Black River

FIFTY-SEVEN

O’Brien walked toward his Jeep, pulled out his phone to call Laura Jordan, then saw that he’d received a voice-message from Kim Davis. He sat in his Jeep and played the phone message through the Bluetooth sync on the radio speaker. “Sean, please call me when you get this. It’s Nick. I’m worried about him.”

O’Brien blew out a breath. “You’re next Kim. I promise.” He called Laura and asked, “How’s Max doing?”

“She was the big hit of the birthday party. That little dog can play hide-and-seek as good as the kids. Paula wants a wiener dog.” Laura laughed.

“Has everyone gone home?”

“The last child was picked up an hour ago. Katie and Les left about fifteen minutes ago. The only person still here is Cory. He’s helping me with the dishes.” She glanced across the kitchen to where Cory Nelson was hand-drying a wine glass.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Maybe the three of us can have some coffee and a slice of birthday cake.”

“Sounds good, Sean.”

O’Brien accelerated the Jeep, dialing Kim. She answered and said, “I’m worried about Nick. Are you near the marina?”

“About a half hour away. Where’s Nick?”

“On his boat, I think. With a woman.”

“Sounds like Nick.”

“She’s definitely not Nick’s type. She’s sophisticated and subtle, but really good at getting people to talk. That’s not hard with Nick, especially after a few drinks.”

“What did she ask him?”

“I couldn’t hear everything, even though Nick’s voice carries across a room. They sat at the bar drinking Ouzo and eating oysters. Then I saw them leave, walking down L dock toward Nick’s boat. I’m sure Nicky can take care of himself, but what really got my attention was when I heard her mention your name. I was waiting on another customer at the time, but I did catch her asking about charter boat rentals, fishing guides, etcetera, and she slipped in your name. ‘Tell me about Sean O’Brien,’ she said to Nick. She asked him if you were chartering your boat. You rarely do that anymore. Where’d she get your name?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be there soon.”

Dave Collins set a bag of groceries on the dock, fishing in his pocket to find a key to unlock the gate entrance to L dock. Closing the gate behind him, he spotted the woman leaving Nick’s boat. Although Dave was more than two hundred feet away, he could tell there was something different about the woman. Perhaps it was her clothing, more fashionable than what most of the women wore getting on or off Nick’s boat. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Perfect posture. An unruffled, unflappable look.

Dave continued walking, stopping to fake an interest in something, keeping the woman in his peripheral vision. He watched a brown pelican sail over the marina, alighting on the roof of a fifty-foot houseboat, smoke curling up from the closed cover of a smoker grill on the boat’s transom. The scent of broiled grouper and corn-on-the-cob drifted in the air with the odor of marine varnish.

He watched the woman step from Nick’s boat onto the dock. He assumed she’d soon be walking past him, her eyes trained straight ahead, her thoughts hidden.

He was wrong.

She stepped off St. Michael, casually glancing around the marina, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, her body language unrehearsed, moving in an slow stroll. She strode past Sean O’Brien’s boat, walking the remaining seventy-five feet toward the end of the dock.

Dave walked slowly, the woman in his sight. She looked at a gleaming white Hatteras moored in the deeper water at the end of the dock. After less than a minute, she lifted a phone to her ear and began heading back toward Nick’s boat. And then, with no hesitation, she snaked down the side dock where Sean’s boat, Jupiter, was tied. She stepped onto Jupiter’s cockpit. In less than thirty seconds, she entered the boat, closing the door behind her.

“Trouble in paradise,” Dave mumbled, walking quickly to Nick’s boat. He stepped onto St. Michael’s cockpit. Approached the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. He entered. For a second, he thought Nick was dead. Dave ran to the couch where Nick lay sprawled, his body rigid, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

“Nick! Hold on, Nick.” Dave felt for a pulse, touching Nick’s stiff arms and legs, checking for signs of blood. “What happened?”

Nick whispered, “The woman…she…I can’t feel my legs.”

Dave glanced at the glasses on the coffee table. He lifted the empty glass, a residue of ouzo in the bottom. He sniffed the rim of the glass. “Hold on, Nick. I’ll get you medical help.”

Dave punched 911 on his phone. When the operator answered, he said, “There’ been a poisoning in Ponce Marina. Send an ambulance. It’s 4561 Riverview Drive, on L dock. The victim is on a boat called St. Michael. Please roll immediately.”