"Knowing who he is helps a lot. Now I want to find him."
"I never did ask you where you got those prints. What's Carver done that makes you so interested in him?"
"At the very least, more malicious mischief. But now I'm thinking it could be even more than that. I'll stay in touch. Thanks again, Perry."
"Anytime, Mongo."
I hung up, then got out my Manhattan directory and looked for Carver Shipping. There was no listing. There was also no listing in the Rockland directory, but I hit pay dirt when I checked the New Jersey directory. Carver Shipping's headquarters was in Jersey City. I dialed the number, and a pleasant woman's voice answered.
"Carver Shipping. May I help you, please?"
"I hope so. I'd like to speak with Mr. Carver."
"Mr. Carver is retired, sir."
It seemed Chick Carver had not quite yet achieved big-man status. "Not the founder. I mean the younger one, Charles."
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I just started this job yesterday. Just a moment, please. I'll look in the company directory." There was a pause for a few seconds, and then the woman came back on the line. "Sir?"
"I'm still here."
"There's a Charles Carver working in Security. I'll switch you over."
"Thanks-oh! Who's the head of that department?"
"Mr. Wellington, sir."
"Would that be Frank Wellington?"
"I believe his name is Roger, sir. Shall I switch you over?"
"Please."
There was some electronic whirring and clicking, and then another pleasant voice, this one a man's, said, "Mr. Wellington's office."
"Mr. Carver, please."
"Mr. Carver isn't at his desk at the moment."
That didn't surprise me; I was pretty certain he was in Cairn.
The big question was whether his business there was strictly personal or also corporate. "Can you tell me how I can reach him? This is the Esoteric Bookshop. Mr. Carver's order has come in. However, there seems to have been a mix-up concerning his current residential address and phone number. He did say he wanted the materials as soon as they came in. Could you give me his address and phone number, please?"
There was a short pause, then, "I'm afraid I can't give out that information over the phone, sir. Who did you say you represent?"
"The Esoteric Bookshop. Well, just tell him that the books he ordered on coprophilia, necrophilia, pedophilia, bestiality, and suicide by masturbation have arrived, and he can pick them up at his convenience. Have you got that, or would you like me to repeat it?"
"I will make sure he gets your message, sir," the young man replied after some hesitation. I thought I detected more than a hint of bewilderment, and I certainly hoped he would share this newly discovered information about Charles "Chick" Carver's reading habits with the rest of the office staff.
"Thanks. Have a nice day."
Next, I got my Rockland directory back out, called the Cairn Fishermen's Association. Lonnie Allen answered.
"Lonnie?"
"Yes. Who is this, please?"
"This is Mongo Frederickson, Lonnie. I was in the office with Garth the other day."
"Oh, Dr. Frederickson!" she said as if she were truly pleased to hear my voice. "I didn't know who you were when you were in here, but now I do. You're famous. I should have asked you for your autograph."
"Anytime, Lonnie. Listen, I'd like you to do me a favor."
"Of course, Dr. Frederickson. What can I do for you?"
"My friends and beautiful women like yourself call me Mongo. I need some information, and I'm not sure how to get it. I was hoping CFA might be able to help."
"What do you need, Mongo?"
"I'd like you to do some checking for me with the members of your association, and anybody else who's in tune with things that happen on the river. I'm looking for hard facts, but would also like to hear any gossip or rumors you might pick up. Specifically what I'm looking for are examples of bad luck, anything harmful, that may have happened to anyone who may have filed a pollution complaint against, or had any kind of run-in with, Carver Shipping."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then Lonnie said, "Bad luck? I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Mongo."
"Well, take Tom Blaine as an example. He was almost certainly gathering evidence against Carver Shipping when he was sucked up into those propeller blades. Some people might call that bad luck. But I'm not necessarily talking about people dying; I'm looking for examples of anything unlucky happening to someone after they got on Carver Shipping's case in any way whatsoever. Does that make it clearer?"
"Yes, I think so. I'll make some calls."
"Good. But make sure you're discreet. Keep the conversations low-key, and just try to slide into the subject. Don't mention that you're making inquiries for me. I don't want any bad luck coming Lonnie Allen's way."
"I'll do it like you say, Mongo."
"Thanks, Lonnie. I appreciate it. I'll check back with you in a couple of days."
"Suicide by masturbation," Garth said drily. "Cute. But a bit sophomoric, don't you think?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'm not sure just what we're dealing with here, and I didn't want our boy Sacra Silver to know yet that I know who he really is. At the same time, it wouldn't bother me at all if he became the object of a little gossip and ridicule around the office. I was feeling a bit vicious."
"He dumps a boatload of needles and bloody bandages for my wife to walk on, and you pay him back by starting a gossip campaign. You call that vicious?"
"Cut me some slack, brother. I found out who he is, didn't I? Let him worry for a while about who made the call."
"He'll know it was you or me."
"Oh, I'm not so sure. I suspect our occultist bullshit artist has any number of enemies strewn over the countryside. That's why he's so leery of telling people his real name."
Garth grunted, sank back deeper into his canvas chair. We were sitting on his deck, drinking coffee and feasting our senses on the wide, sailboat-dotted expanse of river before us. After a week, we had ourselves quite a collection of photographs of Carver Shipping tankers going up and down the river. Every one of them rode as deep in the water heading seaward as they had been when they were heading upriver to make their deliveries; Carver Shipping certainly hadn't let Tom Blaine's death slow down their illicit sideline enterprise.
"So," Garth said, pointing to the stack of photographs on the glass-topped coffee table between us. "We've got lots of pretty pictures. Now what do we do?"
"I'm not sure."
"Turn these over to the Coast Guard? The CFA people? Or do we go diving now to get our own water samples?"
"Maybe, maybe, and maybe. But what would be the point? We've probably got the goods on them right now as far as taking on river water is concerned. We might even persuade the Coast Guard to make a call asking them to stop, assuming our friend Captain Marley was in a good mood. And they'd stop. If the Cairn Fishermen's Association decides they have enough evidence and witnesses now to take them to court, they'll stop. Then we'll be worse off than we are now, because we'll have tipped our hand. We didn't start this to prove Carver Shipping is polluting and stealing water; that's a sideshow. We want to find out if one of their captains is a killer."
"So what do we do next?"
"You must enjoy hearing me repeat myself. However, since you insist on probing the devious and resourceful mind of this master investigator, I might suggest we have another option besides turning over these photographs and putting everyone, including Julian Jefferson, on guard."
"What option would that be, O master investigator?"
"Work on our pal Chick Carver. He's a loose thread."
"Loose thread? He's a loose cannon."
"That too. But maybe we should pull on him for a while and see what unravels."