Chapter 1
The weather was tolerable until 2:30 in the afternoon.
Slim, captain of the Maine Maria, a thirty-four-foot fishing vessel, had checked the weather before setting out that morning from Ryder’s Cove in Chatham. Southwest winds might howl for days on end in late September. Slim was not worried about safety; the Maine Maria could handle the chop on the return trip.
But he was worried about his back. At forty-three, the fishing and the off-season construction work had taken its toll. Some days, everything hurt; other days, he felt great, especially when catching an 800-pound bluefin tuna worth $10,000.
“What do you think?” Dano, his first mate, asked.
Dano had been his first mate for three seasons. Like many tuna-boat duos, the tight confines of the boat, long stretches of boredom, and the sudden explosion of activity required patience and a modicum of mutual respect. Crew divorces were not uncommon.
“Where are they?” Slim asked, glancing at his fish finder.
“Not here,” Dano said.
Slim sighed and stared out at the salt-sprayed windshield. He weighed the cost of the fuel, the ice, and the back pain against the probability of hooking up. The fall was a fickle time for the bluefin tuna fishery since it would close immediately once the quota was met. They were twenty-six miles southeast of Chatham at a fishing area called the Regal Sword.
“Let’s get out of here,” Slim said. He grabbed the microphone from the VHF radio. “Hey, you out there, Walt?”
“Yeah. What’s up? Anything your way?”
“Nothing. Wind’s kicking up. Heading back in.”
“Good call. See you later.”
Slim hung the microphone back onto the radio. “Let’s get outta here,” he said, stretching his back.
After stowing the fishing gear, Slim steered to the northwest, plowing through waves slanting in from the port side. His heavy, twenty-five-year-old boat had no trouble pounding through the snotty weather, but its single propeller and sluggish diesel engine made the going slow.
Dano sat in the mate’s chair, playing a game on his phone, his head bouncing with the wave action. Slim put in earbuds and listened to a playlist—anything to disguise the sad diesel drone of the boat returning without a fish.
They had gone six miles when Dano noticed it.
“He’s back,” he said, jutting his chin at the fishing boat bouncing a half-mile off their port side. “You think he followed us?”
“I don’t give a shit,” Slim said.
Dano grabbed the binoculars and focused on the lavishly overpowered, thirty-eight-foot fishing boat named Big Bite. It was owned and operated by Jim Soucy.
In Cape Cod's stratified economic and social life, Soucy was a card-carrying member of the top tier. His dental practice was extensive, with two regional offices. The presence of Soucy and his wife Deb at fancy fundraisers was plastered all over the local press and social media.
There was tension between the working-class community and the wealthy patrons of the cape. It was the same friction felt all along the country’s coastal areas as affluent homeowners flocked there. On the East Coast, legions of well-to-do couples set up shop in sleepy, quirky fishing towns, driving up real estate prices and changing the tenor of the town.
The tension could be rancorous. Even fishing—long the domain of highly skilled charter and commercial fishermen—had been invaded by wealthy residents who spent more money on their watercraft than a local fisherman made in years. In Chatham, the newcomers showed up on the rips off Monomoy Island chasing striped bass, running their boats over trolling lines, and breaking the delicate fishing etiquette understood by the commercial guys.
Crowding the striped bass fishing grounds was annoying, but going after bluefin tuna was something else. Local commercial fishermen in slow, heavy boats could make half their annual income by selling a half-dozen bluefin tuna. Now, weekend warriors running $500,000 Miami-style fishing boats could roar to fishing grounds in a flash, scattering fish and getting in the way of men trying to make a living.
Initially, the newcomers struggled to find the tuna. Bluefin can reach speeds of forty miles per hour and appear and disappear in minutes as they slash into the bait. They can also disappear into deeper water and must be coaxed by chumming the water with chopped baitfish. Commercial fishermen often talk to each other and share intel on sightings and hookups.
But with the advent of affordable and easy-to-use radar, the weekend warriors figured out they could simply follow the professionals to the hottest fishing grounds.
That’s where the Big Bite came in. Soucy had a habit of following commercial and charter boats out to find tuna. Over several years, altercations had increased, with heated threats exchanged between commercial captains and the well-heeled interlopers. The Big Bite and Captain Jim Soucy were among the worst offenders.
“Funny,” Dano said, staring at the Big Bite a half-mile away.
“What’s funny?” Slim said.
“Doesn’t look like he’s got lines in the water. Motors aren’t running. Can’t see anyone.”
“Soucy’s probably taking a nap,” Slim said, reaching for his well-worn coffee thermos.
“Who’s he got with him these days?” Dano said.
“I heard he talked one of his landscapers into working the boat. Who knows, and who cares.”
