Grayson opened the screen door and entered, his presence making the room seem small. “The victim this morning was Doug Sanders. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Did you recognize his face?”
“No!” Hunter was repulsed.
“It seems he had noticed you.” Grayson laid the two photos of Hunter and Miki on the drafting board.
There was stone silence.
“Do you mean the dead guy took these pictures?”
“Yes. And this one.” Grayson laid the picture of Hunter aboard the ketch down.
Hunter cursed softly.
“Now, do you remember Doug Sanders?”
“Well, either you do or you don’t, Hunter.”
“Mr. Tucker,” Hunter began, looking the man in the eye, “I have a lot of people in my face every day. And I have to keep the ship sailing and stop the little kids from falling overboard and be polite and answer the same stupid questions a million times. After a while I don’t really see their faces.”
“But they don’t all take your picture,” Grayson persisted.
“Actually, quite a few do. They seem to be under the delusion that, instead of a tip, I want to be immortalized in their scrapbook or something. Usually it’s with some old ladies, though. That’s why I sort of remember this, since he wanted a picture of me alone. It was a dinner cruise about two weeks ago. But I didn’t pay that much attention to the guy, and I don’t remember really talking to him at all. Man, this is creepy.”
“Okay, good. That’s pretty much what I expected. Now, when Jack Franklin questions you, you give him your story just like you did then.”
“What? Should I have had a lawyer just now?”
“No. This was off the record. I just wanted to verify what I already figured to be true.”
“Why am I in trouble, exactly?”
“Because the guy is dead, and you’re the one who found him. And he seems to have had a crush on your friend here. And he seems to have pegged you as the harbor killer. And dead guys don’t talk, Hunter. If they could, my job would be a whole lot easier.”
“Wait a minute. Turn this boat around and sail that channel again. You got all that from these pictures?”
“Mr. Sanders kept a notebook.”
“And so now I’m a killer because some dead guy says so? I should have let the bastard rot in the sun!”
“Shh. Calm down, Hunter. Granny Jen will hear you,” said Amy.
“I don’t care who hears me.” He stormed to a window, unlatched the screen, and leaned out. “I didn’t do it,” he yelled. “Hey, you! Yes, you. Are you a Fed? Well, put this in your gun and screw it. I haven’t done a damn thing all summer.”
The confused fellow, who was probably a tourist, folded his map and drove away. On the water, however, close by, somebody chuckled and lit a cigarette.
“Hunter, shut up and get over here,”
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