Chapter One
Corpus Christi, Texas is a good example of geography creating civilization where intelligent humans would'nt have bothered. It's dusty country down here; it's hot, and at times it seems as though some gargantuan Davy Jones delights in sending every single storm in the Gulf right over the Corpus Christi ship channel.
I was racing to beat such a storm now. Running before the storm for the last 18 hours had nearly used up my inherent insomnia, and I gave silent thanks for the Bendix Iron Mike which had given me a much needed hand running at high speed. The Raytheon collision avoidance radar was, of course, wired to the autopilot and I had set it to self adjust our course if the range closed below 1500 yards. Even then I hadn't been able to really sleep, but just sitting in the cockpit with my eyes closed was a big help.
I took one last look at the storm front on the radar and checked the first sea buoy. We would make it with about 15 minutes to spare. I settled back in the seat and edged the throttles back a bit, letting my mind wander.
* * * * * * * *
The operation was set up in Mobile, Alabama by Ricky Lawrence; a five thousand advance with twenty more upon delivery. Three hundred tired M-14s and twenty thousand rounds of 7.62 NATO nmmo. Because of the sensitive nature of the cargo, loading would be at a position described only by latitude and longitude on a chart.
Initially I had demurred. FIrst of all, I don't like two boat operations. Second, a couple hundred M-14s would put "Poppyseed" perilously close to a full load. And finally, though I didn't object to others running the show, I didn't have any faith at all in Ricky's ability to keep quiet.
But Ricky had whined and moaned about all the money and how tough a year he'd had and how in the hell could he make anything in the world if there wasn't anyone willing to take a chance for the big bucks. He sneered that it took a real runner to do guns, and it looked like he was the only one around with guts enough to handle it. After all, twenty five grand should be enough money to do about anything for anyone, even if you didn't have any balls.
I could've used the money. Ricky wasn't kidding about a tough year, and it extended back beyond that. I needed that money, and Ricky's insults and theatrics were the last straw. So I took the job.
We loaded the arms in the cockpit and made landfall off the east end of Cuba about 3:00 a.m. We unloaded, collected our money and left. It was all so easy I had just about decided that Ricky wasn't so bad when the calm was shattered by a burst of machine gun fire from the Cuban gunboat sneaking inshore of us and Ricky's Bertram opened up like a flower on the horizon. The bullets tore at the top of the superstructure, and I heard a grunt as Mick fell to the floor, clutching his leg.
We lost the gunboat, with an assist from the weather, but the evasion left us eight hundred miles from home with marginal fuel, a shot-up boat, sundry assorted wounds bleeding away, and one hell of a storm behind us. I was so busy patching up I didn't even have time to curse.
I charged up the channel, the gas gauges boucing on "Empty" and totally ignoring the 5 knot speed limit because if I didn't get to the marina and and get roped in, the storm might still get me. I passed a Coast Guard cutter, a ninety-five footer, in the gloom and became the object of some startled study. quickly forgotten.
I swung around the channels curves, picking my way half by instinct and suddenly the marina loomed in front of me. The boat sighed as it dropped off plane and I eased around into my berth where the two dock boys quickly began forming a protective web which would keep my boat safe in the coming storm. I killed the engines, and the silence made me lighthearted. The familiar surroundings were like those of a silent bedroom, after a particularly hideous nightmare.
An hour later, I stepped from the shower and toweled off briskly. Outside, the wind blew strongly and rain beat against the ports, but the marina was well sheltered and the boat rocked only slightly. I dressed and stepped inot the main cabin, lit cigarette, feeling the tension slip from my body.
Across the cabin, Mick grinned at me. Wound cleaned, clothes changed and fortified with a thick roast beef sandwich and a tall scotch, he was now finally relaxed.I took his temperature and was agreeably pleased. A night's rest and Mick could maybe hobble around a little. His temperature was normal and he reported the pain was subsiding. I shook my head at him fondly.
"Don't you know when people are shooting at us, you're supposed to duck?"
Mick smiled lazily and finished his sandwich in one huge bite, washing it down with some of his scotch.
"Shepard, your instincts are imminently correct, but if you will consider the facts briefly, you will realize that had I ducked, as you suggest, the wound located in my left thigh would quite possibly be located in my left temple. This being so, I consider the leg wound imminently satisfatory." He finished the scotch in ine long wallow. "Besides, you bastard, I didn't hear you yelling 'Duck' when that son of a bitch started shooting at us. You were to busy tying to hide under the captain' chair." He swung his leg off the couch and staggered to his feet. "I'm going to bed. I'm getting too old to ignore bullet wounds anymore."
