We had a criminal under guard, plus one or more somewhere on the ship. All of us were stuck until the authorities told us we could leave.
Grim-faced onlookers made way as two policemen escorted the handcuffed prisoner down the gangway. The cops leaving the ship quietly conferred with three about to board.
Standing next to me, Harvey watched the literal changing of the guard. “Darn,” she said. “Looks like it’ll be quite a while before we leave the ship.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “They’ll want to talk with everyone onboard, especially Alise, the student burned by acid, me, and anyone else directly involved. I’m going to get some tea and find a quiet place where my computer and I can get some work done.”
I only managed to pour hot water over a tea bag in my mug and splash in a little milk when an officer approached me. “I understand that you are Mara Tusconi?”
I cradled my mug. “Yes, sir.”
He introduced himself as Lieutenant Richards and explained why he wished to speak with me. I followed him to one of the lounges, now set up with a table, two opposing chairs, and a tape recorder. Pointing to one of the seats, Richards invited me to take it. With his graying buzz cut and let’s-get-right-down-to-it attitude, Richards was obviously an experienced officer. It was clear that the South Carolina police were taking the investigation very seriously, and I wondered how far the shenanigans of Gold Ring and his associates extended beyond the confines of one oceanographic research vessel.
Richards pulled a small notebook out of his coat pocket, started the tape recorder, explained why he was using it, and asked me to recite my personal and professional information, including the nature of my research on the cruise. That done, I described why I was watching Gold Ring when he left the mess and returned to the chemistry lab, plus the smell of acetylene gas when I walked into the lab soon after that.
“Good work,” Richards said. “You prevented a potentially serious gas leak.”
I guessed a “but” was coming and didn’t have to wait long.
“But explain again,” Richards asked, “why you were so certain this was the man who had pushed Alise into the ocean when you weren’t on deck when she went overboard.”
“One of the scientists recorded the deployment of a large net Alise helped to set up. Alise was right near the edge of the fantail working on the net with other students. The crewmember I eventually followed stood beside her and must have pushed her in. You couldn’t see the crewmember’s face in the video, but he had a large gold ring on his pinky finger. As far as I can tell, he was the only crewmate on the ship with a ring like that.”
“I see,” Richards said. “And that gave you the confidence to follow the man…”
I interrupted him. “Lieutenant, I didn’t exactly follow him. I watched him leave the galley, walk down a passageway and go down a ladder, take another passageway to the chemistry lab door, step in, and return the same way.”
Richards said, “Yes, I see. And you are confident that the man you observed was responsible for,” he looked down at his notes, “the acetylene gas leakage in the chemistry laboratory?”
“Quite. The chem lab door was locked when I got to it. I had to find Dr. Allison to have her open the door, but that took less than ten minutes. She confirmed the nature of the gas and that the leakage was recent, given the relatively minor odor.”
“I see, I see,” Richards said.
The interview went on like that for a good while. I made a statement, Richards questioned it, and I defended the statement with more details. By the end, I was tired and more than a little irritated.
Richards turned off the tape recorder. “I apologize for the cross-examination. You’ve been very patient. If this ever goes to trial, our case has to be watertight. I’m sure you understand that.”
Trial. Watertight case. Yes, indeed. The South Carolina police were taking the troubles on Intrepid ’s Sargasso Sea cruise very seriously.
To everyone’s dismay and disappointment, the interviews and other aspects of the investigation prevented all of us from leaving the ship until the following morning. Mark did his best to feed the unhappy crowd, but it was pretty obvious his heart wasn’t in it. Food that should have been hot wasn’t, and the salad bar was meager. Even the ice cream was mushy.
After breakfast, Captain Davies announced that the scientists and crew could leave. Together, Harvey, Ted, and I shouldered our duffels, traipsed down the gangway, and stepped ashore.
When Ted went off to find an airport taxi, Harvey and I waited near the ship. Hearing someone call my name, I looked up to see Alise waving from the aft deck.
She called out, “See you back in Spruce Harbor.”
Cupping my hands so she could hear, I said, “And what are you going to do first thing when you’re there?”
She mimicked a crawl stroke. “Learn how to swim!”
29
As we waited in the South Carolina airport for our flight back to Boston, I was surprised to see that I had missed a text message from Lieutenant Dunn. Wondering why the man would want to speak with me now, I called him right away.
To my “Is everything all right?” he said, “Yes. This is follow-up call.”
I relaxed my grip on the phone. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“I’ve been in touch with Lieutenant Richards, so I know what happened on the ship.”
“So the, um, incidents were related to your own investigation?”
“Operation Broken Glass, yes. I can’t say more than that.”
“Some of the scientists were studying eel larvae in the Sargasso Sea, but that doesn’t have anything to do with eel trafficking. Why did they target our research cruise?”
“Mara, if and when I can tell you more, I will. But that’s not exactly why I called.”
Wondering what “exactly” meant, I said, “Oh?”
“I’ve tried to explain why we need to make contact with Jack for his own safety and why he’s in danger. After the incident on your ship, the degree of danger has escalated.”
“For Jack,” I said.
