“So what is Bedloe? Bed. How did that one hit you?”
“It wouldn’t have leaped out at me without Bartholdi, but the combination did it. The island wasn’t renamed Liberty until the 1950s,” I said. “Isaac Bedloe was a Dutch colonist. He actually owned the entire little island. Named for him. Bedloe Island, it was, for more than a hundred years.”
“Owned it? Why is that?”
“A few of the islands in New York Harbor, including Ellis and Liberty, were called the Oyster Islands by the Dutch, because they were so rich in oyster beds. Bedloe was a well-to-do merchant in the seventeenth century who bought the place. He imported tobacco from Virginia and exported pickled oysters.”
I saw the boat I wanted to use to motor down to Liberty Island. It was fairly new and appeared to be in great condition, with a pair of three-hundred-horsepower Mercury Verado outboard engines strapped on the stern.
“It’s because of Fort Wood that I know about Bedloe,” I said. “I’ve always been fascinated by the forts that were built to guard New York. Wood had eleven bastions and thirty guns protecting the western entrance to the harbor. I doubt they were ever used.”
I picked up the pace and started walking to the marina office, back at the entrance to the dock area. Jimmy North was standing under the first arch, watching Mercer and me. I waved at him to come out on the pier.
“You’re serious about taking a look around the island?” Mercer asked.
Jimmy approached and I asked him what Peterson was doing. “Wrapping up with the two officers. I think he’s about to go uptown to his office.”
“Dead serious, Mercer,” I said, turning to look at him but walking backward toward the rotunda. Then I whipped around and talked to Jimmy. “You stay here. Let me tell Peterson we’ll do some more snooping around the marina. No need for full disclosure quite yet.”
“Sometimes, Mike, I really wonder about you,” Mercer said.
I backed him off with my hand.
“I was just coming out to get you,” Peterson said.
“Tell you what, Loo,” I said. “The three of us will check out the boat basin parking garage for missing plates and stuff. I’m about to go talk to the marina manager to see whether he can suggest some locals to interview. Why don’t you call me when you get a list of names of all the owners, and Mercer, Jimmy, and I can put our heads together? We’ll see if any of this relates to Coop.”
Peterson reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “I like how you’ve pulled yourself together, son. Back there in Scully’s office I was afraid you’d get all hotheaded and go off script.”
“You know I’m a team player. But I gotta tell you, Loo, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You’ve got to give me some space.”
“We’ll pull out all the stops, Chapman,” he said, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he moved them. “I’ll call you as soon as we get the list of boat owner names from the real estate office that controls the rentals.”
I thanked him for everything he was doing to find Coop.
Then, when Peterson disappeared into the shadows under the roadway, I hustled back to the dock. Mercer and Jimmy were on their phones, checking for updates and messages.
“Excuse me,” I said to the crusty old guy who was sitting in the tiny marina office. His radio was tuned to the VHF emergency channel and his TV muted, but with the local all-news channel playing. “I’m Detective Chapman. Mike Chapman.”
I showed him the blue and gold. He wasn’t impressed.
“I’d like to rent a small boat for a couple of hours this afternoon.”
“We don’t usually rent boats. We rent slips. Gotta have your own boat.” He didn’t look up from his copy of the New York Post, which featured a cover shot of the mayor tripping and falling on top of a protestor on the steps of City Hall. He had landed upside down, looking cockeyed and disoriented. The DAZED AND CONFUSED headline made me smile.
“I’m not interested in what you usually do. I’m interested in what I need right now.”
“You got a captain’s license?”
“It expired.”
“Which boat are you looking at?”
“There’s a thirty-two-foot Intrepid out on the first dock.”
“You got good taste.” The man looked up at me for the first time.
“Three hours, maybe four,” I said, reaching into my wallet. “In exchange for my driver’s license.”
He stood up and walked over to a long metal box, unlocked it, and lifted one of the keys. “Have it back by April 1, Mr. Chapman. No nicks, no scratches. I assume this is official police business?”
“It is.”
“Then no nicks, no scratches, and no blood. The owner don’t even fish with this gem. She can’t stand the sight of blood.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“Where’d you learn to drive a boat?” the man said, stripping off the seat covers and rolling down the isinglass cover that kept the cockpit dry.
“Martha’s Vineyard. Out of Menemsha,” I said. “Mostly fish off Devil’s Bridge in Aquinnah.”
“If you can navigate those waters without breaking up, you’ll be fine in the Hudson,” he said, stepping back onto the dock and handing me the keys. “That’s your chart-plotter screen on the left. Tells you where you are and operates the radar.”
“Check.”
Mercer and Jimmy were scoping the river as they settled in, one on the white leather seats in the bow and the other in the stern.
“Your depth finder there, and this here’s the VHF radio. Keep it on channel sixteen unless the coast guard tells you otherwise.”
“Check, boss. What does she draw?”
“Three feet, no more than that. Keep her off the shoals.”
“Won’t be a problem.” The Liberty Island perimeter had been dredged to receive ferries and large boats. This little speedster wouldn’t present an issue getting right up to a dockage.
“Don’t forget this baby has all the latest Furuno navigational systems. All you have to do is steer it,” he said. “It’s even got AIS.”
“What’s that?” Mercer asked.
“Automatic identification system,” I said. “We pop up on the radar screen of other boats in our range. It tells them who we are. It names our vessel.”
“What is the name of this boat?” Mercer said.
I hadn’t even paid attention to what was painted on the hull.
“She’s the Dolly Mama.”
I leaned over and looked at the stern, where the name was painted in bold gold letters. “Not named for a monk, is it?”
“Nope. Owned by a woman named Dolly Dan, with eight grandkids,” he said. “She winters in Palm Beach. Good people. Keep it clean and she’ll never know.”
I walked to the console and put the key in to turn on the engines.
“Keep in mind, Mr. Chapman, there are no channel markers in this part of the Hudson.”
“Check.”
“As you pull out and enter the channel, give it one long blast of your horn,” he said.
“Aye, aye.”
He had untied the ropes from the cleats that held the boat against the dock and I was more than ready to kick off.
“Nice and slow in the river, okay?” he said, calling out his final instructions. “No need to rough it up by making a big wake. Everybody’s polite.”
“Thanks for the loaner. See you later.”
I put my hand on the throttle to get the boat in gear, honked the horn, and moved out onto the river, plowing straight across to the Jersey side to then turn left and head downriver with the flow of the traffic.
“Here’s a pair of binoculars,” I said to Jimmy, removing them from beneath the driver’s seat. “You scan the shoreline.”
“Looking for-?”
“You’ll know it when you see it, pal. Best I can do.”