"And the thing that makes it really hard, Doc, the thing that really pisses me off, is the apology given to me by Clive Higgins. He's the guy I told you was my friend at Massport. Like I predicted, he's now a former friend. But he was so goddamned apologetic on the phone for not being of more service. Christ, Doc, why in hell did I ever listen to you-"
A Brian Hannon was being true to his word. He was all over me like a cheap suit. I was standing on his carpet examining, the weave. I was getting sick of being called into the principal's office.
"And you know what? Did you know your brother-in-law was in here too? Eh? Well, the both of us had some mighty pretty words to say about you, Doc. Yes indeed."
He stomped around behind his desk and lighted another Lucky Strike. He fanned out the match and filled his half off the room with smoke. He kicked his desk and cussed.
"He hasn't told you? Well, Clive and Joe together got the Coast Guard up for it. Told them to be sure and intercept the dragger Rose on her return to Plymouth. Which they did. Yes sir! Sent a special boat just for the occasion."
I decided to break my silence.
"And I take it, Chief, that they did not find anything of interest aboard her?"
"Brilliant. Just brilliant. You are excused, Doctor."
I left, but returned to stick my head back in the door.
"The Guard screwed up, Brian. They should've boarded Rose on her outward passage."
"Excused!"
I went home and dialed Joe at state police headquarters.
"I didn't rat on you, Charlie, I just got mad, that's all. Brian and I went out on a limb for you and it didn't pay off. We have the authority-official or otherwise-to call out a lot of people as often as we like. But we've got reputations, too. Too many false leads don't do either of us any good."
"They should've nailed Rose outward bound, not returning."
"Now you tell us. You sure?"
"Well, she was clean coming in, right?"
"Oh, Christ, this isn't trial and error. You're saying now she's taking something out?"
"Just guessing."
"Well, look, Old Friend, please don't guess on my account, OK?"
"Can I take this warm reception by both you and Brian to mean that I can expect no more help from official channels?"
"In a nutshell."
"Joe, I want a couple more favors. Please; They're easy."
There was a weary sigh and an assent. I outlined the three favors I wanted.
"Thought you said a couple, that's two."
"Should have said several, that's three." They were: l. For him to request the contents of post office box 2319 when it officially became an abandoned box, and to let me know what these contents were.
2. To track down the owner of the blue van I saw and photographed on the fish pier in North Plymouth, using the license plate visible in two of my photos.
3. To accompany me to Murdock's Boatyard in Gloucester, lending his official presence if nothing else, and perhaps obtaining a search warrant if he felt it justified. In short, to help me find Danny and get him to talk.
He listened-in apparent disgust-while this list was read over the phone.
"The first two I can do easily. The third is kinda outside amy jurisdiction-"
"No, it isn't, Joe. You know it isn't."
"Look: if I do the first two and work on the third, will you get off my back?"
"For a while at least."
"Done."
He hung up. But I didn't feel the least bit guilty. While he stayed with Mary during the Hatton's Great Quest, he drank my bottle of Glenlivet. The bastard.
If it seems that I've skipped over Mary's reaction to my homecoming, it was intentional. The fact is that she was not in good humor about it. Women from southern Italy are many things: beautiful, full-breasted, sensual, good cooks, shrewd, and lovers of the hearth and home. But they are not subtle. Subtlety eludes them, much as modesty eludes the French. So my welcome home from Mary wasn't pleasant, and we were still avoiding one another. I went out back to the cabin, a small guesthouse made of logs where I go when I want to really be alone and think. Danny and Angel went with me. It was cool enough for a fire, and I built one in the small woodstove. The dogs flumped down in front of it as it ticked and crinkled with heat and sent the air above it dancing. I had a good long think and decided that it was best to forget the entire thing. Joe had told me the details of the Coast Guard boarding.
They had intercepted Rose as she entered Plymouth Harbor at dawn. She was clean as a whistle: no illicit goods, no safety violations, and all her credentials were in order. The owner's name was Marlowe. Roger Marlowe, and he had the identification to prove it. The Master Carpenter's Certificate was new, claiming likewise for the boat. End of case. The USCG wouldn't come back in no matter what I unearthed. I had asked Joe to get me a description of Roger Marlowe.
He refused, saying he'd bugged his contacts enough. Toward dinner there was a soft knock on the cabin door. It was Mary.
"Dinner's ready. I take it you've talked to Joe and Brian?"
"Yep."
"And they want you to drop this thing?"
"Yep. Drop it. Drop it like the proverbial overheated ground tuber."
"Well good then. We can be friends again, Charlie. I'm really glad you're going to forget about this thing. In a few weeks your wrist will be good as new and you'll be working on all the lost practice. You'll forget about the whole thing." She squeezed my hand as we walked back toward the house. There was meat sizzling and it smelled mighty good. I was going to drop it.
Yes indeed.
Yes sir!
No.
After dinner two questions gnawed at me like rats around a grain dryer. One: how did Schilling know I was seeking his boat? That question was easy to answer: because Danny Murdock called him up from the Schooner Race and warned him that I was snooping around and getting hot on the trail. But the antecedent to that question was this one: how had Schilling known to warn Danny about me beforehand? How was the link made between my early watching of the boat and Schilling's need to have me eliminated?
That appeared to be the interesting question.