Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

There was always something they couldn’t give up. There were two Monterey Clippers in the marina; one was a newer boat, of fiberglass, and he passed it by to walk out along the last pier to the wooden vessel moored there. He looked at the photograph he’d brought with him, then back at the boat. A new paint job; a new name, obviously—it wasn’t the Elly Ann any more. This one was white with green trim, and its name in cheerful green script on the back: Bastard Luck. Gee, we weren’t a little bitter, were we?

Three months ago, his sources told him, Ron had finally parted with his beloved boat, selling her to a buyer on Galera Cay. Bailey wasn’t really familiar with any form of transportation that didn’t keep four wheels on the ground, but he’d called the Coast Guard while he was still in Georgia and asked for the hull number. Now he walked around to the bow and checked the numbers there against his information.

Not a match. Well, you wouldn’t expect life to be that convenient.

He scanned the area; no one seemed to be watching or caring. He stepped over the gunwale and onto the deck.

Someone had taken loving care of this boat, and recently. The deck was clean, sanded, and had a fresh coat of green paint. They were a little messy with their possessions, though; Bailey moved aside a tangle of gear from the back of the boat and found the brass plaque with manufacturer’s name and date: Bowman and Sons, 1951.

Also not a match. Damn. Because if it wasn’t a match, this wildcard theory was going nowhere, and he really ought to say goodbye to Lilith and fly out of here tonight and see what he could pick up back in Atlanta—

—Which he was about as likely to do as he would be to flap his arms and fly out under his own power. Which meant blowing this case and giving the retainer back to his clients, or at best postponing the fieldwork and jeopardizing the possibilities of success.

Bailey was not happy, and he found himself looking over the evidence again, as though it might suddenly change from the last moment he’d seen it. Good thinking, Phillip Marlowe. Except… now that he was down on his knees examining the damned thing, didn’t those brass screws holding the plaque look bright and shiny and new? Almost unseemly in their contrast to the darkened plaque itself.

He stood up and brushed off his jeans, then headed for the stairs to the hold. A few steps down and he was standing in the dim light of a galley—well, there was a tiny stove and a sink, anyway. A toilet sat on the floor opposite, unencumbered by so much as a shower curtain. Either the owner lived here alone, or the concept of physical privacy was not much regarded. A bunk was set back in the rear of the boat. There was a pile of waterproof clothing, but nothing else in the way of personal possessions. No books or papers saying “Ron Zygmore owns me. And he banks at Credit Lyonnais…”

Bailey didn’t know boats, but he knew how to research. He pulled out his penlight and examined the overhead beam supporting the deck above… hull numbers on older boats were often carved into the rafter. A library is a useful thing, God wot. But damn, Mr. New-Paint-Job had gotten here first, too. High-gloss white, applied with enthusiasm. You could see the brush strokes against the rough grain of the wood.

Well, screw that, he refused, he refused to go back to Atlanta just because the universe was conspiring against him. There had to be…

…There was a smooth, shiny spot on the beam near his head, as though a couple of coats had suddenly been deemed necessary. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers over the spot; beneath the paint there was a pattern of inconsistencies in the surface, almost the suggestion of a bas-relief. Hmmm. He’d never done this, but it always seemed to work on television…

He took out a piece of paper, held it against the beam, and rubbed with the side of the pencil.

Three… four… two… no, that was it, the rest was too messed up to read. Evidently Ron had filled in the numbers with putty, but he hadn’t been very good at it.

Three-four-two were the first three digits of the old Elly Ann’s hull number. There was a point at which coincidence went too far, and Bailey was sure in his own mind that Ron Zygmore was alive and somewhere on his way to San Cristobel. Certainly Bailey had enough to justify a prolonged stay (sweet, heavy breath, and her heels pressing into his ass, and that tongue on his neck; no, that was for later, let’s get off this damned boat first)—he could call his clients tomorrow. They could decide for themselves whether they wanted to move ahead on his recommendation or get a sight-confirmation. Now that he had evidence, Bailey felt more than justified in billing them for the time he’d spend waiting for Ron to show up.