Killer Smile

Thomas Richter sold home and car insurance, and was a younger version of Mr. Matern, only with blue eyes. Mary went through her spiel and ended with: “And so, how often did you and your wife Lynnie go fishing with the Saracones on the Bella Melania?”

“At least ten times, I guess.”

“You must be an avid fisherman.”

“No, not at all.” Richter laughed. “I only went along because Giovanni invited us. But we never fished, we just sat around in those little chairs on deck and drank Bloody Marys.”

“Giovanni didn’t fish?”

“Not that I saw.”

Weird. “Thanks for your time,” Mary said, closing her pad to go.

Ten offices later, in a double-checking frenzy, she had met most if not all of Saracone’s guests, all young or middle-aged professionals who had sold him his car, home entertainment system, or stocks; fixed his bridgework, his sundeck, or Porsche Carrera; prepared his taxes, his will, or his pension fund. All of them had been on the Bella Melania with Saracone and had guzzled vodka gimlets, Tanqueray-and-tonics, whisky sours, Manhattans, daiquiris, or Heineken. None of them fished, and all of them confirmed that Saracone didn’t, either. None of them knew him that well. None of them knew the name Brandolini, except for one who swore it was a delicious entree, with clams and white sauce. None of them went back to the old days. Mary didn’t get it. Somehow, somewhere, somebody had to know Amadeo, or at least fish, or there was no connection to Amadeo at all. And she would be, as they say, dead in the water.

By five-thirty, Mary was standing in front of her last reception desk of the day, facing the final secretary she’d have to barrel through, beg, or sweet-talk.

“Hello, I’m Rikki Broughley,” she began, glancing around the insurance office. “I’m here to see Mr. Jackmann.” It was a one-man law office in an unfashionable part of the city, and the secretary chain-smoked brown Capri cigarettes.

“Mr. Jackmann’s gone for the day.”

“Will he be back? It’s an important matter, on behalf of his friend Melania Saracone.”

“No.” The receptionist belched smoke. “Melania? She the wife?”

“Yes. Giovanni’s wife.”

“Oh, Gio, we know.”

Gio. Giovanni’s nickname. The last time she’d heard it was from Mrs. Nyquist. Melania never used it, Mary realized now. “So Mr. Jackmann goes back, with Gio?”

“Way back.”

“How old a man is he?”

“Almost seventy-five. He’s semi-retired, hardly comes in anymore.”

“If he’s not coming back, can you tell me where he lives?” Mary asked, intrigued. Jackmann would be the oldest on the list. “It’s urgent. Or at least would you mind calling him and asking him to call me?”

“Sorry. He has a cell phone, but he won’t answer it. He can’t be reached today unless you’re the Coast Guard.”

Mary couldn’t believe her ears. “What did you say?”

“He’s fishing.”

Wahoo! “What time does he finish? When is he coming in? Docking, whatever? Better yet, where does he fish from?”

“You want to go to the marina?”

“I have to, it’s my job. It’s that important to him. Money is involved. Major money.”

The secretary’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I see. A will. Did Gio leave him money?”

Yeah, right. “I’m not at liberty to say. Just tell me, where does he come in from fishing? From.” Huh?

The secretary rattled off a marina address, and Mary thanked her and scooted out the door.

Thirty-Nine

The sun was setting on the other side of town, and Penn’s Landing was losing its light. The marina was located on the Delaware River at the eastern border of the city, just off the newly renamed Christopher Columbus Boulevard, tucked behind Dave amp; Busters. Mary wouldn’t have guessed that a marina could be a twenty-minute cab ride from Center City, much less next to a sports bar.

The marina was smallish, with only a few skinny wooden walkways between lots of gleaming white boats, bobbing gently in the murky river. People on the boats were laughing, sporting fresh sunburns, and they looked relaxed even as they busied themselves unpacking things, untying things, and undoing things after a day’s fishing. Mary looked around, not wanting to miss Jackmann coming in, and scanned the names of the moored boats. Donna. Julie. Tiffany; must be first, second, and third wife’s names. There were bad puns, too: Full of Ship. Sea More. Ocean’s Eleven Grand. And then the one she was looking for, already in: Outta Here. It was a white boat, about twenty feet long, with a matte finish and navy stripes along the side and it flew the American flag. An older man was unloading a spool of white rope off the boat and onto the dock. Jackmann.

Mary hurried down the walkway, pretending she wasn’t a landlubber, and burst through a cyclone fence gate in defiance of the MEMBERS ONLY sign. She waved her hand to get Jackmann’s attention. “Ahoy! Mr. Jackmann!” she called, caught up in the nautical spirit, but he didn’t look up and the effort made her cheek wound throb. Loser. She tried again when she reached the back of his boat. “Mr. Jackmann!” Mary was almost breathless, and he finally raised his head.

Jackmann had a weathered tan that brought out the sea blue of his eyes, and he was tall and still fit, in a white polo shirt, raggedy shorts, and untied sneakers. He sported a bushy beard, a headful of thick, grayish hair, and forearms like Popeye. Hot, for an old salt, Mary thought, then stopped cruising a septuagenarian. “Excuse me, are you Floyd Jackmann?”

“Every day.” Jackmann squinted at her, not unfriendly, merely puzzled. “Do I know you?”

“No. Your secretary told me you’d be here.” Mary sized him up. He looked like a no-nonsense kind of guy and she was sick of lying. “My name’s Mary, and it’s important that I talk to you. I wanted to get some information about Giovanni Saracone.”

“Take this can, would you?” Jackmann handed her a rusty blue Maxwell House coffee can sitting on the deck, next to a pile of other fishing gear and supplies. Mary accepted it, but it emitted such a stench, she had to look inside.

“Argh!” She jumped back in horror, almost dropping the can. Long alien-worms with zillions of legs slithered all over one another. One looked up at her with three little black eyes. “Gross! What are they?”

“Bloodworms. Don’t put your hand in there, hon. They attach right to ya.” Jackmann laughed with a smoker’s throatiness. “Now, whaddaya want to know?”

“I understand you were at Mr. Saracone’s funeral lunch, and your secretary said you two go way back. I was wondering if you could tell me -”

“You want information, you can work for it.” Jackmann handed her a red Playmate cooler, mercifully sealed. “Take this and set it over there.”

“Okay.” Mary set the cooler down as instructed. “So how long did you know Saracone?”

“Long time.” Jackmann locked a white plastic box fixed to the deck of the boat. In front of the box was a blue padded driver’s seat, a blue steering wheel, and over it, a panel of black control switches that read, NAV AFT BILGE WASHDOWN ACC.

“Since the war?”

Jackmann’s eyes flashed a minute, a surprised shot of blue. “Yeah.”

“How did you know him? How did you meet?”

“Everybody knew Gio. I was in college, working part-time with my dad, outta the shipyard. Gio was around all the time, with the lunch truck.” Jackmann handed her a rusty green box with a rusty handle, then pointed to the