moment we spot anything,” he said, and Rosco got the message. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.
He hung up with a polite, “Thank you, sir,” then checked his contact at the phone company, who informed him that Genie’s cell phone had not been activated since the day of the dinner dance. Finally, Rosco punched in Tom Pepper’s number, and brought him up to speed, summing up his report with an earnest:
“I know it’s not much, Mr. Pepper, but until they locate that dinghy, you can’t give up hope. Survivors have lasted weeks in open boats . . . As far as instigating a lawsuit against Mystic Isle Yachts, there may be possibilities of negligence, but it’s too early to tell . . . We’ll have to wait for forensics to issue a report on the cause of the fire . . .”
The monologue was received in total silence. At its conclusion, Rosco wondered if the line had gone dead, and said so. A strangled “I’m still here,” was Pepper’s pained reply, after which Rosco heard a heavy breath that meant the man was finally marshaling his forces. It was the sound of a person accustomed to fighting numerous battles.
Pepper began asking pointed, intelligent questions, and repeating the responses as if writing rapid notes on a legal pad. He requested the name and manufacturer of the inflatable tender, the type of outboard motor with which it was equipped, the fire-extinguishing system aboard the Orion, and the maker of the vessel’s propane stove. Some of these facts Rosco supplied; others he promised to deliver.
Pepper ended the conversation with a falsely robust: “Keep up the good work, Rosco . . . Oh, and by the way, you were right about the press. It looks like World War Three is being assembled in my drive . . . steadi-cams, satellite trucks, the works; they sure do love a disaster . . . There are a lot of sick people out there in TV land.”
“Let me know if you need additional help,” Rosco said as the line went dead. Then he sat pondering the situation for several moody minutes. The deeper he delved into the case, the more complex it seemed to become. He couldn’t help feeling as if he’d been handed a bucketful of eels. Stingo, he doodled on a pad, Quick, Fogram, Colberg, Dixie-Jack, blood . . . St. Pete.
Then he grabbed the phone again, called star-1, and gave Belle an abbreviated version of the day’s events. His recitation was finally broken by a gentle:
“You’re doing everything you can, Rosco . . . If Genie and Jamaica are still alive, the Coast Guard will find them . . . We have to believe that . . .” Then she assumed a brighter mood. “What are you doing now?”
Rosco recognized the question as an invitation to come to her home. It was one of the many things he liked about her: the ability to say one thing and mean something else.
“I can’t, Belle, I’ve still got work to do.”
“Can’t what?”
“Come over.”
“Who asked you to?”
He smiled into the phone. “Never mind.”
“Besides, why can’t you come over? We could have an early dinner.”
“I have to check out the Red Admiral, and this Vic Fogram character.”
“I could meet you there—”
“I don’t think so, Belle. The place doesn’t really cater to women.”
“It’s a gay bar?”
Rosco laughed. “No . . . It’s on Water Street, across from the fishing docks . . . Obviously, women do patronize it . . . just not your type of female, that’s all.”
Rosco heard a sigh; it meant Belle’s brain was racing to come up with a retort.
“Look . . . it’s a tough, shot-and-a-beer-chaser fisherman’s bar . . . a place for regulars . . . Women don’t go there unless they can beat guys at arm wrestling and harpoon slinging.”
Again, Belle sighed. “Take care of yourself,” she finally said.
The closet in Rosco’s office contained a smattering of disguises: a navy-blue suit (poorly fitting enough to resemble an unsuccessful accountant or an undertaker’s assistant), a green windbreaker that looked vaguely DEA, torn jeans, scuffed work boots, a hooded black sweatshirt faded to a mottled gray, and a variety of baseball caps. For the Red Admiral, Rosco opted for a “commercial-fisherman look”: jeans, sweatshirt, boots; the hat he chose was orange and black, and sported the Baltimore Orioles logo. It made him look like a definite out-of-towner. Dressed in this outfit, he studied himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved all day, and