Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 59

New York City

NED BETTERTON STOOD BY THE ENTRANCE to the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin, staring out at the confusion of yachts, sailboats, and assorted pleasure craft, all rocking gently back and forth in the calm waters of the Hudson. He was wearing the only suit jacket he’d brought along — a blue blazer — and he’d purchased a gaudy ascot that he’d tucked into his collar, along with a white cap placed rakishly on his head. It was not quite six PM, and the sun was rapidly sinking behind the ramparts of New Jersey.

Hands in his pockets, he glanced out at the vessel he’d seen the German motor out to the day before, moored some distance from the docks. It was quite a yacht, gleaming white with three tiers of smoked windows — well over a hundred feet in length. There did not appear to be any activity on board.

Betterton’s leave was up, and the calls from Kranston at the Bee had turned threatening. The man was furious that he himself had to cover the church meetings and other crap. Good — the hell with him. This was a hot lead, this yacht. It just might be his ticket out.

You call yourself a reporter? You couldn’t report your way out of a douche bag! Betterton flushed at the dressing-down Corinne Swanson had given him. That was another reason he was back at the Boat Basin. He knew, somehow or other, Pendergast was involved… and not as an investigator.

It had been the blue blazer, actually, that gave him the idea. He knew it was a common courtesy for yachtsmen anchored in proximity of one another to exchange visits, share drinks, or otherwise pay a courtesy call. He’d pose as a yachtsman, go on board, and see what there was to see. But these were bad guys, drug smugglers — he’d have to play it very, very carefully.

He soon discovered it wouldn’t be as simple as just strolling into the marina. The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence and sported a staffed guardhouse by a closed gate. A big sign read GUESTS BY INVITATION ONLY. The place reeked of money, sealed off from the hoi polloi.

He studied the chain-link fence, which ran along the shore, back from the water, and disappeared into some brush. Making sure no one was watching, he followed the fence into the brush, pushing his way into the growth along the riverbank. And there he found what he was looking for: a low gap.

He squeezed through, rose, brushed himself off, replaced the cap on his head, tugged his jacket smooth, and went walking along the shore, keeping to the brush. After fifty yards he could make out a boathouse ahead, and the beginning of the piers and docks. With another quick adjustment to his attire, he stepped out into the open and quickly scrambled down to the walkway above the pier, then began ambling along it as if he were just another yachtsman taking the air. A marina employee was working on the dock past the boathouse, where several dozen tenders were tied up at numbered spots.

“Good evening,” Betterton said.

The man looked up, greeted him, went back to work.

“I wonder,” Betterton said, “if you’d be willing to take me out to the yacht over there.” He pulled a twenty from his pocket and nodded at the white vessel moored about five hundred yards off.

The man rose. He peered at the twenty, then at Betterton. “The Vergeltung?”

“Right. And please wait there to take me back. I won’t be on board more than five minutes, maybe ten, tops.”

“What’s your business?”

“A courtesy call. One yachtsman to another. I’ve been admiring the boat and thinking of upgrading to something similar, myself. My yacht is over there.” He waved vaguely at the anchorage.

“Well…”

There was a movement within the darkness of the boathouse and another man appeared, maybe thirty-five years old, with faded brown hair and a dark tan despite it being November. “I’ll take him over, Brad,” the new arrival said, scrutinizing Betterton.

“Right, Vic. He’s all yours.”

“And you’ll wait for me while I’m on board?” Betterton asked.

The man nodded, then pointed to one of the marina’s tenders. “Hop in.”