you know that?" he asked.
"Just lucky," I told him. "What happened to the boat? What did you call it, the Boomer ?"
"Like I told you, the fire was out there in the middle of the south end of the lake. We couldn't leave it there, what with float planes landing and taking off. We had it towed back to Tyree's moorage at Montlake Marina, over here by the bridge. The owner says the rent is paid through the end of the month." Harrison's eyes narrowed. "How come you're so interested in all this, Beau? You're not working this case, are you?"
"Curiosity more than anything else," I answered. I put down my cup, thanked Harrison for the coffee, and took off before he had a chance to ask me any more questions. I couldn't have given him a better answer, because there wasn't a better answer to give.
I got back in the Porsche and sat there for a moment without starting the engine, trying to sort out exactly what was going on. No, I wasn't working the case. Playing was more like it.
When I finally started the car and got going, I pulled up to the stop sign at North Northlake Way. I had two choices. I could go right and go back home, or I could turn left and drive past the Montlake Marina.
I turned left.
CHAPTER 5
O nce you've seen a burned-out fiberglass boat, you don't forget it in a hurry. It's a scary sight.
Just as Harrison had told me, Logan Tyree's Chris-Craft Boomer had burned right down to the waterline. Most of the wheelhouse had disappeared, melted into a gaping hole in the deck. What little was left of the superstructure was lined with an eerie fringe of blackened icicles which were actually melted fiberglass. It had obviously been one hell of a fire.
If Logan Tyree had been blown clear by the force of the explosion, he must have died instantly. On that score, I counted him among the lucky ones. To my way of thinking, instant death is preferable to enduring the well-meaning tortures of a burn unit's intensive care. If that ever happened to me, I'd want to go quick.
"Were you a friend of his?"
Startled by the sound of a voice, I turned from studying the charred wreckage to see a wizened old man limp onto the dock from a peeling junker of a boat that looked more like a derelict tug than anything else. The deck was cluttered with an odd assortment of mismatched patio furniture and the unassembled parts of several bicycles. Two lines of clean laundry hung lifeless from wires strung between the cabin and the bow.
"I'm a police officer," I said, flipping open my identification wallet to show him my badge.
"Your friends have already come and gone if that's who you're looking for," he said. He was smoking a cigarette. He finished it and tossed the stub into the water between the two boats, where it disappeared with a minute sizzle. At first I thought the man was entirely bald, but closer inspection revealed his head was covered with a thin fuzz of iron-gray hair. The unshaven stubble on his jaws was much more plentiful. If he owned a set of dentures, he wasn't wearing them.
He ran one hand over the top of his head and then reached quickly for a baseball cap which stuck out of a frayed hip pocket. "Chemotherapy," he explained self-consciously, covering his scraggly head. "The name's Red Corbett." He held out his hand in greeting. The jutting toothless chin evidently didn't bother him the way his bald head did. His handshake was firm and thorough enough to belong to an old-time politician.
"Those other guys told me to keep everyone away, but I suppose it's all right for you to be here. After all, you're one of them."
Not exactly, but I didn't disabuse him of the notion. "Who told you to keep an eye out? Detective Davis or maybe Detective Kramer?"
The old man nodded. "That last one. At least I think that was his name." He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bedraggled package of unfiltered Camels, and offered one to me.
"No thanks," I said. "I don't smoke."
He paused long enough to extract a cigarette and light it with a
"Just lucky," I told him. "What happened to the boat? What did you call it, the Boomer ?"
"Like I told you, the fire was out there in the middle of the south end of the lake. We couldn't leave it there, what with float planes landing and taking off. We had it towed back to Tyree's moorage at Montlake Marina, over here by the bridge. The owner says the rent is paid through the end of the month." Harrison's eyes narrowed. "How come you're so interested in all this, Beau? You're not working this case, are you?"
"Curiosity more than anything else," I answered. I put down my cup, thanked Harrison for the coffee, and took off before he had a chance to ask me any more questions. I couldn't have given him a better answer, because there wasn't a better answer to give.
I got back in the Porsche and sat there for a moment without starting the engine, trying to sort out exactly what was going on. No, I wasn't working the case. Playing was more like it.
When I finally started the car and got going, I pulled up to the stop sign at North Northlake Way. I had two choices. I could go right and go back home, or I could turn left and drive past the Montlake Marina.
I turned left.
CHAPTER 5
O nce you've seen a burned-out fiberglass boat, you don't forget it in a hurry. It's a scary sight.
Just as Harrison had told me, Logan Tyree's Chris-Craft Boomer had burned right down to the waterline. Most of the wheelhouse had disappeared, melted into a gaping hole in the deck. What little was left of the superstructure was lined with an eerie fringe of blackened icicles which were actually melted fiberglass. It had obviously been one hell of a fire.
If Logan Tyree had been blown clear by the force of the explosion, he must have died instantly. On that score, I counted him among the lucky ones. To my way of thinking, instant death is preferable to enduring the well-meaning tortures of a burn unit's intensive care. If that ever happened to me, I'd want to go quick.
"Were you a friend of his?"
Startled by the sound of a voice, I turned from studying the charred wreckage to see a wizened old man limp onto the dock from a peeling junker of a boat that looked more like a derelict tug than anything else. The deck was cluttered with an odd assortment of mismatched patio furniture and the unassembled parts of several bicycles. Two lines of clean laundry hung lifeless from wires strung between the cabin and the bow.
"I'm a police officer," I said, flipping open my identification wallet to show him my badge.
"Your friends have already come and gone if that's who you're looking for," he said. He was smoking a cigarette. He finished it and tossed the stub into the water between the two boats, where it disappeared with a minute sizzle. At first I thought the man was entirely bald, but closer inspection revealed his head was covered with a thin fuzz of iron-gray hair. The unshaven stubble on his jaws was much more plentiful. If he owned a set of dentures, he wasn't wearing them.
He ran one hand over the top of his head and then reached quickly for a baseball cap which stuck out of a frayed hip pocket. "Chemotherapy," he explained self-consciously, covering his scraggly head. "The name's Red Corbett." He held out his hand in greeting. The jutting toothless chin evidently didn't bother him the way his bald head did. His handshake was firm and thorough enough to belong to an old-time politician.
"Those other guys told me to keep everyone away, but I suppose it's all right for you to be here. After all, you're one of them."
Not exactly, but I didn't disabuse him of the notion. "Who told you to keep an eye out? Detective Davis or maybe Detective Kramer?"
The old man nodded. "That last one. At least I think that was his name." He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bedraggled package of unfiltered Camels, and offered one to me.
"No thanks," I said. "I don't smoke."
He paused long enough to extract a cigarette and light it with a
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