“I don’t see anyone,” Dano said, glued to the binoculars.
“He’s counting his money below.”
“It’s just funny, that’s all.”
“Give ‘em to me,” Slim said, reaching for the binoculars. He adjusted the focus and tried to compensate for the boat's motion.
“Maybe he went out alone,” Slim said, returning the binoculars. “He’s stupid enough to do that.”
Dano refocused on the Big Bite as they thumped through the waves.
“I don’t know, boss,” Dano said. “Don’t look right. Boat’s getting shoved around pretty good. No one in sight. Even if he’s down below, he’d be rocking pretty good right now.”
“Whadya saying?” Slim said. “You want us to check on him? That jerk?”
“I don’t know.”
They were two hundred yards from the Big Bite, and Slim kept glancing at the boat swaying wildly in the slop off his port side.
“I don’t know,” Dano repeated.
Slim frowned and took another sip of lukewarm coffee.
“Fine, we’ll check it out,” he said, turning the boat into the wind. The spray on the windscreen increased as the boat dipped sharply into the waves. Slim turned on the wipers.
While they closed the distance, Slim absently rubbed his lower back with his right hand. Thirty yards from the Big Bite, he turned his boat sharply to the north and cut back the throttle.
The boats were parallel to each other but pointing in opposite directions. They were sideways to the waves, with the Big Bite on their left.
“I don’t see anyone,” Dano said. “He lost power. Can we get closer?”
Slim groaned and gunned the engine, turning toward the Big Bite and into the waves again. The bow dipped, sending a heavy spray onto the windshield, the wipers clearing the saltwater in brief, strobe-like slashes. Slim cut back the throttle when they were within ten yards and turned so the boats were parallel again.
The Big Bite had a skybridge tower twenty feet above the deck that swung like an out-of-control metronome.
“Something happened,” Dano said. “Maybe he’s sick or something.”
Slim had no idea what radio channel the Big Bite used. Reaching below the wheel and into a large, open shelf full of random items, he pulled out a partially rusted can of compressed air with an orange plastic horn at the top. He handed it to Dano and motioned for him to go outside.
Dano stepped out and blew the handheld horn three times. The wind muted the sound, but it was still clear enough to be heard on the Big Bite.
“Again!” Slim yelled. The horn sounded three more times. The two men watched the Big Bite bounce sideways and closer to them.
“Inside,” Slim shouted. Dano scampered in and threw the horn into the shelf.
Slim throttled up and moved his boat slowly around the Big Bite so that he was now on the other side, twenty yards away, both boats pointing southwest and rocking in the waves.
He reached for the radio and changed the channel to sixteen. Slim identified himself to the Coast Guard and asked whether there had been a distress call from the Big Bite.
The Coast Guard operator asked Slim to identify himself.
“This is the Maine Maria, a tuna boat out of Ryder’s Cove. We’re about twenty miles southeast of Monomoy and came across a boat that seems to be in trouble, over.”
“This is Coast Guard Station Chatham. Have you attempted to contact the boat, over?”
“Yes,” Slim said. “The weather’s snotty out here, but we can get within thirty feet of the boat. We tried to get the captain’s attention with a horn, but no one’s on the deck, and the boat is dead in the water, over.”
The Coast Guard operator went back and forth with Slim, asking for the distressed boat's name and exact location.
“Maine Maria, can you remain on site until our craft arrives? It will take at least an hour or so to get out there, over.”
“Shit,” Slim muttered under his breath. “I knew this was going to happen.” Aloud, he replied, “Negative. We can’t stay out here. The wind is expected to pick up, over.”
“Maine Maria, can you board the distressed vessel, over?”
“I can try, boss,” Dano said.
“Don’t be crazy,” Slim said.
“No, I can do it. I’ll throw the bumpers out, and you can bring us broadside.”
“Shit,” Slim said. “Of all the guys in trouble, it’s the friggin’ mad dentist. You know we should leave this to the Coast Guard.”
“I can do it,” Dano repeated.
Slim pushed the button on the microphone. “We’ll attempt to board, though we’re not sure we can pull it off, over.”
“Roger that, Maine Maria. If it’s too dangerous, don’t proceed. If you need to leave the area, please give us your exact location beforehand, over.”
“I copy you, over,” Slim said.
Dano struggled into his life jacket and zipped it up.
“You sure you want to do this?” Slim said.
“Yeah, I started the damn thing. I can do this.”
“Alright, put the bumpers out, and I’ll put us broadside. If you don’t think you can make it, just stop, okay?”
“Got it.”
After several minutes of jockeying back and forth, Slim brought the two boats within five feet. Slim idled his motor to let the wave action press them against the other boat. His palms were wet. This was the kind of nonsense that got men injured or killed.
