Charlie picked up his clipboard and ran a finger down to the Hs. “Yep, I’ve got just one Hotshot: dock three, berth fourteen.”

“Sergeant?”

“Yes?”

“He’s got a Hotshot all right: dock three, berth fourteen.”

“Great! Could you go down there and have a look at it?”

“Sure.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me speak to the dockmaster, please.”

Jake handed his phone to Charlie.

“Charlie here.”

“Charlie, this is Sergeant Young of the Maine State Police.” He explained his problem and described the twins. “Rather than have a uniformed officer go down to the boat, could you or one of your people go to the boat and tell them there’s a phone call for either Eben Stone or Enos Stone in your office?”

“But there isn’t a phone call.”

“I just want to know if they’re on the boat. If they’re not, ask if they’re in the village or on the island somewhere.”

“And if they are on the boat?”

“Ask for a cell phone number and tell them you’ll refer the call.”

“What call?”

“The imaginary call. If they want to know why the caller never called them, you don’t know. All you did was give him the message.”

“Okay. I can do that in a few minutes.”

Young gave him the cell phone number. “Can I speak to the lieutenant again?”

“This is Jake.”

“Lieutenant, thanks so much for your help.”

“What help?”

51

JAKE POTTER POURED himself a cup of the dockmaster’s coffee and gazed out the window at the yachts in their slips. This state cop, Young, from Maine had something real good going, he reflected. Multiple murders, serial killer, mucho publicity in the Boston papers and TV. Jake didn’t like state cops; they always wanted to come in and take over a local investigation. They’d had a real good murder on Nantucket the previous summer, and the Massachusetts state cops were all over it like flies before Jake and his colleagues had really had a chance to break it.

He turned to the dockmaster. “Tell you what, Charlie,” he said, setting down his coffee cup and starting to unbutton his shirt. “I’ll go down there and check out Hotshot.”

“Whatever,” Charlie said, hardly looking up from his computer.

Jake took off his uniform shirt and his cap and hung them on a coatrack beside the door of the office. Now he was just a guy in a white T-shirt and khaki pants. He pulled the tail of his T-shirt out and pulled it down over his gun belt, then he left the office and walked down the ramp to the docks, moving slowly, as was his wont. He strolled down to dock 3 and turned right. Long lines of yachts stretched out for many yards on both sides of the walkway.