Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  “I guess it’s no good to me. This one’s on the house.” He padded back to the cluttered table, opened a bottom drawer and rifled around some, finally pulling out a couple sheets stapled at the top left corner. “This is it.”

  “It doesn’t look like much,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, renting a slip’s not like buying a house.” He walked the papers back and watched as I read through them. It didn’t take long. I didn’t think I’d need Tim’s Social Security number or his bank account info, but I made note of them, anyway. Tim hadn’t listed a permanent address, apparently the boat was his one and only. I groaned when I got to the line for emergency contact. Tim had chosen Jung. Dejection gave way to lighter spirits, however, when the back of the sheet held the phone number and address of an Elizabeth Ayers, identified as Tim’s mother. That would save me some time.

  I handed the sheets back. “Would you mind making a copy?”

  Cap flicked a look at the jar. I reached over and shoved the jar down the counter, sending it flying like a slippery mug of sarsaparilla across the bar of an Old West saloon. “We’re done with the jar. A copy, please. Let’s, at least, try to pretend you give a damn a man died on your patch.”

  Whatever Cap saw in my face, he didn’t challenge. Instead, he shuffled over to the ancient copier and began feeding the pages in as the machine groaned and wheezed in protest. It had to be twenty years old by the look of it. He walked back and handed the sheets to me. I folded them, slid them into my bag.

  “You sure about that card? For another twenty, it’s all yours. Like I said, the brother was really looking out. ’Course, Tim didn’t see it that way.” He was trying to goad me into feeding the jar again. No deal. I’d ask Stephen about his brother myself.

  “What’s in the back room?” I asked.

  Cap stopped smiling. “What?” His eyes held steady, almost too steady, as though he were trying to win a “who’ll blink first” contest. “The back room?”

  Liars always did that; they answered a question with a question. Buying time. I pointed at the door. “Yeah, that back room. The one you locked. You slid the key into your front right pocket.” He didn’t blink. I could tell he wanted to, but he didn’t. “Something important? Extra keys to the boats? Lockers, maybe, for stowing emergency equipment?”

  Cap recovered, smiled wide. “Boy, you have a rich imagination, don’t you? That’s the storage room. Nothing back there but paper for that crap copier, some old buoys, a radio for the Cubs games.” He slid his hand into his pocket. Was he feeling for the key, reassuring himself it was still there? He winked, tried for charming. “Good spot for a nap, too, but don’t tell anybody.”

  I stared at him, really looked, waiting for it to get uncomfortable for him. When it did, I gave him another moment to sit with it, and then I broke the connection.

  “Thanks for your time. Where would I find Tim’s boat? The Safe Passage?”

  I could actually see relief sweep over Cap’s face. He padded over, grabbed the jar, and plucked out the money. “Slip eleven. Follow the numbers.”

  I eased on my sunglasses, headed out. Paper for the copier, old buoys. Right.

  Chapter 11

  I found the boat right where Cap said it was, and she was something to look at, too: white fiberglass, teak decks, silver rails shining like diamonds in the sun. Half a mil, Cap said. It looked it. The Aubrey Rose and the Miraculous were the two boats on either side of Ayers’s ship of dreams. Neither was anywhere near as big or as jaw dropping. That alone could have bred a certain amount of resentment. Was “boat envy” a thing? Wrought-iron gates closed off the narrow walkways between each vessel. Through the gate, I checked out the other boats, but there didn’t appear to be anyone on board either one. The gate blocked off the narrow paths between slips, barring trespass; only when I tried the gate, it was unlocked. I didn’t question the breech. I wasn’t one to look a “gift lock” in the mouth.

  I walked along the side of the Safe Passage, looking for a ramp, a rope, a conveyor belt. I didn’t exactly know how people got on boats this big. Maybe smiling cherubs lifted you up on a big heavenly cloud. I finally found a ladder, grabbed it, and tested it for sturdiness. After a quick check for busybodies or marina security, I slung my bag cross-body over my chest, and then put hands and feet to ladder rungs and started up. Some would call it “trespassing”; I called it “taking advantage of a golden opportunity.” It was all in the perspective. Besides, my intentions were noble. The only thing I hoped to come away with was information. I wasn’t interested in Tim’s valuables.

