Grey Lady Page 6

  The source of the light and the smoke was a fire burning furiously at the Hyannis marina. It was hard to pinpoint the exact location, but as the ferry grew nearer, and details became visible, I grew more worried. And with good reason.

  The Thalassa’s dock was enveloped in flames.

  CHAPTER 6

  The island ferry makes a 360-degree pivot in the tightest part of the harbor so it can dock stern first in position for the next trip. I’ve always liked watching the maneuver, but as the ferry went through its agonizingly slow spin, I circled the deck like an ant on a floating leaf. The blaze was definitely at my dock. And my boat was in the middle of the writhing pillar of flames.

  The ferry eased up to the bulkhead and the deck hands dropped the gangway in place as soon as the land crew secured the dock lines. I dashed down the gangway like a thief on the run, got behind the wheel of my pick-up, murmured a prayer and turned the ignition key. The engine miraculously kicked into life on the first try.

  I broke the speed limit driving to the other side of the harbor, only to jam the brakes on at the entrance to the marina parking lot. A cop was turning people away. I yelled out the window that I had a boat at the dock and he waved me through. The parking lot was pure chaos. Four fire trucks and a couple of fire department SUVs were clustered near the dock. Behind the trucks were more cruisers than you’d see at the policeman’s ball. An ambulance with EMTs stood by. Hoses snaked everywhere. The stroboscopic color display looked like the special effects at a Rolling Stones concert.

  The Thalassa was hidden behind a wall of flames and black, foul-smelling smoke. The firefighters had dampened down the fire on the dock and were advancing cautiously to the source of the flames under a shower of sparks. An acrid, choking cloud hung over the marina. A line of yellow tape had been set up a safe distance from the blaze. The cop standing behind the yellow tape saw me duck under the plastic barricade and came running over to kick me out.

  “Hey—oh, it’s you,” Officer Tucker said. “Am I glad to see that you’re okay, Mr. Socarides! I thought you might be on your boat.”

  “I’ve got to get to the dock.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I left my cat on the boat!”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. Look at it. There’s nothing you can do until they get things under control.”

  She was right, of course. Even from where I stood, the heat toasted my face like a bagel in an oven. I placed my cap over my nose and mouth as an impromptu gas mask, but it didn’t help much when the wind shifted in our direction. We both broke into coughing fits and the smoke produced by burning fiberglass stung our eyes. Officer Tucker and I retreated another hundred feet from the docks. I raged at my helplessness and stared at the fire with glazed and watery eyes.

  Poor old Kojak wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  Someone called my name. I turned and saw the dock master hustling toward me. As he came closer, I wiped my eyes and saw that he was cradling in his arms what looked like an overgrown fur muff. The dancing light of the fire illuminated the grin on his face.

  I yelled, “Kojak!”

  The old boy heard his name, lifted his head and blinked his yellow eyes. Then he yawned.

  I took him from the dock master’s arms. Kojak smelled as if he had come from a smoked sausage factory. I thanked the dock master.

  “I thought he was a goner.”

  “Came damned close,” the dock master said. “I was on my way to check on the car fire and saw a weird yellow light coming from your boat. Went out on the dock. The door to the cabin was wide open. I could see flames inside. Your cat was on the deck, hiding in a corner. I grabbed him and ran over to tell the firemen working on the car. Good thing the Hatteras wasn’t in its slip and lucky there was no wind. Woulda been a real mess.”

  I nodded in agreement. If the bigger boat next to mine had caught fire, its gas tanks would have gone off like a bomb. Every boat in the marina could have caught fire.

  “You said there was a car fire, too?”

  “Near the big boat storage shed,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Two fires about the same time in almost the same place. Hell of a coincidence.”

  Fires rarely start themselves. Spontaneous combustion can happen in haystacks and manure piles. My boat was plastic and metal, and I kept it cleaner than a surgical unit. Even if the boat fire was accidental, the timing of the car fire was suspicious. If someone wanted to walk out to my boat without being seen, a car fire would have drawn attention from the boat dock. People would have rushed over to see what the excitement was about. Someone could come aboard the Thalassa, break the lock to the cabin, get the fire going and escape.

