The audience shifted in their seats.

  “However, closing Pribilof Canyon may not be the best way to accomplish your goal. The camera survey of the ocean bottom shows few corals inhabit the area. When coral was found at all, its average density was comparable to a coral about the size of this pitcher of water in an area about the size of this room.”

  Patsy leaned into Maureen’s shoulder and whispered, “They’re talking about closing the Mushroom to fishing.”

  Gellhorn held up the pitcher in front of him and spread his other arm in a gesture to include the meeting room. “Hiding behind this pitcher would not make me feel safe from predators.”

  Audible laughter erupted from the audience.

  Turning his attention back to the man before them, Gellhorn asked his question. “Is this the sort of coral density relationship you imagine will provide protective habitat to vulnerable marine species?”

  Glass fingered the bright tie that flowed over his Santa-sized belly before leaning into the microphone. “Thank you for the question, Mr. Gellhorn. Ours is a precautionary approach. We believe that if we fail to take action now, the coral may someday be destroyed by fishing gear and lost forever. “

  Gellhorn leaned into his microphone again. “Thank you, Mr. Glass. But I have to ask, what coral? The survey found few and none were damaged by gear. This belief of yours seems more religious than scientific.”

  Laughter again erupted from the audience.

  “It’s called the Precautionary Principle.” Glass said it as if speaking to a child who didn’t get the importance of its meaning.

  Gellhorn ignored the tone. Instead he warmed up to his second question by reminding Mr. Glass that fishery managers had already restricted fishing in 1.3 million square miles in its Alaska jurisdiction. He continued to talk while pouring himself a glass of water. “Many more square miles than all the national parks combined. And not a single fish species is overfished.”

  “Mr. Gellhorn, your question, please.” The chairman loosened his tie. People in the audience leaned forward in their seats. Gellhorn drank from his water glass and adjusted the angle of the microphone before speaking again.

  “You know, Mr. Chairman. I am going to withdraw my question. I had planned to support discrete closures where high densities of corals were found. But none were discovered. So, unless Mr. Glass can point one out to me, I will not waste your time with another question.” He began to lean away from the microphone but changed his mind. He spoke slowly. “Fishermen feed this nation, and they need access to fishing grounds to do it.”

  Fishermen jumped to their feet and clapped. Some just stared angrily at the back of Johnathan Glass’s head.

  The chairman pounded his gavel. “Enough!”

  Public testimony continued for another hour before the chairman adjourned the meeting for the day, and most everyone moved to the hotel bar.

  It was packed. Maureen could tell Patsy was searching for someone specific.

  She nodded toward the far side of the barroom. “C’mon, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

  They made their way to a table in the corner where the thoughtful-looking woman taking notes during the meeting sat quietly sipping a glass of wine. Her face lit up when she saw Patsy approach.

  After a brief embrace, Patsy took charge of the introductions. “Sandra, this is Dr. McMurtry. Mo did the initial exam of Casey Elliot when his body was brought to town.” She turned toward her eco-friend. “We were hoping to talk to you about Casey.”

  A waitress came by and took their orders.

  “I’ll cut to the chase, Sandra,” said Patsy. “We’re wondering if you knew Casey. His parents say he was doing work for environmental groups, and we’re hoping to find out what he was up to.”

  Sandra took a deep breath. “I did know Casey. Not well. I was shocked to hear of his tragic death. He seemed to work as a freelancer. Not for us.”

  Letting her eyes drop to the glass of wine in front of her, she let her fingers rest on its stem as if carefully managing what she might say next. She looked up. “He was a passionate young man but pushed the edge of the envelope a bit too much for us.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Maureen.

  “He was impatient. He wanted to save the world today, not tomorrow. He was sometimes fast and loose with the science.” She frowned in a way that told Maureen she was troubled by the events. “Do you think his death was tied to his work?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. What issues was he working on?”

