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J. Henry

  STORM KEEPER

ISBN 1-928867-00-6    ISBN 0-7388-1325-7    ISBN 0-7388-1324-9
  Copyright 1999 Warren International, Inc.
Library of Congress #9991853

"A fictional mystery suspense novel."

By: J. Henry Warren

Dedicated to my wife and family

 

storm (stôrm) noun

1. An atmospheric disturbance manifested in strong winds accompanied by rain, snow, or other precipitation and often by thunder and lightning. 2. Meteorology. A wind with a speed from 64 to 73 miles (from 103 to 117 kilometers) per hour, according to the Beaufort scale. Also called violent storm. 3. A heavy shower of objects, such as bullets or missiles. 4. A strong or violent outburst, as of emotion or excitement: a storm of tears. 5. A violent disturbance or upheaval, as in political, social, or domestic affairs: a storm of protest. 6. A violent, sudden attack on a fortified place.

 

keeper (kê'per) noun

One that keeps, especially:. a. An attendant, a guard, or a warden. b. One that has the charge or care of something: a lion keeper; the keeper of the budget. 2. Football. A play made by the quarterback who keeps the ball after it is snapped and then runs with it. 3. Informal. One that is worth keeping, especially a fish large enough to be legally caught.

 

Acknowledgements

     I would like to thank my wife and family for their assistance, patience and perseverance during the long writing and editing process of this novel. Thank you for understanding my desire to make this happen despite the odds, and thank you for listening, reading, listening, and then reading just one more time. "Only one more time," I would say, and they wouldn’t cringe—at least noticeably.
       A very special thank you to my wife for her continued inspiration despite my demand on writing time—an effort that carved time from our life together. She provided motivation when the work and craft became overwhelming, which was often. She provided encouragement and pats on the back when I needed it most. Thank you!
      
        Lastly, a very big Thank You to my readers.

jhenrywarren.com

Jacket Information

"Fifty-four Chapters of Non-stop Action"

***Disclaimer***

       This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, companies, or events is purely coincidental.
       The following is only one chapter of fifty-four. It is merely a revision draft, and is presented solely as a representation of the work, and is provided only for your entertainment.                 

 STORM KEEPER

CHAPTER ZERO

THERE’S NO QUESTION in my mind the missing money has something to do with Jimmy Sprigg. He probably knows where every penny is and if he’s stolen from me again, I’ll kill him. He’ll be made to tell where every cent was hidden before I teach him to fly—like a rock—through his sprawling luxury office window to the Broad Street pavement below. I’ll say he jumped. After all, it was just tax season; no one would doubt me.
      At least that’s what I wanted to do and, with God as my only witness, I certainly believed I could and would. However, after contemplating the nasty deed I suddenly realized I probably couldn’t, wouldn’t and shouldn’t. Not then. Not now. Not anytime soon. Not that day anyway.
      “Damn. The sun is bright today,” I said and squinted towards the western Philadelphia shoreline and jammed traffic on the city section of Interstate 95. The commotion didn’t seem like a half mile away from our peacefully anchored sailboat, but it was certainly there, and grid locked. I removed my hot, steel framed, sunglasses to polish the smears from the tinted lenses while heavy truck sounds drifted across the water from the suspension bridge to our north. Mid-day sunrays danced off the river’s ripples like a thousand tiny daggers stabbing deeply into my eyes. A whiff of burnt diesel arrived in the gentle breeze from the west. The seagulls called in protest of it all.
      Returning the dark glasses to quell the brilliant afternoon sunshine, I watched a small airplane slowly cross the city’s skyline. I could still smell Kristina’s suntan lotion on my hands. It had almost been a good day.
      I tossed the last dregs of my nearly finished rum punch to the Delaware River tide and dialed one last cellphone number to make certain the bad news, heard only a few minutes before, was still very correct. I needed to talk to Jimmy at our accounting office, or to anyone with the right answers. A life, mine, depended on it.
      Contemplating the return to the dock, I thought about the money and the affirmation required from our office.
      Kristina and I needed to weigh anchor and motor to the pier.

