Morgan approached him, the young man glanced around furtively; the ferry was nothing but a glorified launch and there was no place to hide.
“Where were you when I came over around noon?” Morgan asked him, closing in as the young man edged against the rail.
“Right here, sir.”
“No,” said Morgan.
“You weren’t looking for me. I stayed in the wheelhouse.”
“And why would that be?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Morgan gazed into the young man’s eyes. What he saw there was familiar, not the sullen defiance of an ex-con, or the horror of an illegal dreading exposure, and it was not the fear of a man guilty of crime. It was the suppressed panic of someone cowed by the power of a gun in the hands of authority. Morgan was used to this, the fear of police. Here was a young man at the service of people who could bring down governments, who could buy and sell entire nations, and he was comfortable in their aura of privilege and power because he knew his place in their scheme of things. But a cop, one of his own, terrified him.
“You know Mr. and Mrs. D’Arcy?” Morgan asked. The young man nodded affirmative. “The day before yesterday, did you bring them over?”
“I worked the evening shift. I brought Mr. D’Arcy over, not her. She didn’t come.”
“Well, she did. She was murdered over there.” Morgan nodded in the direction of the yacht club.
“Not on this boat, sir. I would have seen her. Sailors know each other.”
“You’re a sailor?”
“I aspire to be a sailor, sir. I read Yachting magazines my passengers leave behind. I have made a study of sailing, although I have not actually sailed, yet.”
“And what about Rove McMan, do you know him?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“Did he come over yesterday.”
“Yes sir, the run after yours.”
“No, I mean the evening before?”
“Sunday. No sir. He was already there. I think he’d been out on the lake for a couple of days. I took him back Sunday morning.”
“You worked a double shift? And how do you know McMan?”
“It’s a seasonal job, I often work double. Everyone knows Rove McMan.”
The locker room attendant was someone the young man admired, Morgan could tell by the way he spoke his name. Working the ferry was the closest he could come to emulating the lifestyle of an itinerant world-class sailor. Morgan felt sorry for him.
He gave the young man his card. It was an old card with writing on the back. It was only his number at home.
“If there’s anything you can think of, give me a call,” he said.
The young man brightened. He was an ally, a police accomplice.
“Oh, I will for sure. If I see or think of anything unusual.”
“Thank you,” said Morgan, wondering what the young man might think was unusual.
Back at headquarters, Morgan ran a search on Rove McMan. The locker-room attendant and world sailor had anticipated any question of criminal involvement by declaring his arrival at the club subsequent to Morgan himself. The ferryman would seem to have cleared him, as well. Still, anyone who had sailed in a small boat for weeks on end with a couple he claimed hardly to know must have been concealing a great deal of himself, or about them.
McMan checked out. RTYC, dinghy races as a kid, with distinction. Upper Canada College. Father bankrupt, a Rosedale suicide, mother remarried. One sibling, a sister, resident until death at 999 Queen Street, the public asylum; no further record. Oxford, full scholarship. No tax or employment records. Never married. Round the world twice, once non-stop single-handed in a borrowed boat. Wrote a book, Random Wake. Good title, poor sales.
All this from public archives, newspapers, and the Internet. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. No car, a rented apartment.
He is a man living his own life to the fullest, which is more, than most of us so, Morgan thought. Of course many of us live a number of lives simultaneously. Rufalo walked by his desk several times and Morgan ignored him, but late in the afternoon he looked up and saw Rufalo watching from his office. In that moment it occurred to Morgan that there was the link. He wanted to rush in, but instead sauntered into the superintendent’s office without knocking. Rufalo looked wary.
“Any word on D’Arcy?” Rufalo asked.
“Nothing. The guy walked off the face of the earth.”
“I’m getting calls. Polite inquiries, so far. I’ve been vague, and there’s not a news editor in the city willing to risk the wrath of Harrington D’Arcy by speculating murder, suicide, misadventure, or sudden poor health without the word from us. Once they find he’s missing, though, they’re going to go wild.”
“Why bother,” said Morgan. “He’s not a celebrity.”
“No, but he’s exceptionally powerful. Your corporate lawyer could be turned into bloody good copy. If he killed her, Morgan, it will be news, I guarantee it. Missing, that makes him fair game, I’m afraid.”
“But I don’t think he did it.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
Rufalo shrugged noncommittally.
“What I wanted to ask, did you ever talk to D’Arcy about Miranda?”
“Good God, no. About Miranda. No, not at all. I don’t know D’Arcy, not like that.”
“What about his wife?”
“What about her?”
“Did you talk to her about Miranda going to Easter Island?”
“No, of course not. I’ve only spoken to the woman a few times in my life.”
“But Caroline knows them both, and she knew about Miranda’s sabbatical project.”
“Yes, I suppose she did, but no, Morgan, I —”
“And she might have mentioned it?”
“To D’Arcy, I don’t think so. Perhaps to his wife, it’s possible. There was nothing confidential about it. In fact, yes, of course, that book I passed on for Miranda. It would have been from D’Arcy’s wife. It’s quite possible Caroline told her. She must have, I suppose.”
“Alex, I’m not accusing you. I just need to know.”
“Why? What’s the connection?”
“I’m not sure, but there