  “He talked about protecting fishery habitat. But he also talked about offshore drilling up north.” Sandra’s attention moved over Maureen’s shoulder. “There’s Jonathan Glass. He’ll know more about Casey than I do. He hired him for a project last year. Shall I flag him over?”

  Maureen nodded. “Please.” She stretched her spine, in hopes that it might give her a second wind.

  After introductions and some discussion of the brouhaha that ensued during Glass’s testimony, they landed back on the topic of Casey Elliot’s activities.

  “He seemed interested in two issues,” Glass began. “The first one was the protection of skate nurseries. The other was about a specific oil rig drilling process.”

  “Skate nurseries?” asked Maureen.

  “Skates are a large flat species that resemble a giant ray,” said Glass. “Casey thought he might land a job as a crew member on a boat that was doing skate research or on one of the oil rigs.”

  Maureen remembered the chief’s questioning of Arlo on the Cape Kiska. She recalled his scraped knuckles and broken finger after he’d returned from the skate survey charter. She fought to focus her thoughts. Ask the right questions. Get the facts before jumping to conclusions.

  “Do you know what boat he may have crewed on for the skate survey? Or if he even got the job.”

  “No, but the agency will know which boats were hired for the survey. I think it occurred earlier this month.”

  Maureen nodded. “What about the oil rig job?”

  “I heard he may have landed a job on an oil rig and planned to return for another two-week shift. He seemed excited about something but didn’t want to talk about it.”

  The waitress arrived with the drinks, including Maureen’s tea.

  “When big oil quit offshore drilling in the Chukchi Sea, a few wildcat operations jumped in. Casey thought they might not be in compliance with extended-reach drilling regulations. He said he’d found a way to get more information about their operation.”

  Maureen stirred her tea. She was running out of gas. “Is there anything more you can tell us?”

  He folded his hands on the table before continuing.

  “Look, Casey was a good kid, and none of us want to tarnish his memory.” He looked at Sandra, then back to Maureen. “What happened to him was terrible. But you should know he was out there…”

  He twirled his hand in the air. “We all pretty much let him go his own way.”

  “Are you saying he was crazy?”

  “I’m saying he had issues.”

  Shifting her gaze to Sandra, Maureen checked to see if she concurred. The woman’s mouth turned down in a sad grimace.

  Maureen stood up. “Thanks for your help,” she said, pulling on her jacket.

  “Wait,” said Glass. “Should I be talking to the police?”

  “Yes.” Maureen leaned over the table and scribbled on a cocktail napkin. She passed it to him. “Call this number and ask for the police chief.”

  Patsy started to stand. Maureen pressed her shoulder.

  “Sit down,” she said. “I’m looking forward to the walk home. It will help me sleep.”

  She headed into the snow, wondering if sleep was waiting for her at home. Knowing she would be keeping company with a loaded gun under her pillow, she had her doubts.

  Chapter 17

  Maureen’s hand hung over the side of the bed. Sleep had not been a stranger. She rolled over and looked at the shepherd knowing the dog, not the gun, was the reason she’d slept. Warm blood, she knew, was better than cold steel.

  The Cape Kiska had made it back to town during the night and, according to the harbormaster’s office, was tied-up at the ISI dock. Maureen stood on the dock, admiring the fresh snow that sparkled in the sunlight. She wore sunglasses and a cockeyed grin. The sea air smelled crisp, as if the storm had washed it clean and hung it out to dry. Oh what magic a good night’s sleep can do, she thought.

  The dog ran in circles and rolled in the fluffy white stuff. When it came to new snow, her police training pretty much went out the window. Maureen packed the snow into a ball and hurled it down the dock as if it were a line drive to first base. The shepherd took it down. “Out!” cried Maureen. Behind the dog, crystal peaks poked the sapphire sky.

  “A perfect day!” she said to CoCo, who was begging for another ball. “But what about Casey Elliot and this skate survey shit?”

