Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

bike goes back to Guilfoyle. We need to find a boat anyway.”

Ellie shrugged, “A dime a dozen around here.”

I said, “The Sea Foam is a fishing boat. That gives us cover in case there is security at the island.”

I had stopped opening the letters. Five envelopes, all open. Four of them inconsequential junk mail, one of them semi-interesting with potential but unknown consequences.

Ellie said, “What?”

I handed her the sheet of paper.

I said, “Speaking of boats. I took his mail, back at the apartment. Looks as if Abrams rented a boat and didn’t bring it back.”

“Oh.”

The letter was from a boat rental place, Salty Charters. George Abrams had taken out a twenty-eight-foot fishing charter, a Bayliner named the Katrina Flynne. The cost was $175 for the one day, including fish finder, life jackets, GPS, and a CD player. But Abrams hadn’t brought the boat back, so the letter was a warning, and a revised invoice of twenty days, plus the threat of legal action. They wanted $3,500 plus a $200 penalty fee. The date on the letter was fourteen days previous.

Ellie read the letter.

I said, “How long before they send a cop over to his apartment?”

She shrugged. “Depends when the charter company filed a complaint. How long would they give it before they reported the boat stolen. Once they did, it would take a while before the police got the investigation going.”

I said, “Do you know the place?”

Ellie looked up at me. “Yes. It’s on the way to Eagle Cove.”

I looked at the clock above the breakfast table. The day had started early. It was only seven-thirty in the a.m. I might just get a second breakfast at the cannery.

Twenty

The boat rental guy was large, both ways. He had tousled blond hair and wore a long yellow rain slicker. Salty Charters was a one-man operation run out of an insulated and rain-proofed box set up on the docks out near the paper factory. The guy ran a repair facility along with the charter boat rentals. About a dozen boats were tied up out front. One boat was up on blocks. It looked like it had been there for a while. Maybe the guy would get to it, maybe he wouldn’t.

The office was accessed by a steep wood deck with railings. When we arrived he had just flicked on the coffee machine. He came out to meet us after Ellie knocked. I figured that we’d caught him before the first cup of coffee.

The boat rental man’s eyes were deep in their sockets, crusted from sleep. “Yeah?”

Ellie showed him her badge and the letter. I leaned back against the deck railing and observed. Despite the lack of coffee the man was paying attention. Ellie handed him the letter and he read it conscientiously before looking up at her, confused.

“The guy brought it back a week ago.”

Ellie said, “And paid off the bill?”

“Yeah. Paid the bill. Why are you asking?”

“You have the boat here?”

He pointed to a modest white leisure vessel. Clean, and a new blue and white paint job. Chrome bars around the edge, and an enclosed cabin with a roof to protect against rain and cold. I walked down the dock until I could read the fancy curling script. Gold on deep blue. It read ‘Katrina Flynne’.

I walked up to meet Ellie and the boat man. I said, “Same guy brought it back as rented it?”

“Same guy, different guy. How the fuck should I know? You think I remember?”

I said, “Guy rents a boat, what does he need in terms of ID?”

The man said, “Driver’s license.” He held up a finger and disappeared into the office. Which was a great excuse for him to harvest the initial offerings of the coffee machine, quietly dripping away in the background. After the man had collected the resuscitating hot beverage into a waiting cup, he found his way to the filing cabinet. A minute later he came out with a photocopied driver’s license. The man held it in front of us with his left hand, with his right he sucked down the coffee.

Massachusetts driver’s license featuring one George Abrams, a couple of years younger than the photo that his mother showed me.

The boat man said, “This isn’t the guy who brought the boat back. What’s the deal, they running drugs?”

Ellie said, “No.”

I said, “You didn’t ask why a different guy was returning the boat?”

“The boat came back, that was a relief. Like, one more hassle taken out of my goddamned life.” He was remembering. “Guy who brought her back was apologetic. Paid the fee, plus the penalty, plus an extra hundred for the hassle.”

I said, “What did he look like?”

The man jutted his chin at me. “Like you. A mid-thirties male who looked like he could complete fifty pull-ups and a hundred push-ups in under five minutes. Unlike me, who needs coffee just to start up the old neurons. Are we done here, fellas? I got shit to do.”

I looked at Ellie. She shrugged. I said, “I guess that’s it.”

We walked up to the road.

Ellie said, “Not looking good for George Abrams.”

When we came to Ellie’s truck I leaned against it and looked out to the ocean. I said, “George Abrams takes a boat out, it comes back a couple of weeks later without him. Chapman told me that Abrams had a portable research kit in a pelican case. No mention of that coming back.”

Ellie said, “Triangulation. George Abrams rents the boat. His mother comes up and is followed by a bunch of guys who are working for Mister Lawrence. He disappears, she is killed.”

“Assumed to be working for Mister Lawrence.”

“Mister Lawrence owns the property up past the fire tower, plus Bell Island, an abandoned military research facility.”

I said, “Deduction. George Abrams took the boat out there to Bell Island with his pelican case full of research gear. Then he disappeared.”

Ellie said, “Boat comes back with someone else, who’s happy to pay the late fee, no questions asked. Avoid the escalation.”

I looked at her