Sunday morning in Newcastle’s dockside was no different than any other honky-tonk neighborhood nursing a hangover. The peal of eleven A.M. church bells could be heard in the distance, but no one on the waterfront strip was making a mad dash to slide into a favorite pew for a much-needed lesson in Judeo-Christian ethics. The final remnant of Saturday night’s revelers had stumbled from the grimy pavement toward darker hiding places when the sun made its dawn appearance; in their wake lay the detritus of determined partying: discarded liquor bottles, empty cigarette packages, gnawed-on pizza crusts, and mangled fish-and-chips wrappers. Sticky ketchup smeared the wrappers; the substance had begun to resemble drying blood.

Rosco studied the scene as he drove toward the Red Admiral. The asphalt pavement fronting the tavern was nearly vacant; one lonely and rusting VW bus and two Harley-Davidson motorcycles were its only inhabitants. Judging by the amount of trash accumulated nearby, the owners had been absent for some time. As he eased his Jeep to a stop, he heard the distinct sound of an aluminum beer can crunch beneath his tires.

“Better than glass.” Rosco sighed, stepping from the Jeep to survey the waterfront and commercial docks facing Water Street’s east side. Dark clouds ranged slowly across the bright October sky while a thin morning sun appeared above the harbor at irregular intervals, creating blinding reflections from any metal object it touched.

The west side of the street, however, emitted the dingy aura of a ghost town. Crushed plastic cups, pint-sized paper bags, and balled-up candy wrappers blew by like tumbleweed. Iron gates, heavy with layers of peeling paint, covered every window and door. The same held true for the Red Admiral. The shutters on its two ground-floor windows had been closed and padlocked; crisscrossed steel bars blocked the front entrance.

Rosco glanced up toward a second-floor window. It had been left open, and a faded green-and-white-striped curtain flapped in the breeze. From his previous visit, he knew that Vic Fogram lived above the bar. He wasn’t the type to leave a window unlocked accidentally. Rosco decided the Admiral’s owner was home.

He walked to the side alley, where he found a flight of rickety wooden steps leading to a second-story doorway. He realized there was no point in surprising Fogram—it was the type of thing that got people shot in this neighborhood; instead, Rosco trod heavily up the stairs, hoping the noise would announce his arrival.

As if on cue, Vic was waiting at the landing. Clad in a grungy brown, hooded terry-cloth robe, he looked like a deranged Franciscan monk. “Well, if it isn’t our friend from Baltimore,” he said with an ill-disguised sneer. “Back from Maine so soon? Let me guess; you couldn’t find a motel and you need a place to crash.”

Rosco reached for a business card. “I wasn’t completely up front with you the other night. My name’s Rosco Polycrates. I’m a private investigator.”

Vic glanced at the card. “And a local PI, at that.” He scratched the back of his head through the brown fabric. “I gotta hand it to you, pal, you’re good. Everyone in the joint bought the Baltimore line.” Vic pulled a pack of Marlboros from his robe, lit one, and tossed the match into the alley. His wary demeanor returned. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking into the Orion fire.”

Vic gave a hint of a smile and shook his head. “I would have bet a hundred bucks you were gonna tell me Charlie Yarnell’s wife hired you to find out who he’s shackin’ up with. Guess it’s Charlie’s lucky day and not mine.”

“Can I come in?” Rosco asked. “Fifteen minutes is all I need.”

Vic considered the request. He didn’t speak, just inhaled long and deep. “I don’t have anything to say about the Orion—other than to tell you to hit the road.” Then he lazily flicked his half-smoked cigarette toward the ground and began to step inside.

“That’s advice you might want to reconsider, Fogram,” Rosco said.

“I didn’t kill those babes.”

“Who said they were dead?”

“You ever try swimming for ninety-some hours in Buzzards Bay in October?” The retort didn’t mask Vic’s sudden nervousness.

Rosco recognized how easily the tavern’s owner had been rattled and decided to press his advantage. “There’s another possibility, Fogram . . . Police scenario number two: the cops start looking for someone who might have staged the fire and kidnapped the women. In that case, your door is the first the feds knock on. I’m sure you can follow the logic there . . . Trust me, you’re up to your keister in this . . .”

“I don’t like being pushed”—Fogram glanced anxiously at Rosco’s card—“Polycrates.”

“Then I suggest you figure a way to keep yourself out of a federal lockup. Because those boys are notorious for their pushiness.”

Vic reached for another cigarette, but found the package empty. He crushed the wrapper and flung it down into the alley, then gritted his teeth and appeared to make a decision. “I’ve got a lady visitor. I’ll tell her I got company.” He slammed into his apartment, banging the door shut behind him.

Rosco waited on the wooden landing with his arms folded across his chest, then watched in envy as a pair of seagulls glided by, riding the light wind. It seemed a preferable way to spend the morning. Three minutes into Rosco’s bird-watching reverie, Vic yanked open the door. “Okay,” he growled. “I’ll give you fifteen—but that’s all.”