  Dozens of boats were bound to the dock with long lines tied fore and aft. Some boats were as long as football fields, others a third that size, but all large enough to battle the Bering Sea. The harbormaster’s office had told her the Cape Kiska was tied up at the eastern end of the dock. Her pace quickened. She couldn’t wait to see Arlo. She couldn’t wait to see that all the guys were safe.

  As she approached, she saw a skiff pull away from the outer side of the boat. She thought it might be the harbormaster’s boat. It looked like Marcus, and someone else was aboard. She doubted it was Arlo. He’d use a truck to get around. Hey, maybe I know him better than I thought! She was feeling good.

  It was high tide, so easy to climb over the railing onto the boat. CoCo made it in a single leap. The back deck was littered with a half dozen bent and broken crab pots that hadn’t been unloaded yet. In contrast, all the lines were neatly coiled. Alongside the house door, garbage bags were piled high. Inside, it was quiet, save for the rhythmic squeaking of the boat as it gently strained against the lines.

  CoCo sniffed her way around the galley table and along the benches. She seemed to accept the rank odor of smoke and diesel fuel. Whatever garbage had been strewn about in the carnage had been picked up and packed into bags stacked on deck. Even the bench cushions were hanging out to dry. The Cape Kiska was as shipshape as circumstances would allow.

  Maureen headed up the stairs toward the wheelhouse. CoCo’s hind legs pushed her upward, the front leg rebalancing the shepherd’s weight along the way.

  The wheelhouse looked war weary. Mattresses blocked the broken windows like bandages applied on a battlefield.

  Maureen headed to the captain’s quarters just aft of the wheelhouse. Her boots left footprints on the soaked rug. Gently, she slid open the door. Arlo lay spread-eagle in his bunk. What a relief to see him safely tucked beneath a quilt. Deep snores erupted from his rising chest.

  She leaned against the door. Did she really think he was capable of killing Casey, even accidentally? No, not possible. But the survey shit, the cut hand, the permit number, it kept getting in the way. Damn it! She wanted to cross it off the list and move on. Should she stay or go?

  Shedding her clothes, Maureen slid into bed like a hand that’s found its glove. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and stretched her arm over his T-shirt-wrapped chest. He rolled slightly, just enough to pull her closer. The snoring stopped long enough for him to whisper from a dream somewhere, “Oh yeah.”

  The snores seemed tamed by the touch of her body and returned as purrs, each one causing his upper lip to flutter as if catching a wind that set its course toward deep sleep. CoCo stretched out on the rug, a coat of thick fur protecting her from its dampness. She sniffed the air then laid her muzzle to rest on an extended front paw.

  Three hours later, Maureen and Arlo sat naked at the edge of the bunk. Maureen rummaged through the tangled quilt in search of her underwear. Found, she began to dress.

  “There’s something we’ve got to talk about, Arlo.”

  “I don’t talk about relationships unless I’m fully dressed. No exceptions.” He kissed her neck.

  “Hey, lips off the neck, please. This is serious.” She stood up and stepped into her jeans, pulling them up and finishing with a tug on the zipper. Arlo handed her a coral-colored turtleneck. She slipped it over her head, tucked it into her jeans, and fastened a silver-tipped belt. “Can we talk about your skate survey, Arlo?”

  Still sitting on the edge of the bunk, Arlo looked at her, the glow suddenly gone. “What’s up?”

  “I learned something while you were gone that could be…well, I’d like to ask you about it.”

  “Ask what?”

  “Could Casey Elliot have worked on your boat for the survey? You said you had two greenhorns on board. Perhaps he used another name?”

  He climbed into his jeans.

  “That’s your question? Really?”

  He pulled a sweatshirt over his head.

  “Look around.” His arm swung around the room, indicating the whole shebang. “This boat nearly went down, taking me and the guys to the bottom. And all you want to know about is Casey Fuckin-What’s-His-Name!”

  He pulled deck boots over his socks and walked out of the state room.

  “Wait. Please.” She trailed after him. “You’re safe, and that’s what’s important. But this is a simple question. One that you’re going to have to answer at some point.”

