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