With one hand on the wheel, Watkins pointed at the yacht ahead of them.
“That,” he said.
“You don’t know either,” Jesse said.
“I do,” Watkins said, “but you’re too fucking landlocked to understand the explanation.”
“Good,” Jesse said.
Watkins steered the harbor boat under the stern of the yacht. The name lady jane was stenciled across the stern.
And beneath it, miami. A small landing float bobbed beside the
S E A C H A N G E
up against it. Simpson leaned over and secured the stern of the harbor boat to a cleat. Then he climbed past the small cockpit and onto the short deck and secured the bow. Jesse climbed the short stairs to the deck of the
A crewman in uniform met them. Jesse took his badge out of the pocket of his softball jacket and showed it.
“I’m Jesse Stone, Paradise Police. This is Officer Simpson.”
“I’m Nils Borgman,” the crewman said with a small accent. “First mate.”
Jesse glanced around the yacht.
“Sloop with a cutter rig,” he said.
“Yes sir,” Borgman said. “It is.”
Simpson looked carefully out to sea.
“I’ll need to talk to everyone on board,” Jesse said. “Who do I see about that.”
“What is this about, sir?” Borgman said.
“Investigating the death of a young woman, we’re trying to find anyone who recognizes her.”
“Do you need a warrant or something for that?” Borgman said.
“No,” Jesse said.
“I’ll speak to the captain, sir. I’m sure he’ll consult with Mr. Darnell.”
“Mr. Darnell is the owner of this cutter-rigged sloop?”
Jesse said.
“Yes sir. Please wait here.”
Jesse and Simpson waited, squinting in the brightness of 6 7
R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
the sun and its seaborne reflection. Below them the harbor boat swayed gently against the boarding float. Watkins was sitting behind the tiller reading a book, the long bill of his cap pulled low to keep the sun from his eyes. A dozen other yachts rode anchor in sight, and back in the harbor, the clutter of smaller boats seeming closer together from the deck of the
The deck was dark polished wood. Probably teak, Jesse thought, or some other wood that could resist the salt water.
Polished brass was nearly everywhere. Under a canopy in the cockpit lunch was being eaten and drunk, by a group of three men and three women, seated on built-in couches on either side of a built-in table. A man in a hat with lots of gold braid came from forward into the dining area and spoke softly to one of the men at lunch. The man listened and nodded and turned to look at Jesse and Simpson. Then he got up and walked back to them.
“Harrison Darnell,” he said. “What’s all this?”
“We’re investigating the death of a young woman,” Jesse said, “and we need to show some pictures to everyone on board, see if they recognize anyone.”
“I’ll discuss this with my attorney, if you don’t mind,”
Darnell said.
“I don’t mind,” Jesse said. “Of course, I guess we’ll need to round up everybody on board and bring them into the station for questioning.”
“You can’t do that.”
6 8
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“Of course I can, Mr. Darnell. But by all means call your attorney first.”
Mr. Darnell was wearing blue flip-flops, pale khaki shorts and a red short-sleeved shirt decorated with a pattern of blue flowers. The shirt was open. He wore some sort of braided leather around his neck. His hairless chest was tanned, as was the rest of him. His blond hair was shoulder length, kept off his face by sunglasses worn, as if pushed up casually, on his head. His face was old enough looking so that Jesse suspected artifice in the hair color. You didn’t often see a man with absolutely no hair on his chest, Jesse thought.
Jesse wondered if Darnell shaved it. Maybe it was gray.
“Oh for crissake,” Darnell said.
He turned back into the lunch area.