Dunn paused for a moment and then said, “No, Mara. For you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“The criminals we went after in Operation Broken Glass are ruthless and connected. If they weren’t behind what happened on your cruise, they certainly know about it, including who was involved.”
“Who as in me,” I said.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Lovely,” I said under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. So do you still want me to try to locate Jack?”
“As before, it’s a request. But the stakes are higher for you now. If you decide to go ahead, please let me know. You’ll have to be very, very careful. We can talk about what that means. Okay?”
Nothing about Dunn’s request or new information was “okay,” but I let it pass. “I’ll think about all this and get back to you in a few days, Lieutenant,” I said and ended the call.
“What was that about?” Ted asked.
Harvey looked around. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk?”
I slipped the phone in my purse and shook my head. “It’s not, but I’ll fill you in when I can.”
I scored the window seat on the flight north to Boston. It was a lovely day, and six miles up, I picked out the natural features of North Carolina’s Outer Banks—bays protected from the sea’s steady onslaught by long, thin ribbons of barrier beaches. From my vantage, houses dotting those beaches looked tiny and so vulnerable to inevitable battering by wind and waves during storms. I could certainly see why people wanted to live there because the shoreline was stunning and remote. At the same time, those beaches and dunes were nature’s first line of defense against coastal gales. In our rapidly changing world, where hotter oceans fueled increasingly damaging hurricanes, severe flooding of those beach houses was pretty much inevitable.
From her middle seat, Harvey interrupted my environmental musing. L
eaning toward me, she whispered, “So why did Lieutenant Dunn call you?”
Speaking softly, I told her what I could.
“I don’t get it,” she murmured. “Why would animal traffickers go after a bunch of nerdy scientists studying the Sargasso Sea?”
“Good question,” I said. “Maybe they’re threatened by eel larvae research. Adult eel numbers are definitely declining. If Nick and his students clearly identified a link between survival of eel larvae in the Sargasso Sea and climate change, glass eel fishing could become even more restricted.”
“But wouldn’t that make glass eel trafficking even more lucrative?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But at the same time, Fish and Wildlife would up the game on Operation Broken Glass with more money, agents, stings, and the rest.”
“Great,” she said. “Now I’m even more worried about you.”
The following day was predictably hectic. Work I had put set aside to prepare for the cruise demanded my attention. There were three grant proposals to review, one of my own to revise, hundreds of email requests to respond to, grad students wanting answers to questions, and a symposium I had promised to help organize (and forgot about). By five o’clock, I was happy to shut my office door, go home for a quick run, and drive to Angelo’s house for dinner.
Always upbeat, Angelo was excited to describe the day’s fishing expedition with Connor. Seated in one of the living room’s easy chairs by the fire, Angelo slid his wine glass onto the coffee table and talked like an Italian—with both hands.
Holding an imaginary fishing pole, he demonstrated how they had cast. “We fished right off the beach. It was an hour after high tide, and we used bloodworms for bait. In no time, each of us had a fish bigger than twenty-eight inches.”
“So that’s the limit now?” I asked. “One striper twenty-eight inches or longer?”
“It has been since 2015. And the limit worked. Five years ago, give or take, we wouldn’t have caught any. But they’re coming back now. Fishermen are elated.”
I glanced out the window. “Too cold for grilling, isn’t it?”
“’Tis. I’m cooking my bass Italian-style—simmered in onions, garlic, and tomatoes.” He eyed my empty glass. “Want more wine?”
“Think I’ll wait for dinner.”
“Fifteen minutes, maybe a little longer. We’ve got time to talk about the cruise. Your research went well?”
As I described the sequence of events on the ship, Angelo shook his head and muttered something unintelligible in Italian. I asked him to repeat it.
“Che orrore. How dreadful. How awful. So that’s it?”
“Not exactly. Um, maybe I’ll take that second glass of wine now, after all.”
30
When I finished describing the phone conversation with Lieutenant Dunn, Angelo’s face clouded over. “Dio. Could I be more worried about you?”
“Yeah, well. That’s basically what Harvey said.”
“Maine’s a big place to find someone, Mara. Where do you plan to start looking for Jack?”
“Gordy told me that Nelson used to take Jack to Little Moose Island when Jack was a kid. It’s one of those close-knit island fishing communities, but Nelson had family connections. It’d be a good place for Jack to hide, so I’ll start there.”
“Don’t go alone, Mara.”
I was about to object, when he held up his hand. “Just listen for a minute. Ask Connor to go with you. He’s got a new boat and would be more than happy to take you out there.”
Standing, I said, “You’re right. I’d feel better with an ex-cop by my side. And Connor would see it as an adventure. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”
“You can ask him tonight,” Angelo said. “He’s coming over for dessert with Harvey.”
After dinner, Angelo and I were chatting at the kitchen table when Harvey and Connor walked in. With his laughing Irish eyes, black curls going gray, and thick Maine accent, I always likened Connor to an aging angel who happened to live in our state. Harvey, whose real name was Harvina, was Connor’s opposite—with high cheekbones, a classic nose, and large gray eyes, she looked like the patrician daughter she was. That she, like Connor, drove a truck with a rifle on the gun rack said, once more, that outward appearances are often misleading.
