A Matter of Time (23 page)

At the Somerset police station, he asked the night duty sergeant if, by any chance, Inspector Cochrane was still there. The
sergeant politely suggested that since it was well past working hours, perhaps he could return in the morning. “Any time after
eight will be fine.”

But noting he didn’t say that the inspector had left for the day, Dan persevered. The inspector had interviewed him the day
before, and he now had some information that might be helpful. Again the sergeant politely requested that he come back in
the morning.

“I don’t think this can wait till morning,” Dan replied, whereupon the inspector, who must have caught at least some of this
exchange, came out and wearily waved Dan to come back into the situation room.

Cochrane looked as if he hadn’t slept in two days. “Yes, what is it?” Then he smiled and added, “I’m sorry, that sounded curt,
even to me.”

“It’s all right,” said Dan with a smile, “I’ve run a murder investigation or two myself. I know what it’s like.”

The inspector waited, too tired to reply.

“I think I can help. I’ve developed a—”

The Inspector exhaled. “Is
that
what this is about? You want to be involved in the investigation? I thought you were down here on holiday!” He made a supreme
effort to be civil. “Look, Chief, thanks very much for your offer, but we’re perfectly capable of handling this ourselves.”

Dan smiled. “Which is exactly what I would have told you, if we were up on the Cape, and you’d just made the same offer.”

Cochrane waited.

“I think I have a material witness for you.”

“
What?
” In an instant, the inspector’s fatigue vanished.

Dan told him of his talk with Eric. Of how the boy had gotten involved in the drug scene gradually but increasingly, until
he had become a dealer and then a distributor. When he’d tried to quit, they’d put a real scare into him. But it was nothing
like the scare he got Saturday night. He’d gone to make a pick-up when another young dealer, who’d just been up to the house
and was scared out of his mind, told him that he’d witnessed a murder in progress—your murder.”

“Who did it?” Cochrane demanded. “What was the name of the other boy? The one who saw it?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.” Dan shook his head. “I’m not exaggerating when I say that in twenty years of law enforcement, I’ve
never seen anyone so terrified.”

The inspector groaned. “Well, if he won’t tell us, how can we put whomever they’re afraid of behind bars?”

Dan smiled. “He slipped once and called the other boy ‘Jonesy.’”

“Darryl Jones,” the inspector said, nodding. “We’ve had an eye on him.” He yawned. “Well, if Eric won’t talk, maybe Jonesy—”

Dan interrupted. “Eric
will
talk. That’s why I came over tonight. I’ve persuaded him that he has to come see you. And he’s agreed. But only if I come
with him.”

Inspector Cochrane stood up, came around the desk, and smiling, stuck out his hand. “Chief Burke, welcome to the investigation.”

Dan shook his hand and smiled. “Any service I can render, et cetera, et cetera.”

“You can start by bringing him in here first thing in the morning. Actually, I’d like to see him right now, but it’s late,
and I don’t want to spook him.”

Dan frowned. “Tomorrow morning would be fine, except for one thing: He wants to tell his father first, and his father’s in
the States and not due back until the afternoon flight.”

“I don’t want to lose another day.”

Dan nodded. “Normally I’d agree with you. But I’ve had a boy his age, and I think it’s crucial they get started over again
on the right foot. I know what it would mean to me if my son wanted to tell me before he went to the police.”

“All right,” the inspector agreed reluctantly, “I’ll go along with you on this. Bring him in tomorrow afternoon, as soon as
he’s talked to his father.”

All at once, he smiled. “Now that you’re on board, Chief, I would be interested in your opinion.”

“I don’t know enough to offer one,” said Dan. He thought for a moment. “There is one thing….” And he told him about Eric’s
erratic behavior Sunday afternoon, when he entered the bar at Sandys House to pick him and Ron up. “I have the feeling that
the person you’re looking for was in that room. I’d have another talk with that Frenchman.”

At 8:30 the following morning, René Dupré, a.k.a. Laurent Devereux, received a call on his cell phone. “We need to meet. Call
me back on a land line where you cannot be overheard, at this number.” And he gave him a number that only two other people
knew.

28
  
  
captains courageous

Wednesday afternoon was O.K. Corral time for Anson Phelps and the boys from Marblehead (plus Colin Bennett). One of the seeded
skippers had remained in New Zealand because after September 11, his syndicate, which had already invested $100 million in
their effort, was loath to risk their ace flying anywhere near America. As a result, in the first round on Wednesday seven
of the eight pairings would match a surviving unseeded skipper against a seeded one in a best-of-five duel. But the eighth
match would pit two unseeds against each other: Anson Phelps and the very hot Danish captain, Søren Jansen, whom Anson had
nicknamed Sørenski. The two were close friends who’d drained many a pint of Foster’s together, but on the racecourse they
were fierce competitors.

This afternoon they would meet on the two-buoy course, with two windward and two leeward legs. The first crew to win three
races would go on to the Quarter Finals on Friday. The other crew would go home. They were welcome to stay to the end, but
most did not care for
the taste of ashes and departed as quickly as they could get their stuff together.

The two captains had eaten a late breakfast together. At the end of the long bar on the RBYC terrace was a huge stainless
steel coffee urn and beside it, a smaller, hot water urn for the tea drinkers. The competitors were thin, short-haired, and
deepy tanned, except around the eyes, where their Oakleys had shielded them. The uniform of the day was khaki shorts, boat
shoes or sandals, and polo shirts, mostly white, with racing insignia from previous Gold Cups, the older the better. (No one
but cruise-shippers wore short sleeved, button down shirts.) They were cheerful, nonchalant—but tension was already building
under the smiles.