OUR GLISTENING WHITE SAILBOAT ROCKED GENTLY as the tumbling current rolled in the warm wind strengthening from the west. I leaned against the boat’s tall mast and looked off at the distant shoreline with a phone to my ear; the cool aluminum of the upright column was comforting against my sunburned skin. I tried to formulate an excuse. One I could use to tell the beautiful woman I had recently ushered onboard we now had to lift anchor and leave our few moments of serenity on the river. Kristina would understand, but she’d definitely be disappointed. I felt the terror of the old days returning to destroy my life and my happiness again. This time I wouldn’t permit the ruin—not now—and not again.
      I didn’t fully understand the zero balance, not that I’m an accountant or anything as anally retentive, but I couldn’t believe a zero dollar amount was possible.
      “It can’t be zero. Not today. Please, God, not again. Sprigg, not now,” I said to the river as I walked aft toward the boat’s electronic helm.
      It was noontime already and I had little choice but to cruise off the river and chase my accountant for answers. It could’ve been our fault, or the bank’s, but I doubted it. We were careful with our money. I needed to be told personally that we were okay by our Jimmy. Jimmy the accountant.
      I remembered nervously each and every check my partner mailed on Tuesday, and suddenly realized that every payment was probably floating around in the electronic money world like we were on the river—aimlessly—and that when the checks reach our paying bank or our nonpaying bank, our friendly bankers would likely and most probably return over a hundred thousand dollars worth of our checks and drafts. I was certain they’d smile while doing it, calculating their fees. Our firm was in big trouble again. Dire straits.
      While doing other important boat preparation-for-departing things, I tapped in another set of telephone numbers and listened to the cell-phone as something rang twenty times in an office on the other side of town. No answer. That’s nothing new. I wouldn’t try another number.
      “Jimmy Sprigg is never around when you need him—and always around when you don’t. Damn him!”

 TO BE ON ERICH’S SAILBOAT was a great idea. The morning sky was blue and clear, and we were able to rest and warm a few hours under the early June sun, but that was over. Our only chance to take it easy had ended—thanks to money, or no money issues.
      I knew I made a mistake this morning when I called our bank for balances. Checking an account balance is a smart thing to do, but calling the bank when you have a gorgeous woman, one you love onboard was a downright stupid thing to do. It was an especially poor idea because I had finally mustered up the courage to proclaim to her the details of what I really thought about our relationship. I loved her. Earlier when Kristina started talking about us, I began to hear a familiar resistance in her voice—and then she stopped. She wouldn’t bring herself to hear my disappointment one more time. I was certain of that. I thought too much.
       The knot in my stomach reminded me that Jimmy Sprigg didn’t usually pick up his telephone. He never liked to answer his own problems. He only allowed his accounting secretary to do his dirty work. She had to be busy with a client, or him.
      I wiped the sweat from my forehead and reached overhead to retrieve my shirt stored temporarily on the boat’s boom.
       Sprigg would usually hide while his assistant cajoled people he aggravated. I was certain she hated being the person keeping his butt out of jail. I wondered what her name was this time.
       As the phone rang at the other end again, I held the phone gingerly to my ear and accepted Jimmy and his assistant were very likely busy with something, someone, or each other.
      “Damn!” I mumbled, and tossed the closed phone back into the sailboat’s chart rack. “The little bastard. Zero. I can’t believe it. Not again. Damn him!” I said under my breath as I walked back toward the helm from the boat’s bow attempting to get a better look at the fouled forward anchor line.
      “Snagged again. Just my luck. The way my fortune is running, we’ll probably sink before we return to the wharf.”
      “What’s going on?” Kristina offered from below.
      “Nothing.” I’d tell her a little later.
      I couldn’t afford to waste another minute screwing with an anchor stuck on river crap down on the bottom. I would drag it out of the mud with the engine if needed. The beautiful woman I brought along, the one who finally started to relax at last, would have to understand. She was still down in the cabin. I wondered if she knew yet that I loved her. I noticed through the wide hatchway that she was making us one last drink while cleaning and organizing the galley. Polished teak and mahogany filled the down-below with a warm glow.

