“Yes, sir, I think there was. I heard a cop say so, but I couldn’t look.”
“Then what happens?”
“Looks around. Makes sure he hasn’t been seen, I guess. Leaves Cam lying there like that. Maybe dead, maybe still alive. But not for long. He uncleats the mainsheet, the jib sheet, let’s her drift with the currents.”
“How does he get off the boat? Water’s freezing.”
“Has a wet suit stowed up in the sail locker and swims ashore?” Ben said.
“Exactly. Are you thinking a native of North Haven? Cam have any enemies at all on this island, Ben? By that I mean serious enemies.”
“No, sir. He did not. Had a few run-ins with plumbers and caretakers, the usual disagreements over money or the quality of work over the years. But, as I say, most everybody who knew him, loved him. And nobody hated him. I would have known. Everybody knows everything around here, believe me.”
“So he comes over from the mainland by boat the day before. Late Saturday night, let’s say. His own boat, maybe, or a rental, or stolen in Camden harbor. Something to check out with your friends at the local constabulary. Sails over to North Haven from Rockport or Camden. Hides his skiff somewhere along the shore for the night. Hikes out here to Cranberry Point sometime after midnight and climbs aboard the ketch. Tucks in for the night. Main hatch leading below was not locked I’d assume.”
“Never. There’s one other option. He takes the ferry from Rockland the afternoon before. Brings his car aboard. Or, leaves it at the mainland ferry station. Either way.”
“You’re right. We’ve established opportunity. So, all we need is a motive.”
“I reckon you’d know a lot more than me about that kind of thing, sir.”
“I reckon I would, Ben. If I don’t, CIA Director Brick Kelly sure does. Thank you for coming to me. It was the right thing to do. Does Cam’s wife know anything about your suspicions?”
“No, sir, she doesn’t. I would never have said anything about what might still be a whole lot of nothin’. You are the one and only person I’ve talked to about this.”
“I may need your help here on the island, Ben. I’ll talk to the Director after the funeral.”
“Anything at all. I loved the old guy, sir. I’m pretty sure you did, too.”
“Look, Ben, I’m flying back to Bermuda first thing tomorrow morning. But if Brick Kelly and I both conclude that you’re onto something here, I’d like you to stick around here on North Haven as long as you can. Just in case we have any follow-up questions for the police chief or other things we’d like you to look into around here. When do you have to be back at New Haven?”
“I’ve got a few weeks left before fall term starts, sir.”
“Good. I’ll talk to Director Kelly tonight. If he concurs, you’re working for the CIA now, Mr. Sparhawk. Just temporarily, of course.”
“Yes, sir!” Ben Sparhawk said with a smile. For a second Hawke was afraid he was going to salute.
“Don’t get too excited, Ben, you don’t get the secret decoder ring just yet.”
CHAPTER 10
After the service, Hawke told Brick Kelly they needed to talk. Something that couldn’t wait until next morning. At first light, Hawke was giving the Director a lift down to Washington in his plane. He would drop him off at Andrews Air Force Base before heading out over the Atlantic to his beloved getaway cottage on Bermuda.
That evening, after the funeral, the two old friends strolled down into town from the Hooker place. Gillian had been kind enough to put them up for the night, in two tiny bedrooms up on the third floor, and they’d enjoyed spending the extra time together.
They were quiet, admiring the lights coming on in the little village of North Haven, and the old boatyards and the casino before climbing the hill to the Nebo Lodge. The inn overlooked the sailboats swinging on their moorings in the tranquil harbor. Nebo was the only restaurant on the island, and it was a damn fine one by Hawke’s lights.
They ate in the bar. It was packed with mourners drowning their sorrows. Hawke had once asked an old islander why folks seemed to drink a lot around here. “Because, boy, there ain’t nothing to do and we spend all our time doing it” was the fellow’s response. Every face Hawke saw there that night he’d seen earlier at Hook’s funeral. No one paid the slightest mind to the two off-islanders talking quietly at a corner table. Hawke had discreetly given the hostess a substantial gratuity to ensure no one was seated near them.
Their drinks came and Brick solemnly raised his glass of amber whiskey.
“To Hook,” the Virginian said. “None finer, and many a damn sight worse.”
“We loved you, Hooker,” Hawke said simply, and downed his rum.
“We sure as hell did,” Brick said, and signaled the waitress for another round.
He looked at Hawke, glad of his company. It had been far too long since they’d been able to spend a quiet evening together in a place like this. Something they used to do all the time. Just bullshit and drink. Small talk would come later, they had business to discuss first.
The tall and lanky Virginian settled back in his chair toward the window, his red hair aflame in the sunset’s last rays, his sea-blue eyes alight. Brick had always had an old-fashioned, almost Jeffersonian air about him; he even looked a good deal like young Tom Jefferson in the prime of his life. He looked at Hawke and smiled.
“Well, old buddy? You said you had something to tell me,” Brick said.
“I do,” Hawke said, “And you said you had something you wanted to tell me. You first.”
Brick Kelly laughed.
“All right, Hawke, that’s how you want to be. There was a message waiting for me up in my dorm room after the funeral. The deputy director at Langley. Are you listening?”
“Fire when ready.”
“Okay. My guy. CIA Chief of Station, Paris? You know him?”
“Nope.”
“Guy named Harding Torrance. A lifer. Old friend of the Houston oil crowd, Bush forty-one appointee.”
“I remember him now, yeah. Big, strapping fellow. Real cowboy, as I recall.”
“Yeah, well, the real cowboy’s real dead.”
Hawke sat forward.
“Another one? Tell me what happened, Brick.”
“Died with his boots on, apparently. In bed in a suite at the Hotel Bristol in Paris. This was… what… roughly six hours ago now. Harding was with a woman, married, whom he’d just met in the hotel bar. Her room, she was a registered guest. All legit. You should know that this was not unusual behavior on his part. Torrance considered himself quite the swordsman. Neither here nor there, he never let it interfere with his work.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he saved a whole lot of innocent lives in the aftermath of 9/11. That gets him a bit of a pass in my book.”
“Cause of death?”
“Coronary. Big-time. Massive. Happened in the sack. According to his newly acquired inamorata, Mrs. Crystal Saxby of Louisville, Kentucky, they were having sex when the event occurred. She says she immediately called for a house doctor and administered CPR while she was waiting, but it was too late. He was gone by the time anyone got there.”
“So sad when love goes wrong,” Hawke said, sipping his rum.
Brick smiled.
“Yeah. Apparently the husband walked in while she was still nude. Sitting on his chest and attempting mouth-to-mouth, but that’s only hearsay. One of my guys on the scene provided that picturesque grace note.”
“What do you think, Brick? Foul play?”
“Tell you this. The gendarmes and the Paris M.E. guys have already called it. Natural causes.”
“No sign of succinylcholine in his bloodstream? Or, that new heart attack dart?”
“I ordered my own autopsy. Nada on the drugs, so far. No denatured poisons, and no sign of a dart entry.”