Someone had killed Richard Kostas, and I could not settle on any single, definite suspect. Benton Dynamics had every reason to want him eliminated. Foreign intelligence operatives could have been behind his death. Other theories sprang into my thoughts, but the local sheriff had not closed the loop, despite her focused efforts. Tompkins would never tell me everything that she knew. Even if she had, a county sheriff would have been lost in the weeds with an investigation like this.
Marisa Dupree had claimed she had nothing to do with the stolen files, was wrongfully charged, and needed my help to clear her name. Of course, she might have been the murderer.
And if I got close to the truth, I risked ending up like Richard Kostas.
I took a swig of bitter coffee.
An artist’s rendition of the underwater drone appeared after the third paragraph. The Remora Shadow looked like a thin, sleek wedge. Hydrodynamic casings hid propellers on its sides and stern. The article did not include actual photographs or schematic drawings. The general description provided few technical details.
How the Remora Shadow got close to a submarine without being detected remained uncertain, which oddly made sense. If the exposé had disclosed stealth technology, Project Transparrior would have crossed the line between journalism and espionage. In retaliation, U.S. intelligence would have launched an obligatory counterassault, such as a computer virus or other cyberattack. The more vague the article, the less likely a governmental response. Apparently, the anti-secrecy group had shown restraint, unless the leaker had held back information. Maybe Benton Dynamics suspected this and clamped down on Kostas and Dupree by filing an injunction. The Board of Directors had to be fuming over its secret research on display to the world.
Still, some technical detail in the article would have been interesting. Submarines used an array of devices to detect torpedoes and approaching vessels. If Benton Dynamics had figured out how to elude these devices, every navy in the world would want the plans for the Remora Shadow.
Tucking the article into a scuffed-up leather briefcase, I headed back inside and got ready for my date with Jennifer, the attractive Canadian journalist. I shaved, showered, combed my hair, and dabbed on a slight touch of bay rum cologne. The citrusy aroma lingered for a moment in the steamy bathroom.
Some clothes hanging on the back of a chair smelled fairly clean and made me look the part of a yacht-club bum. I did my best to shed my lawyerly aura and still be presentable, but my reflection in the mirror made me feel a bit unsure of myself, like a cross-eyed mule at a thoroughbred horse show. This was probably about as good as I was going to get. Casual clothes never felt right on me. A black or charcoal suit, however, would have looked ridiculous on a speedboat.
Last night I had hurried to check out Jennifer’s credentials online, but this morning I had more time to research her journalism. In most videos, she visited tourist sites and restaurants while interviewing colorful locals. There were a handful of serious news articles out of Ottawa and Washington, D.C., but most of her reporting focused on travel and entertainment. Her looks and outgoing personality made her perfect for this job, but I did not want to end up a subject in one of her travelogues. I hoped that she just wanted to go out on a date.
I headed down to the docks and called her number. “Hi, Jennifer. It’s Bryce from Gertrude’s Crab House last night. Are you still up for an afternoon on the Chesapeake?”
“Yeah, definitely. What time?”
“Whenever you like,” I said. “I’m just about there, but I have to get the boat ready. Maybe half an hour. Any time after that.”
“Give me an hour, if that works. Where should we meet up?”
“The town docks. The pier closest to the Marty’s Bait Shop. Slip 27. My client’s boat is red with a checkered racing strip.”
“Your client is coming?” she asked.
“No, just me. Call me if you can’t find it, but it’s easy.”
“Looking forward to this, Bryce,” she replied with a hint of flirtation.
“Yeah, it’ll be fun. See you soon.”
“Okay, bye.” She broke off the connection.
I walked past the abandoned wooden docks at the southern edge of the harbor. Three old men in wool sweaters and ragged jackets sat motionless on benches overlooking the water. Lean seasons had ended the careers of many older fishermen and crabbers. Their boats were long gone, probably sold off to pay debts or at least a portion of them. One of the men grumbled a “good afternoon” at me, but I could not tell which one of them had spoken. Their immobile faces, deeply wrinkled and tanned from decades in the sun, appeared as if they had been carved out of driftwood.
I said “hi” back to them, but the retired fishermen sat in silence. Their tired eyes stared toward the sunlight reflecting off the bay. Storms and neglect had destroyed the abandoned piers where they would have moored their boats years ago. A few remaining posts and planks jutted out of the water like the graying bones of ancient sea serpents washed ashore.
Closer to the town center, the new docks were made of concrete and floating plastic blocks. Bridgeford had constructed these new piers for the yachts of weekend pirates from Washington D.C. and Baltimore. From Monday to Friday, their boats sat idle. On warm Saturdays and Sundays, luxury boats drifted in and out of the harbor. In the evenings, rich snobs filled the bars, threw back cocktails, and kept a steady stream of drunk-driving cases
