no!" Dag Rasmussen answered. "Most didn't stay with him long. They got fed up and moved on. And the last few years most of 'em didn't speak English, leastwise not good enough so as you could understand 'em."
"They're immigrants, then?"
"Yeah, foreigners of some kind."
"Where from?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Mexico maybe. Or maybe farther south. Speak Spanish mostly, and don't know nothin'."
Dag's words meandered off, spinning long, drawn-out, and dreary tales about the good old days when most members of the fleet had been born in Norway. Meanwhile, I wandered off on a separate tack of my own. Bonnie Elgin's missing hit-and-run victim. She had told us earlier that the injured man hadn't wanted to wait around long enough for either an ambulance or a police officer to arrive on the scene. She had also told us he was Hispanic. Was it possible he would turn out to be one of Gunter's nonunion fishermen? If so, that would be an unqualified Bingo.
I caught Sue's eye. She gave me a knowing nod that let me know I wasn't the only one making that potentially important connection. On our list of persons of interest, Bonnie Elgin's missing accident victim had just shot up to the very top. He was someone we would want to locate as soon as possible.
I jotted down a couple quick notes. One was to make arrangements to have someone pick up that bloody box spring and haul it down to the crime lab for analysis. The other was to try to lay hands on whatever initial reports Bonnie Elgin's accident might have generated.
It was possible the patrol officers who had responded to her frantic 9-1-1 call might have elicited some critical piece of information that she had inadvertently neglected to tell us. Years of doing this job have taught me that often the most mundane details--ones it's easy to overlook--turn out to be vitally important.
Well after five in the afternoon, Sue and I headed back down the dock, leaving Dag Rasmussen to return to his greasy engine overhaul. As we neared the Mustang, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the glassine bag, and examined the black-enameled wrench inside it.
"I guess we'd better get this down to the crime lab right away. And we'll need to make arrangements about getting that box spring picked up."
"Good thinking," Sue said.
I glanced up the darkening dock. Twice in the course of the afternoon, we had dropped byOne Day at a Time in response to Watty's urgent lunchtime message to see Alan Torvoldsen. No one had been aboard Alan's boat either time. Now there was a light on inside, meaning he was most likely home. "How about paying a late-afternoon call on Alan Torvoldsen?"
Sue glanced at her watch. "Today's my turn to drive the car pool, and soccer practice gets over at six. If I don't leave before long, the kids will be left waiting in the park after everyone else goes home."
Such are the joys of single parenthood.
"That's okay," I said. "You go on and do what you have to do. I can handle the Torvoldsen interview."
"But you rode with me," Sue objected. "How will you get home?"
I laughed aside her concern. "I'm a big boy, Sue. And Al's an acquaintance of long standing. When we finish up with whatever he has in mind, I'm sure he'll drop me off at Belltown Terrace."
She thought about that for a second. "All right then," she agreed reluctantly. "Give me the wrench. I'll handle both that and the box-spring problem when I drop the Mustang down at the department. It seems like cheating, though. I don't like bailing out while you're still working. I like to carry my weight."
I handed her the bag containing the wrench. "Don't feel guilty. Believe me, Alan Torvoldsen and I won't be working all that hard. My guess is that he wants to shoot the breeze and talk over old times. We'll most likely sit around and reminisce about our glory days as Ballard High School Beavers. It would bore you to tears."
"You're just afraid I'll pick up a few too many stories about BoBo Beaumont and carry them back down to the
"They're immigrants, then?"
"Yeah, foreigners of some kind."
"Where from?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Mexico maybe. Or maybe farther south. Speak Spanish mostly, and don't know nothin'."
Dag's words meandered off, spinning long, drawn-out, and dreary tales about the good old days when most members of the fleet had been born in Norway. Meanwhile, I wandered off on a separate tack of my own. Bonnie Elgin's missing hit-and-run victim. She had told us earlier that the injured man hadn't wanted to wait around long enough for either an ambulance or a police officer to arrive on the scene. She had also told us he was Hispanic. Was it possible he would turn out to be one of Gunter's nonunion fishermen? If so, that would be an unqualified Bingo.
I caught Sue's eye. She gave me a knowing nod that let me know I wasn't the only one making that potentially important connection. On our list of persons of interest, Bonnie Elgin's missing accident victim had just shot up to the very top. He was someone we would want to locate as soon as possible.
I jotted down a couple quick notes. One was to make arrangements to have someone pick up that bloody box spring and haul it down to the crime lab for analysis. The other was to try to lay hands on whatever initial reports Bonnie Elgin's accident might have generated.
It was possible the patrol officers who had responded to her frantic 9-1-1 call might have elicited some critical piece of information that she had inadvertently neglected to tell us. Years of doing this job have taught me that often the most mundane details--ones it's easy to overlook--turn out to be vitally important.
Well after five in the afternoon, Sue and I headed back down the dock, leaving Dag Rasmussen to return to his greasy engine overhaul. As we neared the Mustang, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the glassine bag, and examined the black-enameled wrench inside it.
"I guess we'd better get this down to the crime lab right away. And we'll need to make arrangements about getting that box spring picked up."
"Good thinking," Sue said.
I glanced up the darkening dock. Twice in the course of the afternoon, we had dropped byOne Day at a Time in response to Watty's urgent lunchtime message to see Alan Torvoldsen. No one had been aboard Alan's boat either time. Now there was a light on inside, meaning he was most likely home. "How about paying a late-afternoon call on Alan Torvoldsen?"
Sue glanced at her watch. "Today's my turn to drive the car pool, and soccer practice gets over at six. If I don't leave before long, the kids will be left waiting in the park after everyone else goes home."
Such are the joys of single parenthood.
"That's okay," I said. "You go on and do what you have to do. I can handle the Torvoldsen interview."
"But you rode with me," Sue objected. "How will you get home?"
I laughed aside her concern. "I'm a big boy, Sue. And Al's an acquaintance of long standing. When we finish up with whatever he has in mind, I'm sure he'll drop me off at Belltown Terrace."
She thought about that for a second. "All right then," she agreed reluctantly. "Give me the wrench. I'll handle both that and the box-spring problem when I drop the Mustang down at the department. It seems like cheating, though. I don't like bailing out while you're still working. I like to carry my weight."
I handed her the bag containing the wrench. "Don't feel guilty. Believe me, Alan Torvoldsen and I won't be working all that hard. My guess is that he wants to shoot the breeze and talk over old times. We'll most likely sit around and reminisce about our glory days as Ballard High School Beavers. It would bore you to tears."
"You're just afraid I'll pick up a few too many stories about BoBo Beaumont and carry them back down to the
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