“It’s accurate?”

“You bet it is,” he says. “It’s a little more complicated than I’m making it sound, though. Water temperature plays a part too—”

“Please,” I interrupt. “Keep it simple. Remember your audience.”

He smiles at me. “The bottom line is, if I know the size of the TFR that was used and the average water temperature for the time period we’re talking about, I can be out there in time to watch the gear float to the surface.”

I’m quiet for a minute, still fingering the little metal device.

“They come in different sizes,” Taylor says, “for different durations. Two-day, five-day, seven-day, you name it.”

I look up at him. I still don’t get it.

“That’s a seven-day,” he says, pointing to my pop-up. “And so is this.” He uses the pencil again and taps the photo of Herb Rawlings’s ankles. “But this is just one end of it. It would’ve let go in the middle, remember. The other end is still attached to whatever held the guy down there for a week.”

“Taylor, please, I still don’t understand. Can you just tell me what you’re thinking and why?” I’m starting to worry about time. My head aches. And I’ve got to escape these codfish guts.

“I’m just about there,” he says. “But I have a question for you first.”

“Just one?”

He shrugs. “For now. Do you know anything about where this guy was attacked? Whether he was on land or sea?”

I shake my head. Until this morning, I’d assumed that whatever happened to Herb Rawlings happened at sea. But this morning’s discovery changed that, I realize now. “I don’t have a clue,” I tell Taylor.

“Okay,” he says, “then here’s what we do know.” He points to the little gadget in the photograph, the used version of the one I’m still fingering. “That pop-up did what it was supposed to do,” he says.

My pulse quickens a little as the pieces of what Taylor’s been telling me start to meld. “Go on,” I tell him. “Please.”

“So somebody went to great lengths to hide a body,” he says, “but secured it to the ocean floor with a device that’s specifically designed to let it go after seven days.”

“Don’t stop,” I tell him. “I’m with you.”

He leaves his seat and starts pacing, hunched over, tugging at his beard. “There are two possibilities, I guess. But only one makes sense.”

“Nothing makes sense to me right now, Taylor, so tell me both.”

“Theoretically,” he says, “it’s possible that someone clobbered the guy on land, loaded him onto the boat, and then motored out to the Great South Channel to dump him.”

“Theoretically,” I repeat. “Why just theoretically?”

“Because to do that,” Taylor answers, “whoever it was would have to know boats. And he’d have to know a hell of a lot about these waters. Because he’d have to be able to negotiate the cut.”

The cut is a treacherous stretch off the coast of Chatham that keeps the Coast Guard’s helicopter rescue team busy year-round. It’s redefined every time a winter storm pummels the coastline; every time the beaches and sandbars get rearranged; every time a waterway opens up where none existed before.

“And anybody who knows how to negotiate the cut,” Taylor points at my pop-up again, “would know a TFR when he sees one. He’d sure as hell know better than to try to hide a body with it.”

“And the other possibility?” I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming.

“Simple,” he says. “The now-dead guy was alive and well when he left the dock. He motored out to the Great South Channel himself. And then he bought the farm. Whoever did him in was on board. Someone he knew.”

“And someone who didn’t know the nautical world,” I add. “Someone who didn’t know a damned thing about pop-ups.”

Taylor tilts his head to one side. “Looks that way to me,” he says. He stops pacing and eases back onto his bait bucket. “One thing we know for sure,” he adds. “The dead guy surfaced on schedule.”

CHAPTER 17

Leon Long has been a Barnstable County Superior Court judge for two decades. Other judges of that tenure might claim to have seen it all. Not Leon. He’s fond of telling anyone who’ll listen that he hasn’t seen anything yet, that he’s just getting started. He says each day on the bench delivers spanking-new issues to tackle—both legal and moral.

And tackle them he does. A criminal defendant in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts couldn’t handpick a better judge than Leon Long. In his courtroom, the Commonwealth’s burden of proof is onerous, the presumption of innocence sacrosanct. He is one of a dwindling number of jurists who still believe the Bill of Rights exists for good reason. He has a myriad of fans in the county, many of them courthouse workers and members of the criminal defense bar. Harry and I are among them.

Geraldine Schilling isn’t. It’s not that Geraldine doesn’t like Judge Long. Deep down, she does. But she’d like him a hell of a lot better if he’d get out of her way, if he were as jaded—as uninterested—as most other judges. She’d like him even more if he’d retire.

She doesn’t seem to mind being in his courtroom today, though. She’s here with her newest sidekick, Clarence Wexler, a nervous young fellow who’s been out of law school all of five months. Clarence is busy sorting out documents, arranging them in neat piles on the table for Geraldine’s convenience. She ignores him, her nose buried in a police report.

The Kydd and I both used to work for Geraldine. We were ADAs back when she was the First Assistant. I prosecuted cases for more than a decade, until I resigned a little over a year ago. The Kydd worked for her for about eighteen months, until Harry and I stole him last December. Geraldine is still furious with both of us about that. Then again, Geraldine is usually annoyed with me over one thing or another. And she’s eternally mad at Harry.

When it comes to the Kydd, though, I can’t really blame her. Even now, when he’s on my to-strangle list, I have to admit he’s a hot commodity. He’s a quick study, a competent litigator, and a damned hard worker. Geraldine hasn’t had much luck with ADAs since we snagged him. I don’t see a boatload of promise in Clarence Wexler either.

Harry bursts through the double doors just as the bailiff tells us to rise. He hurries down the center aisle and drops his battered schoolbag on the last seat against the bar, two down from me, on the other side of the Kydd. He leans forward and winks, buttoning his suit jacket. “Showtime,” he stage-whispers.

Judge Long takes the bench and tells us to sit. There are only about a dozen people scattered around the room: the two prosecutors at their table, a half dozen defense lawyers in the chairs at the bar, a few curiosity seekers in the gallery, and Steven Collier, the money guy, in the front row. Louisa would have been allowed a single phone call when she got to lockup. Apparently she called her financial advisor. It occurs to me that the Kydd might not be the only sailor in this port.

Judge Long turns his radiant smile on each of us in turn, white teeth in dazzling contrast with his ebony skin. He reserves his final beam for Geraldine. She frowns at him.

Wanda Morgan is the courtroom clerk. She recites a docket number and then calls out Commonwealth versus DeMateo. One of the lawyers seated near us moves to the defense table and sets his briefcase on it. He’s Bert Saunders, an overweight, perpetually tired-looking man who’s been around the courthouse for as long as I can remember. “Saunders for the defense,” he announces as he takes his place in front of the bench. “Your Honor, we have a problem with this one.”

Judge Long chuckles and scans the paperwork the clerk has handed him. “I’m sure we do, Mr. Saunders. We have a problem with most of them, don’t we?”

Harry leans forward and whispers to the Kydd and me, “What are you two doing here?”