Page 62 of No One Aboard
He glanced out at the sea, which still shifted listlessly.
This hurricane’sgonnahide any evidence wemightafound if we had more time, Madden had told him.
“Whoooa...” Lainey climbed out of the companionway ofThe Old Eileen, scanning the world around them.
“Never seen the aftermath before?” Jerry retrieved his broom and worked to rid the scuppers of sopping cardboard and grime.
“My family usually flies to Colorado before they hit and stays a few days after they’re done.” She shielded her eyes and grabbed the hose. “Need help?”
“It’s mostly done. Just make sure there isn’t any salt clinging to the rails.”
Jerry did his best to erase the stains and scrapes, but between the stench of rotting fish and soggy garbage, she was a far cry from the beautiful, white sailboat he’d found. He heaved his cooler of fish to the dumpster and got rid of the ones that had gone bad. He rinsed the cooler and poured the bloody water into the marina.
Damn, he missed fishing. He hadn’t gone since the night he foundThe Old Eileen. Maybe a quick trip to a nearby fishing spot was just the thing he needed to set his head right. Hurricane Ida would have the fish more active than usual, teeming beneath the surface and ready to be harvested.
“Hey, Lainey, you interested in going fishing?” Jerry could barely believe himself even as the question tumbled out. He hadn’t invited anyone to fish with him since, well, since he’d been married to Sheila, who had agreed grudgingly and spent the entire morning complaining about her wet shoes and slurping her Starbucks drink loud enough to drive Jerry to leave her. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but between the grating iced pistachio latte straw and soaked ballet flats, Jerry had determined to never, ever go fishing with another human being again.
He was half relieved when Lainey hesitated.
“Uh, I don’t know if I’m much of a fisher.”
“S’alright. Forget I asked.” Jerry busied himself with taking a rag to a nasty streak of something onEileen’s stern. Darn thing wouldn’t budge. He spit on the rag for good measure and rubbed at the spot again.
“Actually, maybe I should go with you. I’ve never given fishing a fair shot.” Lainey looped up the hose quickly. “I think I left some clean clothes in one of the cabins.”
“Sounds fine,” Jerry said. “Get dressed and we’ll head out?”
Lainey nodded. She disappeared down the companionway.
Jerry found himself whistling. Jerry Baugh with company on a fishing trip. Who would have thought it? He was suddenly excited, even eager, to show Lainey some of the ropes. Steve had been squeamish about fishing, and Jerry had been too young and stupid to have patience with him. But with Lainey, Jerry felt sure he could explain it all right. Hell, by the end of this, the kid would be on her way to catching her own dinner.
Jerry whistled the tune of “Wellerman” and stood to cow hitch the rag on the lifeline so it could dry. Down the dock, a few people were milling about. Deckhands scurried to aid their captains with the cleanup effort. A pair of sunglass-wearing ladies sat on a bench, soaking up the sunshine. And a man strolled down the dock toward them.
Jerry squinted. Was the guy wearing a suit?
He was. Iron-pressed white shirt, black jacket, and slacks complete with a red-striped tie. What kind of bizarre asshole went on a walk the morning after a hurricane in his finest formal wear?
Jerry snorted to himself and tied up the rag. He considered changing for the fishing expedition, but he hadn’t gone to the laundromat in weeks now, and if his faded T-shirt and jeans had lasted two days in a storm, they would do the trick for a quick jet to a fishing spot. He adjusted his cap and went onto the dock to undo the remaining lines that tetheredSheila 2.0to land.
The man in the suit walked over, but instead of going past, he stopped in front ofThe Old Eileen, hands deep in his pants pockets.
He was Asian, lean and tall with gelled hair and dimples on both cheeks. He offered Jerry a friendly smile that Jerry did not return. Usually the people who came to gawk atTheOld Eileenwere held back by the coded fence. You had to be a member of the marina to get inside.
“She’s a lovely ship,” the man said conversationally.
“Mmm-hmm.” Jerry unlooped a dock line.
“Yours, I take it?” he asked.
“Why would you think that?” He didn’t bother to sound polite. He knew how he looked to people like this. Why didn’t the guy just go to his own yacht already? Jerry had some fishing to do.
The man pulled something—a black leather wallet—from his pocket. “Are you Jerry Baugh, sir?”
Jerry eyed the wallet, not liking where this was going one bit. “Who’s asking?”
The man flipped open the wallet, and Jerry’s jaw went slack.
“Special Agent Koshida, sir. I’m with the FBI.” He flashed his paper-white teeth at Jerry, who was rooted in place.