Dano grabbed a handheld radio and waited while the two boats rocked closer together, finally meeting in a grinding upheaval as the fiberglass hulls rubbed together, squeezing the bumpers.
Dano saw his chance as the two hulls retreated slightly in the wave trough. He flung himself over the gunwale and landed roughly on his knees, avoiding one of the swaying fishing rods jutting up from its holder. He was aboard the Big Bite.
The cabin door flapped wildly. Dano raised his thumb at Slim and staggered inside the cabin, looking for the boat’s secondary helm. He knew another helm was at the top of the swaying skybridge but had no interest in climbing the ladder. He saw the captain’s chair and plopped down. The ignition was in the off position. He glanced around the dentist’s pleasure craft. It was modern, spotless, and luxurious. He turned and looked aft through the flapping door, noting that the Big Bite was not actively fishing since the two rods were not rigged.
He stood and staggered to the bathroom and opened the door. It was empty. Dano peeked into the small bedroom in the bow. The bed looked like it had never been slept in. He turned to leave the cabin, and that’s when he noticed something he’d missed earlier.
A trail of blood led from the cabin, up the steps, and onto the deck. Bracing himself from the rocking, he bent down and looked at the coagulated blood. The smear led up the two steps and onto the deck. Dano followed it to the gunwale, where it stopped.
He staggered over to the baitwell and noticed blood on the cutting board. He opened the baitwell and saw a handful of small mackerel darting furiously in the sloshing water.
“Hey,” Dano said into his radio. “You there?”
“I’m still here. You see any sign of the dentist?”
“No. Nobody here.”
“Well, get back over here, then. We’ll let the Coasties take care of this.”
“But there’s something wrong here, Slim. Looks like he was chumming. I don’t see a knife, but he was definitely cutting fish up.”
“I don’t give a shit. Get back on board.”
Dano looked around the cabin a final time, then went to the side where the boats were grinding into each other. After waiting for the right moment, he leaped across and landed awkwardly on the deck.
“Godammit,” he said, holding his ankle and standing up, bracing himself as Slim gunned the engine.
***
Massachusetts State Police Detective Sarah Langone stood on the south dock watching the Coast Guard secure the Big Bite to a mooring slip.
“Well, that’s a fine howdy-do,” Norm Thompson said, standing beside her. Thompson, Chatham’s Chief of Police, had called Langone about the abandoned boat three hours earlier.
“Have you contacted his wife?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“She was hysterical. Sent a squad car over to Soucy’s office here. She’s the office manager. I think they’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“He went out alone in this wind,” she said. “Isn’t that odd?”
“Some guys do it if they don’t have a regular mate, but I wouldn’t. Especially in this weather. But he was a bit of a hot dog, that’s for sure.”
“Was?”
“I mean, is a hotdog,” Thompson said.
“I heard he was an asshole,” she said.
“A hot dog asshole.”
“No mayday?”
“Nada. A fisherman coming in stumbled across Soucy’s boat foundering, and they called the Coast Guard.”
“There’s blood on the boat?” she said, walking toward the mooring.
“Yeah, but it could have been from a fish he caught,” Thompson said, catching up to her. “He could have hooked up, got tangled in the line, and pulled over. Who knows? Stuff happens out there.”
“Oh boy, here she comes,” Thompson said, turning around.
A squad car pulled into the parking lot behind them. Deb Soucy jumped out of the back door, her blond hair tousled in the stiff breeze as she ran past them to the Big Bite.
Thompson tried to talk to her, but she raced by.
“Deb, you can’t go on board yet,” he yelled to her. “Stop, Deb!”
He caught her by the arm. Her face was red, and smudged mascara circled her eyes.
“What have they done to him?” she yelled.
“What do you mean, Deb? It was an accident.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she hissed. “Those bastards will do anything to protect their precious fish.” She started crying as Langone approached along with a female Chatham police officer.
“Don’t touch me!” she barked at Thompson, yanking his hand off her arm. “You’re with them.”
“Deb, you’re not making sense. Please calm down. We don’t know what happened. He could be out there right now in the water. We have two boats in the area and a chopper from Hyannis searching. Please try to remain calm.”
“I want to go onto the boat,” she said. “I want to see for myself.”
“No, Mrs. Soucy, I’m sorry, but we need to examine it first,” Langone said. “I’m sure this is difficult.”
“Who the hell are you?” Soucy said, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.
Langone introduced herself and repeated that the boat would be off-limits until police could inspect it.
Soucy turned to Thompson and yelled through her tears, “You know exactly what happened, Norm! This crap has been going on for a long time, and you should have done something about it.” She spun around and stomped toward the boat.
