The couple that showed outside of Starbucks had looked genuinely concerned about the tracker stunt. The guy almost looked scared. Devin had snapped a few hundred photos of the couple and their vehicle from the third floor of the parking garage on the other side of Baltimore Avenue. A digital camera with telephoto lens was part of his standard countersurveillance kit, among other things, like a handheld RF detector.

He couldn’t help but notice that the couple was older. Take away maybe thirty pounds from the red-faced guy who went fishing under the minivan for the tracker, and he’d look no different than either of the guys Devin had faced in the hotel stairwell a week or so ago. He’d revisit that thought later, when he asked Brendan Shea to run the couple’s Tennessee license plates. The connection between the Tennessee plates and his mother’s death couldn’t be a coincidence, but he sensed something else. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

With the hour and a half expired and no bad guys in sight, Devin returned to his SUV and retrieved a small nylon day pack to carry whatever he found on the boat. He took another long look around the lot before making his way to the weathered stockade fence that separated the parking lot from the marina. After slipping through a rickety gate held open by a faded orange traffic cone, he emerged on a stretch of grass intended for marina members. The gate he’d just used appeared to be a convenience that facilitated dinner and drinks after a day on the water.

He spotted a sailboat on stands closer to the water and decided to head in that direction. His assumption was that he’d find Sadie on land, unless his mother had taken up boating—a possibility, given how little he appeared to truly know about her. The sailboat turned out to be Screamin’ Mimi, so he turned his attention to a tightly packed row of three boats tucked away in the farthest corner of the expansive gravel lot. Two sailboats, one without a mast, and a very neglected-looking powerboat with a flying bridge. They were parked bow out, so he couldn’t read their names.

He got halfway across the lot before he was accosted. A stringy-haired man dressed in grease-stained khaki pants and an equally grubby white T-shirt emerged from the trees along the waterfront, directly in his path. His weather-beaten face made it impossible to guess his age, but Devin would go with somewhere between forty-five and seventy if he had to estimate. He stood with his hands on his hips as Devin approached, appraising him the whole way.

“Looking for someone?” he said, cordially enough.

“Actually, I’m looking for a boat,” said Devin.

“Well. All the boats are over there,” he said, canting his head toward the water.