Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

Hauck took a swig of beer. “I’ve interviewed my share of people, Pete. I think he’s holding something back.”

“About AJ?” Pete shrugged, pushed back his hair under a Jacksonville Jaguars cap. “Something was going on… People who he talked to tell me he had this thing-this cover-up he’d stumbled into. Some ships he thought were falsifying their cargo. Like some big national-security thing. He was all worked up.

“Then the thing with AJ happened. And that was it. It was over for him.” He snapped his finger. “Lights out. Whatever it was, I never heard squat about it ever again. It was as if the whole thing just got buried the next day.”

“I don’t mean to push it,” Hauck said, tilting his beer. “All I want to do is find your brother’s killer, which is precisely what I believe it was. Anyone you know who can tell me any more on this?”

Pete thought a moment. “I could give you a few names. His old pals. I’m not sure what makes you think it’s all related, though.”

Hauck tossed a couple of bills on the counter. “That would be a big help.”

“Thirty years…” Pete got up and drained the last of his beer. “Pop was like a god down there in the harbor. There was nothing went on he didn’t know about or hadn’t done. Now look at him. He was always a hard man, but I would never call him bitter. He took it rough, what happened to my brother. Rougher than I would expect. Given that they never saw eye to eye for a goddamned second while AJ was alive.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY Hauck made the rounds at the docks. A couple of large freighters had come in early that morning. Huge unloading trestles and hydraulic lifts were hissing, off-loading massive containers.

He found Mack Tyler, a sunburned, broad-chested tug’s mate at the pilots’ station. He had just come in from a launch.

Tyler was a bit guarded at first. People protected their own down there, and here was this cop from up north asking all kinds of questions. It took a little finesse for Hauck to get him to open up.

“I remember I was out with him one day,” Tyler said. He leaned against a retaining wall and lit up a cigarette. “He was about to board some oil tanker we were bringing in. Pappy was always going on about these ships he’d seen before, making false declarations. How they were riding so high in the water, no way they could possibly be full, like their papers said. I think he even snuck down into the holds of one once.

“Anyway”- Tyler blew out smoke-“this one time we had pulled up alongside and the gangway was lowered to us, and Pappy was getting ready to go aboard. And he gets this cell-phone call. Five in the fucking A.M. He takes it, and all of a sudden his legs just give out and his face gets all pale and pasty-it was like he was having some kind of heart attack. We called in another launch. I had to bring the old man in. He wouldn’t take any medical attention. Just a panic attack, he claimed. Why, he wouldn’t say. Panic attack, my ass.”

“You remember when that was?” asked Hauck.

“Sure, I remember.” The big sailor exhaled another plume of smoke. “It wasn’t too long after the death of his boy up there.”

Later, Hauck met with Ray Dubose, one of the other harbor pilots, at a coffee stand near the navy yard.

“It was getting crazy,” said Dubose, a big man with curly gray hair, scratching the bald spot on his head. “Pappy was going around making all kinds of claims that some oil company was falsifying its cargo. About how these ships were riding so high in the water. How he’d seen them before. The same company. Same logo-some kind of a whale or shark, maybe. Can’t recall.”

“What happened then?”

“The harbormaster told him to back off.” Dubose took a sip of coffee. “That’s what happened! That this was one for customs, not us. ‘We just pull ’em in, Pappy.’ He’d pass it along. But Pappy, God bless, he just kept on pushing. Raised a big stink with the customs people. Tried to contact some business reporter he knew from the bar, like it was some big national-security story he was uncovering and Pappy was Bruce Willis or someone.”

“Go on.”

Dubose shrugged. “Everyone kept telling him just to back off, that’s all. But Pappy was never one to listen. Stubborn old fool. You know the type? Came out of the womb that way. I miss the son of a bitch, though. Pretty soon after his boy died up there, he packed it in with his thirty years and called it quits. Took it hard.

“Funny thing, though…” Dubose crumpled his cup and tossed it into a trash bin against a wall. “After that happened, I never heard another peep out of him about those stupid tankers again.”

Hauck thanked him and drove back to the hotel. For the rest of the afternoon, he sat around on the small balcony overlooking the beautiful Gulf blue of Pensacola Bay.

The old man was hiding something. Hauck felt it for sure. He’d seen that haunted face a hundred times before. There’s nothing you can do that’s gonna help me now…

It might only be guilt, that he had pushed his youngest son away. And what happened afterward.

Or it could be more. That the hit-and-run up north hadn’t been so accidental after all. That that was why they were unable to ever find anything resembling the SUV the witnesses had described. Why no one else ever saw it. Maybe someone had deliberately killed Pappy Raymond’s son.

And Hauck felt sure those tankers were connected.

He nursed a beer. He thought about placing a call to Karen to see what she had found.

But he kept coming back to the hardened look in the old sailor’s eyes.

Karen went back through all of Charlie’s things as Hauck had asked her. She opened the cartons she had kept piled in the basement, doing her best to avoid the attention of the kids. Heavy, boxed-up files that Heather, his secretary, had sent with a note: You never know what’s in them. Maybe something you’ll want to keep. Brochures for trips they had taken as a family. The ski house they rented one year at Whistler. Letters. A kazillion letters. A bunch of things on the Mustang, which Charlie had asked her in the will he left not to sell.

Basically, the sum of their lives together. Stuff Karen had never had the heart to go through. But nothing that helped. At some point she sat in frustration with her back against the concrete basement wall and silently swore at him. Charlie, why the hell did you do this to us?

Then she went through the computer that was still sitting at his desk. She turned it on for the first time since the incident. It felt weird, invasive-as if she were prying into him. His signature was everywhere. In a million years she would never have done this when he was alive. Charlie never kept a password. Karen was able to get right in. What on earth had there ever been to hide?

She scrolled through his stored Word documents. Mostly they were letters he’d written from home-to industry people, trade publications. The draft of a speech or two he’d given. She went on his AOL account. Any e-mails he might’ve written before he disappeared had probably long since been wiped away.

It felt futile. And dirty, going through his things. She sat there at his desk, in the messy study, much of it still just as he’d left it a year before, where he’d paid the bills and read over his trade journals and checked his positions, the desk still piled with trade sheets and prospectuses.

There was nothing. He didn’t want to be found. He could be anywhere in the fucking world.

And the truth was, Karen had no idea what she was gong to do if she even found him.

She contacted Heather, who was working at a small law firm now. And Linda Edelstein, whom Karen still occasionally used as a travel agent. She asked them both to think back on whether Charlie had made any unusual purchases (“a condo somewhere, as crazy as that sounds, or a car?”) or booked any travel plans in the weeks before he died. She concocted this inane story about discovering something in his office about a surprise trip he’d been planning, an anniversary thing.