“Don’t let her get on board,” Thompson called to the police officer, who hurried after Soucy.
“What did she mean about ‘things going on for a long time’?” Langone asked.
“Oh, the usual. Wealth and privilege meet working-class attitudes. Tension between people trying to make a living out there and people having fun on their private water safaris.”
***
“Cape story right down your alley,” the email stated.
Stacie Davis, Boston Globe general assignment reporter, groaned. She swiveled her chair and looked across the newsroom at Clark Harris’s desk. He poked his head to the side of his monitor and smiled.
Stacie smirked and wrote back, “Really?”
“Yup.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope. It’s an assignment, like in the movies, when the editor tells the reporter to cover a story. Like that.”
“Whatever. What’s the assignment?”
He sent a link to a story in the Cape Cod Times. The headline read: “Boater Missing in Fishing Accident.”
A private vessel abandoned off the coast belonged to a Chatham dentist, she read. Then she wrote back, “Can’t this be done on the phone?”
“No. Boots on the ground. Photog down there now.”
Stacie wasn’t concerned about the ninety-minute drive to Chatham on Cape Cod nor the filing deadline. But two years earlier, she had stumbled into a bizarre murder mystery in Chatham that had put her in harm’s way.
Then there was the Carl Lane complication. She’d had an intense but fleeting romance with the Chatham charter fisherman, a relationship that lasted six months until the inevitable question arose: Who would move closer? Carl loved guiding visitors on his fishing charters in the summer and fall; he tolerated doing construction work in the off-season. Carl, a divorced single father who lived on the cape, would not move closer to Boston or change his career choice.
Stacie was in the early stages of a career in journalism at New England’s award-winning newspaper. She refused to give up that dream.
She and Carl decided that the relationship, though intense and thrilling, would not survive the distance and their career choices. They broke it off.
Stacie gave another histrionic scowl to Harris across the newsroom as she headed to the elevators. Her pod neighbor, Jared Kim, looked up. “Where you headed?”
“Crap Cod,” she said.
“Oh, wow. Bring me back a clam roll, would ya? And don’t forget the fries.”
She flipped him the bird.
He laughed. “Be safe, girl. That place hasn’t been nice to you.”
***
Langone watched from the dock as the Tyvek-clad state crime scene investigators took pictures and swabbed blood samples off the boat. She stole a glance at the squad car in the parking lot. Inside sat Deb Soucy, who alternated between periods of catatonia and hysteria. A large SUV made its way next to the squad car and parked. Two women emerged, and Mrs. Soucy jumped from the squad car. The three women embraced, and the tears started again.
Langone returned her gaze to the boat just as her phone rang.
“What’s it look like?” asked Mary Martin, first assistant district attorney for the Cape and Islands.
“Can’t tell,” Langone said. “The boat was towed in, and they’re going over it now. There’s quite a lot of blood, but I’m told it could be from a tuna. Or he might have cut himself.”
“He’s an important person, Sarah. Our fearless leader has already warned me to be careful. Guess this dentist is a pal of someone important. Regardless, this isn’t our case. I’m expecting a call from the US Attorney’s Office at any moment.”
“What’s the deal on jurisdiction?” Langone said. “Remind me.”
“Up to three miles out, it’s local; after three miles, it’s the feds. The Coast Guard is involved, and there’s a chance we’ll be asked to assist. And you’ll be on your best behavior.”
“I’m always on my best behavior,” Langone said.
“Then be on your bestest behavior. Are there any cicadas there yet?” Martin asked, using the office’s euphemism for news reporters.
“Not that I can see, but I forget what uniform reporters wear these days. Trench coats are out, I hear.”
“Ha. Keep me posted.” Martin hung up.
Langone noticed a short, dark-haired man in his twenties walking down the steps from the upper parking lot. He had two cameras around his neck; one was large with a telephoto lens attached, and the other was compact. The man approached a uniformed officer and removed a notebook and pen.
Her phone rang again. “That was quick,” Langone said.
“Her name is Assistant US Attorney Faith Colter,” Martin said. “She’s coming down from Boston. Can you hang out until she shows up? Our boss wants us to offer any help we can to our federal friends.”
“Crap. I may go grab a coffee now.”
“You’ll need it. This Colter woman is a tough cookie. The dentist had lots of friends.”
“Had?”
“Yes, had. If he’s not hiding on the boat, he’s lobster food at this point. Colter said the Coast Guard’s pretty sure they won’t find him in this weather.”
“Okay.” Langone stared at the boat and thought, Hiding? Is that possible?
The Big Bite was a large, fancy boat. Could Dr. Soucy be hiding on it somewhere? Or is his waterlogged body being dragged down to the ocean floor by a feisty tuna?