I gave him a shoulder and laughing at his hopping gait, we went to bed, forgetting the horror of the last two days.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 2
Mick's injury was nasty looking, but not as serious as I had earlier thought. He'd been standing still on the deck abd the bullet had entered his thigh just above the knee in the back and exited just about an inch higher in the front. Incredibly, it had missed both the boneand the major arteries in his leg, but during those frantic hours of flight he'd lost a lot of blood. The blood was partly replaced with fluids and while Mick was weak, rest and food would do him more good than anything. The wound would heal without much attention other than cleaning. Fortunately, military ammunition is jacketed and the bullet hadn't mushroomed at all, making a neat, clean hole and tearing up very little flesh.
My wounds were confined to a few splinters and one furrow across my shoulder. This latter had stiffened me up but was also healing nicely.
The boat, however, was another matter entirely. Ours was a private marina, but mant tenants subleased their boats during the off-season. This meant curious eyes would soon be about and someone was bound to notice bullet holes. Even if they didn't recognie them for what they were, the damage would be difficult to explain.
In addition, we had been holed below the water line and the bilge pump had run all night. Aside from that, there was some damage to the starboard engine as it would only pull 3500 rpm, far below its design capability of 6000.
So, in the brassy glow of sunrise, I backed out of our slip and headed down the channel, Mick propped up beside up beside me in the cockpit.
I turned off Iron Mike, and eased toward the Texaco marine fueling dock ahead...since we were on the ebb tide, I was using the port engine only in an attempt to save further damage to the injured starboard mill. The tide saved us when the port engine quit dead 10 feet from the dock. We drifted in, tanks, dry as a bone.
We fueled light, taking only seventy gallons on, even though the tanks would hold ten times that. We would be at Sleepy's for long enough that the gas would conceivably stagnate in the tanks, and besides, SLeepy sold fuel at his place. I'd rather give my dollar to a friend anytime.
I picked up a case of 20W-50 for the boat as I might have to tear down both mills and each held about 9 quarts plus one in the filter. Ten quarts is a lot, but it helps to have extra in the engine when they operate at 200+ degrees. Just a small precaution.
Once underway again, I ducked below and made 2 cups of instant coffee, adding a generous shot to each and carried them up to the cockpit. Mick and I sipped our coffee and watched the harbor awaken as we departed. Conditions normal. One would never know by looking that a storm ahd smashed through 12 hours wrlier.
Once clear of the channel we came around to the SW, down the Laguna Madre and cranked up the port engine to about 16-17 knots. It was comfortable, though not brisk. Mick looked over and gave me a nearly normal grin. The last 3 days faded like a bad dream.
Sleepy Stone's Deluxe Boatyard, Marina and Launch Ramp lay about 35 miles south of the Corpus Christi Channel bouy on particularly scrufty section of coast. It was accessible by boat, plane and auto, though this last had never been popular. The proprietor, Sleepy Stone himself, was a genial giant of a man, an ex-runner of whatever, who was a little smarter than most. He made his stake, married the best and retired to run the least advertised boatyard on the Gulf Coast. It seemed that every federal, state and local agency ever created wanted him shut down for some reason, but Sleepy ran a straight place with straight books and since the place was nearly inaccessible by anything resembling a government auto, he remained in business. His profits came from fast dependable service, a a penchant for talking about anything except other people's business, and a willingness to help anyone, anyplace, at any time.
Sleepy's boatyard included two launching cranes and a skid for my boat. I figured we might as well get this floating junkpile right out of the water and properly repaired while we mended ourselves. This we could do at Sleepy's too, for in addition to beingan old and valued friend, Sleepy Stone was also my brother-in-law.
My sisiter Jan,had come West after mom died and had stayed with me for about a month. Mick had gone home to Jamaic for a visit and the boat had seemed empty, even with the temporary tenants which every single man aspires to have. Her arrival coincided with the departure of my latest guest and since I like her as a friend as well as a sister, she moved aboard.
