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

Chapter 11