JAKE POTTER POURED himself a cup of the dockmaster’s coffee and gazed out the window at the yachts in their slips. This state cop, Young, from Maine had something real good going, he reflected. Multiple murders, serial killer, mucho publicity in the Boston papers and TV. Jake didn’t like state cops; they always wanted to come in and take over a local investigation. They’d had a real good murder on Nantucket the previous summer, and the Massachusetts state cops were all over it like flies before Jake and his colleagues had really had a chance to break it.
He turned to the dockmaster. “Tell you what, Charlie,” he said, setting down his coffee cup and starting to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll go down there and check out Hotshot.”
“Whatever,” Charlie said, hardly looking up from his computer.
Jake took off his uniform shirt and his cap and hung them on a coatrack beside the door of the office. Now he was just a guy in a white T-shirt and khaki pants. He pulled the tail of his T-shirt out and pulled it down over his gun belt, then he left the office and walked down the ramp to the docks, moving slowly, as was his wont. He strolled down to dock 3 and turned right. Long lines of yachts stretched out for many yards on both sides of the walkway.
Jake counted out the berths as he walked, not actually using his fingers, but moving his lips as he read the numbers. He came to berth 14. Two young men were lounging in the cockpit, drinking beer. Neither fit the description of the suspects. Jake walked down the catwalk alongside the yacht and stood next to the cockpit, maybe eight feet from where the two boys sat. They glanced at him, then went back to their conversation, dismissing any importance he might have.
They think I’m just another tourist, Jake thought with satisfaction. “Ahoy, there,” he said.
One of the boys looked up at him. “Ahoy?” He chuckled. “What can we do for you, Popeye?”
“I’m looking for two twins,” he consulted his notebook, “named Edwin and Elmer Stone?”
“Eben and Enos,” the boy corrected.
“Yeah, them. Are they aboard?”
The boy waved a hand. “You see them?”
“Are they downstairs?”
“Downstairs?”
“Down there,” Jake said, pointing at the cabin. He hated these Boston pups, the arrogant little sons of bitches.
“There’s just us,” the boy said.
“Where can I find, uh…”
“Eben and Enos?”
“Yeah.”
“They went ashore a few minutes ago.”
“Where ashore?”
“They had some stuff to buy, beer and stuff.”
“When are they coming back?”
“Who knows? We don’t sail until tomorrow.”
“They got a phone call up at the dockmaster’s office.”
The boy shrugged. “What can I tell you?”
“They got a cell phone number I can send the call to?”
“Yeah.” The boy made a little face to show he was trying to remember, then he spat out a number. “Try them on that.”
“Got it,” Jake said, scribbling the number in his notebook. “Thanks, guys.” He turned and walked back up the dock.
THE TWO BOYS WAITED until he was twenty feet away before they burst out laughing. One of them took a cell phone from his pocket and tapped in a number.
“Hello?”
“Which one is this?”
“Enos.”
“A cop was just at the boat,” he said. “Like you predicted. Funny guy; he actually said, ‘Ahoy.’”
“Are you sure he was a cop? Was he in uniform?”
“He was wearing a white undershirt and khakis, and shiny black shoes and a web belt with a shiny brass buckle, and he had a white sidewall haircut, and there was a big bulge on his belt. Who else would he be?”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted you and Eben, and I told him you went ashore for beer. He said you had a call at the dockmaster’s office, and I gave him your cell number.”
“Okay.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah, we had a great night with the girls, even if they are underage. Thanks for covering for us; we don’t want to deal with their old man.”
“Do it once for me.”
“You bet.”
BACK AT THE DOCKMASTER’S office, Jake got into his shirt and cap before calling Sergeant Young.
“This is Young.”
“Hey, Jake Potter, in Nantucket.”
“Yes, Jake. What did you find out?”
“I went down to the boat; your boys are here,” Potter replied. “I got their cell phone number for you.” He read it out.
“Yeah, I’ve already got that.”
“You can reach them on that number,” Jake said. “Good luck on your case, and don’t forget who helped you.”
“Thanks, Jake.” Young hung up.
Jake strolled back to his car, got in and began driving slowly up the street, looking for a pair of identical giants carrying beer. He was going to keep an eye on these two, and if they did anything funny, he was going to be all over them.
Sergeant Tom Young put his cell phone back into his shirt pocket. “That was the cop from Nantucket,” he said to Stone.
“They checked out the yacht?”
“Yes. The twins were aboard.”
“So much for that theory,” Stone said.