For a month it was like we were kids together again. Jan was five years younger than my thirty- three, and we had been apart for twelve years. She had grown up to become a poised, attractive, intelligent young woman. We picked up the threads of what was once a very close relationship and found little change in each other. Each day our mutual regard grew and it was a pleasant time for us both.
Unfortunately, Mick was due back from Jamaica in a week and I was forced to start thinking of what I could do with my kid sister, short of pitching her off the stern. I was totally preoccupied this problem one afternoon when a hail from the stern aroused me. A minute later Sleepy Stone stuck his head in the cabin and invited me up for a beer.
When I came topside, he had my ice chest open and was popping the tops off two cans. He handed me one and collapsedinto a deck chair, boneless as a cat.
We talked quietly about his marina, my boat, his ew "Toy", a 36 foot cigarette powered by a big Chevy marine V-8. As a matter of fact, the beast was tied up to the stern of the Poppyseed, and only my deep thoughts had prevented my hearing his arrival.
"That l'il sumbitch is about the fastest, meanest, most unstable bastard I ever drove," Sleepy said. "Go too slow and it wallows and bounces around something fierce. Hit it too hard and it damn near comes up over on you. Won't carry but four people and a 6-pack and if you don't roast from the sun, you'll drown from the spray."
"Going to sell it?"
"Nope."
Just then Jan came topside. SInce our slip was at the end of the pier, we had no neighbors and few curious passersby. Because of this our dress code was casual in the extreme. Jan was dressed in a screaming red nylon blouse, sleeveless, and what looked like the bottoms to her black velvet bikini. She was still rubbing sleep from her eyes as she came up the ladder. She saw me sitting on the rail and thinking we were alone, she flipped her eyelashes as me, push up her hair behind her head, thrust out her chest and cooed, "What'cha doin', big brother?" One second too late she saw Sleepy. Face the color of her sunburn, gray eyes full of sleepy confusion, she was a fetching picture indeed and Sleepy was hooked like a big tuna.
I looked at Sleepy and chuckled silently to myself, for Jan, fully dressed had been known to render strong men powerless, and dressed as she was she could've subverted the Pope, hands down. I performed the introduction and everyon'es apomb was recovered, although Jan moved down to the stern and kept her back turned for a few seconds. Her voice floated back us, "Oh Paul! Who owns this boat this boat? I want a ride!"
Sleepy rose and moved astern, I heard his deep voice and heard her answer him and then they were climbing into the cicargette and casting off.
I figured maybe a 15 minute run around the bay and maybe a brief hop outside where the boat could be let out a little bit. Thrill the girl no end. What the hell... Sleepy and I had been friends for years and I would've trusted him with everything I had. Even my sister. I gulped my beer and reached for another.
However, after an hour or so, I was almost ready to revise my estimates of Sleepy's morality. And when the sun set, several hours after, that I was getting a little edgy. Another ten minutes and I'd call the Harbor Patrol and the Coast Guard.
Just then I felt the boat shift slightly as someone came up the gangway. It was Jan. Fully dressed and made up fit to kill. She was big-eyed and silent and clutched a beach bag in her hand.
I gestured, "Drink?" She sat down gently, absently. "A double. About 3 drops of water over 2 ice cubes."
I built the drink, substantially as ordered. She swallowed two gulps, choked and gasped, sat up, looked around and her presence returned.
"Paul tell me every single thing you know about Sleepy Stone."
"But..."
"No buts. Everything."
So I talked. I told her about Sleepy and me working together and his retirement and the marina and everything I could about his life. I talked 'til early morning. When I finished, Jan rose and headed for her cabin.
"Night brother. And thanks."
"Jan, tell me why, huh?"
She stopped. Turned around and smiled. "Because I'm getting married to him tomorrow and I had to know." Disappeared. Since there was nothing else to do, I followed her example.
* * * * *
"Hey Paul! Wake up, huh?"
I came to with a start and looked around. Mick smiled his lazy smile and held up an empty cup.
"Fill it up?" I picked up my own.
"Yeah, but easy on the octne. One more like that and I'll swim to Sleepy's."
I laughed as I headed below and brewed up two more cups. When I returned I took the 8 x 50 glasses and studied the coast to port. We could make the turn in for Sleepy's boatyard in about 45 minutes. Until then we should probably stand off the coast in deep water. Poppyseed draws about 7 feet and the last thing we needed was more holes in the damn hull.