  “Yeah. Hell of a coincidence,” I said.

  The smoke was getting worse and drifting our way as the firemen tamped down the fire. The dock master started to cough.

  He said, “C’mon to my office. It’s going to be a while before we can see what the damage is.”

  I followed him to the small building overlooking the marina. He poured a couple of mugs full from a coffee machine. I put some half-and-half into a dish for Kojak who licked it dry. He seemed unfazed by the fire that had just destroyed my boat and my dreams.

  I stared out the window at the drifting haze enveloping the entire marina. The dock master was busy answering the phone, which rang off the hook as boat owners heard about the fire. I thought about another fire, one that had been fueled by the body of a living man. About two Russian thugs who said their boss didn’t like what I said in the newspaper. And about the smaller thug who said the Thalassa was a “naz bot.”

  After about an hour, the smoke started to thin. I asked the dock master to keep an eye on Kojak, who had curled up under a chair. I found the fire department officer in charge and told him I had a boat in one of the burned-out slips.

  He shook his head, then led the way along the dock until the wooden planking became black charcoal. He played the flashlight beam on the charred dock. I could have cried. My slip was no more. The Grady-White had burned to the waterline. The hull was mostly submerged and the console had melted to the deck. The twin outboards at five thousand bucks a whack were ruined.

  I slogged back to the parking lot, head down in the classic pose of dejection. I could argue with myself that my old cat and I were lucky to be alive, but the boat was brand new and when it burned, my plans for a new career sank with it. I wondered how I would tell my family that their investment in the charter fishing business had gone up in smoke.

  Officer Tucker intercepted me on the way to fetch Kojak. “How’s it look?”

  “Like an overdone marshmallow.”

  She tilted her cap back on her head. “That’s a bummer. Sorry, Mr. Socarides.”

  “Me, too. It’s not all bad news. Dock master rescued my cat. Boat’s insured. I wasn’t sleeping in my cabin when the fire broke out. I won’t have to worry about Mr. Glick taking my boat away. All is well.” The skeptical look on her young face showed that she knew I was faking it.

  “I’m glad you and the cat are okay, but this sort of ruins it for your summer business.”

  “I can always take parties out in a rowboat. It would certainly cut down on the overhead.”

  She squinted off at the fire scene. “Those two guys who visited you today have anything to do with this?”

  “That’s not out of the realm of possibility. I can’t prove it. Anything turn up in your records?”

  “We have mostly native-borns in our bad guy file.” She glanced at the dock. “We’ll have to start at the scene of the crime. The fire inspectors have arrived and will check for arson as soon as it’s safe.”

  I thanked her for her help and shuffled back to the dock master’s office. The dock master was gone and Kojak was snoozing through the irritating jangle of the phone. I sat in a chair for a few min
utes, staring out the window until the ringing stopped. Before the phone could ring again, I grabbed it and stuck it in my ear. I punched out a number from memory, not sure I had it right. After the first ring, a sleepy voice answered.

  “Flagg here,” it rumbled. “Go ahead.”

  “I see you’re still a man of few words, John.”

  The deep voice went up a couple of octaves to a throaty growl. “That you, Soc? Christ, it’s the middle of the night where I am.”

  “Sorry, pal. You told me once that Indians sleep with their eyes closed but their minds awake.”

  There was a chuckle on the end of the line. “Thought you were too smart to believe that crap. Bet you still think Santy Claus is going to bring you a Daisy BB gun.”

  “This year I’m going to write and ask him to leave a new boat under the tree.”

  “Didn’t you just get a new sport fisherman?”

  “Yup, but while I was out of town, someone tossed a Molotov cocktail onto my new sport fisherman. The Thalassa melted down to the waterline.”