 THE MERE WEIGHT OF AN ANCHOR and chain shouldn’t strain the sailboat’s bow pulpit windlass winch motor, except when fouled or stuck hard on the bottom.
      I needed to stop thinking about the missing funds for the moment, and start the engine. The smoke from the burning diesel fuel bubbled and gurgled from the submersed exhaust port, and as I advanced the throttle and shift lever to the forward position, the sailboat slowly moved toward a spot directly above the anchor. Logic, at the moment, told me if I took the pressure off the anchor line and moved the boat up current a little further I could break the anchor free. I’d flip the anchor while hoisting the line in the opposite direction. Right or wrong I didn’t have alternatives. I’d worry about plan B when the current routine refused to accomplish the goal.
      “Jake, we’re moving already?”
      “Just a few feet underway. Don’t worry, Kristina!”
      “Don’t make me spill these.” She smiled, and handed me a fresh punch drink.
       “The anchor is heavier than I remember it! I’m probably going to need your assistance. Have a second to give me a hand?”
      I checked the depth sounder and bilge blower switch, and watched as she disappeared through the teak hatchway. She exchanged her engaging and revealing bathing suit swatches for her taupe business attire. She was almost ready to tame the giants at her office. I knew for certain she could, and would. She was one of the most capable women I had had the good fortune of knowing.
       She popped on deck through the cabin opening with a beautiful smile, half-dressed, and a personality carefully honed for fun. Kristina was always ready for an adventure.
      “We’ve got to get back,” I said, as the boat’s engine chugged noisily behind us. “I have to move us forward to lift the anchor.”
      “Right now?”
      “I’ve a problem at the office—a pain-in-the-ass financial headache again. We need to return to the marina. I’m sorry!”
       “I’ve a meeting this afternoon anyway. I didn’t want to be the first one to ruin your tranquil setting. So, what’s your problem? Something I can help you with?”
       “Thanks anyway. No. It’s money. It’s always money. God damned money!”
      “And the boat?” She sipped her drink and placed her hand on my shoulder, and pressed up against me.
      “Kristi. You kill me. You drive me nuts. You always do. Listen; let me be for a minute. You don’t know how crazy you are making me! I’ve got to get to the office, and the damn anchor is snagged on the bottom—and now you’re rubbing your tits on my back. Cut me a break!”
      “You know you like it.”
      “No shit, but I’m a little busy at the moment. Sorry.” I turned and gave her a hug.
      “It’s probably hooked on a sunken tree or something.” She looked over the rail into the swirling tide.
      “Probably just junk. Tons of crap floats down the river every year when the spring rains flood the riverbanks. Every piece of junk you can think of, from oil drums to logs, are swept into the torrents from the riverbanks and deposited here on the bottom. All debris eventually arrives here in Philly—all shit floats down stream!”
      “I know what you mean.”
      “Grab the boat hook, and I’ll try to reposition the bow directly over the snag again. I’ll use the electric winch.”
      Kristina returned with the long silver pole she removed from the brackets under the boat’s railing, climbed the teak steps to the fiberglass gunwale, and walked forward toward the long bow. She was ready to assist.
      “When you see the anchor chain—hook the damn thing and hang on to it until I get there to untangle the mess!”
      “You’re the captain, Jake Turner! Whatever you say!” she said as she turned abruptly and stood at attention, and saluted me. “Aye! Aye! Captain!” She looked directly at me. Damn she’s cute. Who wouldn’t love her?
      “Kristi make sure you hold onto the safety line. That deck can get as slippery as a bar floor at midnight.” The engine vibrated the entire boat. I moved the craft closer to the anchor, and held my thumb on the anchor retriever switch. The rope and winch strained against the extra weight. We were clearly failing at dislodging the lousy fifty-pounds of anchor, chain and rope from the snag on the river bottom—but the snag and the whole entanglement was on its way up with the anchor—at last.
      “It’s almost in sight!”
      Kristina began to motion in tiny little circles with her left hand, as she stared into the water. She was telling me I should move the boat forward a few more feet.
      “Just a little more! You’re almost directly over it!”

