Free Two Down by Nero Blanc

and Bob . . . They’re truckers. Long distance.”
    “Bob? Would that be Bob Stingo ? The man your husband went fishing with this past weekend?”
    “Yep. And Vic. Vic Fogram . . . Owns the Red Admiral down near the docks . . . He went, too . . . Got some nice tuna.”
    “I see. So, Mr. Stingo and your husband are off on a run, is that what you’re telling me?”
    “Yep. They’re partners in the rig. Left this morning. St. Pete.”
    “Florida? They’re on a run to St. Petersburg?”
    Doris took a small step backward. “Look, mister, I don’t think I should be talking anymore. I don’t know nothin’ about that boat business. Moe Quick’s who you want to talk to, not me. I don’t answer for him; he don’t answer for me. We’re one of them ‘modern couples’ you hear about.” She laughed briefly as if this term were a wry private joke, then started to close the door.
    Rosco stopped her. “Fine . . . that’s fine, Doris, but how can I contact your husband?”
    “You can’t.” Again, the door edged shut.
    Rosco gritted his teeth and tried again. “When do you expect him . . . Doris?”
    “No telling . . . four, five days . . . ‘I expect him when I see him’—that’s what they say.” Doris smiled at thissecond witticism, and again, her stony image was transformed. The metamorphosis was so rapid and so eerie that Rosco found himself wondering if there were more to this woman than the underprivileged, undereducated person she presented.
    He retrieved a business card from his wallet. “See that your husband gets this, Mrs. Quick.”
    “ When I see him . . . And if I remember,” she announced regally. “And the name is Doris  . . . as in Doris Day.” Then she slammed the door without another word.
     
    Arriving at his office, Rosco called the Coast Guard. Their full search-and-rescue operation had resumed, but, as yet, they could supply no updated report on the missing women. Lieutenant Evans, the “on-scene commander” in charge of the operation, was as abrupt with Rosco as his CPO had been with Tom Pepper; clearly, his level of frustration was also rising. “We’ll contact Pepper the moment we spot anything,” he said, and Rosco got the message. Don’t call us; we’ll call you .
    He hung up with a polite, “Thank you, sir,” then checked his contact at the phone company, who informed him that Genie’s cell phone had not been activated since the day of the dinner dance. Finally, Rosco punched in Tom Pepper’s number, and brought him up to speed, summing up his report with an earnest:
    “I know it’s not much, Mr. Pepper, but until they locate that dinghy, you can’t give up hope. Survivors have lasted weeks in open boats . . . As far as instigating a lawsuit against Mystic Isle Yachts, there may be possibilities of negligence, but it’s too early to tell . . . We’ll have to wait for forensics to issue a report on the cause of the fire . . .”
    The monologue was received in total silence. At itsconclusion, Rosco wondered if the line had gone dead, and said so. A strangled “I’m still here,” was Pepper’s pained reply, after which Rosco heard a heavy breath that meant the man was finally marshaling his forces. It was the sound of a person accustomed to fighting numerous battles.
    Pepper began asking pointed, intelligent questions, and repeating the responses as if writing rapid notes on a legal pad. He requested the name and manufacturer of the inflatable tender, the type of outboard motor with which it was equipped, the fire-extinguishing system aboard the Orion, and the maker of the vessel’s propane stove. Some of these facts Rosco supplied; others he promised to deliver.
    Pepper ended the conversation with a falsely robust: “Keep up the good work, Rosco . . . Oh, and by the way, you were right about the press. It looks like World War Three is being assembled in my drive . . . steadi-cams, satellite trucks, the works; they