Rosco found the apartment’s interior a surprisingly pleasant, open space. Kitchen appliances lined one wall; everything seemed fairly new and orderly. There was an oak dining-room table in the center of the room. A couch flanked by two armchairs faced a wall containing a TV, VCR, and CD player, with a wooden lobster pot serving as a somewhat arty coffee table. At the rear portion of the room, a beaded curtain separated the sleeping area. Rosco had little trouble discerning a large brass bed and the outline of a figure covered from head to toe with a patchwork quilt. Obviously Fogram’s “lady visitor.”

“Sit.” Vic pointed to the couch. “I’m gonna have a beer . . . Hair of the dog.”

Rosco chose the couch and waited for Vic to return with his Budweiser. As he flipped the top, he sank into one of the chairs. “What do you want to know, Polycrates?”

Rosco cocked his head toward the sleeping area. “You don’t mind being overheard, I take it?”

“Listen, pal, I’ve got nothing to hide. From you or anybody else. I haven’t done a damn thing . . . Who’re you working for, anyway?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Right . . . So, you want me to talk to you, but you won’t tell me jack about yourself. Well, not everyone’s an idiot in this town. I got a C-note says you’re working for Tom Pepper. Who else cares about those broads? No one I know. I’ll tell you this: If you’re looking for crooks, you’d better start sniffin’ around your own backyard.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Pepper.”

“You mentioned something about that the other night . . . Something like: if you’d known the Orion had been leased by Pepper’s wife, you would have just let it burn . . . What did you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. I got no use for these creepola money traders and numbers swappers. Let me tell you something: no one makes money without someone else losing it. A guy walks into my place downstairs and orders a Bud? What happens? I’m two dollars richer and he’s two dollars poorer. That’s how the world goes ’round.”

Rosco smiled slightly. “Do you hate all rich people, or is Pepper someone special?”

“Let’s stick to the Orion. I don’t need a headshrinker.”

“All right. So, what happened last Sunday?”

Vic retrieved a fresh pack of Marlboros from a teak box on the coffee table, slipped off the cellophane, and lit up. As he spoke, smoke escaped from his mouth and nose.

“Me and Bob and Moe were off Monomoy Island on the south end of the Cape, just north of Nantucket. We’d told Colberg we’d have the Dixie-Jack back before eight A.M. Monday, so we were heading in. Pulled some nice tuna . . . Anyway, we shot straight across Nantucket Sound, past the Vineyard, Woods Hole, and hit Buzzards Bay around midnight. We’d been throwin’ down beers the whole way . . . so I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the time, or the exact location of the Orion when we came on it, but obviously we picked her up somewhere between the Hole and Newcastle. Dropped a towline on her and towed her in . . . End of story.”

“I see . . . So, you’re saying the fire was already out when you found her?”

Vic’s left foot started tapping on the wooden floor as if an imaginary tune were playing in his head. “Yeah . . . It was rainin’ . . . a surprise squall had come up.”

Now Rosco scratched the back of his head. “I’m having a little trouble with this one, Vic . . . We’ve got a squall, so we’ve got heavy cloud cover, right? It’s also midnight—pitch-black under those conditions. And you find this boat? In the middle of nowhere? That’s a big bay out there. How could you see a burned-out shell bobbing around? Sounds to me like the thing would be damn near invisible—” Rosco held up his hand as Fogram started to interrupt. “Before you answer, let me tell you that I know you guys blasted through all four fire extinguishers on the Dixie-Jack, and that CO₂ residue was found all over the Orion.”

Fogram jumped to his feet and stabbed his lit cigarette in the air. “I told you I don’t like to be pushed, fella. Maybe you better just get the hell outta here.”

Rosco remained seated, but raised his voice to meet Vic’s. “Pushed . . . ? You’re going to jail, Vic. You got a picture of what that looks like? Right now you’re accessory to insurance fraud. And that’s on the bright side, fella. Who knows what else you’re in for—once all the pieces fall into place . . . Personally, I don’t think you’d be stupid enough to kidnap these women, but I’ve been wrong in the past. You’d better start coughing up some information, because from where I sit, you and your pals look guilty as hell.”

Vic slouched back down in his chair and rubbed at his forehead.

“Look,” Rosco continued in a pseudo-friendly tone, “I’ve got no bone to pick with you, Fogram, I really don’t, but you know how cops work; they get Bob in one room, Moe in the other . . . Before you know it, they’re saying Vic planned the whole thing.”

Vic jabbed his cigarette into a black Bakelite ashtray adorned with the Harley-Davidson logo. “I’m tellin’ you, we didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“But you did put out the fire? Am I right?”

After a long beat, Fogram spoke. “Yeah . . . we doused it . . . That’s how we found her—by the flames. There was an explosion. Lit up the sky. We figured it was the propane tank.”

“What about the women?”

“We didn’t know nothin’ about them. There was nobody on that boat. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

“Why didn’t you call the Coast Guard? Report the position? You know as well as I do, that’s procedure.”