  It had been nearly a year since I had seen Flagg in person. You never know when he’s going to show up. He simply appears, like a Genie materializing from a magic lamp, and says he wants to go fishing.

  “No shit. Any idea who did it, Soc?”

  I could picture Flagg suddenly coming alert, the black eyes darting in his broad face as if someone had flicked on an electric switch. His wavy black hair has gone to salt and pepper like mine, and he’s thickened around the waist, a development he describes as a southern migration of his barrel chest. But he’s still got the powerful shoulders and towering height that make him a formidable figure.

  “Maybe. I think there’s a Russian guy named Ivan involved. A couple of Russian hoods dropped by to see me yesterday.” I filled Flagg in on the murdered man and story in the newspaper and quoted Ivan’s representatives as best I could remember. “Any idea who this Ivan guy is?”

  I could hear a sharp intake of breath.

  “Jeez, Soc. Of all the guys in the world to get pissed off at you. His name is Ivan Chernko. They call him Ivan the Terrible.”

  “I’ve heard about the original Ivan, but not Chernko.”

  “Not surprised. Anyone who gets too nosy about Ivan usually winds up with a few broken bones. Or even worse. A couple of reporters who wrote about him have been shot by unknown assailants. He’s what passes for a businessman in Russia. Ex-KGB. Closely tied to the top government echelon. He’s a multi-millionaire. Got a lot of his money through sweetheart deals with the army. Arms acquisition mostly.”

  “Russia is a long way from where I’m sitting, Flagg.”

  “It’s closer than you think. Chernko jets over to check out the real estate he owns. He’s made a few friends with mega-tycoons there who wish they could use his methods to deal with critics. He’s got connections in our government, too. Our guys cut him slack because they think he can go around the usual diplomatic channels when they want to talk hush-hush with the top guys at the Kremlin. Let me make a few calls and find out where he is these days.”

  Flagg asked for my telephone number and hung up. I sat there pondering his words. If Flagg was right, Ivan made Mr. Glick look like a choir boy. I got up and paced the floor, wondering how a quiet, unassuming chap like me turned out to be a magnet for bad feelings. After about ten minutes, the phone rang. It was Flagg again.

  “It’s Ivan Chernko all right. He’s in your back yard. Cruising around in his yacht.”

  “The Volga?”

  There was a pause on the line, followed by a chuckle. “Sometimes you scare the hell out of me, Soc. How did you know?”

  “I saw a big yacht by that name in Nantucket Harbor a little while ago. Lucky guess.”

  “Not sure I’d call it lucky. What are you going to do now?”

  “Talk to the fire inspectors. Talk to the insurance guys. Get Kojak home.”

  “Hell, Soc, that mangy old eating machine still alive?”

  “Just barely. He was on the boat when someone torched it. Dock master rescued him. Another black mark against Mr. Chernko.”

  “I hope that’s not a quiet threat I hear. My advice, stay away from Ivan. You’ve seen what he can do. Get outta his hair, take a trip somewhere, and maybe he’ll forget about you.”

  “Flagg, you’re like an old mother hen. I know better than to go up against someone named Ivan the Terrible. You think I’m insane?”

  “Huh. I’m going to let that question sit there. I know how your brain works. Most of the time, anyway.”

  “I’ll take your advice. I’ve been asked to do an investigation. Working for a pretty lady who allows me to drive her red MG convertible. I’ll be busy with that case for a while.”

  “Call if you need me. Can’t stress this enough. Stay away from that Russian bastard.”

  I was getting tired of Flagg’s scolding. I told him I saw the fire inspectors and had to hang up. I turned to the old eating machine.

  “What do you think I should do, Kojak?”

  He half opened his eyes at the sound of his name and yawned.

  “Think you’d be okay on your own for a couple of days?”

  He yawned again.

  “Yeah, I thought so.”

  I dug Lisa Hendricks’s business card out of my wallet and dialed the home number she had printed on the back. She answered in a low sleepy voice after a couple of rings. I apologized for waking her.

