Twelve
RISING from our table, I leaned over the railing.
Madame sensed my alarm.
“Clare? What is it? What do you see?”
I wasn’t sure, but in the dark water below, a human figure appeared to be pushed along by the white-water wake of a passing barge.
“Do you see a body down there?” I whispered.
She squinted at the river and frowned. “It’s all a blur. I admit vanity is to blame. I left my glasses at home.”
A second look made me doubt my own eyes.
Is it a mannequin? A life-size display standee?
Oddly, it appeared a flotation device of some sort was ballooned beside the figure’s head, obscuring my view of its facial features. As I watched, the sudsy wake from another passing vessel swept the figure closer to the pier. But I still couldn’t tell what it was.
“Shall I summon the hostess?” Madame asked.
“No. I’m not sure what’s down there. I need a closer look.”
“Should I go with you?” Madame began to rise when her eyes went wide and she sat back down. “Oh, my!”
“Are you all right?”
She laughed. “I’m feeling no pain. It’s all those Troubled Waters. They’re finally making waves!”
“The drinks are hitting you. Just stay put. I’ll be right back . . .”
I asked our waiter to bring Madame a pot of coffee. Then I hurried out of the restaurant.
AWAY from the space heaters, the cold was biting. I buttoned my coat as I walked past the lightship. Its festive bar sounds faded as I moved toward land.
Back on the riverbank, I searched for the entrance to another dock, which I noticed ran parallel to Pier 66. No more than a collection of planks, it was really more of an observation deck, offering water-level views of activities on the river.
I found its entrance easily enough, on the north side of the restaurant pier. But at this late hour, the area was shuttered, its overhead lights turned off.
Luckily, a single chain was all that blocked my way, and I was short enough to duck under it. Then I proceeded with caution. I had to. With no exterior lighting, this deserted dock was nearly pitch-black—nearly if not for the residual glow from the antique light tower atop the Frying Pan on the other side of the big pier.
Silently thanking the scrappy old girl for her lofty light, I continued on. Sounds of life faded as I moved out over the river. Water gurgled and growled as it lapped the worn wood piles under my feet. But the omnipresent thunder of Manhattan was muted and distant.
The farther my low boots walked, the blacker my surroundings. Windows of riverfront buildings became little more than pinpoints of plasma, light-years away.
With growing unease, I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out my key chain’s mini flashlight. Its weak power barely penetrated the gloom as I approached the railing at the far end of the platform.
It took me a moment, but I spotted the floating figure again. It was close to the edge of the dock, practically bumping the wooden planks, and once more, I noticed a balloon-like object attached to its form.
I aimed my flashlight at that ballooning bulge.
Though it appeared black in all this darkness, my little light unmasked its true color—bright red with the trademark name Patagonia printed in bold letters. At last, I knew what it was.
A waterproof backpack!
I dropped down to all fours and reached through the railing bars. The wood dug into my knees, the cold leeched through my jeans, and the gap was so narrow the steel bars pinched my upper arm. But I strained as hard as I could to grab that pack.
For all my groping, my fingers merely brushed it, and I ended up nudging the figure farther out of reach!
With a soft curse, I despaired—until another wake, this time from a passing party ship, pushed the figure toward me again. My fingers quickly closed on a strap, and I held on tight. Still on my knees, I tugged at the heavy form with one hand while I directed the flashlight with the other.
The figure slowly turned in the water. Faceup at last, there was no more doubt. My hand was holding the strap of a backpack worn by a human corpse.
Biting back a scream, I gritted my teeth and forced the flashlight beam over the woman’s face.
She was cold and still and appeared to be young—early to mid-twenties. Shoulder-length blond hair with brightly dyed streaks of hot pink floated around her head like rays of light from a center sun.
I noticed a visible gash high up, on the left side of her forehead. And there was something on her face. I steadied the little flashlight for a closer look.
Finally, I saw what it was: a tiny heart-shaped tattoo inked on her left cheek. The sight struck me like a blow. I remembered that tattoo and the girl wearing it.
She was a Village Blend customer.