The Bone House - Brian Freeman [112]
'I know, but the boat's right there, please. You only have a couple cars, there's plenty of room. Please.''
Larch let out an exaggerated sigh through his rounded cheeks. He waved at the bridge, making a downward swing with his arm. Tresa breathed with relief as the ramp descended again, opening up a path for her car. Larch took her money and pointed at a gap on the port side of the deck for her to park.
'Next time, Tresa, you're out of luck,' he told her. 'Remember that.'
'You're the best, Mr Larch, thank you!'
Tresa drove on to the ferry with a loud metal clang. She got out of the car and tottered on the balls of her feet on the open boat deck. She hugged herself in the cold, feeling scared, sick, and alone. Her stomach lurched. The boat rolled and then slapped with a downward dip into the waves as it churned beyond the breakwater into Death's Door. When she checked her cell phone, she saw that she had already lost signal out on the water. She couldn't even call Mark to warn him. Instead, she had to hope that she was well ahead of Troy crossing the passage.
Tresa felt a splash of water on her cheeks. She looked up and saw rain descending in silver threads out of the dark sky.
The storm that had been threatening all day had finally begun. It would only get worse.
* * *
Chapter Forty
The ferry was well into the channel as Cab arrived at the Northport pier. He watched the boat disappearing into the milky haze. He sat in his car in the deserted port, with the Corvette's engine idling like a caged cat, and pulled out the section of Door County map from his pocket. It told him nothing. The page showed a vacant stretch of northern land, populated by a handful of dead-end roads with colorful names. Lost Lane. Juice Mill Lane. Wilderness Lane. Timberline Road. There was nothing written on it to give him a clue about what this section of the county had meant to Peter Hoffman.
Cab caught a glimpse of movement in his side-view mirror. A fat man with his stomach bulging out of a Packers sweatshirt tapped on the door of the Corvette. Cab lowered the window, letting in the drizzle. The man carried a clipboard and wore an employee name tag with a Washington Island ferry logo. The badge read Robert Larch.
'Nice car,' the man told him. Water dripped from the brim of his baseball cap.
'Thanks.'
'You need some help here?' he asked.
Cab shook his head. 'No, I came by in case the ferry was late, but I missed it.'
'Yeah, the next one is at eight o'clock tomorrow.'
'Thanks.'
It didn't really bother Cab that he'd missed the boat. He'd only wanted to see Mark Bradley that night to study the man's face when he showed him the key he'd taken from Peter Hoffman's pocket. To see if there was any reaction or recognition there that Bradley couldn't hide.
Someone in Door County knew what that key was and what it meant.
'You're that cop from Florida, right?' Larch said.
'That's right.'
'Yeah, I already talked to the sheriff. Mark Bradley was here a couple hours ago. He borrowed my phone.'
'So I hear. You want to get out of the rain for a minute, Mr Larch? I have a couple questions for you.'
'I'll get the seat wet.'
'It's a rental.'
'Well, sure.'
Larch walked around to the other side of the Corvette and climbed inside. He brought a damp, mildewed smell with him like a wet dog. He ran his hand admiringly over the dash and the buttery leather of the seats. 'What does one of these things cost?'
'A lot.'
'I'll bet.'
'So Mark Bradley used your phone this afternoon?' Cab asked. 'Yeah, sounds like I'll have to give it to the cops. Evidence, huh? Just like CSI. Guess they'll buy me a new one. That's pretty sweet.'
'Bradley left the ferry line and then came back?'
'Yup. After he used my phone, he sped off like he was in a big hurry.'
'How long was he gone?'
Larch scratched his chin. 'Ten minutes maybe? Could have been shorter, could have been longer. But hey, Pete lived just down the road.' 'So you heard about Peter Hoffman's murder.'
'Oh, sure. Word travels fast around here.'
'Did you know