 THE SUMMER SUN WAS HIGH OFF THE HORIZON and the sunrays were hot, brilliant, and reflecting off the water from the blinding blaze of midday. Today was June 26th, a Friday, and our day had just switched from morning to afternoon.
      Philadelphia KYW 1060 Radio predicted a storm to arrive soon from the Ohio Valley. Probably later this afternoon, they said, but I knew it was much closer than they had calculated. I could smell it. I could feel it in my once broken and healed bones. I knew it wasn’t far to the west because the pressure change in my knee, accustomed to pressure changes affecting an old injury, could predict weather changes better than the National Weather Service. Barometric pressure shifts from high to low were especially painful and according to my damaged joint, this storm would be a doozie.
      We had more than one reason to leave the water. It was time to get off the river. The ship’s clock on the inside bulkhead, indicated we were nearing one o’clock in the afternoon, and if we immediately retreated, we’d still have time to arrive at the marina and at our respective offices by two.
      I really needed, and wanted, more time to relax and talk with Kristina. I wanted to ask her to marry me. I needed to ask her to marry me. I was certain I would build enough courage, but fortunately, or unfortunately, I didn’t have another hour or more to figure it all out.
      “We really do need more time together,” I said. “To talk about our future.”
      She turned and looked back at me with her cute little squinting and sensual look and attitude. “You always say that!”

CLOUDS ROLLED ACROSS THE RIVER from the west and the boat floated listlessly up current on its anchor snag. I walked deep in thought toward the bow once again hoping that the anchor would be visible.
      We were on my partner’s sailboat, a two-year old Sweden 390 designed by Peter Norlin and Jens Ostmann. Hand-built and crafted, it was designed for his shorthanded sailing, which he usually only talked about and wasn’t yet doing on long weekends with his wife and three children. The boat would be considered a mini-yacht by most of us who don’t own one or can’t afford one, but my partner Erich Bickford didn’t think it was such a big a deal. I didn’t care what he called it—as long as he continued to allow me to use it. Whenever I wanted.

THE FEW HOURS we’d stolen from the merger game this morning to be on Erich’s boat and the river were absolutely necessary. Needed. We had suffered through six difficult weeks of round-the-clock negotiations with the DiSalini organization, and my brain was fried from the negotiating pressure. I needed a break, a break with Kristina outside the work mode.
      I could thank Reicherz and DiSalini and their deal for giving Kristina back to me, and the office turmoil and money headaches. Last month had been a living hell and I was certain a simple morning respite would allow her to fall in love with me.
      Kristina and I had worked on the Reicherz buyout agreement non-stop for twenty hours a day, seven days a week. We’d had little opportunity to discuss my real feelings for her. I wanted an opportunity to be with her outside the office. Today was a real achievement. I’d created a romantic interlude because I had a strategy, and I thought it would work. Well, almost.

KRISTINA KNEW every intimate program and desire of the Reicherz organization and deal, and while I believed they had a plan, I was skeptical of their motives. However, I continued to assist them in their assembly of another red herring prospectus for their Initial Public Offering. Why not, they were about to pay our bills.
      Our partnership T&B Associates was requested to assist in presenting their preliminary prospectus next week to their Wall Street underwriters. We’d been hired to tie up the technical loose ends while establishing a source for new venture capital, bridge financing, and long term permanent financing. We’d arrange a stock issue. They were all essential to allow the Reicherz/DiSalini covenant to work. The purchase agreements were to be signed next month, after which we’d have two months before the opening date to finalize every little detail.
      The venture capitalists wanted more stock options than Reicherz wanted to give—they always did. He’d battle with them on that issue. They didn’t know whom they were dealing with. 

