Out on the Cutting Edge

"I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. And I've been going all day after an early start."

She drew me inside, closed the door. "Why don't you take a nap right away," she urged. "Do you think you could do that?"

"I'm wound too tight. And I've still got things I have to do."

"Well, at least I can give you a decent cup of coffee. I went out today to one of those yuppie havens where they sell fifty different blends, one more expensive than the next. I think they price it by the bean, and they can tell you where it came from and what kind of animal crap they spread on the fields. I bought a pound each of three different coffees and this electric drip machine that does everything but drink it for you."

"Sounds great."

"I'll pour you a cup. I had them grind it for me. They wanted to sell me a grinder so that every cup I brewed would be at the peak of freshness, but I figured you have to draw the line somewhere."

"I'm sure you're right."

"Taste it, see what you think."

I took a sip, set the cup down on the table. "It's good," I said.

"Just good? Oh, God, I'm sorry, Matt. You had a long day and it was a hard one, too, wasn't it? And I'm running off at the mouth. Why don't you sit down? I'll try to shut up."

"It's all right," I said. "But I'd like to make a phone call first, if you don't mind. I want to call Warren Hoeldtke."

"Paula's father?"

"He should be home now."

"Would you like me to go out while you make the call?"

"No," I said. "Stick around. In fact, you can listen while I talk to him. It'll save saying the same thing twice."

"If you're sure."

I nodded, and she sat down while I picked up the phone and dialed his home number, not bothering to make it collect this time. Mrs.

Hoeldtke answered, and when I asked for him she said, "Mr. Scudder?

He's expecting your call. Just a moment, I'll get him."

When Hoeldtke came on the line he said hello as if bracing himself. "I'm afraid the news is bad," I said.

"Tell me."

"Paula is dead," I said. "She died the second weekend in July. I can't be sure of the precise date."

"How did it happen?"

"She spent the weekend on a boat, she and a gentleman friend and another couple. The other man had a speedboat, some sort of cabin cruiser that he kept at a marina on City Island. The four of them went out on open water."

"And there was an accident?"

"Not exactly," I said. I reached for my cup and had some of my coffee. It was very good coffee. "Boats, fast ones, are in demand these days. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that drug smuggling is a big business."

"Were these other people drug smugglers?"

"No. Paula's companion was a securities analyst. The other man was also on Wall Street, and the other woman ran a crafts gallery on Amsterdam Avenue. They were respectable people. There's no evidence that they even used drugs, let alone dealt in them."

"I see."

"Their boat, however, was one that would lend itself to smuggling.

That made it an attractive target for pirates. This sort of piracy has become very common in the Caribbean. Boat owners down there have learned to carry firearms on board and fire at any other vessel that comes too close. Piracy is less common in northern waters, but it's getting to be a problem. A gang of pirates approached the boat Paula was on, pretending to be a ship in distress. They managed to get on board, and then they did what pirates have always done. They killed everyone and made off with the ship."

"My God," he said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "There's no gentle way to say it. From what I've been able to determine, it was over very quickly. They came onto the ship with their guns drawn and they didn't waste any time before firing them. She wouldn't have suffered long. None of them would have."

"Dear God. How can things like this happen in this day and age?

Piracy, you think of men with gold earrings and peg legs and, and, parrots. Errol Flynn in the movies. It seems like something out of another

time."

"I know."

"Was there anything in the newspapers about this? I don't recall seeing anything."

"No," I said. "There's no official record of the incident."

"Who was the man? And the other couple?"

"I promised someone I'd keep their names out of it. I'll violate that promise if you insist, but I'd rather not."

"Why? Oh, I can probably guess."

"The man was married."

"That was my guess."

"And the other couple was married as well, but not to each other.

So there doesn't seem to be any purpose served by revealing their names, and their surviving families would prefer being spared the embarrassment."

"I can appreciate that," he said.

"I wouldn't keep it under wraps if there were an investigation to pursue, something for the police or the Coast Guard to go after. But the case is closed before it could ever be opened."

"How do you mean? Because Paula and the others are dead?"