“I could talk or not, up to you,” he said. He placed a proprietary hand on the jar and waited while I thought it over. Maybe he knew something, maybe he didn’t. I wouldn’t know unless he talked, and he wasn’t going to unless I fed the jar.

“Or you could decide to be a decent human being and answer my questions . . . in the interest of getting to the truth.”

Cap scoffed, his thin lips twisting into a distasteful sneer. He tapped the jar.

I sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I slid my wallet out of my bag and tossed a twenty inside. Cap showed his appreciation for the forced donation with a little head nod, but his hand stayed where it was. I’d have to feed the jar again.

“Wasn’t here,” he said. “Like I told the cops, I locked up early. I didn’t hear about Ayers or his boat till the next morning when I found cops clomping all over the place. In fact, I hadn’t seen the guy in almost a week before he went over, which was fine by me.”

“Security cameras didn’t pick up anyone boarding Ayers’s boat because of the storm. Maybe they picked up something before the storm got going? A strange car in the lot? Someone unfamiliar walking near the slips? Or maybe the cameras weren’t working at all?”

“Don’t fiddle with the cameras. They’re run by an outside outfit. Tech, something. If the cameras petered out, that’s on them, not me. Besides, they wouldn’t have done any good. They’re pointed the opposite direction to cover the paths and the lot, hoping to cut down on property theft and the like. Folks who tie up here don’t want cameras pointed right at their top decks. A lot goes on out there they don’t want their wives or their husbands knowing about, if you get my drift.”

“There’s a lot of that going around?”

“Lady, there’s a lot of everything going around. Only this set doesn’t get rousted by the cops.”

“How’d you and Ayers get along?”

“Couldn’t stand him. I don’t like any of them out there, quiet as it’s kept. I hate how they prance around here on those prissy boats, making all kinds of demands. They love being catered to. Ayers? In his twenties and he’s lounging around on a seventy-footer, as sleek as anything.”

Seventy feet sounded big, though I had absolutely no frame of reference. Cap caught my confused look.

“I’d call that a ‘yacht,’” he said, disdain dripping from every word. “Half a mil, easy, and that’s before you put your personal stink on it with your customizing. They all do that. It’s ego, pure and simple. Anyway, I steer clear. I do what they pay me for and leave them to it.”