“We’ll see,” Devlin said. “Brennan can make you think he has eyes in the back of his head.” Right: Brennan could make you think he could see around corners.

One of the crewmen tapped a horn and waited. The captain came out on the deck and directed them toward a boarding ladder. He was a burly young guy who looked uncomfortable in a uniform. The two detectives climbed the ladder. On deck, John asked, “How’s it going?”

“It’s just the two of them,” the captain said. “There’s food for forty in the galley. They didn’t tell us they’d canceled all the invitations. It’s typical of them. They’ve chartered before. They had a light dinner. She’s been out on the fantail since, while he stayed in the salon. I saw him on the telephone. He has a portable cellular, nothing to do with our equipment. How do you want to work this?”

“Tell him the police are here, that’s all.”

The captain nodded and turned away. Devlin drew a breath. He was more nervous than he’d been this afternoon, walking through the convent with Ann Elizabeth to his meeting with Maryellen. Round and round, just like the old days.

“Just play him along, see what you can get out of him,” John said. “Harry is doing everything he can to locate Eileen.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The captain reappeared. “He’s feeling playful—mean. He can get downright abusive, so don’t be surprised at anything he says. And be careful there, that door will feel heavy because of the air-conditioning.”

John went first, grappling with the door. He held it for Devlin.

White plastic on the outside, teak paneling within. Thickly padded royal blue carpeting silenced their steps. The air was icy, motionless as death. From behind the top molding of the walls indirect lighting sprayed softly across the ceiling. At the other end of the salon, a plush, L-shaped settee faced sliding glass doors leading out onto the fantail. The whole back wall was glass, and beyond it, brilliant, so big Devlin couldn’t see all of her upraised arm, was the Statue of Liberty.

The settee was covered in pale blue silk. Opposite was a curved bar with three stools. Between, Jim Brennan sat in his electric wheelchair, facing the statue. Most of the fantail beyond him was in darkness, except for a six-foot, illuminated pale turquoise hole in the deck. A hot tub.

“Good evening, gentlemen! Pour yourselves a drink! As you can see, the bar has everything.” Brennan moved a toggle switch and wheeled around with a whirr. “Come over here so I can see you—and your shields. News about my son, have you?”

His speech wasn’t slurred, but his voice wasn’t what it had been. It was more gravelly now, higher, weaker, and not so distinct. His lower lip quavered, he bit down on it.