Vic looked off to the sleeping area as if the answer might lie in his bed. He let out a tired sigh and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Look, we were all looped to the gills by that time. The last people in the world we wanted to see was the damn Guard. I pulled the Dixie-Jack up to the Orion, and Moe and Bob started hosing her down with the extinguishers, making a party of it . . . I mean, they started really goofing around. Spraying each other while they were at it. Laughing their fool heads off. Anyway . . .” Vic looked at the bed a second time. “Anyway, I wanted to get out of there, leave the boat, but Moe saw the word ‘Orion’ painted on the stern and said he recognized it as one of Colberg’s charters.” Fogram lit up again, then said, “I need another beer.”

As he walked to the refrigerator, Rosco noticed how unsteady his gait had become.

“What we figured,” Vic continued when he returned, “was that Colberg had towed the Orion out and torched it himself. You know, for the insurance—like you said. He’s done it in the past, trust me on that. Everyone knows it . . . Anyway, we didn’t think anyone was on that boat—honest. Look, I did my time in the Navy. I’d still be out there looking for those broads if I didn’t think this was another Colberg torch job . . . That tough talk about Pepper’s wife . . . That was just yak, that’s all.”

“So, why did you tow the Orion back?” Rosco asked, uncertain how much of the tale to believe. Or whether to believe it at all.

“Moe wanted to play a big joke on Colberg. Set him up. Let him come to work on Monday and find the tub sitting there like a ghost come back to haunt him. Moe thought it would be a real hoot . . . So we sat around on the Dixie-Jack waiting for the sun to come up so we could see the expression on Ed’s scrawny face.”

“But you didn’t get what you bargained for?”

Fogram shook his head and swigged at his beer bottle; Rosco had the distinct impression the man was hiding something. He shifted tack, assuming a sympathetic and credulous pose.

“And you didn’t see any sign of the dinghy out there?”

“Didn’t see it, didn’t hear the outboard . . . I told you, Polycrates, I was in the Navy. I swear I would have picked up those babes and brought them in. No matter who they were. I wouldn’t leave nobody out there. I got a decent, legit business in this town. I’m not a crook.”

Rosco studied Vic closely as he asked his next question. “What would you say if I told you that the police found samples of Jamaica Nevisson’s blood on the Dixie-Jack.”

The response was a measured: “I’d say you’re a liar, pal.”

“It was all over the gauges.”

“The gauges? Hell, man that was plain old fish blood. We filleted them. Tuna meat’s red and bloody. Ask anyone.”

“Sorry, Vic. The police lab says there’s some of both. Tuna and human . . . A positive. Same as Jamaica Nevisson.”

Fogram stood and walked between Rosco and the sleeping area. “You’re talkin’ outta your hat. I got nothin’ more to say.”

Rosco also rose. “This isn’t going to blow over, Fogram. It’s going to get worse. Call me. You’ve got my card.”

“That ain’t likely to happen.”

“You never know . . .” Rosco sniffed the air and gave Vic a broad smile. “Nice perfume . . . Say hello to Doris for me when she wakes up.”

Fogram swung his left fist while Doris Quick bolted upright in the bed and yelled something indecipherable. Rosco ducked the first blow, but Vic countered with a hard right, slamming his beer bottle into the corner of the detective’s left eye and instantly opening a half-inch gash below his eyebrow.

“Get the hell outta here before I kill you!” Fogram raised the bottle over his shoulder and heaved it toward the door frame behind Rosco’s head. Beer suds and shards of amber glass rained down upon him as Vic continued to advance. “I’m gonna kill you, I swear . . .”

Rosco found the doorknob and jumped for the wooden landing. Fogram was right behind him. For a moment the two men stood, suspended in time one story above the grimy pavement. They stared hard at each other. “Get lost, Polycrates. And don’t show up here again. This is harassment. That’s what it is. I’ll get a lawyer.”

“That may not be such a bad idea . . . Thanks for the fifteen minutes,” Rosco answered. “And the memento . . . I won’t forget it too soon.”

Rosco walked down the stairs, reentered the garbage-strewn alley, and dabbed at the cut with his handkerchief while he slipped behind the wheel of his Jeep. Then he twisted the rearview mirror to study the wound. The bleeding was slowing; it wouldn’t require stitches. But his cheek and brow were already showing signs of swelling.

“Great,” he muttered, “just, great. ‘Another Black-eye Sunday Morning.’ Sounds like a C and W tune . . .” He lifted his jacket to his nose. “I smell like a booze hound . . . And Bud, too . . . At least, it could have been an import . . .”

He balled up the handkerchief, applying it like a compress while he activated his phone and checked for messages. There was one from Belle, requesting that he “beam in” for some “vital information.”

“Guess who just called?” she demanded the second she answered the phone.

Rosco didn’t have time to answer; Belle’s voice hurried forward before he could open his mouth. “Bartholomew Kerr.” Her tone indicated that this was the important news she’d wanted to share.

Rosco massaged his swelling eye. “Little early for gossip, isn’t it?” he asked, then decided: Ice. I’ve got to get some ice. It seemed ironic that the Red Admiral with its steady supply lay in plain view. He considered telling Belle what had just transpired, but opted against it. “What did Biz-y Buzz want?” he said instead.

“He just heard a peculiar story. It seems your pal Al Lever made an arrest late last night.”

Rosco sighed. His eye and cheek were beginning to throb. “Anybody I know?”

“Did you ever hear of a guy named Reggie Flack?”