The road ended in a cul-de-sac. A cracked footpath ran to the fishing pier. Public safety placards urged me to avoid eating mercury-laden species.
I walked out, taping flyers, taking pictures.
The pier’s height placed me level with the tops of the vessels moored along Dock Eleven — a surreal vantage, not to mention another major source of exposure.
They’re very respectful.
And the yacht owners? How well behaved were they?
The fishing party was still going, four men spanning three generations. The oldest looked to be around seventy-five. Asian, silver hair and pigeon chest, relaxing in a camping chair with a Corona propped on one bony knee. Close beside him was a middle-aged, bearded white guy wearing an A’s hat and a flannel shirt. The son-in-law, maybe. That hypothesis buttressed by two mixed-race boys, thirteenish and fifteenish, leaning over the bayside railing, winding their reels and giving each other brotherly shit.
Ice, beer, and soda filled a blue Igloo cooler. A red cooler was shut.
Exchanging nods with the men, I stepped to the marina-side railing.
I was right across from Motion Sickness. Could’ve played Frisbee with someone on the sundeck. Like the rest of the yachts — the whole of Haven Harbor — it shimmered behind an invisible curtain, physically proximate but out of reach in every other sense.
A rattle down below broke the spell.
A woman came trudging along Dock Eleven, pushing a loaded room service cart.
She stopped outside a yacht, not Fuller’s, and knocked on the hatch. While she waited to be admitted, her gaze darted up toward me.
Irma.
I raised a hand.
She looked away.
The hatch opened. Irma pushed the cart up the ramp and disappeared inside.
I turned. The son-in-law was elbow-deep in the bait bucket.
“What’s biting today?” I asked.
He sat back on his haunches, smiling glumly. “Not a whole heck of a lot.”
“I caught a rockfish,” the younger boy said, prying open the red cooler to show it off. Small and spiny. Enough to feed a toddler who refused to eat fish.
“Awesome,” I said. “You guys come out here often?”
“When we can,” the son-in-law said.
He stood, wiping his hands on a rag. “Something I could help you with?”
I gave him my ID. The boys crowded around. The patriarch also gestured for a look; the son-in-law obliged, stooping to show him.
“Police,” the patriarch said.
“Private investigator.” I traded a flyer for the ID. “Recognize any of them?”
The son-in-law shook his head, as did the boys.
The patriarch spoke in Chinese.
“He says this one looks familiar,” the older boy translated.
“Which one?”
The patriarch crooked a finger, beckoning me close.
He tapped Linus Hao’s face.
“You know him?” I asked.
The patriarch spoke again.
The older boy translated: “He wants to know if there’s a reward.”
“Possibly,” I said. “How do you know him?”
The old man’s answer made the boy roll his eyes. “Yeye.”
“What’d he say?” I asked.
“He says he went to school with him,” the boy said. “Fifty years ago in Chengdu.”
The old man hooted and slapped his thigh.
The son-in-law said, “Why are you looking for them here?”
“They drowned and may have gone into the water nearby. Have you ever witnessed anything unusual, or heard a disturbance?”
“Like what?” the younger boy said.
“A fight. Shouting. Anything that got your attention.”
“I haven’t,” the son-in-law said.
“When are you usually here?”
“Weekends, mostly.”
“Ever come late at night, or early in the morning?”
The son-in-law shook his head.
“That boat,” I said. “The big one, at the end. Ever seen people getting on or off?”
“Sorry, no.”
The patriarch spoke up again.
The older boy said, “His friend sometimes comes early to fish.”
“Can he ask? He can keep the flyer and show him.”
The patriarch nodded.
I thanked him, taped up my last few flyers, and began to leave.
The patriarch called out to me in Chinese.
The older boy said, “He wants to know when he gets the reward.”
Regina said, “Shel, you crafty motherfucker.”
In an odd way her enthusiasm caused me to dial back my own. I climbed into my car, began turning around in the cul-de-sac. “An eyewitness would help.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“Maybe the housekeeper I saw. Irma.”
“She’s one of how many?”
“Fine, but then we’re stuck praying some random fisherman happened to see something. I vote we send the new map to Winterholz. Maybe that gets his juices flowing. If it does, and it feels right, we tell him about the boat. We also need to look into Bair Island to see if Fuller ever tied up there. How would you like to apply your talent for emotional manipulation?”
“A marina’s just a floating hotel,” she said. “I’m insulted you even asked.”
“Great. Once we — hang on, someone’s calling... Shit, it’s Trevor.”
I switched over. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice said, “Who is this?”
“Clay. Who’s this?”
“My name is Desiree. I’m a social worker. I need the name of the individual whose phone this is.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Sir,” she said. “Before I talk to you, you need to provide this individual’s name.”
“Did something happen to him?”
She didn’t answer. The beep and clatter of a hospital ward floated forward.
“Trevor Vogel,” I said.
“Spell that.”
I did. “Is he okay?”
“Do you have contact information for his family?”
“Can you please tell me what’s going on here?”
“I’m not at liberty to—”
“Listen, you’re scaring the hell out of me. Is he alive? Tell me that.”
A beat.
“He’s alive,” Desiree said. “He didn’t have any ID on him. We’ve been calling everyone on his phone and no one’s picking up. I saw your texts come in.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what hospital he’s at.”
“No, sir.”
Trevor’s parents and sisters had cut him off.
They might feel differently now. They might not.
“He has an ex,” I said. “They have kids together. Does that work?”
“It’ll have to. What’s her name?”
“Jasmine Worth. Let me get you her number.”
I read it off my contacts.
“We tried that one already,” Desiree said.
“They’re estranged,” I said. “She’s not going to answer if she thinks it’s him. You know what, I’m close to where she works. I’ll go there and tell her in person.”
“Thank you,” she said, new warmth in her voice.
“Keep his phone handy, all right? I’ll have her call you.”
At Home Depot Jasmine slouched behind the paint counter, half asleep. Seeing me, her eyes popped open and she recoiled, reaching for her walkie-talkie.
“Trevor’s in the hospital,” I said. “A social worker called me.”
She paused with her hand on the button. “Called you.”
“No one else answered.”
Her chest cycled rapidly. “Is he all right?”
“Alive. That’s as much as they would say.”