Sleepy must've been watching for us because as soon as we rounded the point his voice boomed out over and the Midland, "Hidey, Paul. Put 'er in the portside crane slip. We'll pull you right on out."
"Hokay, boss. Put on the pot, we'll be with you in about five." I shut off the radio and put over two fenders on each side.
As we eased into the slip, the crane towering overhead, I looked up at the house and saw a handkerchief waving from the window, I let go with one long blast on the horn and waved back. Sleepy handled the lines himself. He put two over and then jumped aboard and raced back to the cockpit, smiling face turning serious as he saw the bullet holes. As he entered, his first words were, "Do you need a doc?" I shook my head and he relaxed.
After we shook hands all around, Sleepy looked at Mick, "Awright, you worthless bastard. Can you walk or should we call an ambulance."
Mick grunted at Sleepy. "If I needed an ambulance around here, the vultures would have my ass while I waited for it." Between us we eased Mick over the rail onto the pier and headed for the house, leaving Poppyseed to be pulled from the water by Sleepy's dockhands.
Once in the house, I got a hug from Jan, a kiss from Shannon, my niece, and a cup of coffee from Tia Marie, the Stone's housekeeper. Mick was installed in the La-Z-Boy recliner, coffee in hand, and we proceeded to tell all. When we finished Jan shook her head angrily. "Paul, you promised me. No more guns. You promised!! And then you go right ahead and go anyway.! Why in the hell do you bother lying to me?" Suddenly her eyes filled and she left hurriedly, earning me a glare from Tia Maria and a reproachful glance from Shannon.
"What about Ricky?" inquired Sleepy?
I made a face. "If there's two pieces of him to attach to each other left, I'd be surprised. That bastard went up like the Fourth of July. Looked like an RPG round right in the auxillary tanks."
Sleepy shrugged, "Too bad. Ricky wasn't favorite eople, but he brought me plenty of business. And right now I could use some extra."
"After we get done you can take that vacation in Rome you've been wanting. We're really tore up." Mick's scowl was for the damage only.
Jan came back, eyes reddened. "I'm sorry, guys. But please try to be more careful next time, huh>" You two have to support me in my old age."
Sleepy rose. "Come one, Paul, let's go up and look at your Cuban sieve. Maybe there's hope for it yet." His voice was only half kidding.
We walked down to the yard and saw that the crew had finished with the Poppyseed. She rested in her skid across from the crane slip, still dripping. We walked around it looking for the holes. We moved around to the starboard and I saw them. Three holes the size of my thumb about six inches apart and 4 feet below the waterline. We had been rolling in heavy seas and the bullets must have caught us rolling to port. We searched the rest of the hull but could find no further damage. The crew had put the accomodation ramp next to the boat and we went aboard. I had tried, up to now, to avoid looking at the damage, but now I could set that, cosmetically, the boat's superstructure was a mess. We counted 63 bullet holes in the bulkheads, alone, and the flying bridge controls were a total loss. Glass was everywhere. Splinters of fiberglass and wood crunched underfoot and there was the smell of burned wiring in the cockpit.
Below decks was more bad news. The 3 bullets which had entered the hull had all hit the star board engine. The first had severed the blower belt and continuing back, had entered the blower casing and smashed the vanes to junk. The second had torn across the top of the motor severing vacuum lines and smashing the vapor injector lines to pieces. The third had hit farther back, lodging in and unbalancing the flywheels.
Sleepy looked at me. "You say this channel marker actually ran? You could donate this thing, as is, to the Society of Automotive Engineers museum to prove that making a bunch of junk run ain't so tough."
I examined the smasher supercharger. It was good for a float test, anyway. "How much?" I knew Sleepy had been adding in his head.
Sleepy examined his nails. "Jesus, Paul, I don't know. I'll have to add it all up. Ask me later, O.K.?"
"That bad, huh?"
Sleepy stood, banged his head, cursed, "Look, I'm not gonna kid you. That mill is nine grand if I can rebuild it and sixteen if you burnt up the block. And that's only if Donovan has 417 gas block around to sell. God forgive a fool like you for putting these bastard things in. You ought to go Chevy, like everyone else. They have a parts system, anyway."