  Up and in, I dusted my hands off and leaned over the side, gauging the distance back down. It was manageable. If I had to jump, I wouldn’t die. Another short ladder led up to the part of the boat where all the steering happened. There was probably a name for it, but I wasn’t nautical, so the term was not at my immediate disposal. I tested that ladder, too, then started up, passing the time by reciting all the seafaring expressions I knew: “shiver me timbers,” “batten down the hatches,” “raise the yardarm,” “man overboard,” “blow me down.” That last one sounded a little kinky.

  There wasn’t much walking-around room up top. The big steering wheel was worth the trip, though. Two green leather chairs behind it matched the hunter green of the canopy. It’s the little touches that make a yacht a home. Climbing down to the deck again, I eased around the back. The police tape at the cabin door sent a clear message, and I stood for a moment, debating whether to heed it or not. Marta was sure Tim had killed himself, though she’d seen fit to do his family a solid by smoothing it all over. The lack of prints still bothered me, though. I stared at the tape. At this point, it was merely there to discourage looters and looky-loos. I was neither, so I could reason that the tape wasn’t meant for me. It was PI logic, different from cop logic, but legit nonetheless. I turned the knob. The door was locked. And that was the universe’s big smackdown.

  I checked around to see if anyone was looking, then eased my picklocks out of my bag. I slid in the pick, felt around for the tumblers, and gently jockeyed it up and down, feeling for the give, until I heard the simple lock pop free. It took less than a minute. I pushed the door open, ducked under the tape, and slipped inside, pulling out a compact flashlight and easing my way down the short, narrow steps.

  It was musty and overly warm down below, as if the boat had been closed up tight for weeks, and I immediately felt pinned in, detecting a subtle whiff of seaweed and something else . . . turpentine? I crept up to the kitchen, which was almost as big as the one in my apartment, marveling at the creative use of space. Every pot and pan, knife and fork, had a nook, cranny, or slot, and each cabinet was firmly secured. I didn’t see any hatches needing battening. Padding off toward the boat’s pointy end, I swept my beam along, keeping it well below window level. I felt immediately claustrophobic, though I could tell efforts had been made to make the space down below feel and look far more spacious than it was; even on a yacht this size, economy had to be considered. I reached the master suite, done up in chocolate brown and rich tan, brass lamps and tables accenting it all. This was where opulence went to die, I thought, mesmerized by the king-size bed and ritzy harem pillows.

  I made a beeline for Ayers’s small desk, but after a time came up with nothing more interesting than an old laundry ticket being used as a bookmark in a Grisham novel. Apparently, somebody at Randolph St. Cleaners had a funny bone a mile wide; they’d charged Ayers twelve dollars and fifty cents to clean one pair of chinos. I thought of Earlene Skipper and wondered how much she charged to ruin a man’s pants.

  Oil paintings leaned against a wall, unsigned. I counted seven. I assumed Tim had painted them. Jung said he was an artist. I pulled each canvas out for a closer look. Lighthouses. Lighthouses on craggy hills, lighthouses on wave-swept outcroppings, big lighthouses, little lighthouses. They were evocative, haunting, mildly entrancing. I didn’t know much about art, but they didn’t look half-bad.

  I went back the way I c
ame, but before I hit the steps again, I checked out the gleaming bathroom, letting out an appreciative whistle. Tim had obviously spent some money here. The compact shower stall was fronted by glass with the image of a preening peacock etched into it. Every fixture was stainless steel. Even the little soaps sitting in the dishes pulled their weight, taking on the shape of dainty fish and clamshells; they smelled delicious, like peaches and cream and gold bullion. Pulling my eyes away from all the glitter and snap, I eased open the medicine cabinet and found at least a dozen medicine bottles inside, a sobering reminder of Tim’s dire prognosis. This was the overflow Marta had mentioned. The cops had taken the duplicate bottles. He wouldn’t have had to go far to find the means to his eventual end. Had the meds dulled his senses just enough to give him the courage to jump, or had they impaired him just enough so that he lost his footing and slipped?

