All in One Piece (27 page)

Coxswain, that’s the one who sits in back and shouts. I step aside and see boats stored on high racks, most of fiberglass,
though two wood ones way up high blend into the rafters and look as nostalgic as a Victorian attic when shafts of light wash
bright gold through sooty panes in its high gables. This must be almost the end of the season.

A light bump at the dock signals Dani Vogler coming ashore. She stows her oars. She’s tiny yet quick, with wind-whipped streaked
hair and a high forehead and a doll’s complexion. The sun has come out, and in the light her upper body is a picture of health,
arms and shoulders toned and strong. Waist down, however, Dani Vogler is a wraith, a skeleton in spandex.

“May I speak to you for a moment? My name is Reggie Cutter.”

“Oh, you’re the woman… about Steve. The service.”

“Could we talk for a moment?”

“Guess I have to.” From a dusky corner, she fetches a battered bench, swings it in an arc, and sets it against the wall, then
pulls on a Renfrew Rowing Club sweat suit, sits beside me, and rubs her palms on her thighs. Her hands are sinewy. She has
her mother’s jaw. “I talked to both my dad and mother. They say I have to sing.” Resignation dampens every syllable.

“Your family volunteered your talent. I understand that ‘I Will Always Love You’ was Steven’s favorite.”

“I sang it on Margaret’s birthday. They got the piano tuned, so I couldn’t say no.”

“Your brother says you spend a lot of time here.”

She twists her hair. “I do. And why do you suppose that is? You met my mother? And Margaret too? Wouldn’t you hang out here
if you were me?”

Avoid this one, Reggie. “Do you race?”

“Not single shell. For crews, yes. I’m coxswain. It’s the one and only advantage of being small.”

“So you yell through a megaphone?”

She laughs. “There’s a couple old megaphones still around here in the boathouse somewhere. Today we use a battery-powered
cox box, and I wear a headset. Speakers are spaced every other seat. Everybody can hear me.”

She reties a sneaker and looks mournful. “So what else do you want me to sing?”

“What’s easiest?”

“Not to choke me up, you mean.” Her eyes tear. “It’s horrible. I can’t sleep. Maybe I’ve led a sheltered life, but nobody
you actually know is supposed to get murdered. It’s like there’s a rule. Nobody you grew up with—that stuff’s on TV, not your
real life.”

I hand her a Kleenex and remind myself that for Dani, Steven’s death is a tragic loss, not the cessation of larceny. “Did
you ever visit Steven at Barlow Square?”

“His temporary place?” She nods, blows her nose. “Nice apartment. It’s yours, right? And the lady that owns it died?”

“Yes, that was my aunt. Steven knew her.”

“She was the psychic one?” I nod. “Steve said she worked for the police. How cool is that?” She squints against the sun. “So
you’re psychic too? Steve said it runs in families.”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it like dreams in the daytime?”

“In a way. It’s like… intense symbols. They’re almost physical.”

“Cool-o.” She squints at my face, as if to get a good look at something exotic. “Anyway, your aunt’s apartment is lots better
than that old woman’s house out in the boonies.”

“Hyde Park?”

“That place was depressing. It smelled like fungus. Steve said he needed a cheap place for a while.”

“Did he say why?”

She gives me a sharp glance. “That’s his business. I mean, it was.” Her lip trembles. “The good part of it is, he was excited
about getting a condo of his own.”

I work to keep my voice conversational. “Do you know a close friend of Steven’s named Alex Ribideau?”

“Close friend? That’s so quaint, ‘friend.’ You mean Steve’s ex, the dancer. For a couple years straight, you never saw Steve
without him. They were, like, joined at the… well, not the hip. I saw him dance last year. Steve got tickets. Margaret
was supposed to go. She’s got a thing for Alex. But she had a flare-up, so I’m the only family member who went. Steve brought
this high school kid.”

“Luis Diaz?”

“You know him?”

“Steven said he was mentoring Luis. He seemed very proud.”

“Yeah, he wanted me to teach him to row, but we don’t have a junior program. Frankly I was glad.” She cracks her knuckles.
“The usual body type for a rower is tall and lean. That’s the mechanics of it. This kid’s built like”— She opens her arms
wide—“thick, like a block. Like a wrestler. He was Steve’s charity case. I guess he’s big enough to overpower Steve.”

“You mean murder him?”

“That’s what the police asked me, two detectives. And a lot of questions about Alex too. I don’t know where he is. I said
I didn’t know. That’s a lot, accusing somebody of a murder.”

