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