This was our constant argument. Sleppy was a strong backer of CHevy Marine, but I had installed two Dovovan 417 racing engines for their increased power. Almost 1000 horse pack on gasoline. My 42 foot Cruiser, Ltd. hull was capable of cruising at 30-35 knots with a top speed of 55 knots - in calm water. A similar hull with Chevy was 3-5 knots slower. A simple choice really. No amount of money would make those Chevy's run any faster on pump gas, so I spent the extra buckas and got the best. Now, however, I would pay for my decisions. There was nothing to be done now but wait for the boat and us to heal. It would take awhile.
But, as we headed for the house I found myself thinking, why not? After all, we had all the time in the world.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 3
It had taken three weeks of agonizing labor, but Poppyseed was back in the water and healthy again. So, for the most part, was her crew, although Mick still limped around and groaned every morning.
We had returned to our slip at the marina in Corpus Christi to better continue our convalescence, and life was definitely showing signs of returning to normal. With the onset of the tourist season, the marina teemed with fresh young female faces and bodies; some familiar and some new, but all interesting
Mick and I weren't exactly antisocial, and with the multitude of talent around, either of us could have used an extra 8 hours every day. Girls come and went faster than a Kluxer at a Black Muslim convention. It got so bad I printed up a sign saying, 'Would our mystery guests for today enter and sign in, please?' just so I could keep track of her name.
However, even Nirvana becomes tarnished after a while, and after about my twenty-ninth Excedrin Headache #92 (the morning after the night before) I decided it was time to find another job. Maybe even a nice legal charter. When I approached Mick about seeking gainful employment, he nodded.
"If I don't go back to work, this vacation stuff is gonna do me in."
Therefore, that afternoon we showered and changed and headed into town to finish our richly enjoyed vacation.
We ate dinner at one of the small restaurants on the bay said of town and afterwards went to Reynaldo's, a bar near the marina which catered mostly to the crews of the working boats in the area. It was quiet and served good drinks for reasonable prices. Reynaldo came over to greet us, and the three of us talked for some time, mostly about the incredibly constant run of good weather and the effect of it on the local economy. Reynaldo had an ear out for any work in our line available, but we never talked business except in private.
Then too, the weather was unusual for this time of year, for this was the hurricane season, and the only thing constant about this area during the hurricane season is its unpredictability. Storms move very fast this time of year, and to have three consecutive days the same is unusual. Five days is remarkable, and we hadn't seen one cloud for over a week. But it was a real boom, as the charters were working all day, every day and were making money hand over fist. Reynaldo remarked that business was definitely improving in the bar and said that other area proprietors had experienced a similar lift. In his case it was just that his regular customers had more money to spend, though, not an influx of new business.
We left Reynaldo's at about eleven o'clock and visited several other of our regular haunts, drinking lightly but sociably and invoking no interest from anyone. It was near two when, by common consent, we headed back for the marina. We parked the pickup and startled down the dock. A sound arrested my attention and a touch on my arm indicated Mick had heard it also. A murmur of voices from the beach punctuated by the two things of fists and several stifled cries, feminine. Cloth ripped and abruptly there was a curse and the sound of running feet. I couldn't see anything, but as we stood at the dock's edge, over the beach.
Mick left my side and jumped, a silent, cat-like bound over the edge.My vision useless, I strained to hear him land, but instead of an almost silent thump, I heard a considerably louder crack followed by rather sloppy, sack of potato thumps. Knowing nothing and a curious, worried, I did the only sensible thing at the moment, I jumped after him, I fell about 8 feet and landed without incident.
I arose, congratulating myself, and turned it to where Mick should've been, just in time to run head-on into a small nylon clad freight train. I'm not sure about the time I noticed her coming, she had arrived. But it was white and brief, not something normally displayed in public. Lacking any semblance of breath, I struggled to regain both my feet and some much desired oxygen.
The girl was stretched at my feet. I discovered the fact by tripping over her inert form. Lying across her body on the sand, I considered the odds involved should I stand up again. Having regained my night vision (I had seen some very bright stars) I decided to stay put and look around first, so raising my head I peered owlishly through the gloom. A prone form to my right marked Mick's landing place. I watched him for a few seconds, but he showed no signs of life.
I looked to the left and saw another form, still and still. I cautiously moved to attain my feet.
"Mick" I called softly. No Reply. I heard a sound, whirled with the agility of a three-legged rhino, staggered and finally managed to attain some sort of equilibrium. The girl was brushing herself off and considering her present condition she was remarkably composed.
"Can I borrow your shirt, or would you just rather that I went away?"
Her voice quivered only a hair.