“Do you have any idea?”

“They asked, I couldn’t help. They grilled my brother. The last time I saw Steve was early October. I told the detectives
it was a visit, which it was. He made Manhattans. Actually I stopped by his place to pick up some goggles.”

“For skiing this winter?”

“Swimming. He had these special goggles from this guy’s boat.”

“What guy? I’m responsible for the memorial service invitations. If there’s somebody I ought to include—”

“I don’t know his name. The boat is called… something Oriental.”

“Oriental?”

“A place,
Shangri-La
… no,
Shanghai,
that’s it,
Shanghai.
”

“The city in China? Is the man Chinese?”

“I don’t know. Steve went with him on cruises. Sometimes he flew places, met the boat. Sometimes the boat was here in the
harbor.”

“A yacht?”

“It’s a tugboat. A tugboat with a hot tub.”

“Who owns
Shanghai
? Whose boat is it?”

She rubs her hands. “When you start to row, your hands blister and peel. Then they get calloused. That’s what you want. That’s
what I want for my feelings. I don’t know who Steve hung out with. My brother might know. Or Alex, if you can find him. Steve
and I went to formals, you know? I was his date. How about this—I’ll sing Schubert. I’ll work it up, and it won’t affect me
one way or the other. You could try rowing. I recommend it. It tires you out, and you beat guys arm wrestling. Helps you sleep
too—as long as nobody you danced with gets murdered in cold blood.”

H
owie, this is Reggie from Cutter Provision.” I’m in the kitchen with the yellow pages opened to Marine, Docks, Massachusetts
Port Authority. I’ve dialed the Boston Towing & Transportation Company and got Howie on line two. “We’ve got an order for
a tugboat named
Shanghai,
and our computer’s down. Is she your boat?”

“Nope, she’s not ours. Try Water Boat Marina on Long Wharf.”

So I do. CeeZee answers. She asks, “Truck or tender?”

Tender? It’s lingo I don’t know. “Truck.”

“She’s here. We’re right by the Marriott. Ask for Rory. He’s dockmaster.”

The Marriott looks like a big brick cruise ship beside the docks of Long Wharf. The wind is up, and the autumn tourists look
like chilled birds. I could use a hat.

“Are you Rory?”

“I’m Sam.”

He taps the “Sam” patch on his jacket and brushes past. I stare at a half dozen gleaming white gin palaces moored dockside
here in the harbor in the off-season. They’re bobbing in choppy water, straining at the lines. I’m stopped at a locked gate
with a sign: “No Unauthorized Visitors or Personnel Beyond This Point.” Here comes a man in heavy denim who nods when I ask,
“Rory? I’m looking for a tugboat named
Shanghai
.”

He’s about forty, ruddy-cheeked and bushy-browed. “Right out there. The furthest out.”

A huge dull gray-brown vessel bristles with antennas and radar at the very end of the main dock. “No, I don’t mean a ship,”
I say, “but a tugboat.”

“That’s it. It’s an ocean salvage tug—or was. It’s a yacht now. A shipyard in Louisiana did the conversion. It’ll go anywhere
in the world. You’re looking at the newest thing in luxury yachts.”

“A former tugboat… does it have a hot tub?”

“And a grand piano, so they say. Can’t swear to it. I haven’t been belowdecks.”

“Do you know the owner’s name?”

“It’s Wing.”

“Is he Chinese?” He’s eyeing me now. “The reason I ask, a friend of the owner died recently, and I’ve brought an invitation
to his memorial service.” Reaching into my purse, I wave the paper proof. “I brought this invitation personally. I wasn’t
sure the
Shanghai
would be here.”

“She heads for Nova Scotia tonight. She’ll try to beat the front coming in.” He sees my puzzlement. “The marine forecast calls
for gale-force winds after midnight. You’ll want to stay ashore, inside.”

“Will do. Can you help me? I want to deliver this invitation. The owner of the
Shanghai
was a good friend of the young man who’s deceased. Did you perhaps know him?” I step close as wind cuts through my jacket.
“Steven Damelin. I understand he was a frequent guest on the
Shanghai
.”

“Him and every Tom, Dick, and Nevermind. It’s a big party boat.”

“If I could just deliver this in person.”

“Sorry, strict rules. I can’t let you…” But he eyes a shivering woman on a sad mission in the autumn wind. “Ah, what
the heck, we’ll give it a try. C’mon.” He unlocks the gate, leads me to the massive tugboat, steps aboard, and reappears with
a ponytailed woman in a turtleneck and Levi’s. “This is Hailey. She’ll take your message. Shut the gate behind you, okay?
The lock’s automatic.” Rory pivots. He’s out of here.

