. “You got a gun I can borrow for an hour or two?”
The cop shook his head. “We don’t patrol with guns.”
“Then you’d better rouse all the help you can get. We’re going over to Penikese.”
FIFTY
“WHERE’S the Coast Guard?” I asked the cop. “We were supposed to have lots of backup here, waiting for us.”
“I can’t imagine anyone promised you that. A trawler overturned in Nantucket Sound around midnight. Most of the guys are out on search and rescue. Four crewmen still missing.”
I saw a light in the little shack at the far end of the harbor and started to jog toward it. “C’mon, Mike. I’ll get you there.”
“Let’s just untie a boat. Jump-start it.”
“I’d never be able to find my way. Fog, rips, shallows, the current. Let’s get a pro.”
“At this hour? I thought you said that nothing runs.”
“Nothing commercial. But we’ll make one take a run.”
I reached the shack, barely larger than a phone booth. The startled attendant was awakened from his nap by the sound of my footsteps on the dock.
“We’re from New York. He’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor. We need a ride on the Patriot now. Now.”
“Everybody’s in a hurry tonight. Are you two with that tall guy who was jumping from boat to boat an hour or so ago? I chased him right out of here.”
“We’re not with him,” Mike said. “We’re after him.”
The man placed his arthritic hands on his thighs and stood up. “Let me see what I can do about that.”
“Is the Patriot here?”
“Right over there. Morning papers should be aboard shortly.”
The Patriot fleet consisted of half a dozen workhorse boats—forty-five feet long—each more useful than decorative. They were available for private hire all night, often by Vineyarders who missed the last ferry over, or entertainers leaving after an evening gig on the island. The things we counted on to make our lives normal—from daily newspapers to fresh bagels—motored across on one of these boats.
Unlike the Steamship Authority ferries, which halted service in severe weather, there was almost nothing that could stop a Patriot from making a trip.
Mike beat me to the boat. There was a light on in the cabin, and I lowered myself over the side and knocked on the window.
The captain was bundled up in a down jacket, with a Red Sox ski cap pulled down over his ears. He was reading a copy of