“It’s an unusual request—something police or other investigative agencies pursue when they’ve got a cold case involving foul play.”
Foul play.
“May I ask why you’re doing this?”
He wanted to say, Remember the story of the princess and the pea? Something poking me under all the layers. “Just that she was never found, and I’m wondering if I can learn anything about the circumstances of her disappearance.” He showed Barboza the photocopies of the news clippings.
“It says that a storm was forecast and small craft warnings had been issued.”
“Yes.”
Barboza looked at him with a flat, uncomprehending stare. “Mr. Koryan, it’s been thirty years. We don’t keep records going back that far. Besides, this seems to tell it all. She got lost in a storm trying to tie down her boat.”
He was right, of course. But he also could have told him that over the phone and spared him the three-hour round-trip. “Maybe you can tell me about the kind of efforts that went into finding her.”
“I’m sure they gave it their all. The article says two search-and-rescue boats and a chopper.” Then he added, “Maybe it’s better to leave the dead in peace.”
It’s not the dead who need the peace. “Do you know where I might find James Fagan? He was a petty officer at the time.”
“No.”
“But you didn’t even look.”
“He retired ten years ago.”
“And you have no records where he may have retired to? Nobody here who keeps up contact—old friends, guys who still keep in touch, retired officers’ clubs, reunion parties?”
Barboza had irritation scored across his brow. But he glanced at the wall clock, then pushed himself up and crossed the floor to a file drawer and ferreted through a thick batch of folders until he found one. He slouched back to his desk and ripped off the top sheet of his pad, then jotted something down and handed it to Jack.
A telephone number with a Massachusetts area code.
JACK HAD NO IDEA IF HE was chasing white rabbits, but he called Fagan and explained his request for a meeting. Fagan was either a generous man or desperate for something to do. Whatever the motivation, he agreed to meet the next day in the parking lot of Grasso’s, an Italian restaurant just off the Rockland exit of Route 3 South.
Jack said he’d be dressed in jeans and a black shirt and carrying a cane. Fagan met him at the door. He was a compact man about sixty with a ruddy broad face, and he was wearing a Red Sox cap.
The hostess led them to a table with a view of the parking lot. After some small talk about baseball, Jack showed him the photocopy of the newspaper article about the failed search operation. When Fagan finished reading it he asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, why after all these years are you looking into this?”
Again Jack anticipated how weak his reason sounded. “Because she was never found, and I’m wondering what efforts went into finding her.”
Fagan nodded and sipped his beer.
“The article doesn’t say anything about divers being sent out.”
“You’re talking thirty years ago. I don’t think the Coast Guard even had a scuba-ready search-and-rescue unit like today. Even if they did, where would you send them? It’s a big ocean, and there were ten or twelve hours before you had sunlight, and given the turbulence from the storm the visibility would be nil for days.”
“Sure. Do you remember searching for her?”
“Yeah, vaguely, but only because it was a new cutter, and one of my first search-and-rescue operations. We patrolled the coastline for a couple days—maybe two other boats out and a spotter plane. The thing is that the storm was a nor’easter, which didn’t make sense.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, the storm came from the northeast, which means the winds were onshore and, like the article said, with strong gusts. Under those conditions, drowning victims almost always wash up. And when they don’t, it’s because of offshore winds or the currents—which weren’t the conditions that night. I don’t mean to be graphic, but drowning victims are floaters—they eventually come to the surface.”
“Which means that a body would most likely have washed up.”
Fagan nodded. “Of course, there’s the problem with that channel out there. Even during a nor’easter you’ve got crosscurrents moving as much as seven knots.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning the storm passes, and she’s carried out to sea; and being August when it happened, the water’s pretty warm.”
Fagan seemed to realize what he was saying and pulled back his explanation and guzzled some of his juice.
“What about the water being warm?” Jack asked.
Fagan sucked in his breath, looking like he wished Jack hadn’t picked him up. “Well, I don’t know if you’re familiar with the waters out there, but the island’s at the outer edge of the Elizabeth chain and there’s a channel that occasionally draws in some pretty unusual sea life from the Gulf Stream, including some deepwater pelagic fish, well, you know, like sharks and all. I mean … sorry,” and he took a bite of his scrod.
“Sure.”
They ate without saying much for several minutes. When they finished, Jack paid the bill and walked outside with Fagan.
“Wish I could’ve been more help.”
“No, you were very helpful,” Jack said, feeling a hollowness in his midsection. What he had learned was that his mother might have been eaten by sharks. He prayed that she had drowned first. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Fagan.”
“No problem.”Then he said, “You know, there’s another thing I remember that bothered me back then, just came to me.”
“What’s that?”
“Funny I didn’t think of it before, getting caught up in all the meteorology,” Fagan said. “The boat was an Oday 17, the article says, which means that she was probably out there prepping it for the storm. You were too young to remember, of course, but do you know if there was anyone else in the cottage with her? Your father or other people?”
“No, just my mother.”
Fagan took that in, then made a humpf and shrugged.
“What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Fagan?”
“Well, two would have been faster, but one could have done it. I assume it was moored in the cove, so depending on the wind it could take some time, you know, rowing out there from the shore in a tender. She’d be fighting the wind, of course, which would slow her down, having to remove the mainsail, bagging it, then putting it away in the cutty cabin—maybe put another safety line on the mooring, whatever. But with all the back and forth, that would take some time. Plus it’s dangerous trying to keep your balance, all that pitching. Like trying to stand up on a seesaw. One false move and you’re overboard.”
Fagan shook his head. “Forgive me, she being your mother and all, but what I still don’t understand is how she took the chance, leaving a two-year-old baby unattended in his crib.”
Jack felt a cold flash up his back, but all he could do was nod in reflex.
Fagan shook his head. “That’s something that just never sat right with me, a storm kicking up the water just a hundred feet away. I’ve got a grandchild about that age, and he can climb out of his crib like a monkey. Not something me or my wife would’ve chanced. Hell with the boat’s my attitude.”