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I debated telling Flores about the previous night’s attack. About Uri Stribbe. Decided against both. Why burden her with intel that might bring her down, too?
Finally, bellies overfull, we leaned back with our drinks, mine coffee, hers orange-mango juice, both claiming organic status. Flores’s beverage came with a straw.
Slurping noisily, Flores set down her glass, reached behind her and drew a folded envelope from her purse. Extending it to me, she said, “The report’s only virtue is its brevity.”
“Oh?”
“This case has been one colossal pain in the buttocks. I spent days tearing that engine apart. Then I tore every friggin’ one of its parts apart.”
I waited as Flores took another loud sip.
“I found zilch,” she said.
“Nothing?” A bit strident, but what she’d said seemed impossible.
“There wasn’t a fucking thing wrong with that boat.”
“What about the gas gauge? The radar? The navigation?”
“All in working order.” Flores pointed to the envelope. “The specs are detailed in there.”
I picked up my coffee. Put it back down. Over on Grace Bay Road, a siren screamed its resolve to arrive at a destination in the shortest time possible.
No matter how I toggled Flores’s statement, it didn’t make sense.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “TheCod Bless Us, with every system functioning, goes six hundred miles off course, runs out of gas, and drifts at sea until everyone on board is dead. Doyle, the captain, makes no attempt to contact anyone. None of the passengers radios or calls for help.”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Crap, crap, crap!”
“You really should work to broaden your vocabulary.”
“Sorry. But that just doesn’t play. It’s not my case, I know. Still, I was hoping forsomeexplanation why those people are dead.”
“Lindstrom’s still cutting. Maybe he’ll find drugs or something.”
I willed my face to look hopeful. To believe the autopsies might yield answers.
For the next half minute we sat there, not drinking, not looking at each other. Not a word passed between us.
I broke the silence.
“Has something like this ever happened before?”
“Like what?”
“Sweet suffering Jesus! A boat that—”
“Will you calm down.”
“Sorry. A boat, a plane, a helicopter, a rocket, a covered wagon, whatever, a vessel or vehicle going lethally off course with no explanation.”
“It’s rare. But it happens. Occasionally, all we can assume is pilot error.”
“But why not call for help?” Again, too shrill.
Lips pursed, Flores bunched her napkin and began gathering her utensils.