OUR BORROWED SAILBOAT WAS WEIGHING ANCHOR in about twenty feet of water just off the main channel, and its owner and captain Erich wasn’t onboard, or even in Philadelphia. We were happy to be there alone. That made me captain for the day.
      He was probably on an Amtrak train racing back from his latest New York City meeting and was likely half-shot-in-the-ass. He preferred his deals finished, and his drinks up.
      We were only a few miles south of his marina, and only a few minutes from where we had departed hours before at dawn. Earlier we watched the rush hour traffic as it backed-up on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge and Interstate 95. We appreciated our leisurely visual vantage point as we watched too many unsuspecting commuters playing bumper cars on the freeway—idiots trying to outrun each other at high speeds.
      We could still see the Ben Franklin Bridge connecting Philadelphia with Camden, New Jersey, still clogged with day-workers heading west into Philly having avoided rush hour.
      The blistering heat was now on us, but fortunately it wasn’t accompanied with the usual Philly humidity. The city noise wasn’t too objectionable on the water and our solitude was wonderful. It had been a great morning nonetheless.
      “Jake, the clarity of the Delaware this morning is amazing. I can almost see the bottom.” Kristina said, moving closer to me.
      “See if you can see any money down there. Or our future!”
      From our anchorage we could see the Camden piers and the new Camden Aquarium. We were far enough south of Interstate 95 traffic sounds, and the bridge, for a peaceful morning. We were across from Philadelphia’s Penn’s Landing and our peaceful river morning was very quiet despite commotion around us.
      Not far from our boat was the USS Olympia. She was a tired old cruiser and maritime relic moored on a Philly pier to our west next to a World War II Balao class submarine named Becuna (SS-319).
      The Becuna was commissioned to serve as submarine flagship of the Southwest Pacific Fleet under General Douglas MacArthur in May 1944, and she had searched out and destroyed enemy vessels from the Philippines to the South China and Java Seas during her short tour of active duty.
      The three hundred and forty-four foot Cruiser Olympia was tied a half-mile away and filled our horizon in that direction. She too rested from more glorious days at her Penn’s Landing home. She sat quietly next to the same Seaport dock and shared stories with the same Philadelphia pier and the submarine.
      The Olympia was launched in San Francisco in 1892 and was commanded then by an about-to-become Admiral, Captain McNair. He found himself in charge of one of America’s first large steel ships. The Olympia became Admiral Dewey’s flagship for America’s efforts during the Battle of Manila Bay, and on May 1, 1898 she devastated the Spanish fleet in choppy waters off the coast of the Philippines. She retired in 1922, and now only entertains school children.
      The Independence Seaport Museum’s brightly colored flags fluttered in the wind while their vintage vessels sat proudly at their new homes. They were all tied across from a small park off Christopher Columbus Boulevard and near Philadelphia’s version of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. The memorial mostly serves as a home-away-from-no-home for various bums and homeless people who sleep on benches among their accumulation of trash and urine and more trash.
       We had continued to talk business while Kristina scanned the shoreline with Erich’s W.W.II binoculars looking at the daily chaos.
       It was calm, but we needed to get underway. I pulled out a navigational chart to check the channel’s depth.
      Looking up and to the south and west I saw the USS United States rusting quietly away at its long dock among the smaller container ships. It’s a grand ship, painted black with a white upper deck, but fading quickly with time. She’ll likely never see the open ocean again.
      A large container ship churned up river past Penn’s Landing Waterfront, and I continued to winch in the long anchor line trailing off to the starboard side. The river tug passed us on our starboard side on its way to the marine terminal a half-mile north. Kristina thought they were romantic and she enjoyed making up stories about their possible sea adventures. I listened and agreed, and thought only of her.
      “Jake, did my father talk to you about Tracey Thompson yesterday?” Kristina had half-changed from her bikini, and still wore the orange top of her bathing suit with pants from her office ensemble. She certainly was gorgeous to look at. Using the shift lever, I put the boat into gear one more time trying not to think about her, and her Thompson question.
      “No. Who’s she?” I said, putting the engine into neutral and walking forward.
      “I don’t know for sure, but I overheard my father mention she died at sea when her sailboat overturned in the Caribbean.”
      “How big was the boat? Where the hell did it sink?
      “Not sure.”
      “How does, or did, he know her?”
       “Apparently she was a friend of his old friend Mattie McGuire. Her body was never found when the boat was located upside down floating somewhere near the island of Tintamarre.”
       “Tintamarre? Where’s that? Who’s McGuire? You’ve never mentioned him before.”
      “Tintamarre is a small island just east off the coast of Saint Martin Island; and Mattie McGuire’s a friend of my father’s. He knows him from the past. He doesn’t like to talk about him much, and I don’t ask. But he’s kinda interesting.”
      “Why don’t you ask?”
      “Don’t know.”
      “So, what about the girl? Was she romantically involved with your father?”
      “No. At least I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I just think she was someone he helped a few years ago. It’s not important. It’s just that this sailboat reminded me of his conversation with McGuire last week.”
      I rummaged around in the lower hatch and moved spare parts and chain looking for a rope or line.
      “Here it is. Just in case we needed to get more leverage on the tree trunk stuck on the anchor.”
      “Jake, have you used your military training lately?”
      “I found the spare line. What do you mean? What training?”
      “You know, like kill someone with your bare hands or something.”
      I threw the extra rope forward onto the deck and laughed.
      “Not lately, but I may need to real soon.” I wasn’t laughing. I thought of Jimmy Sprigg.

