Sea Change

23

Y ou go on the boat without a warrant,”

Molly said, “nothing you find can be used as evidence.”

“I don’t have enough for a warrant.”

“Not even Judge Gaffney?” Molly said.

Jesse shook his head.

“Marty Reagan says the new DA is very careful.”

“So he won’t even ask,” Molly said.

“Right.”

“So what’s the point of going aboard?”

“Better to know than not know.”

“Even if you can’t use it.”

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“Can’t use it in court,” Jesse said. “But maybe it’ll point me toward something I can use.”

“Be good to know if they’re viable suspects,” Molly said.

“It would,” Jesse said.

“Be good to know if they weren’t viable suspects,” Molly said.

“Also true,” Jesse said.

“So you could start looking someplace else.”

“Um-hm.”

“Of course, it’s illegal,” Molly said.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Jesse said.

Molly nodded slowly.

“You cut some corners, Jesse.”

“Sometimes you have to, if you’re going to do the job right.”

“So you do something wrong to do something right?”

“Sometimes,” Jesse said.

“I’m not sure Sister Mary Agnes would agree,” Molly said.

“Sister Mary Agnes a cop?” Jesse said.

Molly smiled.

“She taught Philosophy of Christian Ethics at Our Lady of the A

“Certainties are harder to come by,” Jesse said, “in police work.”

“But there’s a danger, isn’t there,” Molly said, “that you start cutting corners and you end up doing bad, not good?”

“Yes, there is,” Jesse said.

“Do you worry about that?”

“Yes,” Jesse said, “I do.”

1 1 0

S E A C H A N G E

“But you’ll do it anyway.”

“Sometimes,” Jesse said. “I trust myself to keep it clean.”

“Pride goeth before a fall is what Sister Mary Agnes would say.”

“Sometimes,” Jesse said, “it goeth before an indictment.”

Molly smiled at him.

“I guess, if I’m going to have somebody bending the law on me,” she said, “I’d just as soon it be you.”

“Better than Mary Agnes?”

“Sister dealt mostly in theory,” Molly said.

“Like when they do marriage counseling,” Jesse said.

“Do I hear anti-Catholicism?”

“No,” Jesse said, “anti-theory-ism.”

Molly smiled again. “You better hide your tracks,” she said, “in case you do get them in court. You don’t one of those fruit from the poisoned tree things.”

“You’re still taking those law courses,” Jesse said. “Aren’t you.”

“One a semester,” Molly said.

“Different than Philosophy of Christian Ethics?”

“Just as theoretical,” Molly said.

“But more commonly applied,” Jesse said.

“By people like us,” Molly said.

“You’ll be DA someday.”

“I was thinking more about president,” Molly said. “How are you pla

“Everybody,” Jesse said, “goes to the Stiles Island Clambake.”

1 1 1

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

“Second Saturday in Race Week,” Molly said.

“Which is tomorrow,” Jesse said.

“Midpoint of Race Week,” Molly said.

“Was Race Week ever just a week?”

“I think so,” Molly said, “but sometime back when my mother was in high school it started expanding at both ends.

The small boats the first two weeks, the big yacht races the second two. With the clambake in the middle.”

“But they still call it Race Week,” Jesse said.

“Race Month just doesn’t sound right,” Molly said.

“But it is the social occasion. Everybody goes.”

“Except me, this year,” Molly said. “I’m right here three to eleven. Applying legal theory.”

“And I’ll be out in the harbor,” Jesse said, “committing piracy.”

“Shiver me timbers,” Molly said.

1 1 2

24

T he caterer’s clambake crew started Friday afternoon, digging a hole two feet deep and fifteen feet across. They lined it with rocks, built a bonfire on top of the rocks and let it burn, feeding it through the night with hardwood. In the morning, when the fire had burned down, they spread seaweed over the rocks and then began layering in clams, lobsters, corn on the cob, potatoes and thick Portuguese sausages. They repeated the seaweed and the food layers until the pit was full. Then they put on a final layer of seaweed, and stretched a tarpaulin over the pile while the hot stones made the seaweed steam, and the food cooked.

Another crew set up a vast striped tent with a pole peak at R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

either end, from which flew Paradise Yacht Club ba

People from town drove over the causeway and parked where they could. A four-man police detail would try to manage the traffic, and later, the clambakers.

Jesse stood beside Hardy Watkins, resting his elbows on the low cabin of the harbor boat, as it idled near the outer harbor. Through the binoculars, Stiles Island was a swarm of tan legs, white shorts, tank tops, big hats, long dresses, pink cotton, blue ribbon, floral patterns, yellow linen. The smell of the bake drifted to him, edged with the smell of fresh spilled beer.

Jesse moved the glasses back to the Lady Jane, where a woman came over the side and joined others in the small launch. It might have been Blondie Martin. The launch pulled away from the Lady Jane and ran in a big smooth curve toward the Stiles Island dock.

“That’s nine,” Jesse said. “The boat should be empty.”

“You want to come in from the other side,” Hardy said.

“Yes.”

Hardy opened the throttle gently and the harbor boat moved quietly through the small harbor chop, behind the screen of moored yachts, to the far side of the Lady Jane. He throttled back and let the boat drift in against the side of the yacht, and held it there.

1 1 4

S E A C H A N G E

“You see anyone heading for the boat,” Jesse said, “give me a shout. If we get caught, I’ll lie, and you’ll swear to it, that I just went aboard thinking there was someone home, and was about to leave when I found there wasn’t.”

“We doing something illegal?” Hardy said.

“We are.”

“I was hoping it would be something better than this.”

Jesse went effortlessly over the side, and onto the deck of the Lady Jane. Away from the low idle of the harbor boat, Jesse heard music coming from Stiles Island. There was no sound on the yacht.

“Hello?” Jesse yelled.

No one answered.

He walked into the cockpit and stopped beside the helm.

“Hello?”

No one answered. He went down the short wide teak stair-way. It was a big boat, but there was no extra space. Jesse paused for a moment and yelled once more. No answer.

Everything was built-in. Dining table, seating for six, bar, galley, a big plasma television screen, polished hardwood and shiny brass. A small corridor off the back of the dining room had staterooms along either side. Each had a built-in bed and bureau. The master suite had its own head. There were several other facilities tucked in among the staterooms. Jesse counted sleeping for more than nine, though it probably depended somewhat on gender and relationship. Everything looked neat and cozy and expensive and luxurious. The table was set. There were flowers in small crystal vases. Jesse won-1 1 5

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

dered how it was in thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds with a six-foot sea ru