"I'm not sure what I'm going to say to him. I just want to talk to him about the matter face-to-face, and get his reaction."
The silver-haired old man gazed at me steadily for a few moments, then squinted slightly and asked, "Just what is your interest in this business, Frederickson? Is someone paying you and your brother to investigate Tom's death?"
"You said Tom was a member of your congregation, and I know from talking to my sister-in-law that you're a devout man. What's your interest in going to church?"
He seemed taken aback by my question. He considered it for a while, said, "To pay homage to the God of the universe, Dr. Frederickson."
"But God would still be God whether or not you went to church to worship. What you're saying is that attention must be paid."
"Yes."
"Tom Blaine was a man who spent all his adult life trying to clean up and keep clean what must surely be one of God's greatest creations, that river outside your window, for all of us. As a result of that work he died alone, horribly, in the cold and dark under that river. Maybe it was an accident; but then again, maybe it wasn't. Attention must be paid. If nobody else is going to pay attention, then I guess it's up to Garth and me to do it. If Tom was murdered, that's sacrilege in the place where I worship. It has to do with responsibility. If someone murdered Tom Blaine, I want to fix the blame. It's my way of paying attention, and my brother's."
"I don't understand your answer."
"Then I guess I didn't really understand your question. It doesn't make any difference. I'm here to ask you to use your influence to get me an appointment to talk with the captain of the tanker moored across the river."
He considered my request as he studied the cactus in the fireplace, then looked back at me and shook his head. "I don't know, Frederickson. I can certainly alert board members that Carver Shipping may be inadvertently violating environmental regulations, but for me to do what you want is another matter entirely. The captain of any ship is an important and powerful person. I find it highly unlikely that any captain would agree to meet with you, or that the company would pressure him to do so, just so that you can accuse him of murder."
"I simply want to ask Captain Julian Jefferson a few questions. I have a suggestion as to how you might approach whoever is in a position to get me a talk with Jefferson."
"What would that be?"
"If I can get a meeting with Jefferson, then I won't be interested in pursuing the matter of their little water-shipping sideline, and the pollution that goes with it. Other people are working on that, and I'm satisfied that the work Tom started will be finished. There probably will be minimal publicity, if any. I'm less discreet. I'm interested in investigating the circumstances of Tom's death, and if Carver Shipping won't cooperate with me, I am going to use certain contacts that I have in the media to try to assure that Carver Shipping gets very bad notices, complete with photographs, on what they've been up to. What I'm talking about has nothing to do with petty fines, Mr. Carver. It's not guaranteed, but it's possible that a lot of people are going to be upset when they learn that Carver Shipping has been sucking up free water, our water, to sell overseas, and dirtying up the Hudson River in the process. Nasty things could be said and written. Tell that to the board of directors."
Bennett Carver stiffened, gripped the edges of his armchair, and glared at me. "That's blackmail pure and simple, Frederickson."
"You call it what you want. To my way of thinking, they should have demanded an investigation, or started one of their own, when it was learned that one of their tankers could have killed Tom-accidentally or otherwise."
"I'll tell my contacts on the board of directors what you said, Frederickson," the old man replied coldly. "I assume you can be reached at your brother's home?"
"I can be reached right here. Make the call now, ask that the meeting be set up for the morning. I don't know how much longer that tanker is going to be around. It's already unloaded its cargo and will probably be filling up with water once it gets dark. Jefferson may be getting ready to take off."
"How long has the ship been at its mooring?"
"Since late morning."
"Then you have time. The normal turnaround time at a port of call is a minimum of seventy-two hours, to run routine maintenance checks and give the crew shore leave. If you say this captain's home is in Connecticut, that's probably where he is right now. It's past nine o'clock, and I'm not going to intrude on anyone at this hour. I will call one or more board members sometime tomorrow, during normal business hours. I assume you have copies of these photos, so I will keep them, if I may, in case the people I call want to look at them. It will be up to the CEO or members of the board to decide if they want to give you permission to speak to one of their employees. I will tell them what you have told me, and give you their answer. That's all I can do." He abruptly stood up. "Good night, Dr. Frederickson."
I remained sitting. "There's still more, Mr. Carver."
"No, sir. There will be no more."
"I need to get in touch with your son. I'd like you to tell me where I can find him. In fact, it occurred to me that he might be staying here. Is he?"
For a moment I thought Bennett Carver was suffering a heart attack. He uttered a small gasp as his hostile look quickly changed to one of astonishment, and the blood drained from his face. He staggered slightly, then virtually collapsed back into his chair. "What are you talking about?" he asked in a voice that had suddenly grown weak and hoarse.
"Are you all right, Mr. Carver?"
He made an angry, dismissive gesture with a right hand that trembled slightly. "I asked what you are talking about!"
"Your son, Charles. Chick. I need to talk to him in regard to his health, and he gave his probation officer a phony address. Where is he?"
The movement of Bennett Carver's head when he moved it back and forth was slow and deliberate, almost lethargic, unlike his words, which came fast and clipped. "I haven't seen or spoken to my son in twenty years, Frederickson. I have no idea where he is or what he's doing. Most people don't even know I have a son. How did you find out? And what gives you the right to pry into my private affairs?"
His face and tone of voice indicated to me that he was telling the truth, and I found it quite astonishing. "I have an update for you, Mr. Carver," I said quietly. "One Charles 'Chick' Carver is working for the shipping company you founded, and he's no deckhand. He works out of the main office for a man by the name of Roger Wellington, who's in charge of security. I'm beginning to strongly suspect that one of that department's responsibilities is to make sure that nobody objects too strenuously to Carver Shipping's little sideline of selling Hudson River water to some country in the Mideast. Earlier today, somebody driving a cigarette boat tried very hard to kill my brother and me. Garth's still in the hospital, in a coma. The boat was stolen, and the cops think it was some kid or kids joyriding. I think otherwise; I find it highly unlikely that a kid would boatnap something that big from the Haverstraw Marina in broad daylight. I have a very strong suspicion it was your son driving that boat, and it's going to be interesting to see what individual or company holds the registration on the boat. The captain of that tanker across the river called security to let the company know Garth and I were snooping around on our catamaran, and security ordered your son to take care of business. He's been hanging around the county, you know. Incidentally, I also wouldn't be surprised if he had a hand, literally, in the fall that broke your assistant pastor's back, but that's another matter."
"You're insane."
"I may be wrong about a few details, but I'm not insane. One reason I want to talk to your son is to find out just what he's been up to. I can assure you that he has been hanging around and that he does work for Carver Shipping."