navy blazer, cap, ascot.
“Hello,” Falkoner called out in a friendly voice.
“I’m a neighbor,” the man said. “I was admiring your yacht. Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Care to come aboard?”
“Delighted.” The man turned back to the Boat Basin employee manning the outboard. “Be sure to wait.”
The man nodded.
The yachtsman stepped onto the boarding platform at the rear of the yacht while Falkoner opened the stern transom to let him come aboard. Gaining the deck, the man smoothed down his blazer and extended his hand. “Name’s Betterton,” he said. “Ned Betterton.”
“I’m Falkoner.”
Esterhazy shook Betterton’s hand in turn, smiling but not offering his name. As he smiled, the scratches on his face stung. There wouldn’t be a repeat of that: Constance was locked in the hold, handcuffed, her mouth gagged and taped. And yet a chill ran through him as he recalled the expression on her face in the Upper East Side safe house. He’d noticed two things in that expression, as clear as he was alive: hatred — and mental clarity. This woman wasn’t the basket case he’d assumed. And her hatred of him was unsettling in its intensity and murderousness. He found himself not a little unnerved.
“I’m moored over there—” Betterton jerked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder—“and I thought I’d just stop over to wish you a pleasant evening. And — to be honest — I’m captivated by your yacht.”
“Very glad that you did,” replied Falkoner, with a brief glance at Esterhazy. “Would you care for a tour?”
Betterton nodded eagerly. “Thank you, yes.”
Esterhazy noticed his eyes were darting everywhere, taking everything in. He was surprised Falkoner had offered the man a tour — there was something vaguely phony about him. He didn’t look like a yachtsman, the blue blazer was of a cheap cut, and the man was wearing ersatz deck shoes of the landlubber kind.
They stepped into the beautifully appointed saloon, Falkoner launching into a description of the
“How many people on board?” Betterton asked.
“We have a crew of eight. Then there’s me and my friend, here, who’s just visiting for a few days.” Falkoner smiled. “How about on your vessel?”
Betterton waved a hand. “A staff of three. Have you taken her out on any trips recently?”
“No. We’ve been moored here for several weeks.”
“And you’ve been on board the whole time? Seems a shame, even on such a beautiful vessel, with all of New York spread out before you!”
“Unfortunately, I’ve had no time for trips.”
They passed through the dining room and into the galley, where Falkoner brought out a copy of the evening’s dinner menu, praising the yacht’s chef as he did. Esterhazy followed silently, wondering where this was leading.
“Dover sole with truffle butter and a mousse of root vegetables,” Betterton said, looking at the menu. “You eat well.”
“Perhaps you’d care to share our dinner?” Falkoner asked.
“Thank you, but I’ve got another engagement.”
They continued down a corridor paneled in tamo ash. “Care to see the bridge?”
“Absolutely.”
They climbed a stairway to the upper deck and into the wheelhouse.
“This is Captain Joachim,” Falkoner said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Betterton said, peering around. “Very impressive.”
“I’m happy enough with it,” Falkoner replied. “You can’t beat the feeling of independence a yacht like this provides — as you must know yourself. The loran system on board is second to none.”
“I would imagine.”
“You have loran on your boat?”
“Naturally.”
“Marvelous invention.”
Esterhazy glanced at Falkoner. Loran? That old technology had long ago been superseded by GPS. All at once, Esterhazy understood what Falkoner was up to.
“And what kind of vessel do you have?” Falkoner asked.
“It’s, ah, it’s a Chris-Craft. Eighty feet.”
“An eighty-foot Chris-Craft. Does it have decent range?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Such as?”
“Eight hundred nautical miles.”
Falkoner seemed to consider this. Then he took Betterton by the arm. “Come on. We’ll show you one of the staterooms.”
They left the bridge and descended two levels to the living quarters on the lower deck. But Falkoner did not stop here, instead descending another staircase to the mechanical region of the vessel. He led the way down a hallway to an unmarked door. “I’m curious,” he said as he opened the door. “What kind of engine does your yacht have? And what’s your hailing port?”
They stepped into, not a stateroom, but a spartan-looking storage area. “Oh, I’m not really all that nautical,” Betterton said, with a chuckle and a wave of his hand. “I leave all that to my captain and staff.”
“Funny,” Falkoner replied as he raised the cover of a sail locker. “I myself prefer to leave nothing to others.” He pulled a large sailcloth tarp from the locker and unrolled it over the floor.
“This is a stateroom?” Betterton asked.
“No,” Falkoner replied, closing the door. He glanced at Esterhazy, and there was something chilling in his look.
Betterton glanced at his watch. “Well, thanks for the tour. I think I’d better be getting back—”
He paused when he saw the double-edged combat knife in Falkoner’s hand.
“Who are you?” Falkoner said in a low voice. “And what do you want?”
Betterton swallowed. He looked from Falkoner to the knife and back again. “I told you. My yacht is moored just down from—”
As quickly as a striking snake, Falkoner grabbed one of Betterton’s hands and jabbed the point of his knife into the webbing between the index and middle fingers.
Betterton cried out in pain, tried to jerk his hand free. But Falkoner just took a tighter hold, pulling the man forward so that he stood on the sailcloth.
“We’re wasting time,” he said. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Judson, cover me.”
Esterhazy removed his pistol and stepped back. He felt sick. This seemed unnecessary. And Falkoner’s obvious eagerness made it worse.
“You’re making a serious mistake,” Betterton began, his voice suddenly low, threatening. But before he could continue Falkoner took a fresh grip on the knife and then pushed it even deeper, this time into the flesh between the middle and ring fingers.
“I’ll kill you,” Betterton gasped.
As Esterhazy looked on with growing horror, Falkoner held the stranger’s wrist in a grip of iron while he dug with the knife, twisting and probing.
Betterton staggered over the tarp, grunting but not saying anything.
“Tell me why you’re here.” And Falkoner twisted the knife deeper.
“I’m a thief,” Betterton gasped.
“Interesting story,” said Falkoner. “But I don’t believe it.”
“I—” Betterton began, but with a sudden explosion of violence Falkoner kneed him in the groin, then head- butted the man as he doubled over. Betterton toppled back onto the tarp, groaning, blood streaming from a broken nose.
Falkoner pulled one corner of the tarp over Betterton, like a sheet, then knelt on it, pinning Betterton’s chest.