As Connor held the door for her, Harvey stepped in first. Since I had only seen her in shorts and T-shirts during the cruise, her black slacks, kitten heel pumps, and pink cashmere sweater took me aback. It certainly was a contrast to Connor’s red and white-checkered flannel shirt and jeans, never mind my exercise gear—running tights and a T-shirt.
“You look pretty chic, Harvey,” I said.
She ran a hand through hair that looked newly streaked. “I couldn’t wait to get into something that wasn’t crusty with salt or smelled like sweat. My ship clothes have already been through the washing machine three times.”
I pictured my own dirty ship clothes ripening in a pile on top of the washing machine and made a mental note to wash them when I got home.
Angelo stood and pointed to two empty chairs at the table. “Have a seat, both of you. I’ll clear these plates and get the dessert out.”
Connor settled into his seat next to me and reached over to squeeze my shoulder. “How’s my green-eyed Irish lass? From what Harvey tells me, you’ve had quite a time of it out there on the big sea.”
“Yes we did, Connor, and it wasn’t the Sargasso that gave us trouble.”
Angelo slid a plate of tube-shaped pastries with cream-colored filling across the table.
Harvey said, “Those look lovely, Angelo. Are they cannoli?”
“They are indeed,” he said.
His brow knit, Connor leaned toward the plate. “Now where would you get somethin’ like that in Spruce Harbor?”
Grinning like a little kid, Angelo said, “I asked at the bakery if they could make them, and they did. Let’s see, who wants espresso?”
Connor waved a hand. “Not me. That stuff’s way bitter for my taste.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love some,” Harvey said. “Be perfect with cannoli.”
Angelo pointed to a gleaming little aluminum coffee pot on his gas stove. “Just like they advertise, rich espresso in minutes.”
Connor held up a hand. “I bet you’re gonna serve it in those white mugs too tiny for my fingers.”
“Espresso cups, certamente,” Angelo said. “Would you like a beer, my friend?”
Answering “Certamente,” Connor winked at Harvey.
When we’d had our fill of cannoli, espresso, or beer, Angelo said, “The Operation Broken Glass folks have asked Mara to find Jack, Nelson’s son. She’d liked to start on Little Moose Island, where Jack spent his summers when he was a kid.”
“That so?” Connor said. He looked at me. “So this Jack is hiding out?”
I nodded. “The Fish and Wildlife folks down in South Carolina believe the same traffickers who shot Nelson may be after Jack.”
“And Jack knows it,” Connor said.
“Since he’s disappeared, that’s the thinking,” I said.
Running a hand through his curls, Connor asked, “Mara, if you do catch up with this Jack, don’t you run the risk of being targeted as well?”
I shrugged. “Could be. But it’d be pretty difficult for an unknown outsider to go to that island and find out anything. Ten minutes after they anchored, everyone would be alerted that they were there.”
“Speaking of anchoring,” Connor said, “how were you thinking of getting out there? It’s, what, ten miles offshore?”
“Well, I was hoping you might be interested in escorting me in this new boat I heard about.”
“And who’d be tellin’ ye that?” Connor teased. “Of course, Mara, it’d be grand to escort you out to Little Moose in my new craft.”
“Terrific. Um, I don’t suppose you know anyone who lives out there?”
“It’s been at least fifteen years, but there’s one fisherman from Little M
oose I, ah, spent a good many hours with a while back.”
“That’s when you were a cop,” Harvey said. “I’m guessing that ‘a good many hours’ means you arrested him.”
Connor took the last swallow of beer from his glass. “Yup. But the guy, name’s Leonard, was totally hammered and wandering around Belfast. I just happened to be there. He woke up the next morning and couldn’t remember much of anything. I brought him coffee and we talked—guy really likes to talk. Then his wife arrived to collect him. Leonard said I could visit him out on Little Moose anytime. He’s lived there forever.”
So there it was. Connor, retired cop, would escort me to the island in his new boat and introduce me to a longtime resident who liked to talk. Maine at its best.
31
After Harvey and Connor left, Angelo rinsed the dishes and I stacked them in the dishwasher—a good time to chat.
“So the trip out to Little Moose is settled,” I said.
He handed me a plate. “Yes, and I feel much better about Connor taking you out there. Speaking of settled, I assume you and Ted talked about your, um, living arrangements when you were on the ship?”
I rearranged plates in the back of the dishwater to make room for the last dirty one. “Yeah, well, actually we didn’t.”
We had started on the glasses when Angelo responded, “Is that because you were so busy or you’d already come to a conclusion?”
“To be honest, it was neither. We had a terrific time working together. With that and Alise getting shoved into the water, plus all the rest, it just didn’t seem like the right time.”
As I was leaving, Angelo handed me my jacket. “You remember my telling you that your mother was nervous about getting too serious about your father?”
“Yes, and it surprised me,” I said. “From where I stood, they were the perfect couple who worked together, played together, went everywhere together.”
He nodded. “It all worked out in the end but was touch and go for a while.”
Glass Eels, Shattered Sea Page 11