  Had it all just gotten too much for him—the waiting to die, the regimen, the winding down of the clock? Going out his way would have been a last grab at control. I thought of Tim’s neighbors. Cap was likely right, as much as it burned me to admit it. They’d probably have papered Tim head to toe in injunctions and lawsuits and petitions, but would any of them have risked everything by resorting to murder? If they had, would any one of them have had the wherewithal and presence of mind to remove every single sign that he or she had been on board the Safe Passage? I didn’t think so. Leaving a crime scene that squeaky clean took experience; it screamed pro.

  I snapped photos of all the medicine labels. I wanted to know what the meds were for. Maybe that would tell me something. Back on deck, I breathed in fresh air and carefully replaced the tape. I stood for a moment under the boat’s overhang and e-mailed the photos to Dr. Sue Jankovic, a physician I’d worked with several cases back. She’d be able to identify the medication and tell me what it was for. Maybe something Tim was taking contributed to his state of mind at the time of his death. The e-mail sent, I slipped the phone into my pocket and headed back to the ladder.

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?”

  I turned to find a white guy with a receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses standing on the deck of the Miraculous. He was middle-aged, dressed in thigh-length swim shorts and a tank shirt, revealing the palest arms I’d ever seen on a living person. He didn’t look friendly. The scowl tipped me off. He did, however, look very observant. Needless to say, I’d have preferred it the other way around.

  “Now what?” he yelled, his voice more than carrying over the short distance between his boat and the one I was standing on. There couldn’t have been more than eight, nine feet separating us. “We finally get rid of one problem and you guys bring another.”

  I peered over at him, my hand shielding my eyes from the sun. “Excuse me?”

  “More cops,” he called out. “You guys have to get through over there so they can move that boat out. It’s a prime slip and I know somebody who wants it. What’s your endgame?”

  “We’re waiting for a respectable amount of time to pass, in deference to Tim Ayers’s memory.”

  I didn’t know this to be true. I had no idea what Tim’s family planned to do with the boat, or when they’d move it, but I was fed up with all the pettiness—Cap’s, this guy’s. The man gripped the rail on his boat, his knuckles stone white, testifying to the ferocity of the hold. “Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how glad I am that guy’s gone? The ruckus from over there you wouldn’t believe, and him thumbing his nose at all the complaints. Good riddance, you ask me. And exactly how long’s all that respect going to take?”

  I shrugged. “Open ended. You have to feel when the time’s right.”

  The man’s face flushed with anger, and he started in on a little tantrum dance. I considered taking my phone out and taping him, no one would believe it otherwise. Instead, I turned and headed for the ladder again. He thought I was a cop, but I wasn’t. I was on a boat I had no business being on. It was best not to push my luck.

  “I want to talk to your superior,” Dancing Man barked. “That boat needs to move. Hey, do you hear me?”

  I kept walking. The ladder was close.

  “Hello? I’m talking to you.” He leaned forward, staring. He was a persistent little bugger. “What’s your badge number and name?”

  I turned to face him, stern of face. “We call it a star, not a badge, for future reference. And what’s your name?” I pulled out my best cop voice. My icy stare took a moment to travel across the expanse, but when it did, the man took a step back.

  “Eldon Reese . . . and as a taxpayer, I’m entitled to some answers. I pay your salary, after all.”

  I glared at him. I hated when people said that. Entitled? Yep. “Were you here the night of the accident?”

  “So what? Doesn’t mean I saw anything. The idiot. He was probably drunk or high, or both. He stayed that way. You people already have my statement. Try reading it. Don’t you talk to each other?”

  I smiled, but it wasn’t at all sincere. Eldon Reese was a piece of work. The two boats were close. He must have made Tim’s life a living hell. “You’re being uncooperative, and that usually means a person’s got something to hide.”

