Free Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page A

inquiry”—Curly never started an investigation with those words—“and I don’t want to take up much of your time. It’s about an employee of yours whose body was found floating in the gulf.”
    “Mac Halley. You won’t be taking much of my time, because there’s not much I can tell you about him. He had just been hired and was out on his first trip. Terrible accident.”
    “It was his first time out?” The ME’s words rang in his ears: “Don’t waste your time.” Curly was thinking he should have listened.
    “Yes, on this job. But he’d had experience. He owned a coastal transport company at one time. Guess the guy had a run of bad luck. I’ve got a copy of his résumé in my files. Would you like to see it?”
    As Curly read the résumé, Matthews continued, “Guy did okay in the end.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Life insurance. We’ve got perks in that job you wouldn’t believe. For his two days of service, his beneficiaries are going to come into a small fortune. Policies cost us, but Mr. Dumont is very generous to his offshore service workers.”
    “You think it might have been a suicide to get the insurance?”
    “Don’t think so. I doubt he even knew about it. Halley was hired on the spot because we needed a cook andthe ship was going out. We usually set up a counseling session with new employees to explain their benefit packages, which can be a bit complicated, but Halley wasn’t with us long enough for me to arrange a meeting. You might ask the crew what they thought about him. I never met the man. I could check and see who was on that trip, it won’t take a minute.” He went to his desk, tapped on his keyboard, and the printer spat out a document in less than thirty seconds. “You know,” he said, “the only thing that amazes me about computers anymore is how we take them for granted. A couple years ago, that little task could have taken hours. But talking to any of those guys is going to be another matter. They’re all at sea right now. No, wait. Ken Self, he’s here. He’s in the dispensary. He called me a few minutes ago to confirm his medical coverage. I could check with him.”
    “That would be very helpful.”
    But it wasn’t. Curly met the seaman as he was getting a prescription filled. “Didn’t know him,” Self said. “He was the cook on that one trip. I don’t go in the galley. I’m on deck when I ain’t sleeping.”
    “Well, thank you for your time,” Curly said. He was done here.
    He returned to where he had parked but stuck his head in the reception area with a final essential question. “Could you recommend a good restaurant?” he asked the ever smiling Lois.
    “Why, sure, hon.”
    He ate jambalaya like a bear gorging before hibernation, wondering not for the first time if his mental and digestive processes were somehow linked. Curly often ate out alone, which was good in a way, because he would have ignored anyone sharing a meal with him. When he ate, he thought. When his thoughts were deep, he ate till he could burst. His questioning of the seaman had brought on that familiar feeling in his gut, and Curly went with his gut—even when it was bloated with beer and boudin. The guy hadn’t wanted to talk about his dead shipmate; that was obvious. The decedent had experience with boats, and such men didn’t accidentally fall over railings. Suicide was possible, but one generally doesn’t take on new employment with the idea of ending it all. And the first to examine the body had found head trauma. Curly paid his check and walked to his car. There was someone he needed to talk to in New Orleans before heading home.
    •  •  •
    “Hey, Fitch, there’s a guy here wants to see you.”
    “What guy?”
    “Come see for yourself. I ain’t your secretary.”
    Fitch didn’t move fast for anyone, least of all unnamed strangers. Before he got up from his desk, the man was standing in his doorway, leaning against the jamb. The face looked familiar, but