EARLIER IN THE MORNING I had had it with the office and the endless paperwork. I had finally drawn up enough courage to ask Kristina to marry me before I changed my mind. I told her we hadn’t been out on Erich’s boat in a long while and that we needed to talk—and relax. We needed to talk about her current infatuation and her man, and how he could affect her future well-being.
      I needed to tell her something I had been feeling for a long time. The something I recently discovered. Again. I loved her.
      I told her I needed company for an excursion. Only one more adventure, I said to her. I called her at six in the morning, awaking her at her condominium in Old Philadelphia’s Society Hill, and it was a wonder she didn’t hang up on me. “Why don’t you come out and play?” I asked, believing that would be enough. “Let’s have some fun. It’ll be a short picnic. Just to see a little sun for a change. We’ve put the hours in and the project is on schedule. We can make the time, not much, just a little time for us. Friends need to play once in awhile. We’re due.” I said this as convincingly as possible. It worked.

THE ANCHOR WAS ALMOST TO THE BOAT and I walked back to the helm and turned the FM radio down and reached for the windlass switch. I could hear the winch motor straining as the motor hoisted our lousy fifty-pounds of anchor, six feet of anchor rode chain, and a long line. It certainly was heavy and more difficult than usual, but it came up.
      “That anchor is awfully slow!” she said.
      “No kidding. We’ll get it out.”
      The wheel was hard to turn, but I moved it completely to starboard. The sailboat began to respond slowly to the new helm and after a few moments moved into the current and straight at the anchor line.
      “You may need to think about cutting the line free!” Kristina said, motioning to me as the anchor began to drift free in the current. Instantly, the boat swung into the river flow and drifted north in the strong current with the anchor line still taut. Little green flags positioned between the rope braids indicated every ten feet of line. We still had thirty feet of line out.
      “The anchor must be fouled on an old barrel or a submerged tree limb.” The thumping of the diesel engine filled the cockpit.
      “It’s still hooked onto something floating upstream from the bow.”
      I looked into the clear water at nothing but a rope going off at a forty-five degree angle.
      “It’s got to be a tree limb. Hook the damn thing when it gets closer to the boat. I’ll untangle it.”
      The winch motor groaned and strained, and shook the cabinets down below. The boat shuddered as the vibration of the rope hauling filled the cabin. The windlass hoisted with the assistance of an electric motor attached down below, and automatically coiled the rope in the forward anchor locker.
      Kristina was ready to grab the chain when she screamed. “Jake! Oh my God! What’s that in the water? Oh my God!!!”
      “What?” I yelled, and rammed the propeller drive into neutral and scrambled forward just in time to see a torn white oxford shirt and the remains of a necktie float toward the surface. “What the hell is that?” I managed to whisper, as the torso of a human body floated into view.
      Kristina yelled again. “It’s fouled in our anchor line!”
      The next thing I knew we had a body floating next to the boat in the current just a few feet below the surface, clearly visible through the water despite the sun’s reflection dancing in our eyes like knives. It was only five or so feet off the starboard side.
      “Who the hell is that? Whoever it is, or was, he’s screwing up my day—as though it wasn’t bad enough already. The anchor must have landed and skewered the body’s legs.”
      Kristina was trying not to throw up.
      “Our anchor was secure to the bottom, but it must have snagged his clothing.”
      Kristina had to sit down.
      Our peace for the last few hours was definitely over, thanks to a number of issues, not the least of which was a dead body attached to our anchor. The karma of the day was gone. No more Zen. Relax and enjoy the morning sun? Forget it! We’d been there without a clue of who or what was under us.
      “Call the marine police,” she whispered, looking into my face.
      I closed the forward hatch cover for her to sit on, and I walked aft on the boat deck.
      “Kristi! Keep your eye on that floating mess until I get the Coast Guard on the VHF! I’ll also call the marine police.” I hurried for my phone and boat’s radio back in by the helm.

