could see the man was standing in a funny-looking boat—wide wooden thing with poles and nets. Beside it was tied a sleek fiberglass boat, turquoise green, with a big black engine. Fast, probably cost a lot. She wondered what it would be like to try skiing.
"Are you Marion Ford?"
"That's right."
Walker introduced herself. The man made no effort to shake hands, but he did take her ID wallet. He studied it, his eyes swinging from the laminated photograph to her face. "Florida Department of Criminal Law," he said. "You've had your hair cut shorter."
She gave him her professional, congenial smile. Had to be friendly with them if you wanted them to talk. "Florida is a lot hotter than I thought it would be."
"Not like New York, huh?"
"Well, it can be hot there, too." She stopped talking, her expression puzzled.
The man said, "Your accent."
She replaced the smile. "I keep forgetting—I'm the one who talks funny down here."
The man held the ID wallet for her to take, then turned his attention to the boat, messing with ropes and nets, not looking at her.
"I was wondering if you might have time to answer a few questions."
Instead of saying, "About what?"—that was almost always the first thing they asked—he said, "I'm just getting ready to go out. I have to catch the low tide."
"It wouldn't take long. We're trying to get some background information on a relative of yours. Strictly routine. A man named Tucker Gatrell."
Instead of asking, "Is he in some kind of trouble?"—they almost always asked that if the questions were about a friend or a relative—the man in the boat said, "Then why don't you talk with Tucker Gatrell?"
"I've already spoken with him."
"He suggested you talk with me?"
"No. But for our background files—"
"The tide's waiting, Ms. Walker. I've got to start the engine and get going."
She tried a different approach. "Mr. Ford, I've driven all the way from St. Petersburg. I haven't been with the FDCL long, and they've given me this assignment, more than thirty people to interview, and if you could just give me a few minutes ..." Playing on his sympathy, something she hated to do.
The man stooped, pressed a button, and the boat's engine clattered— Pop-apop-POP-POP-POP. She had to talk over the noise. "Maybe I could go out in the boat with you?"
For the first time, he smiled a little. "You'd get your clothes wet. Shoes all messy. I'll be dragging the nets." He had an irritating confidence, sure she would refuse.
"That's all?" Agent Walker swung down onto the boat, not giving him a chance to reply. "It'll be a good place for us to talk, out on the water."
Ford was thinking, Exactly what I deserve, giving her an opening like that. She set me up. He was standing at the wooden ship's wheel, one of the old ones made of fitted mahogany, steering across the shallows of Dinkin's Bay. The woman stood beside him, looking out the windshield, small black purse on the control console between the compass and the throttle lever, not saying much. Long-bodied woman, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, had the practiced professional aloofness that more and more females were affecting when dealing with men—so determined to deflect any male assumptions about their competence that they also voided any chance of personal interaction, upon which acceptance and judgments of equality were based. Wore perfume. Nails glossed, but not long, and she had the gaunt facial bone structure and coloring Ford associated with people of the western Sahara.
First the sandstorm, now her.
"Is this what you do for a living, net fish?" In the little wheel-house, Walker didn't have to talk as loudly to make herself heard over the engine.
"That isn't on the printout they gave you? My occupation?"
"It said 'Sanibel Biological Supply.' That's all. Well, that you're a marine biologist."
Ford said, "Uh-huh," steering the boat past the fish-house ruins off Green Point, then back into the main channel, past Jack Thomas's house and
"Are you Marion Ford?"
"That's right."
Walker introduced herself. The man made no effort to shake hands, but he did take her ID wallet. He studied it, his eyes swinging from the laminated photograph to her face. "Florida Department of Criminal Law," he said. "You've had your hair cut shorter."
She gave him her professional, congenial smile. Had to be friendly with them if you wanted them to talk. "Florida is a lot hotter than I thought it would be."
"Not like New York, huh?"
"Well, it can be hot there, too." She stopped talking, her expression puzzled.
The man said, "Your accent."
She replaced the smile. "I keep forgetting—I'm the one who talks funny down here."
The man held the ID wallet for her to take, then turned his attention to the boat, messing with ropes and nets, not looking at her.
"I was wondering if you might have time to answer a few questions."
Instead of saying, "About what?"—that was almost always the first thing they asked—he said, "I'm just getting ready to go out. I have to catch the low tide."
"It wouldn't take long. We're trying to get some background information on a relative of yours. Strictly routine. A man named Tucker Gatrell."
Instead of asking, "Is he in some kind of trouble?"—they almost always asked that if the questions were about a friend or a relative—the man in the boat said, "Then why don't you talk with Tucker Gatrell?"
"I've already spoken with him."
"He suggested you talk with me?"
"No. But for our background files—"
"The tide's waiting, Ms. Walker. I've got to start the engine and get going."
She tried a different approach. "Mr. Ford, I've driven all the way from St. Petersburg. I haven't been with the FDCL long, and they've given me this assignment, more than thirty people to interview, and if you could just give me a few minutes ..." Playing on his sympathy, something she hated to do.
The man stooped, pressed a button, and the boat's engine clattered— Pop-apop-POP-POP-POP. She had to talk over the noise. "Maybe I could go out in the boat with you?"
For the first time, he smiled a little. "You'd get your clothes wet. Shoes all messy. I'll be dragging the nets." He had an irritating confidence, sure she would refuse.
"That's all?" Agent Walker swung down onto the boat, not giving him a chance to reply. "It'll be a good place for us to talk, out on the water."
Ford was thinking, Exactly what I deserve, giving her an opening like that. She set me up. He was standing at the wooden ship's wheel, one of the old ones made of fitted mahogany, steering across the shallows of Dinkin's Bay. The woman stood beside him, looking out the windshield, small black purse on the control console between the compass and the throttle lever, not saying much. Long-bodied woman, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, had the practiced professional aloofness that more and more females were affecting when dealing with men—so determined to deflect any male assumptions about their competence that they also voided any chance of personal interaction, upon which acceptance and judgments of equality were based. Wore perfume. Nails glossed, but not long, and she had the gaunt facial bone structure and coloring Ford associated with people of the western Sahara.
First the sandstorm, now her.
"Is this what you do for a living, net fish?" In the little wheel-house, Walker didn't have to talk as loudly to make herself heard over the engine.
"That isn't on the printout they gave you? My occupation?"
"It said 'Sanibel Biological Supply.' That's all. Well, that you're a marine biologist."
Ford said, "Uh-huh," steering the boat past the fish-house ruins off Green Point, then back into the main channel, past Jack Thomas's house and
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