Micro

Wait. What about that text message from Eric? When did that come in? He went indoors and got his phone, and scrolled through the call log. The text—dont come—had arrived at 9:49 p.m. Eastern time. There was a six-hour time difference between the East Coast and Hawaii. It meant…it meant that Eric had sent the text at 3:49 p.m. He had sent it just two minutes after Alyson Bender had made three calls to a disposable cell phone. It was only a two-word text, “dont come.” That was because Eric had been in a life-or-death crisis and had not had any time to send a longer text. Eric had sent the text from his boat while he was struggling to get the engine started, moments before he had jumped overboard. Peter’s hands were clammy, and his phone almost slipped from his fingers. He stared at the words: dont come. He was reading his brother’s last words.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_d096b5f6-f5f9-5b85-a05b-419c5e69780a)

Ala Wai, Honolulu

28 October, 8:00 a.m.

Akamai Boat Services was right on Ala Moana Boulevard, next to the Ala Wai Boat Basin, at the end of Waikiki Beach. The taxi dropped Peter off at eight in the morning, but the boat yard was already busy at work. It wasn’t a large yard, perhaps ten or twelve hulls out of the water, and it took him no time to locate the Boston Whaler.

He was here because of Alyson’s question the night before: Did the police check the boat?

Why would she ask that? Supposedly she was concerned about her boyfriend, yet she seemed to care more about the boat. He jumped off the boat.

Peter walked around the boat now, looking closely.

Considering the pounding it had taken in the surf, the Boston Whaler seemed surprisingly intact. True, the white fiberglass hull was scratched all over, as if it had been clawed by giant hands; a jagged rip ran several feet along the starboard hull, and a chunk had been whacked out of the bow. Whalers were famous for their ability to float even if the hull was broken into pieces. His brother had had years of experience with Whalers. Eric would have known the boat hadn’t been in danger of sinking. Certainly, the damage to the boat did not justify Eric’s abandoning it. Plainly, his brother shouldn’t have jumped. He would have been safer staying on board.

So why did he jump? Panic? Confusion? Something else?

There was a wooden ladder on the far side of the boat, and he climbed up onto the stern. All hatches and the door to the cuddy cabin were sealed with yellow CRIME SCENE tape. He wanted to look at the outboard engines, but they were sealed as well.

“Can I help you?” A man below, shouting up. Heavyset, grizzled, streaks of grease on his work clothes. Dirty baseball cap shaded his eyes.

“Oh hi,” Peter said. “My name is Peter Jansen. This is my brother’s boat.”

“Uh-huh. What’re you doing here?”

“Well, I wanted to see—”

“You illiterate?” the man said.

“No, I’m—”

“Well it seems like you must be, because that sign over there says plain as day, all visitors register at the main office. Are you a visitor?”

“I guess.”

“Why didn’t you register?”

“I just thought I could—”

“Wrong. You can’t. Now what the hell you doing up there?”

“This is my brother’s—”

“I heard you the first time. Your brother’s boat. You see all that yellow tape? I know you do, and I also know you can read it, ’cause you told me you’re not illiterate. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s a crime scene, and you got no business up there. Now you get the hell down right away, and go to the office and register, and show us some identification. You have identification?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Get down off of there, and stop wasting my time.” The man stalked off.

Peter climbed down the ladder on the far side of the boat. As he came near the ground, he heard a gruff male voice say, “Can I help you, Miss?” And a woman’s voice answered, “Yes, I’m looking for a Boston Whaler the Coast Guard brought in.”

It was Alyson’s voice.

He paused, hidden from view by the hull of the boat.

“Goddamn,” the man said. “What is it about that fricking boat? Gets more visitors than a rich uncle on his deathbed.”

“How’s that?” she said.

“Well, yesterday some guy shows up, claiming it was his boat, ’cept he had no identification, so I told him to get lost. The things people try! Then this morning we have some young guy, claiming it was his brother’s boat, I had to get him out of the cockpit, and now we got you. What is it about that boat?”

“I really couldn’t say,” Alyson said. “Myself, I just left something on the boat, and I wanted to get it back.”

“No chance of that. Not unless you got a letter of authorization from the police. Do you?”

“Well, no…”

“Sorry. That’s a crime scene, like I told the young guy.”

“Where is this guy?” she asked.

“He was coming down the ladder. Probably still on the other side of the boat. He’ll be along. Want to come inside the office?”

“Why would I do that?”

“We can call the police, see if they’ll give you a waiver to get your stuff off the boat.”

“That seems like a lot of trouble. It’s just my, well, it’s my watch. I took it off my wrist…”

“No trouble.”

“I guess I could buy another one. It did cost a bit—”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought it would be easy.”

“Well, suit yourself. But you still better sign in.”

“I don’t see why.”

“You’re supposed to.”