NINE-ONE-ONE BROUGHT THE BOAT, the sirens, and the marine police from the docks of the Group Marine Safety Office at the U.S. Coast Guard Station. They quartered at the Marine Police pier at the foot of Old City Philadelphia. The marine police officers had seen it all before. Their divers knew the routine. They took plenty of pictures, asked a bunch of questions, and then argued about who would have to go into the water this time. They started a new report. Told Kristina a few old Delaware River jokes. And as quickly as they arrived—they were gone—with the body. Thank goodness.
      Before they disappeared, I asked if they knew who it is. Or was, and they said they did, and continued to pack the body in dark plastic for delivery to the city morgue.
      “Don’t listen to the news much, do you Mister?” They looked at me like I was stupid. How did they know?
      “This here’s Frankie!”
      “Frankie, who?” I asked, but their engines were already gurgling again, and they were pulling away from our boat quickly. They couldn’t, wouldn’t, or didn’t want to hear me. I’d find out on my own.

I STOWED THE ANCHOR and aimed Erich’s craft toward the home piers. I reached under a hatch cover and turned on the AM/FM radio again in an attempt to discover further news about a missing person. I watched the docks. And a crowd watched us from the shoreline.
      Earlier, I noticed people gathering on the Pennsylvania riverbanks and I wasn’t certain whether or not they were watching us or just the police. At first, the presence didn’t bother me; but someone was left behind, and this someone continued to watch us long after the police departed for their high-speed spin at taxpayer expense and some of the crowd had dispersed. I didn’t like the extra attention. It made me a little more than curious and uncomfortable, but I stayed the course and returned to the marina.
      “Guess they’re taking the body for one last ride.” Kristina said, holding onto the mast, as she watched the police boat speed back north.
      I noticed a large silver car near the piers and decided whoever it was, they were watching carefully. I couldn’t identify the car or the individual with the binoculars, but whoever he was—he was a man in a tan suit and with a telephone to his ear. He disappeared from sight.
      The sky continued to darken and the sun was now partially hiding behind the cumulus clouds, which were moving eastward in a strengthening breeze. I felt a few drops of rain. The front was flowing toward the Atlantic Coast at a pace that guaranteed heavy rain sometime later in the day.
      Our engine churned and the propeller slowly pushed our sailboat upstream toward its berth and home. The cockpit, custom designed for its captain, was laid out with obviously many hours of thought. Most of the controls were hidden, but I knew where everything was located. I knew Erich’s boat inside and out—I used it more than he did.
      We watched as dozens of seagulls swooped and dove searching the water for food. Today wasn’t to be the day I would tell Kristina about my feelings, or my longing for her.
      As I balanced a stiff drink on the helm, I twirled the little straw Kristina put in it with my forefinger and navigated slowly, listening to the news on the radio from the speakers down below. Kristina finished dressing. I scanned the distance. The Marine Police slid back into their terminal pier. I wondered more about the man dragged up from the bottom—the man in their black plastic bag.
      The man with the binoculars on the bulkhead a few hundred yards away continued to monitor our progress.

I WONDERED HOW LONG it would take Kristina this time? How long for her to say no? I also wondered how stupid I had to be to continue waiting for her to make up her mind? I wondered when she would wake up and see the truth? I didn’t want to lose her—especially not to Bill Weitman, an Assistant District Attorney for the City of Brotherly Love. He was a Philadelphia boy—a man with all the right connections—just the wrong family.
      Why the hell did we have to snag a body? Another day of good intentions down the drain. It sure ruined our moment.
      I had almost forgotten about my missing money and that I still needed to learn about the accounts and balances. It had been a hell of a day so far. I looked over at Kristina for a second as we neared the dock.
      “Jake, what did you want to talk to me about anyway?”
      I was nervous again. “With all that water out here I can’t believe it happened to us. We had miles of river, deep holes, and currents. All the dead damn bodies should have been somewhere else today. Anyway, I had hoped we would talk about our friendship. You know. Sort things out!”
      She looked at me like I had mentioned this for the very first time, and continued to finish packing her canvas bag.   Every once in awhile she looked back at me with a sheepish grin. She knew.

