Free Hatteras Blue by David Poyer Page B

the old man. "Will you give him my message?"
    "I'll give it to him. That's all I can promise."
    "Thank you."
    He was turning away when she added, in a louder voice, "And can I tell him your name?"
    He stopped, as if considering, and then half smiled. "He'll know who I am."
    She wanted to ask more questions, but he was already out of earshot, walking stiffly away up the pier. A silver and black 280 SE pulled out from behind the office, its driver leaning to open the door for him.
    She hopped off the locker, holding the pad. She craned her head above the cabin, to make sure he was out of sight, and opened it.
    "Tarnhelm is ours," she whispered.
    She found that she didn't like this a bit. She stared at the car for a moment more, then taking out her own pen jotted down the tag number and followed it with a terse description of the man, the driver, and the car.
    Shortly after noon Keyes slid to a halt between a Jeep and a rusty Ford pickup that gave off, in the heat, a powerful odor of fish. Galloway walked behind him as they strolled down the pier toward the boat. At the south end the pile driver was banging away. Thud ... thud ... thud, like the bass drum of a marching band. "Hell of a racket," said Keyes, inclining his head to it. "But I guess a new pier will be worth it. This one, I wonder you don't break your neck on it at night."
    "Not for me. I've got my notice."
    "What do you mean?"
    "There was room for Victory at Harry's Dock. There isn't any at Blackbeard's Harbour. They gave me two months' notice."
    "Then where will you go?"
    "Don't really know. The old docks and piers are going fast. It's all charter boats now, or motor yachts—Yankees with gold chains on their necks and women on both arms." Galloway shrugged. "Maybe on the mainland there'll still be something."
    They found Hirsch asleep on a pile of life jackets arranged in a shady corner of the pilothouse, a diet Pepsi and the stub of a fried-Spam sandwich beside her. One of Caffey's books on coelenterates lay spine up on the deck. Galloway nudged her with a toe. "Hey. You got nothin' better to do than hang around here?" "Oh, hi." She stuck a fist into a yawn. "Guess I fell asleep. Hi, Mr. Keyes."
    He smiled down at her and she saw immediately that he was interested. There was no mistaking that look. She sat up, reddening at the thought of lying there sprawled out. She tugged her T-shirt lower, suddenly conscious of the way her nipples showed through the fabric, of her stockinged feet. This was not the way a Dare County parole officer ought to look.
    "How's Jack? Any word?" Galloway asked, from down in the cabin.
    "I called his house. The doctor said he'd be on his feet in a day or two."
    "Good. Thanks." The last word was barely audible.
    "Oh. Mr. Keyes. Here."
    "What's this?" He took the paper suspiciously.
    "A man came by while you were gone. Not long after eight. He left this message for you."
    While Keyes examined it she watched his face. Watched it freeze, and the blue eyes tense. Then, a moment later, change to surprise. When he glanced up at her he looked puzzled. "I don't get it. Who did you say left it?"
    "Late-sixtyish man, about five-eight, tanned, green polo shirt, tan slacks. Driving a Mercedes. Or rather, being driven by a young chauffeur."
    "Doesn't clang any bells for me."
    "Are you sure?" she said, watching him closely.
    "Sorry."
    "Tiller?"
    She couldn't see him, but she could imagine Galloway, belowdecks, shrugging in silence. Keyes handed her back the pad.
    "Look, I got his tag number along with the description. I could trace him from the office. If you want—" she left it hanging.
    Neither man responded immediately. At last Galloway called up, "Dick? What about it? Want her to check it out?" "I don't see the point."
    "Thanks, Bernie. But I think we'll just wait till he comes around again. If he does."
    She stared at the notebook for a moment, then closed it and padded down into the cabin. Galloway had gone forward, invisible for the moment. She