  “That’s okay, Mr. Socarides. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine,” I said. “I’ve had second thoughts about your offer to join your grandfather’s defense team.”

  “And—?”

  Flagg’s warning popped into my head. I drew a mental picture of a broom sweeping Flagg’s words up and dumping them into a trash can.

  “I’ll see you at the ferry landing tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning I stood on the open deck as the high-speed ferry cruised past the Hyannis marina. A crane barge was positioning itself to haul the burned wreckage of the Thalassa out of the water. Several fire department SUVs were parked in the lot.

  After talking to Flagg the night before, I drove back to the boathouse, fed Kojak a night treat, then we both rolled into bed for a few hours of sleep. When I woke up, I showered, downed a gallon of coffee, then called a neighbor.

  I apologized for calling at the last minute, told her that my boat had burned, and asked if she would take care of Kojak for a few days while I straightened things out. She said she’d be glad to help. I packed my duffel and his favorite dish, the one with the kitty face on it, gave him a pat on the head and dropped the old guy off at the neighbor’s house with a supply of food. Then I headed back to the Hyannis marina where I met the fire inspectors.

  I told the inspectors that the boat caught fire while I was on my way back from Nantucket, and that I didn’t have a clue how it started. They had said it was a good thing I wasn’t on board. Which was when it dawned on me. I had been so intent on taking care of my elderly cat that I hadn’t seen what was right in front of me. This wasn’t a simple act of vandalism or arson. Whoever torched my boat was trying to kill me!

  A stinking miasma hung over the harbor. I was glad when the ferry entered Lewis Bay and the breeze freshened. I bought coffee and a bagel with cream cheese and carried them out to the sun-drenched bow deck. I stared at the wheeling gulls keeping pace with the ferry, and pondered what I had learned from my talks with Lisa and Grandpa Ahab. I’d let my jumbled thoughts simmer in my subconscious stew. As the ferry slowed on its approach to the island forty-five minutes later, I leaned on the rail, peering at the docked yacht through binoculars. I checked out the blue and white helicopter sitting on its elevated pad. I also caught a glimpse of a sunbather with auburn hair, b
ut she was sitting on the deck with her back to me.

  Lisa was waiting for me on the ferry landing. She was wearing a white sleeveless top and her turquoise shorts looked as if the color had been invented to go with her golden skin. She greeted me with a warm smile and a quick hug. We joined the crowds heading into town, but instead of going to her office, she guided me to a small private lot near her office where a sky-blue Jeep Wrangler was parked.

  “You can store your bag in the Jeep for now,” Lisa said.

  I made a sad face. “No MG?”

  “I thought you might need more space for your baggage,” she said.

  I tossed my duffel behind the passenger seat.

  “I travel light while I’m on the job. All I need is a toothbrush and my trusty .45.”

  Lisa looked as if I had told her that my real name was John Dillinger, the notorious bank robber.

  “I never thought that you might carry a gun. I guess it makes sense for a private investigator.” She didn’t sound happy.

  “Just kidding about the .45,” I said. “I haven’t packed a gun since I left the Boston PD.” I narrowed my eyes to slits. “I simply demolish a potential assailant with my acerbic wit.”

  The shocked expression left her face. “I’m sure they must die laughing, Mr. Socarides.” Lisa was quick as well as pretty. “Where would you like to begin your investigation?”

  “We could start by dispensing with the formalities. Things might move along a lot faster if you didn’t have to contend with a mouth full of syllables every time you used my name. My friends use the shortened version, Soc.”

  “Then I will, too, Soc. And you will call me Lisa.”

  “Deal, Lisa.” We shook hands on it. “Now that the formalities are over, let’s start the official investigation with a visit to the crime scene.”

  “This way,” she said, taking the lead. “I don’t have the words to tell you how happy I am that you’ve agreed to work with us. I’m curious about why you changed your mind. You seemed pretty sure last night that you weren’t interest in the case.”