MINUTES LATER, KRISTINA WALKED UP BEHIND me and put her arms around me the way lovers often do, and began caressing my shoulders and neck. She was a beautiful woman and I loved her, but for years my caring had not been reciprocated. I knew she loved me. She didn’t. Not yet. The key words are “not” and “yet”. I’d told her many times before I loved her. She kept ignoring me, and my declarations. She called me her brother. Thanks for nothing. For over fifteen years, nothing’s changed.
      Kristina was the only woman who would interpret my moods and passions. She’d put up with me and our friendship and my idiocies since our first days at college. Even my ex-wife Jacquelyn never understood my idiosyncrasies as well as Kristina, except for the money. My ex-wife understood the money part, all too well.
      Kristina was the first one. The first one I loved and dreamed about in school. The first one I should have married, and the first one I really cared enough for to truly love. I knew she missed me. I could tell. I could feel it—even though she couldn’t or wouldn’t admit it. 

AN HOUR AFTER THE BODY HAD BEEN CARTED OFF she was still a little shaken by the sight of bloated human remains, and she sat quietly in an expensive white captain’s chair on the stern of the boat. She was wrapped in a colorful cotton blanket, and she sipped another stiff rum drink. I finished tying and securing Erich’s sailboat to the marina dock’s pilings and tried not to watch her.
      Only after the Philadelphia Marine Police had asked their fifty questions and had departed with their body in their black plastic bag on their aft deck with blue lights flashing and had faded into the distance, did I remember again I needed to get to the office. Money problems! Oh yeah! Something or someone was into our checking account, and if I didn’t get to the bottom of it immediately, our reputation would be ruined.
      The sky continued to darken, as did my prospects for a continued pleasant day. Actually, the prospects were long gone. I needed to get to work.
      Kristina would drive to her office. She’d climb into her blue Lexus parked at the foot of the Market Street Pier, if it was still there, and she’d be back deep in her work without another thought of our morning or me. Her electric gate would open and she’d be busy again by three o’clock, thinking of prospectuses, stock offerings, contracts and company financials. I’d still be thinking about her—between bank balances—so what else was new. 

I CALLED MY OFFICE AGAIN, talked to our answering machine once more, and thought about what a wonderful relationship it and I had.
      I then called the bank. They still didn’t have any answers. They said there’d been a large transfer. She still couldn’t tell me to where though, but they could tell me it was a large dollar amount. They could tell me they couldn’t tell me anything more. They told me I’d get a notice in the mail. I told her I didn’t have time to wait for the notice by snail mail. I need answers and I needed them then. What a waste of breath.
      They told me again, they couldn’t tell me anything. “We’re computerized now. Everything, well almost everything, is available on the screen, but I can tell you that I can’t tell you anything more!”
      Where are Billy Gates or Einstein when you need them?
      I was in a hurry to return to our office to check the bookkeeping and to confront Jimmy Sprigg. The bank account balances needed to be checked again, too, but I’d do that when I got to my desk. We should have had over two hundred thousand dollars available. Something’s terribly wrong.
      Kristina and I had worked for months together putting in weekends and eighteen-hour days on the Reicherz buyout. Even with all that insufferable effort we both felt guilty as hell about playing hooky on a Friday morning. We both knew we still had agreements to read and financials to restructure for New York, but fortunately she took the time to be with me. I’d make sure everything was ready for the morons at the market makers office. The redrafting that needed to be done was almost complete. Everything would be completed by the next day’s flight. I hoped.
      We were to meet with Reicherz the next day, a Saturday. It was the only time Reicherz had available before he flew in his private jet to his yacht temporarily docked at a private compound on Martha’s Vineyard off the coast of New England. Tough life, I often told Kristina. She agreed.
      Kristina, beautiful and intelligent, was easy to look at and to talk to, and I missed being with her already, even if it’s only for the rest of this day. We had agreements to oversee, so I’d get to see her later, I hoped. I tossed one last line around the stern’s port cleat and drew the vessel closer to the pier, and turned to admire the tie job I completed on the sleek and expensive boat. I helped her off the yacht.
      Kristina was especially beautiful this morning in her bathing suit and colorful flowered wrap. I wondered why I couldn’t ask her? I always wondered why I couldn’t ask her.
      It was time to leave the river and our few brief morning memories. We both had nasty operational tasks to complete, all before the day ended and the impinging clouds brought the lingering storm.
      She reached for my hand and looked into my eyes as though she wanted to ask me something, but didn’t. I only wanted to have money on my mind.
      I picked up her bag and walked her off the pier.

      Who wouldn’t love her?

Chapter One

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