Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,20
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.”
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.
7
Rosco 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