“And Takai?”
“I don’t know how that nasty bitch lives with herself. But she’ll get hers, and it won’t take any shotgun, either. One of these days, not so many years from now, she’ll be a wrinkled, dried-up old hag. No man will so much as look at her. And she’ll totally freak. That’s a day I’m looking forward to, trooper. I’ve got it circled on my calendar. And if that sounds small and mean of me, then I guess I’m small and mean.”
“Dirk told me you two have been going out together on your Whaler.”
“Yeah, we’ve gone out a few times since he’s been back. For me, being out on the water is like going to church.” Tim let out an easy laugh. “Actually, it’s instead of church.”
“I know I’m a landlubber, but it’s getting a little late in the season, isn’t it?”
“Not for lobstering. Best time to catch ’em is in January. Mind you, there’s a real art to it-you need a strong back and a weak mind. Me, I’m strictly what the old Maine lobstermen call a ragpicker. An amateur with six measly pots.”
“When’s the last time you went out?”
“Sunday. Got us four fine lobsters.”
“You haven’t taken her out since then?”
“Nope.”
“Could someone else? Without you knowing about it, I mean?”
Tim stared at her stonily. “Someone like Dirk?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no chance of that, trooper. None.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’s grounded, that’s how. Her engine was misfiring on Sunday. I pulled it when we got back, and haven’t fixed it yet. It’s still sitting on a tarp in my garage. Go take a look,” Tim challenged her, his temperature starting to rise. “Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
“Don’t get sore on me, Tim. I’m just asking you the questions they told me to ask.”
“Sure, okay,” he said grudgingly. Clearly, Tim Keefe was being protective of his childhood friend. He was also not someone who liked having his word doubted. “I understand. Go ahead and ask away.”
“Dirk’s marriage is not so hot, I gather.”
“Straight up, Dirk Doughty’s a guy I feel sorry for,” Tim said, taking another gulp of his beer. “You wouldn’t think a carpenter like me could ever feel sorry for a big leaguer like Dirk, but I do. See, when he was a teenager they told him that he was going to win the lottery. Live a life that the rest of us can only dream about. That was dangled right in front of him, okay? And then-whiff-it was snatched away, and I don’t think he’s ever recovered. When you’re a guy like me you know there are certain things you will never be. I will never be famous. I will never be rich. I will never sleep with a supermodel. I know these things. I know who I am and where I belong and who with. Dirk doesn’t know any of those things. And he’ll never be happy settling for anything less than what he thinks he deserves. That’s how his drinking came about. He gets itchy.”
“And what does Chuckie Gilliam get?” Des asked him.
“Chuckie?” Tim curled his lip at her. “Why do you want to know about that loser?”
“He lived across the street from Melanie, and was mixed up with her. Said he used to work for you.”
“He did,” Tim answered shortly. “Until I caught him loading some of my materials onto his truck. When I confronted him about it the stupid jerk popped me one in the nose. I’d have cut him some slack over it-he has his troubles. But that was over the line. I don’t take that from any of my men.”
“What kind of troubles?”
“Gambling. Chuckie’s poison of choice is blackjack. He can blow his whole paycheck up at Foxwoods in ten minutes.”
“Every time I’m at his place he’s on the computer. What’s up with that?”
“He’s always trying to come up with some formula for how to beat the house. All he’s come up with so far is a way to lose every dime he’s ever made-and then some.”
“And what about that Jesus Saves thing on his knuckles?”
“He saw God for a while,” Tim answered dryly. “I don’t think he sees him anymore. Or maybe he just didn’t like the odds God was giving him. Hey, look, Chuckie’s a swamp Yankee through and through, just like me. Most of us are good, hard-working people. Some of us aren’t.” He hesitated now, eyeing Des carefully. “You don’t really think Dirk’s a killer, do you?”
“Tim, I don’t know what to think. But I had to ask, like I told you.” Des swallowed, steeling herself for what she was about to do. “And there’s something else I need to ask you…”
A wary expression crossed his ruddy face. “What is it?”
“Do you think you could finish my damned house by next week?”
“Oh, hey, we’re getting there,” he assured her cheerfully. “And if everything breaks right we’ll-”
“No, sir. No more ifs,” she said firmly. In her mind, Bella was cheering her on. “I hear that word if again and I will scream. I know that quality work takes time. I have tried to be patient. But the monster is out of her cage. I need my own space and I need it now, understand?”
Tim nodded his head vigorously. “I do. I absolutely do. And if
… I-I mean, I sure will do my best to finish up as fast as I can. You’ve got my word on that. Ask anyone in town-my word’s gold.”
She knew that. She gave him her biggest smile and told him so.
But that still didn’t stop Des from waving her flashlight around inside his garage as she was on her way back to her cruiser. And, yes, there was a blue tarp in there. And, yes, there was a greasy outboard motor sitting on it. But for how long? There was no guarantee that it had been sitting there since Sunday. None.
And she knew that, too.
She swung by the Dunn’s Cove Marina on her way back down Route 156. Found it to be deserted. There were no cars parked in the gravel lot. No cabin lights coming from the yachts and cruisers moored there. The rich boys were all home for the night. Good. She killed her engine and got out, flashlight in hand. It was very nearly pitch-black out. The boatyard was not floodlit, and the moon had disappeared behind some low heavy clouds that had moved in, smelling of rain.
Bruce Leanse’s boat, The Brat, was as huge and beautiful as Mitch had said it was. He had also mentioned that it was scrupulously maintained. Des took off her black brogans and hopped aboard in her stocking feet. Carefully, patiently, she checked over its deck from bow to stern, hunched low over her flashlight beam in search of scuff marks. She found none-the deck’s surface was spotless. Perfect condition. Next she started in on the railings and brasswork, looking for any gouges or scratches, no matter how tiny. Anything that might indicate a struggle had taken place on board. But it was as if someone had just gone over the entire boat with Brasso and a toothbrush. Des found not one thing anywhere on deck to suggest that The Brat had been used to dispose of Melanie Zide.
As for the cabin, well, the cabin was locked. And she had no authority to bust in. No authority to be on board, period. Not unless she thought she’d heard a prowler. Which would be her story if anyone found her there.
And, damn, now she did see headlights. A car coming down the marina’s gravel drive directly toward her. It pulled up right next to her cruiser and somebody got out. She heard footsteps crunching on the gravel. Footsteps coming directly toward her. Des bit down hard on her lower lip. She was in no mood to be found on board The Brat by Bruce Leanse. She really did not want to have to explain herself to that man. Hurriedly, she grabbed her shoes and hopped back onto the dock, where she immediately ran smack-dab into a short, stocky man who grabbed her by the arm, shining his light on himself so she could get a good look at him.