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The second hand made its rounds of an old-fashioned analog clock on one wall.
Tic. Tic. Tic.
Eight ticky circuits, then Musgrove was back.
“TheCod Bless Usbelongs to Martin Patrick Doyle and is registered out of the Bahamas. The boat left Nassau twelve days ago, never returned to the marina.”
“Did she not have radar? A navigation system? A radio?” I asked, perplexed.
“The engineer will determine all that.”
“Did no one notice that theCodwas gone a long time?”
Musgrove gave one of her lilting shrugs.
“Was Doyle reported missing?”
Another shrug.
“How far is Nassau from Provo?” I asked.
“Roughly six hundred miles.”
I said nothing. Pictured all that open sea.
Musgrove was about to comment further when her mobile rang again. She answered with a not so gracious, “Musgrove.”
The caller launched in, galloped forward, not pausing for breath. This time the voice was male. And the reception was good.
Apparently, the news was not.
Musgrove’s cheeks flushed as she reacted with fervor.
“Sonofafreakingzombiebitchanditsspawn!”
I had to respect that.
“Keep me looped in. I mean everything. Every. Bloody. Thing.”
Not waiting for a response, Musgrove clicked off and pressed the phone to her chest. She stared at me, face pinched and anxious.
14
I waited, alarmed but not wishing to elevate Musgrove’s distress.
Tic.
Tic.
Tic.
Then, “There may be another.”
I cocked a brow.
“Another MP.”
“Shit,” I said.
