into the lens of another camera as the heavy oak door opens, and anything I
might have said is eclipsed by my astonishment.
“Doc,” Pete Marino says. “Don’t be pissed.”
8
H e invites me in as if it’s his apartment, and the seriousness of his eyes behind his unstylish wire-rim glasses and the hard
set of his mouth completely unnerve me at first.
“Jaime should be back any minute.” He shuts the door.
My shocked response just as suddenly turns to anger as I take him in from the top of his shiny shaved head and big weathered
face to the rubber-soled canvas shoes he wears with no socks. I note his Hawaiian shirt and the drape of it over shoulders
that seem more massive and a belly that seems flatter than I remember. Baggy green fishing shorts with cargo pockets hang
low on his hips, and he’s darkly tanned except for under his chin, where the sun has spared him. He’s been out in a boat or
on a beach, out somewhere in the summer weather, his skin bronzed with a ruddy hue. Even his bare pate and the tops of his ears are the color of cognac, but he is pale around his eyes. He’s been wearing sunglasses and no
cap, and I envision the white cargo van and the charter-boat brochures in the glove box. I think of the fast-food napkins.
Marino craves Bojangles’ and Popeyes fried chicken and biscuits, and often complains that fried food isn’t a “food group”
in New England like it is in the South. There were the comments he made not long ago about preowned gas-guzzling trucks and
boats selling for a song, and how much he misses warm weather, and I recall being somewhat bothered by his last-minute notice
when he stopped by my office earlier this month. He said he’d been offered an opportunity for some great vacation package. He wanted to go fishing, and his calendar was clear. His last day on duty for the CFC was June 15.
Marino vanished in the middle of this month, and other things happened almost simultaneously. Kathleen Lawler’s e-mails to
me stopped. She was transferred to Bravo Pod. Suddenly she wanted me to visit the GPFW, to talk to me about Jack Fielding. Leonard Brazzo thought it was a good idea for me to agree, and then I discovered Jaime Berger is here. Now that I have the
luxury of looking back, it’s plain what occurred. Marino lied to me.
“She’s picking up dinner,” he says, taking the bag of take-out sushi from me. “Real food. I don’t eat fish bait.”
I notice a desk, a small table, and two chairs arranged near the far wall, with two laptops and a printer, and books and legal
pads, and on the floor stacks of expansion file folders.
“The three of us talking in a restaurant isn’t exactly a good idea,” he adds, setting the take-out bag on the kitchen counter.
“I wouldn’t know if it’s a good idea or not, since I have no idea why you’re here. Or, more to the point, why I am,” I reply.
“You want something to drink?”
“Not now.”
I move past the closed-circuit monitor mounted on the wall, past a coat rack, and for an instant I smell cigarettes.
“I don’t blame you for wondering what the hell,” Marino says, and paper rattles as he opens the bag. “I probably should stick
this in the fridge. Don’t be pissed, Doc….”
“Don’t tell me what to be. Are you smoking again?”
“Hell, no.”
“I smell cigarettes. Someone was smoking in the rental van I didn’t reserve, which also stinks like dead fish and stale fast
food and has suspicious brochures in the glove box. I hope you’re not smoking again, for God’s sake.”
“No way I’d get hooked on cigarettes after all I went through to quit.”
“Who is Captain Link Michaels?” I refer to one of the brochures in the glove box.
“Year-round fishing with Captain Link Michaels,”
I quote.
“A charter boat out of Beaufort. A nice guy. Been out with him a few times.”
“You weren’t wearing a cap, probably not sunblock, either. What about skin
might have said is eclipsed by my astonishment.
“Doc,” Pete Marino says. “Don’t be pissed.”
8
H e invites me in as if it’s his apartment, and the seriousness of his eyes behind his unstylish wire-rim glasses and the hard
set of his mouth completely unnerve me at first.
“Jaime should be back any minute.” He shuts the door.
My shocked response just as suddenly turns to anger as I take him in from the top of his shiny shaved head and big weathered
face to the rubber-soled canvas shoes he wears with no socks. I note his Hawaiian shirt and the drape of it over shoulders
that seem more massive and a belly that seems flatter than I remember. Baggy green fishing shorts with cargo pockets hang
low on his hips, and he’s darkly tanned except for under his chin, where the sun has spared him. He’s been out in a boat or
on a beach, out somewhere in the summer weather, his skin bronzed with a ruddy hue. Even his bare pate and the tops of his ears are the color of cognac, but he is pale around his eyes. He’s been wearing sunglasses and no
cap, and I envision the white cargo van and the charter-boat brochures in the glove box. I think of the fast-food napkins.
Marino craves Bojangles’ and Popeyes fried chicken and biscuits, and often complains that fried food isn’t a “food group”
in New England like it is in the South. There were the comments he made not long ago about preowned gas-guzzling trucks and
boats selling for a song, and how much he misses warm weather, and I recall being somewhat bothered by his last-minute notice
when he stopped by my office earlier this month. He said he’d been offered an opportunity for some great vacation package. He wanted to go fishing, and his calendar was clear. His last day on duty for the CFC was June 15.
Marino vanished in the middle of this month, and other things happened almost simultaneously. Kathleen Lawler’s e-mails to
me stopped. She was transferred to Bravo Pod. Suddenly she wanted me to visit the GPFW, to talk to me about Jack Fielding. Leonard Brazzo thought it was a good idea for me to agree, and then I discovered Jaime Berger is here. Now that I have the
luxury of looking back, it’s plain what occurred. Marino lied to me.
“She’s picking up dinner,” he says, taking the bag of take-out sushi from me. “Real food. I don’t eat fish bait.”
I notice a desk, a small table, and two chairs arranged near the far wall, with two laptops and a printer, and books and legal
pads, and on the floor stacks of expansion file folders.
“The three of us talking in a restaurant isn’t exactly a good idea,” he adds, setting the take-out bag on the kitchen counter.
“I wouldn’t know if it’s a good idea or not, since I have no idea why you’re here. Or, more to the point, why I am,” I reply.
“You want something to drink?”
“Not now.”
I move past the closed-circuit monitor mounted on the wall, past a coat rack, and for an instant I smell cigarettes.
“I don’t blame you for wondering what the hell,” Marino says, and paper rattles as he opens the bag. “I probably should stick
this in the fridge. Don’t be pissed, Doc….”
“Don’t tell me what to be. Are you smoking again?”
“Hell, no.”
“I smell cigarettes. Someone was smoking in the rental van I didn’t reserve, which also stinks like dead fish and stale fast
food and has suspicious brochures in the glove box. I hope you’re not smoking again, for God’s sake.”
“No way I’d get hooked on cigarettes after all I went through to quit.”
“Who is Captain Link Michaels?” I refer to one of the brochures in the glove box.
“Year-round fishing with Captain Link Michaels,”
I quote.
“A charter boat out of Beaufort. A nice guy. Been out with him a few times.”
“You weren’t wearing a cap, probably not sunblock, either. What about skin
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