Avoiding comment, I removed my shirt and tossed it to her. Without waiting to see if she made use of it, I turned toward the pair of figures on the beach.
I bent over and checked Mick's pulse. Normal. I shook him gently. A groan followed by silence and cautious exploration ensued until finally Mick sat up, holding his head. I left him to his own misery and turned to the other body.Checked cautiously. No pulse. No respiration. Unquestionably dead. I investigated briefly, finding no visible wounds or other marks.
From behind me, Mick spoke "A guy in bathing trunks hit me like a Mack trunk. Any license number?" Mick joined me and silently we pondered the question. Then Mick spoke,"This guy didn't hit me; he's dressed. So why would he die right here? Of fright? He's not wet, so he didn't drown, and he sure didn't just grow here."
Remembering the girl, I turned to where she had been, but the beach was deserted. I grunted derisively. SO why not? In her state, she probably figured home was where the heart belonged. Seeing Mick's questioning glance, I told all. He shook his head. "This whole thing smells. In two minutes, the only two things on the beach a corpse and us. No witnesses, no evidence, no nothing. Where's your shirt?"
"The girl was last seen wearing it."
Mick swore, "Laundry marks are easy to trace, and the predictable thing for us to do would have been to leave Mr. X here and go about our business. And when Mr.X is found here in the morning, a piece for shirttail in his clutching hand, where are the CCDD boys going to come first?"
I studied the body. "But if MR.X had a heart attack all we would get was publicity, which though it'd embarrassing would not be crippling. BUT...."
"But if Mr. X here didn't die of a heart attack, we won't be out of jail for 99 years," Mick finished.
"So", I finished, "we'll just have to do our public duty and call the police now."
Mick went on checking for injury while I made the call. The desk sergeant sounded bored over the phone, but I had barely returned when two cars, a black and white and a nondescript sedan roared up, waking the entire marina with the noise.
Two detectives disembarked and, followed by one uniformed officer came up flashing their badges for identity, as if I didn't know. The short detective spoke first. "Pratt, homicide. You the one who called?" His finger punched my chest.
I nodded. He turned to the patrolman irritably. "Goddammit, Stokes, if I told you once, I told you a hundred times, don't leave the radio unattended. Now get up there and check in.
I took them down to them down to the beach and pointed out the reticent facts. The short detective searched the body, coming up with a wallet containing about $300, along with identification belonging to one George Brown. The detective continued to search and seemed puzzled when he turned up nothing else. He glanced up at me.
"Did you search this guy? 'Cause that wallet is all there is and that seems odd to me, Shepard."
"How so?"
"Because everyone has some assorted junk in their pockets. The tag ends of life. Car keys, motel keys, pocket knife, loose change, laundry slips, you know, that kind of garbage."
I smiled and finished the thought for him. "And nobody carries a new billfold with a minimum of personal items, a couple of hundred bucks, and a dime-a-dozen like George Brown."
The tall detective spoke, "You know Mr. Shepard, that was a neat deduction for a civilian. What would we find if we pulled your jacket? Maybe two, three bum raps or maybe a short fall? You are very interesting people to be finding bodies on the beach at 3 a.m., Mr. Shepard. You add two and two in your head and get four when we do. But you ain't supposed to be doing that, Mr. Shepard."
The short detective stiffened and stood up quickly. "Harv, go up and tell Stokes to get us a wagon out here and call the coroner, and get us the investigative unit, right away. Hurry up, Harv. Get going. And wait for them at the car."
Harv cursed, but there was no doubt about who was the boss. He stumbled up the bank calling for Stokes in a hoarse voice. He disappeared into the gathering fog.
The short detective shook his head, "You'll have to excuse Harv, Mr. Shepard. Last year he found his little brother on the beach on the north side of the bay, dead of an overdose. Ever since then, he goes mental around water."
I lit a cigarette. "Forget it. After what happened tonight, nothing would be disturbing. Even that." I took a deep drag. "If you're finished I'll hit the hay. I'm a little beat."
He nodded. "Just a few routine questions we can get answered any time. Where do you live?"
I pointed in the general location of the boat.
"Okay Mr. Shepard. Have a good night and don't worry about Harv, I'll straighten him out."
I raised a hand and walked away. I wasn't worried about Harv. I was worried about detective Pratt who, I was sure, would be back with some searching questions for us.
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