“Hailey, are you the steward?”

“Crew.”

“I’m Regina Cutter. You can take a message to—is it Mr. Wing?”

“I’ll take it.” She has narrow shoulders, no hips, hair that’s nearly white. The radar thing on a mast revolves. Nothing about
this vessel says yacht.

I take out the invitation and envelope. “To put Mr. Wing’s name on the outside… is there a flat surface I can write on?”

Hailey signals me across the gangplank onto the deck and through a door—a hatch?—and we enter a compartment paneled in rosewood
and lined with charcoal leather banquettes. The lamps are soft etched glass. From hidden speakers come baroque violins. It’s
Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
. There’s a small desk, also rosewood. “You can’t get this anymore,” I say. “It’s an endangered wood.”

It dawns on me. As Rory said, it is a yacht, an inside-out yacht in disguise. “How long is the
Shanghai
?”

“Two hundred twenty-six feet.” Does my expression amuse her? “Seventy-two hundred horsepower. Twin screws.”

“Amazing. I hear there’s a hot tub. And a grand piano too.”

“And a Global Positioning System and full ocean electronics. And a reinforced steel hull.”

I want to know, does anything here resemble a wooden log? If Steven partied on this vessel, the fact that he might have drowned
is suddenly crucial. I can see it now: the hot tub could be a drowning place, or the sea itself in the autumn when the water’s
getting colder. Suppose Steven was pushed overboard. His body could have been recovered and moved. I’ve got to contact Devaney.
“And this wonderful leather—” I stroke it. “Is it kid?”

Hailey smirks. “It’s the sheathing of marine mammal organs. You can guess which ones.” The smirk widens.

My pen is out. “Hailey, if you wouldn’t mind, could you give me Mr. Wing’s first name?”

“Sinclair.”

It’s an Anglo name. No Cathay. No Ming dynasty. “Did you know Steven Damelin? I understand he was a frequent guest.”

“We don’t disclose the names of guests.”

“But he’s dead.”

“Even so.”

“I believe he cruised on the
Shanghai
out of… perhaps different ports.”

“Maybe so.”

“I could leave extra invitations in case other friends of Steven’s are on board.” Such as Alex Ribideau. Suppose he’s hiding
below, ready to escape into Canada. Homicide has got to search this vessel immediately. “Steven had numerous friends,” I say.
“Others might like to attend the service.”

“We leave port in just a few hours. The
Shanghai
won’t be back for months.”

“May I give this invitation to Mr. Wing?”

“He’s not aboard.”

I’m out of gambits. I cap the pen, hand her the envelope—and notice a mounted wood sculpture at the far end of this space.
It freezes my blood. It’s an abstract carving, but cylindrical. It’s like a log. Yes, a log. Can I get close enough to touch
it? I step that way, but get no psychic message. It’s ten feet away. Am I blocking my own sixth sense?

“May I help you ashore?”

“That wood sculpture… is it Brancusi?”

“It’s African.”

“I’d love to see it up close.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t give tours.” I’m desperate to make contact with the sculpture. No way. Hailey is at my elbow, ushering
me out. I’m on the deck in the sharp wind when a second crewman appears, also in Levi’s and turtleneck, a broad-shouldered
man. “Shawn, please escort Ms. Cutter ashore.”

Down the gangplank, he says, “Watch your step, please, lady.”

His
l
’s aren’t clearly spoken. “Please” comes out
prease
. I turn to say thank you—and see his face. It could be Japanese, maybe Korean or Thai. But if I’m right, Shawn’s is a face
of China.

Shawn? No, Xian. I’m sure of it. From my car, hands shaking, I call Devaney. Damn voice mail. Where is he? I leave a message
saying that it’s urgent. I’m just back when Maglia shows up at my house. “Frank’s tied up. What can we do for you?”

“Come in, Mr. Maglia. I’m so glad you’ve come.” We stand in my foyer. “A yacht—the
Shanghai
—leaves Long Wharf tonight. I’ve just learned Steven Damelin was a regular guest on it. It’s a tugboat.”

“To clarify, Ms. Cutter, is it a tug or a yacht?”

Slow it down, Reggie. “It’s an ocean salvage tugboat converted to a luxury vessel of over two hundred feet. I went aboard
to deliver a memorial service invitation to the owner, Sinclair Wing. One of the crewmen is Chinese.”

“And?”