Free The Guise of Another by Allen Eskens Page B

Coney Island, and it just exploded.”
    “Did they see Ashton and Pope on the dinghy?”
    “According to this report, they did. The captain said he came up on deck just in time to see the last pieces of the burning debris disappear underwater. They did a search of the area, but didn't find anything except a few pieces of rubber and an oil slick.”
    “How far out to sea were they?”
    “Four miles.”
    “Four miles?” Alexander rubbed his chin. “Jesus. How did Pope make it back to land?”
    “That's what I want to know,” Billie said. “He wasn't on that boat when it pulled into port.”
    “So…he swam to shore?”
    “People swim the English Channel, and that's at least twenty-one miles across. It's possible.”
    “Man, that's a long ways.”
    “And why swim to shore and not back to the yacht?” Billie asked.
    “More importantly, after completing this amazing feat of swimming to shore, why go into hiding? Why disappear like that?”
    “Because he wanted to get as far away from whatever happened on that yacht,” Billie said. “That would be my guess.”
    “Which leads us to the next obvious question.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and cracked the knuckle on both of his middle fingers. “What happened on that yacht?”
    “Something bad enough to make a man swim four miles and go into hiding.”
    Alexander nodded his agreement.
    “I think the best way to find out what happened is to go back and talk to the people who were there,” she said. “Maybe track down the captain. Now that we know Jericho Pope didn't die—at least not back then—we might be able to rattle a better story out of him.”
    “Can I come along?” Alexander asked.
    “Wouldn't have it any other way,” Billie said.

Captain Ham Rodgers answered the door in a bathrobe and slippers, his copy of the TV Guide in one hand and a remote control in the other. Apparently not one for missing a meal, the belt of his robe held in a waddling gut, where he stored much of his three-hundred-plus pounds of girth. When they told him why they were there, he shrugged and invited them in.
    “I thought that stuff was all done,” Rodgers said.
    Billie replied, “We're doing a follow-up on some inconsistencies. You don't mind, do you?”
    “‘Follow-up’? Don't you mean archeology?” he said. He stuck his pinky in his ear and dug at something until his finger was knuckle deep. Then he pulled it out, inspected it, and wiped the offending muck on his robe. “That was a lifetime ago.” He shooed a couple dachshunds off of the couch to give the detectives a place to sit.
    “We're trying to take care of some questions that never got answered back then,” Alexander said. Maybe you could tell us what you remember? It's important.”
    “Why's it important now? It's been so long, I don't even think about it anymore, not like before. It used to keep me up at night. Jericho was a good kid. Worked with me to pay his way through college at Pace.”
    “Let's start from the beginning,” Billie said.
    “Sure,” Rodgers acquiesced. “Why not. That trip was strange from the very beginning.”
    “Strange? In what way?” Billie asked.
    “On most of our excursions, we'd spend the day idling around Manhattan with a bunch of snobby rich people. You know, folks who want to impress their friends, so they rent a yacht for their birthdayparty or anniversary. This one was different. We only had three passengers. There was Mr. Ashton—he's the guy who died with Jericho—and another guy, Ashton's business partner. I can't remember his name.”
    “Wayne Garland?” Billie interjected.
    “Yeah, that's it. And then there was Mr. Prather. I remember him.”
    “Why do you remember Prather?” Alexander asked.
    “Prather was off-the-charts creepy. He had these cold, dark eyes and a scar on one of his cheeks that ran from his ear to his chin. Physically speaking, he looked young, maybe early twenties, but he carried himself like he was older than his years.