Dead Connection

Westchester, where Ed Becker lived.

She pulled up the yacht club’s Web site again and clicked on the link for directions. The #6 subway line ended at the Pelham Bay Park station. Ellie tried Flann’s phone again. It was still off.

She walked downstairs to the car checkout desk. Behind the counter, a gray-haired woman with black-framed glasses and very red lipstick read a paperback called To the Power of Three.

“Hi, I’m Ellie Hatcher. I’m here this week working with-”

“I know who you are, sweetie.” The woman looked up at her over the tops of her reading glasses.

“Would you mind checking to see if McIlroy has a car out?”

“I can tell you for a fact that he does not. I saw him walk out of here – what, it must have been an hour and a half ago.”

Ninety minutes. It was about the length of the ride on the #6 train to Pelham Bay Park. Flann was out there alone, with a significant head start and without a partner.

“I need to check out a car.”

34

WITH THE OCCASIONAL HELP OF A SIREN, ELLIE MADE GOOD time, crossing the small, green City Island Bridge only forty minutes after leaving the precinct. But she was still at least forty minutes behind Flann, and his phone was still turned off.

She started at the Pelham Bay Park train station and drove from there to the Bronx Yacht Club. The roads were dark, empty, and still. Ellie felt like she had driven hours away, to the eastern seaboard, but she was only twenty miles from Manhattan. She drove slowly, checking both sides of the street for signs of Flann.

It was her fault they were separated. I hope you’re wrong. She should have said more when he voiced his concerns about Becker. She should have at least made it clear that she’d back him up no matter where the leads took them, even if it was to the boat of a former cop, docked off City Island, just a quarter mile from the Internet cafe used by a man who called himself Enoch. Maybe if she had said all that, he would not be out there alone. The only way to make it right was to find him.

When she reached the yacht club, she parked along Hunter Avenue and walked toward a stately white- columned building with a wraparound porch. On her way to the large double-doored entrance, she passed two silver-haired men resting against the nearby deck railing, smoking cigars and drinking from lead crystal highball glasses.

The interior of the clubhouse was ensconced in high-gloss dark wood and white leather, as if the building itself were on water. In a large ballroom toward the back, a crowd danced and mingled to big-band music. Ellie made her way to a mustached man behind a discreet reception desk on the left side of the lobby.

“The Meyer wedding?” His tone was friendly even as he eyed her cable knit sweater, black pants, and bulky parka skeptically.

“No, sir.” She showed him her shield and a picture of a Gibson cabin yacht that she’d printed from the Internet. “I’m looking for a potential crime witness. Can you tell me if you’ve seen this boat?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. If you need information about one of our members, you’ll have to talk to our director in the morning.”

“Pretend you’re down the street on your coffee break, and I’m just asking you as a private citizen who works on City Island if you’ve ever seen this boat. Please. I’ll keep your name out of it.”

He checked out the lobby for interlopers, then leaned in close to whisper. “The truth is, hon, I don’t know a damn thing about boats. They’re all the same old hunk of wood and rope to me.”

Ellie zipped her coat as she left the clubhouse, prepared to walk every pier of the island to find Ed Becker’s boat and her partner. The thinner of the gray-haired duo with the highballs stopped her on the way out.

“Snoozeville with the septuagenarians in there, right?”

His heavier friend placed a hand over his heart. “Please make my day and tell me you’re a whiskey drinker.”

“On another day, I would be. I’m looking for this boat and was hoping someone at the clubhouse could help me.” She unfolded her picture of the cruiser.

“If you’re asking about boats, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Bud, and this is Jim.” The heavy man pointed to himself with his cigar-holding hand, then pointed to his friend.

“Ellie.”

“Tell you what, Ellie. I’ll answer your questions about that boat if you have a little sip of whiskey with us. Our goal is to finish this bottle, and we could use the help.” Bud offered her the bottle, no glass.

Johnny Walker Blue. Very expensive. Very tempting. And arguing with these guys would take far longer than swallowing a quick drink. She grabbed the bottle and took a sip.

“Come on now,” Bud said. “Take a real drink, then we’ll talk.”

She took a long draw this time, and she felt the warmth of the liquid fill her stomach.

“Now that’s a whiskey drinker,” Bud said with approval. “So, here’s the thing about your boat. That’s a Gibson Cabin Yacht, one of the big ones.”

“A 5900 series, I think,” Jim added.

“It’s a hell of boat.” Both men nodded, sure that they were in agreement that it was a damn fine boat.

“I know what kind of boat it is.” Ellie tried not to sound too testy. “I really need to find it.”

“You got a scavenger hunt going with that other guy or something?” Bud asked.

“What other guy?”

“I got a confession for you,” Bud said. “Me and Jim don’t know squat about cabin cruisers. We’re sailboat men ourselves. But we were down by the marina about half an hour ago. A guy asked us about Gibson Cabin Yachts and showed us a picture a lot like that one and said it was a 5900.”

“Red hair, not too tall?” Ellie asked.

“Yeah, sort of a funny-looking fellow if you ask me,” Bud said.

“He’s a friend of mine. We’re both looking for the same boat. Like I said, it’s urgent.”

“I don’t suppose you want to tell us your friend’s name?” Jim asked. “The one who owns the boat?”

“It’s not like any guy’s going to be embarrassed about having a visit from a woman like you,” Bud added.

“Ed Becker. Do you know him?”

“Now why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Bud said. “Walk past the yacht club’s slips, then you’ll get to the marina. Ed’s on the fourth row – is that right, Jim?”

Ellie thanked them and was already heading toward the water when Jim called out behind her, “The fourth row of slips to the east. Then take a left. He’s about halfways down, on the right. Drag your buddies on back here. We’ll get another bottle.”

ELLIE FOLLOWED THEIR directions along the shoreline, walking at first, and then breaking into a fast jog along the boardwalk. Cold air burned her lungs, and a damp heat began to build inside her zipped coat. When she reached the boat slips at the marina, she slowed her pace, mindful of the sound of her heavy breaths and footsteps on the concrete beneath her.

She counted as she walked, four rows. Scanning the marina, she wondered if she had a good enough eye for boats to recognize Ed’s, even with a picture. As her eyes ran across the boats moored to the right side of the pier, she compared each to the features that stood out to her from the picture. Big. Windows. Raised cabin. They all looked the same.

As she neared the middle of the pier, the job of identifying Ed Becker’s boat became considerably easier. Her eyes were still adjusting to the absence of streetlight, but a man’s dark figure stood out against the white back of one of the boats. He was leaning against the outside of the boat’s cabin, peering through the edge of a set of double doors that led inside. Even with the moonlight as her only illumination, Ellie recognized that profile. It was Flann McIlroy.

She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Flann. It was Flann. She’d found him, and no one with a Slavic accent had put him in an emergency room.