Small Town

When he first entered the apartment he’d wished he’d thought to bring a pair of Pliofilm gloves. He was careful not to touch anything until he’d established with his eyes as well as his nose that there wasn’t a dead body in the place, or any signs of a struggle. In their absence, there was no reason anyone should presume the place to be a crime scene, so he didn’t worry unduly about breaching its integrity with his fingerprints. He kept them to a minimum, though, and put the things he touched back where he found them.

When he couldn’t think of anything else to do he went over to the phone, looked at it for a few minutes, then picked it up and dialed. If there was ever an investigation, and if they ever pulled the LUDS, there’d be a record of the calls he made, calls placed from Shevlin’s apartment after the man had disappeared. But it probably wouldn’t come to that, and yes, he could have used his cell phone, but the fact was he hated the damn thing.

He started calling the Information number for different regional area codes, asking for Wallace Weingartner. 718 for Brooklyn and Queens, 516 and 631 for Long Island, 914 for Westchester County. There was a W. Weingartner in Manhasset and a W. B. Weingartner in Bedford Hills, and he called those numbers, and the first turned out to be Wanda and the second answered to Bill. Both claimed to know quite a few Weingartners — he didn’t ask if they knew each other — but neither knew a Wallace.

The 202 operator found a W. Weingartner right across the river in Hoboken, so he tried that. And got a computer-generated voice mail response inviting him to leave a message. No indication what the W stood for, and no reason he could think of to leave a message.

He locked up and went downstairs. Four o’clock had come and gone, and Viktor had gone with it. A younger man, presumably Hispanic, presumably Marcos, was on the door. He couldn’t think how to give him the key without confusing him, or getting Viktor in trouble, or both. And why should anybody else need to get into the apartment? If he remembered, he’d return the key to Viktor in the morning. Or find it on top of his dresser in six months and have no idea what it was or where it had come from.

He was half a block away when he remembered he’d promised Helen Mazarin a report. He had taken down her number, and he called her now on his cell phone. He reported essentially that there was nothing to report, but that he didn’t see any real cause for alarm. He’d look into it a little further, though.

The boat, she said. Had he seen the boat? He told her he’d have a look at it on his way home. Would he like her to come with him? It would be no problem, she could be out the door in half a minute.

He said he didn’t think he’d have any trouble finding it. The Boat Basin wasn’t that large, and how many boats was he likely to encounter named the Nancy Dee? It was nice of her to offer, but he figured he’d know Shevlin’s boat when he saw it.

But if it wasn’t there?

Well, he said patiently, then there’d be nothing to see, would there? She was still thinking about that one when he rang off.

The boat was there, and he didn’t have any trouble finding it.

There were three ramps leading across the water to the floating docks where the boats were moored, and each had a locked gate restricting access to boaters. The locks looked easy to get through, and even easier to get around. All you had to do was step over the thigh-high railing to the side of the gate, take a few careful steps along the concrete ledge and one big step over the water to the ramp, and you’d finessed the whole business. If you did this furtively, anyone watching would spot you for an intruder. If you acted with the casual nonchalance that was the birthright of every policeman, an observer would figure you’d left your key home.

He walked down the ramp, made his way through the maze of floating docks, found the Nancy Dee, and climbed aboard. It struck him as comfortable enough, and probably seaworthy. Nothing you’d want to cross the ocean in, or sail around the Horn, but it looked as though you could take it on the water if you had to, which was more than you could say about a lot of the moldering old wrecks tied up at the piers.

The entrance to the cabin — he didn’t suppose you called it a door — was locked. He squinted through the glass — he didn’t suppose you called it a window — and couldn’t see any signs of life. He knocked, listened, knocked again.

Behind him, and not all that far behind him, a man asked him what he wanted.

He turned, saw a heavyset man about forty, with untrimmed dark hair and an untrimmed full beard. He could have played heavies in pirate movies. The man’s question was reasonable enough, but for the first time Buckram was just as glad he’d brought the gun along.

“I’m trying to find Peter Shevlin,” he said. “You know him?”

“I know there’s nobody home on that boat.”

“So do I, now that I knocked. Do you know Shevlin?”