Stuart Woods - Dark Harbor

“Well, I’m glad I don’t have to arrest them.”

Young chuckled. “It may come to that yet.”

“Name of the boat?”

“Hotshot.”

“Spell.”

“Hotel, oscar, tango, sierra, hotel, oscar, tango.”

“Length?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information.”

“Skipper’s name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Home port?”

“Maybe Newport, but I’m not at all sure.”

“That was Eldon and Elmer who?”

“No, that’s Eben and Enos Stone. And Lieutenant, if you can find out if they’re aboard without letting them know you’re checking, I’d appreciate it. I don’t want them to run.”

“What do you want me to do if they try to run?”

“If they do, please try to find out where they’re going and call me as soon as possible.” Young gave the man his cell phone number.

“I could detain them on some charge or other, maybe dumping their holding tank in the marina.”

“I don’t think that would help. Anyway, it’s not their boat.”

“I could think of something else.”

“Lieutenant, their father is a big-time Boston lawyer; I don’t think that would be helpful. I just need to know if they’re actually present on Nantucket.”

“Tell me, Sergeant, how is knowing that going to help you?”

“Well, if they’re on the boat, then their alibi for my time frame might be good.”

“ Might be good?”

“We’re talking about a period of four days. They say they were in Newport until yesterday, partying, and the race started yesterday morning.”

“Have you talked to the police in Newport?”

“Yes, and they’re investigating as we speak.”

“And you just want to know if they’re on the boat.”

“I want to know if they’re on Nantucket .”

“And you don’t want me to detain them?”

“No, sir, please don’t do that.”

“I guess you want the collar yourself, huh?”

“I don’t have enough evidence for a collar. If they’re on Nantucket, I’ll have even less. If they’re not on Nantucket, then I may have some basis on which to proceed.”

“Well, I’ll drive down to the marina and have a look around,” the lieutenant said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“And I’ll call you at this number when I find out?”

“Please do that; I’ll wait for your call.”

“Bye-bye, Sergeant.”

The lieutenant closed his cell phone, finished his coffee and started the car. He drove down to the main marina and parked his cruiser on a yellow curb and got out. He strolled down to the marina and walked into the dockmaster’s office.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said to the man behind the desk.

“Morning, Jake.”

“You got a boat named…” He consulted his notebook. “… .Potshot ?”

Charlie picked up a clipboard and ran his finger down to the Ps. “That’s Potshot ?”

“Right.”

“Nope. Nothing by that name.”

“It didn’t come in here with the race from Newport?”

“It didn’t come in here at all, with anybody.”

Jake nodded. He flipped open his cell phone and called Maine.

“Sergeant Young.”

“Sergeant, it’s Jake Potter, in Nantucket.”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I’m down at the marina office; there’s no boat by that name in the marina. It’s not on the dockmaster’s list.”

“Well, that’s pretty interesting,” Young said.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Does the dockmaster have a list of people on the yachts?”

“Hang on, I’ll ask him. Charlie, do you have a list of the people that come in here on these boats?”

Charlie shook his head. “Nope. I couldn’t care less who comes in here on the boats; all I want to know is what I have to find space for.”

“No, Sergeant, he doesn’t have a list of people.”

“Lieutenant, do you think you could just take a walk around the marina and see if there’s a yacht named Hotshot?”

“Oh, you’re looking for another boat, now?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m just looking for the one.”

“Potshot?”

“No, not Potshot, Hotshot . With an H for hotel .”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Could you ask the dockmaster about Hotshot , please?”

“Hang on. Charlie, now he wants a boat named Hotshot. You got one of them?”

Charlie picked up his clipboard and ran a finger down to the Hs. “Yep, I’ve got just one Hotshot: dock three, berth fourteen.”

“Sergeant?”

“Yes?”

“He’s got a Hotshot all right: dock three, berth fourteen.”

“Great! Could you go down there and have a look at it?”

“Sure.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me speak to the dockmaster, please.”

Jake handed his phone to Charlie.

“Charlie here.”

“Charlie, this is Sergeant Young of the Maine State Police.” He explained his problem and described the twins. “Rather than have a uniformed officer go down to the boat, could you or one of your people go to the boat and tell them there’s a phone call for either Eben Stone or Enos Stone in your office?”

“But there isn’t a phone call.”

“I just want to know if they’re on the boat. If they’re not, ask if they’re in the village or on the island somewhere.”

“And if they are on the boat?”

“Ask for a cell phone number and tell them you’ll refer the call.”

“What call?”

“The imaginary call. If they want to know why the caller never called them, you don’t know. All you did was give him the message.”

“Okay. I can do that in a few minutes.”

Young gave him the cell phone number. “Can I speak to the lieutenant again?”

“This is Jake.”

“Lieutenant, thanks so much for your help.”

“What help?”

JAKE POTTER POURED himself a cup of the dockmaster’s coffee and gazed out the window at the yachts in their slips. This state cop, Young, from Maine had something real good going, he reflected. Multiple murders, serial killer, mucho publicity in the Boston papers and TV. Jake didn’t like state cops; they always wanted to come in and take over a local investigation. They’d had a real good murder on Nantucket the previous summer, and the Massachusetts state cops were all over it like flies before Jake and his colleagues had really had a chance to break it.

He turned to the dockmaster. “Tell you what, Charlie,” he said, setting down his coffee cup and starting to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll go down there and check out Hotshot.”

“Whatever,” Charlie said, hardly looking up from his computer.

Jake took off his uniform shirt and his cap and hung them on a coat rack beside the door of the office. Now he was just a guy in a white T-shirt and khaki pants. He pulled the tail of his T-shirt out and pulled it down over his gunbelt, then he left the office and walked down the ramp to the docks, moving slowly, as was his wont. He strolled down to dock 3 and turned right. Long lines of yachts stretched out for many yards on both sides of the walkway.

Jake counted out the berths as he walked, not actually using his fingers, but moving his lips as he read the numbers. He came to berth 14. Two young men were lounging in the cockpit, drinking beer. Neither fit the description of the suspects. Jake walked down the catwalk alongside the yacht and stood next to the cockpit, maybe eight feet from where the two boys sat. They glanced at him, then went back to their conversation, dismissing any importance he might have.