Søren, nursing a Bloody Mary, admitted to being a bit hung over—but not as badly off as two of his crew, Bjørn and Goran.
They’d been billeted with Gladys Bancroft, one of the stalwarts of the RBYC, whose sons and now grandsons regularly rounded
the cans on Saturday afternoons.

Bjørn and Goran, three sheets to the wind and surfing home on a breaking wave of Foster’s, had gone to the wrong address.
In the wee hours of the morning they had fumbled their way into the house—of the former prime minister. Shushing each other
so as not to wake up their hostess, they had made their way upstairs in the dark and attempted to get into the large bed—which
was already occupied by the former prime minister’s wife.

She was, in a word, shocked! But impeccably polite. As was her husband who, clad in bathrobe and pajamas, bundled the tipsy
Danes into his Mini and delivered them to their rightful abode.

“But,” Søren had assured his rival, “they will be ready to sail this afternoon. And so will I.”

A captain’s mood invariably impressed itself on his crew. If the captain was calm and confident, so were they. Anson was tense.
That morning, Charlie Thompson, the head of the Marblehead syndicate, had called him from 30,000 feet. He and his wife Katy
were aboard his corporation’s Lear, and with them was a potential new backer who could make it largely possible for them to
put a second boat in the water. They would ETA Bermuda at noon, in time to get to the yacht club to cheer on the Marble-headers.
“And tonight, Anson,” added Charlie softly, so his passenger pigeon could not hear him, “we’re going to lighten his corporate
wallet by twelve million dollars. So look good out there!”

“I’ll give it my best shot, Charlie. I always do, man!”

All captains were tense before a race like this; the stakes were too high. And the tension mounted as they entered the pre-race
tableau. At some of the tonier, blue-blazer yacht clubs of New England, the four-minute countdown to the starting gun was
signaled by a ceremonial brass cannon aboard the Commodore’s yacht. Things were a little less formal at the RBYC: The committee
boat used an old shotgun. But the signal flags came up and down just as smartly, and the Race Director and his crew watched
just as closely for the slightest infraction.

Half the races were won or lost right here, in the frantic pre-start maneuvering known as “the dance.” The boat that managed
to cross the line upwind had the initial advantage and was often able to maintain it. But cross one second too soon, and you
had to circle back around and cross again.

Anson had allowed Søren to get the jump on him and
came across downwind, five seconds behind. At this point he should have shaken it off and concentrated on his tactics. Instead,
he vented on his crew. And as their spirits sank, things started going terribly wrong.

Kerry yanked the jib line and managed to jam it—again. Then Anson really lost it, tearing a verbal strip off Kerry’s back.
Though they managed to get it unstuck, they were 32 seconds behind at the first buoy. In match racing, that was an almost
insurmountable lead.

But the Marbleheaders were actually sharper rounding the buoys, managing to pick up six seconds at the first, eight at the
second. On the second upwind leg, Anson tried every trick he could think of to get out of Søren’s wind. He feinted and double-feinted….
To observers ashore the two boats were tacking and counter-tacking so fast they seemed to be almost shivering.

Once Anson even did the opposite of what his instincts were telling him, and Søren covered that, too, as if he was inside
Anson’s head. That really unnerved the captain of the red-spinnaker boat.

As they cleared the last buoy and set up for the final downwind run to the finish line, Søren had a ten-second lead. The Marbleheaders
gained on them, but not enough; the red spinnaker crossed the line four seconds behind the blue.

As they readied themselves for the next race, the Marblehead boat seemed shrouded in a blue haze of invective. Anson was a
towering inferno, and Colin caught the brunt of it.

“You were no help to me out there, man! No help at all! Where is the Beater? You said he’d be here, but he’s not in the Marblehead
boat, that’s for sure!”

Colin made no reply. And to make matters worse, at
the beginning of the next race he blew the countdown, taking them over the start line two seconds ahead of the gun. They
had to re-cross it, and it didn’t matter that they were now sailing much better—calm, smooth, and in synch. It didn’t matter
that they actually picked up 43 seconds on the other boat on the last three legs. They still lost by six.

But at the end of the second race, Anson was no longer mad, no longer tense. What he was, was a great captain. “Now listen,
guys, we’ve got them just where want them.”

They looked at him, mystified.

“You know the best tank the army ever had? It’s the Abrams.”

Now they were truly mystified.

“It’s named for General Creighton Abrams, and you know what he said during the Battle of the Bulge? ‘They’ve got us surrounded
again, the poor bastards!’”

Colin smiled as Anson went on. “Well, these poor Danes think they’ve got this match in the bag! But what’s going to happen,
as soon as we start pulling ahead? They’re going to tense up! While we get even more relaxed. I mean, guys, we’ve booted it
anyway, so we might as well have some fun. Relax and enjoy ourselves!”

The rest of the crew began to smile.

“We’re sailing beautifully out there now, in case you haven’t noticed. We may have only one bullet left, but, you know what?
We’re not going to miss. This boat is moving for us now. We’re faster than they are, and they know it. Just keep cool, keep
your focus, have fun! And when we get done this afternoon, get your laundry done. Because we’re not going home. We’re going
to the Quarters!”