put a few more on your docket?
Didn't you have a court appearance today?"
"Yessir."
He didn't slam the door as he left. There hadn't been any more action on the file, and there was a lot of other work to do. He'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that he'd retire not much above his present rank; interviews like this were simply a symptom of that. People got to the top of the greasy pole largely because they wanted to, real bad—sometimes so they could do the job, more often not. He did this lousy job because he wanted to, not to get a better office. Shits like the captain regarded actual police work as a distraction from more important matters.
Whether or not the captain thought it was too much trouble to bother with, they'd be hearing from this particular perp again, closed file or no closed file.
Or somebody would be hearing about them. This isn't the sort that goes somewhere and hides.
CHAPTER FIVE
The tropical sun was a flat glare on the surface of the water. The compressor on the barge throbbed tirelessly, pumping water down a thick tube to blow sand off the bottom thirty feet below; that made the sea around them turgid, greenish compared to the usual turquoise of the waters off Abaco. They were eighty miles southwest of Marsh Harbor, not far from Mores Island; that flat sandy speck of land was just visible, but nothing else marred the circle of sky and sea except the barge and its attendant boats. There was a silty undertone to the usual sea-salt smell, faint beneath the diesel stink of the exhaust.
Captain John Lowe looked at the water in disgust, then back at the woman who'd chartered his outfit, in puzzlement. Nothing here to find. Sure, there were plenty of wrecks around the Abacos, all over the Bahamas—the archipelago was famous for it. But these waters had been searched bare, long ago.
The money's good. He'd insisted on getting it up front and in cash. There was a lot of that sort of business in the Bahamas, and a tradition of not asking too many questions. The country lived off being an offshore tax shelter even more than it did from tourism and the . . . unregistered transit trade. An old tradition: Conchy Joes like him had always been smugglers, from cocaine back through Prohibition rum boats and Civil War blockade runners, and before that wreckers and pirates.
Crazy bitch.
She stood at the rail of the boat, looking over at the floats that marked where the divers were working. Crazy, and I can't figure her. He couldn't even decide whether she was white or not. She'd darkened up considerably since they started, to milk chocolate color, but the tan seemed to go all over—he had a good view, with the loose cotton shorts and sleeveless singlet she was wearing. The green eyes and red hair were genuine, though. Her papers said Colombian, but the accent was American—South Carolina, maybe, or Louisiana, hard to place, despite the pretty latina secretary she had hanging around. The body said American too, the fitness-freak look, like some of the richer women tourists. Not very bulgy, but every muscle precisely delineated, moving under the smooth skin like machined steel in oil.
Nice tits, though. And no bra. Maybe a hundred and forty pounds, a little more.
One of the standing bets had been whether or not she was queer. That was settled up when Jamie Simms had been seen coming out of her cabana back in Marsh Harbor at six in the morning, but the young deckhand had steadfastly refused all details. That was odd, because everyone had expected a stroke-by-stroke description, and he'd screamed at them to stop asking and then quit the job. Damned odd.
Lowe moved up to stand beside her. "How much longer?" he said.
"Until it's found," she replied. Her voice was soft and pleasant, rather deep, but the tone expected instant obedience.
He gritted his teeth. Sure, she was paying, but there wasn't enough money in the world to make him swallow that much longer.
"It's your three hundred thousand," he said. And
Didn't you have a court appearance today?"
"Yessir."
He didn't slam the door as he left. There hadn't been any more action on the file, and there was a lot of other work to do. He'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that he'd retire not much above his present rank; interviews like this were simply a symptom of that. People got to the top of the greasy pole largely because they wanted to, real bad—sometimes so they could do the job, more often not. He did this lousy job because he wanted to, not to get a better office. Shits like the captain regarded actual police work as a distraction from more important matters.
Whether or not the captain thought it was too much trouble to bother with, they'd be hearing from this particular perp again, closed file or no closed file.
Or somebody would be hearing about them. This isn't the sort that goes somewhere and hides.
CHAPTER FIVE
The tropical sun was a flat glare on the surface of the water. The compressor on the barge throbbed tirelessly, pumping water down a thick tube to blow sand off the bottom thirty feet below; that made the sea around them turgid, greenish compared to the usual turquoise of the waters off Abaco. They were eighty miles southwest of Marsh Harbor, not far from Mores Island; that flat sandy speck of land was just visible, but nothing else marred the circle of sky and sea except the barge and its attendant boats. There was a silty undertone to the usual sea-salt smell, faint beneath the diesel stink of the exhaust.
Captain John Lowe looked at the water in disgust, then back at the woman who'd chartered his outfit, in puzzlement. Nothing here to find. Sure, there were plenty of wrecks around the Abacos, all over the Bahamas—the archipelago was famous for it. But these waters had been searched bare, long ago.
The money's good. He'd insisted on getting it up front and in cash. There was a lot of that sort of business in the Bahamas, and a tradition of not asking too many questions. The country lived off being an offshore tax shelter even more than it did from tourism and the . . . unregistered transit trade. An old tradition: Conchy Joes like him had always been smugglers, from cocaine back through Prohibition rum boats and Civil War blockade runners, and before that wreckers and pirates.
Crazy bitch.
She stood at the rail of the boat, looking over at the floats that marked where the divers were working. Crazy, and I can't figure her. He couldn't even decide whether she was white or not. She'd darkened up considerably since they started, to milk chocolate color, but the tan seemed to go all over—he had a good view, with the loose cotton shorts and sleeveless singlet she was wearing. The green eyes and red hair were genuine, though. Her papers said Colombian, but the accent was American—South Carolina, maybe, or Louisiana, hard to place, despite the pretty latina secretary she had hanging around. The body said American too, the fitness-freak look, like some of the richer women tourists. Not very bulgy, but every muscle precisely delineated, moving under the smooth skin like machined steel in oil.
Nice tits, though. And no bra. Maybe a hundred and forty pounds, a little more.
One of the standing bets had been whether or not she was queer. That was settled up when Jamie Simms had been seen coming out of her cabana back in Marsh Harbor at six in the morning, but the young deckhand had steadfastly refused all details. That was odd, because everyone had expected a stroke-by-stroke description, and he'd screamed at them to stop asking and then quit the job. Damned odd.
Lowe moved up to stand beside her. "How much longer?" he said.
"Until it's found," she replied. Her voice was soft and pleasant, rather deep, but the tone expected instant obedience.
He gritted his teeth. Sure, she was paying, but there wasn't enough money in the world to make him swallow that much longer.
"It's your three hundred thousand," he said. And
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