  “Well, I don’t. My story’s the same as it’s always been. He woke me around midnight with all that loud bumping, nothing new for him. I added it all to my complaints log, and that’s all I’m saying without a lawyer. I know my rights.” His eyes narrowed. “And you still haven’t given me your name.”

  “What kind of bumps?” I couldn’t help myself. I needed to know. “Describe them.”

  “Bumps. Who describes a bump? It sounded like a buoy banging against the hull. I’ve been asking Cap for months to get a handle on that Ayers, but I guess when your family’s loaded, you get all the breaks.”

  I cut him off. “Get back to the bumps. Did you get up to see what was actually causing the noise?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said it sounded like a buoy. Then when I almost manage to get back to sleep, he starts the engine up and takes her out. Like I said, good riddance. It was always something with that guy—orgies, hookers, loud Devil music. I was building a case to get him thrown out of here on his ear . . . almost had him, too. Now I’ve got cops crawling around everywhere and guys sneaking around with binoculars.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Your name.”

  “Hookers? How’d you know?”

  His eyebrows raised. “What?”

  “I said how’d you know they were hookers?”

  “I think I know a hooker when I see one, okay? Flashy clothes, big boobs, enough makeup to choke a man.”

  I thought for a second. Jung told me Tim was gay. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have hired a hooker, but it was highly unlikely he would have hired one with boobs. So who was the woman in the flashy clothes? Lost in thought, I realized too late that Reese was still yammering away.

  “Hello?” His strident voice finally got through. “Are you deaf?”

  “Did one of these hookers have red hair?”

  Reese’s face contorted. “Of course. Don’t they all?”

  I sighed. I could have identified myself at any time, produced a copy of my PI’s license. I had business cards in an inside pocket. Nothing but the Devil kept me from stating my business. He rummaged in his pocket and came up with a small notepad and pencil. “Give me your name. I’m writing it down.”

  I gripped the rails with both hands and leaned over so Deputy Dawg could hear me better. “Mary Meachum.” Take that. She was an abolitionist on the Underground Railroad, but no way in hell Reese knew that. My mother had been a teacher, and I flirted with the idea of becoming one myself, so history was my jam. Reese didn’t know who he was tangling with.

  “Spell it.”

  “Which name are you having a problem with?”

  “I know how to spell Mary. Don’t be insolent.”

  Insolent? That was it. I hit the ladder and headed down.

  “Did you say Meechan?”

  “MEACHUM. M-E-A-C-H
-U-M.”

  “What division?”

  “Transportation. Railroads.”

  He frowned. “Railroads?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m turning you in, Meachum.”

  I scoffed. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”

  “You wait right there.”

  Yeah, right. I continued down the rungs at a confident pace.

  “Meachum? I’ve got your name. You haven’t heard the last of this.”

  “Oooh, stop.” I shivered facetiously. “You’re scaring me.”

  Chapter 12

  I walked the entire marina, looking for someone who liked Tim, but he hadn’t a single friend anywhere. Still, no one appeared so bent out of shape about his freewheeling behavior that they’d climb aboard his boat in the middle of the night and toss him over the side, if that’s what even happened. And, like Marta, I’d found nothing on the boat that raised any red flags. I assumed the meds I’d found were for Tim’s cancer, but if they were for some kind of mental disorder, that might lend credence to his brother’s rundown of Tim’s history of depression. I’d have to wait for Sue to get back to me.

  In the meantime, I’d move on. Maybe I could get Tim’s family to speak to me. I slid into my car, my mind on my next move. Reaching to start it, I glanced at my rearview mirror, catching sight of a shock of spiky blond hair ducking down inside a battered orange Chevette parked across the way.

  “Oh, no, no, no.”

  I got out of the car, stormed across the lot, and banged on the driver’s window. Jung was slumped over, his head plastered to the passenger seat. I could see him lying there clear as day.

  “I can see you, Jung.”

  He slowly rolled upright, eased the window down just a smidge. The expression on his face was reminiscent of a toddler’s caught with his hand in the cookie jar. There was a pair of giant binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck. Jung was Eldon Reese’s skulker.