  She reached for his arm, turning him to face her. “Casey told his friends he thought he had a job on a skate survey charter. I just want to know if it could have been on the Cape Kiska.”

  “You want to know if this murdered kid worked on my boat. Why?” He let it hang in the air. “You think I could have, might have, am capable of stuffing him into that crab pot and throwing him over the side? That’s the real question.”

  His face changed. He looked like a different person. “Get off my boat, Mo!”

  She backed away from him, her heart racing. A growl rumbled from between the shepherd’s bared teeth. She reached for Coco’s collar. By the time she climbed off the boat, Maureen’s hair felt on fire.

  Maybe she’d been wrong to ask the question. She looked up at the wheelhouse. But I’m not going back. It was a simple question, a question that would be asked by someone. No need to yell. No need to talk to her like that. Asshole!

  ****

  She was halfway down the dock when a voice hailed her from a ship pulling alongside the dock. Maureen signaled the crew to toss her the bow line. She caught it mid-air and guided the boat to line up parallel with the dock. She hooked it around a cleat while a crew member jumped to the dock and secured the stern line. The captain leaned out the wheelhouse window and gave her a salute of appreciation. She recognized him. It was Rob Stokes, the brother of One-Eye Ben.

  “Can I come aboard?” she hollered up toward the wheelhouse.

  Stokes waved her onboard. Coco followed.

  The deck was well ordered with stacks of blue plastic modules secured behind the house, some filled with garbage, others containing equipment from the oil rig. She pushed open the door, headed past the engine room entrance, and into an impressive galley that shone with new appliances. A crew member sat at one of the tables filling out paperwork. CoCo sniffed his jeans as she made her way under the table. Her snout passed by the closed doors to the head and two staterooms but stopped to sniff at the entry to the fo’c’sle. She pawed at the door.

  “What’s in there?” asked Maureen.

  The kid looked up from the food order form. “Storage.” He shrugged his shoulders and went back to compiling his list.

  CoCo continued to paw the door. Then she sat at attention as a police dog is trained to do when smelling contraband.

  Maureen pursed her lips. It was not her job to police the boat, she decided.

  “All right if I leave the dog here?”

  “Sure.”

  It was a big boat. She climbed up two sets of stairs before reaching the wheelhouse. Rob Stokes was standing over the chart table nursing a cup of coffee. He looked over at her with a polite smile. All around him, high-tech monitors seemed to be taking a siesta.

  He reached out and shook her hand. “Thanks for catching the line. I hear they call you Dr. Mo. Is that right?”

  His hands were clean. His shirt and pants seemed newly laundered, and his combed-back hair freshly washed. He’d be an attractive man, she thought, if not for the dark circles under his eyes.

  “Some call me Dr. Mo.” Her voice was gentle, the way you’d expect a person to speak to someone whose brother had just died. “But you can drop the Doctor, if you like.”

  He motioned toward a small table with a wraparound bench and offered her a seat and a cup of coffee.

  Emptying a small canister of half & half into her coffee, she watched it swirl into the dark drink before looking up at him. She explained that she had been among those that had found Ben on the beach and that she’d done the initial medical examination.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about your bother, Rob.”

  He accepted the condolence with a slow nod and nothing to say.

  “I asked to come onboard to see if you had any questions about Ben’s death.” She stirred her coffee again. “I thought it might help.”

  He plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I do,” he said, lighting one.

  Cigarette smoke gathered like a cloud over his head. Maureen waited, wanting to give the man some space.

  “Chief St. George called me while I was up north dropping supplies at the oil rigs last week. He told me Ben was murdered.”

  Maureen nodded.

  “He told me Ben was shot in the head and found on the beach with a bunch of sea lions. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Cigarette smoke drifted toward the open window.

  “What caliber?”

  “A large caliber, maybe a .44 or .45. The police don’t have the ballistics report yet.”

  “Just one to the head?”

  She nodded, not sure where to go with this. She had expected medical questions.

  “What about the sea lions?”

 

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