Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,48
where I’m headed right now, Doris?”
“Can’t say that I care.”
“I’m off to Ed Colberg’s marina. Do you have any idea who I’ll be seeing there?”
Doris didn’t answer.
“The police department, Mrs. Quick. They’re investigating the possibility that the Orion’s fire might not have been accidental.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that boat! I told you already!”
“I’m sure you don’t . . . But as your husband was one of the men who found the Orion, Newcastle PD will want to speak with him. Now, you’re certain you can’t contact him? No phone number? No emergency address? No motel he might stop in?”
“He could be anywhere.”
“The police will check your telephone records if they have a probable cause, Mrs. Quick. They’ll check the records of everyone involved in this thing. They’ll know exactly who you’ve called—and when.”
Doris thought for a moment. Her studiedly bland expression had become a frown of concentration. “Just a minute. I left something . . . cooking on the stove.”
Doris slammed the door and returned two minutes later. Before she could open her mouth, Rosco stepped up close to the entry. “Do you mind if I come in and get a drink of water?” He coughed. “I seem to have something stuck in my throat.”
“You have to go. I can’t talk anymore.”
Rosco placed his hand on the door to prevent her closing it. “It’ll only take a second.” He rubbed his throat and coughed again. “I don’t know what it is . . . Must have been a piece of dust or something.”
“You have to leave.”
“Are you alone, Doris?”
“Please go.” She leaned her entire weight against the door. Although Rosco realized he could easily push past her, he opted not to. He had no legal right to make a forced entry. Instead, he stepped away, and heard Doris Quick slide the door’s drop bolt in place. Then he left the small concrete stoop and walked to the back of the mobile home. All the drapes had been closed, making it impossible to observe the interior.
Rosco returned to the street, slid into his Jeep, and checked his watch. He didn’t have time to wait and see who—besides Doris—exited the trailer; Lever was due at Mystic Isle Yachts at four, so Rosco eased the Jeep out of Duxbury Court, merged onto the interstate, and pulled into the marina parking lot at precisely three fifty-two.
The Orion and Dixie-Jack were berthed in the same locations Rosco had previously visited. The only difference was that both were now cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape ordering POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS in bold black letters. Ripped yellow tail ends fluttered in the ocean breeze like kite tails, but those playful gestures only made the crime tape’s presence more incongruous in an otherwise wholesome picture. Inboards, outboards, and sailboats, not under official scrutiny, bobbed gently along the piers. For yachting buffs, the view would have been tempting. Unfortunately, Rosco wasn’t one of them. Even the rhythmic slap of halyard rope against yardarm made him feel vaguely queasy.
There was no sign of Lever or his “unmarked” car, so Rosco entered the marina office, where he found Colberg working on the Crier’s crossword puzzle. The boatyard owner seemed to be filling in answers with surprising ease.
He barely glanced at Rosco; his nod was even less perceptible. “Polycrates,” he groaned in a tone that most people reserved for the discovery of poison ivy or a parking ticket.
“Lever still planning to stop by?” Rosco asked.
“Far as I know.” Colberg glanced up briefly, then resumed his efforts. It was obvious to Rosco their conversation wasn’t going to have an easy flow.
He gestured toward the puzzle. “Looks like you’re pretty good at those things Eduardo.”
Colberg answered with a grunt, then added a dismissive: “If you’ve been doing them as long as I have, it’s second nature. Like filling out a tax form.”
“Right . . . Well, some folks have a little trouble in that area, too.”
Ed tapped the newspaper with the eraser end of his pencil. “Seems this Graham babe’s on a Shakespeare jag today. Macbeth . . . Hamlet . . .”
“You know a lot of Shakespeare, then?”
Colberg finally looked up. Cynical pride creased his face. “Hell, I was English lit. in college. VP of the theater club, too. Big yuck, huh? Me . . . You try earning a living with a damn degree like that. Course, that was before I took to the beaches.” He paused. “Sales are where the action is my friend. Find something someone wants, dangle it