looked shaken.
“She hadda be dead,” he offered.
“Took the top of her head clean off,” Ramón said.
“You seen it?”
“Yeah.”
A long silence ensued. Finally, Gerardo spoke. “What now?”
“We better clean up our other mess,” Ramón said.
Gerardo dropped the Mercedes into DRIVE and started rolling.
8
Tuesday, October 17
9:11 p.m.
T he rain fell in volleys, arching in from the south like silver arrows, blurring the windows and hammering the hull with a fury. The gimbaled ceiling lamp squeaked as Saltheart rocked back and forth. A fender groaned as the boat mashed it against the dock.
The sounds pulled Corso’s attention from his keyboard. He got to his feet and stretched. Although he’d lived aboard for years and seldom noticed the boat’s movements, tonight he could feel the rocking. As the wind buffeted the boat about the slip, he yawned, walked forward into the galley, and dumped his cold coffee into the sink.
He poured himself a fresh cup, doctoring it with a little cream and a spoonful of sugar. He looked up again just as the alarm buzzer went off. The last twenty feet of C dock were covered with bright green Astroturf, ostensibly to provide better traction but in reality to hide a web of pressure-sensitive alarm wires that warned Corso of the approach of visitors.
They were leaning into the wind, using a quivering umbrella like a battering ram. Even in semidarkness, through rain-sheeted windows, he had no doubt about these two. These two were cops. He grabbed his yellow raincoat from its hook and stepped out on deck.
Outside, the wind and rain roared. The air was alive with the sounds of slapping waves, groaning timbers, and the tink-tink of a hundred loose halyards, flapping all over the marina. At the top of the swaying masts, the anemometers whirled themselves blurry in the gale.
They stood shoulder to shoulder on the dock, sharing the umbrella: the new breed of cops, a pair of stockbrokers with thick necks, squinting in the tempest. The one on the left sported a helmet of sandy hair that trembled in the breeze. The other guy wore a black wool cabbie’s hat. They were both about thirty and accustomed to walking in people’s front doors without an invitation. Standing as they were, six and a half feet below Corso’s boots, they found themselves in an unaccustomed position of weakness, and Corso could sense it made them uncomfortable. He smiled. From waterline to deck, Saltheart had nearly six feet of free-board. Without the boarding stairs, there was no getting on deck gracefully. It was strictly assholes and elbows and hoping like hell you didn’t fall between the boat and the dock, where you’d be trapped and, on a night like this, would either drown in the frigid water or be ground to jelly between the fiberglass hull and the concrete dock.
“You Frank Corso?” Hair Helmet asked.
“Depends on who wants to know.”
The question sent them digging around in their coats. Coming up with a pair of Seattle Police Department IDs. They held the IDs at arm’s length. Corso leaned down over the rail. Detectives First Class Troy—the hair—Hamer and Roger—the hat—Sorenstam.
“What’s this about?” Corso asked.
“Margaret Dougherty,” Hamer said.
“Meg?”
“Yeah,” said the other cop.
“What about Meg?”
They exchanged a look. Hamer hunched his shoulders against the wind and gestured toward the boat. “You think maybe we could—”
“What about Meg?” Corso insisted.
“She crashed her car over by Western Avenue,” Sorenstam said.
“Into a Nationwide van,” added Hamer.
“She okay?”
“We’re investigating the accident,” Sorenstam said.
“Is she okay?” Corso said, louder and slower.
“Why don’t we step inside and—” Hamer tried again.
“What’s going on?” Corso said.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Corso—”
“I mind.”
“She’s up at Harborview.”
Sorenstam made a sad face and waggled a hand. “Docs say it’s touch
“She hadda be dead,” he offered.
“Took the top of her head clean off,” Ramón said.
“You seen it?”
“Yeah.”
A long silence ensued. Finally, Gerardo spoke. “What now?”
“We better clean up our other mess,” Ramón said.
Gerardo dropped the Mercedes into DRIVE and started rolling.
8
Tuesday, October 17
9:11 p.m.
T he rain fell in volleys, arching in from the south like silver arrows, blurring the windows and hammering the hull with a fury. The gimbaled ceiling lamp squeaked as Saltheart rocked back and forth. A fender groaned as the boat mashed it against the dock.
The sounds pulled Corso’s attention from his keyboard. He got to his feet and stretched. Although he’d lived aboard for years and seldom noticed the boat’s movements, tonight he could feel the rocking. As the wind buffeted the boat about the slip, he yawned, walked forward into the galley, and dumped his cold coffee into the sink.
He poured himself a fresh cup, doctoring it with a little cream and a spoonful of sugar. He looked up again just as the alarm buzzer went off. The last twenty feet of C dock were covered with bright green Astroturf, ostensibly to provide better traction but in reality to hide a web of pressure-sensitive alarm wires that warned Corso of the approach of visitors.
They were leaning into the wind, using a quivering umbrella like a battering ram. Even in semidarkness, through rain-sheeted windows, he had no doubt about these two. These two were cops. He grabbed his yellow raincoat from its hook and stepped out on deck.
Outside, the wind and rain roared. The air was alive with the sounds of slapping waves, groaning timbers, and the tink-tink of a hundred loose halyards, flapping all over the marina. At the top of the swaying masts, the anemometers whirled themselves blurry in the gale.
They stood shoulder to shoulder on the dock, sharing the umbrella: the new breed of cops, a pair of stockbrokers with thick necks, squinting in the tempest. The one on the left sported a helmet of sandy hair that trembled in the breeze. The other guy wore a black wool cabbie’s hat. They were both about thirty and accustomed to walking in people’s front doors without an invitation. Standing as they were, six and a half feet below Corso’s boots, they found themselves in an unaccustomed position of weakness, and Corso could sense it made them uncomfortable. He smiled. From waterline to deck, Saltheart had nearly six feet of free-board. Without the boarding stairs, there was no getting on deck gracefully. It was strictly assholes and elbows and hoping like hell you didn’t fall between the boat and the dock, where you’d be trapped and, on a night like this, would either drown in the frigid water or be ground to jelly between the fiberglass hull and the concrete dock.
“You Frank Corso?” Hair Helmet asked.
“Depends on who wants to know.”
The question sent them digging around in their coats. Coming up with a pair of Seattle Police Department IDs. They held the IDs at arm’s length. Corso leaned down over the rail. Detectives First Class Troy—the hair—Hamer and Roger—the hat—Sorenstam.
“What’s this about?” Corso asked.
“Margaret Dougherty,” Hamer said.
“Meg?”
“Yeah,” said the other cop.
“What about Meg?”
They exchanged a look. Hamer hunched his shoulders against the wind and gestured toward the boat. “You think maybe we could—”
“What about Meg?” Corso insisted.
“She crashed her car over by Western Avenue,” Sorenstam said.
“Into a Nationwide van,” added Hamer.
“She okay?”
“We’re investigating the accident,” Sorenstam said.
“Is she okay?” Corso said, louder and slower.
“Why don’t we step inside and—” Hamer tried again.
“What’s going on?” Corso said.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Corso—”
“I mind.”
“She’s up at Harborview.”
Sorenstam made a sad face and waggled a hand. “Docs say it’s touch
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