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“Oscar worries,” Tinker explained. “You are always putting yourself in places a body could get its fur wet.”
“I hope stress isn’t causing him to smoke too much,” A
“It’s hard to tell,” Tinker replied in all apparent seriousness.
A
“It does.”
A
“You look like you could do with a little more hugging of bears,” A
“Oscar’s an old fusspot,” Tinker said affectionately.
“Who’s blackmailing you?” A
Tinker’s hands, busy breaking beans into a pot of water, twitched. In a voice almost too low to be heard, Tinker said: “Nobody’s blackmailing me.”
“I read the cryptic note about Hopkins and dirty laundry,” A
“I don’t know anything about that.” Tinker dragged her sleeve across her eyes.
“My mistake,” A
Finally A
“Yes it can,” Tinker replied shortly.
A
Relying on radar, ragged green lines on a black screen taking the place of shoreline, the Belle Isle crept back up Moskey toward Rock. Stanton hummed old Donovan tunes. A
With the Bradshaws and Jo out of the picture-at least in A
It would have been tragic, but simple, if Hawk and Holly had done it. Motive, means, opportunity: they’d seemed to have it all. The pieces had fit so nicely. But they’d been guilty only of loving De
The remaining possibilities each lacked one of the big three: motive or means or opportunity.
Jim Tattinger had the means: access to boats and dive gear, and he was a certified diver. The opportunity had been there. Jim was on the island that night. A
Motive was a little weak for Tattinger. Generalized dislike and professional squabbling seemed inadequate cause for such an elaborate and risky murder. Unless it stemmed from a deeper rift between the two men. Jim had left his job on St. John’s in the Caribbean under a considerable cloud. St. John’s was largely an undersea-oriented park. Had Jim been suspected of pilfering from any sunken archaeological site? Was he doing the same thing at ISRO? Did De
The most damning thing against Tattinger was Tattinger. He was a creep. A
“A ruble for your thoughts,” Stanton said.
“Not worth even a glasnost ruble,” A
Stanton began whistling “Sunshine, Superman.” A
Scotty Butkus had motive: the classic-a cuckolded husband committing a crime of passion. He had opportunity: He was on the island that night. Means was the weak link in this chain. Though he had access to boats and dive gear, he was no diver. His health and, more important, his nerve had failed him. And A
Casting about for other suspects, she considered Pilcher and Vega-both could do it but had no reason to. Blackmail? There was a blackmailer on the island but he was still in business. And, too, blackmail didn’t seem De
Patience had means, a boat-Hawk had even mentioned seeing it near the Kamloops‘ marker buoy a time or two- and she had the gear. Much as she claimed to be a dilettante, A
A shadowy green blot the shape of Rabbit Island materialized on the radar screen. Mott was two islands farther up the cha
Stanton was staying on Mott in the V.I.P. quarters. She docked the Belle. The FBI man learned quickly: He deployed fenders and secured lines like an old salt.
As she stepped onto the concrete pier, he shook her hand enthusiastically. “You’ve been a great help. Terrific!”
A
“Nope, but it sure can make folks scratch.” Flapping the autopsy envelope he’d carried from the boat, he said gleefully: “Got a time of death. Now I can check alibis. I like doing alibis. Makes me feel sleuthy.”
The fog swallowed up his ambling form and muffled the crunch of his hard-soled shoes on the gravel.
Much of the day’s last light had been swallowed as well. A
“Cut that shit out,” A
Laughter percolated incongruously through the cold mist. Trail crew. Or the maintenance men. Both had bunkhouses on Mott. Both drank enough vodka to qualify for detox on either coast. On the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where most of them hailed from, it was just a way to unwind, let off a little steam.