The Graving Dock by Gabriel Cohen Read Free Book Online Page B

powerful opiate-based anesthetic. That means the kid probably didn’t suffer much. With some other poisons, like strychnine or antimony, you get a violent, agonizing death, but a fentanyl overdose puts you under pretty fast.”
    Pacelli looked impressed. “You really know your stuff.”
    Jack waved away the compliment. “What can I say? You’re out here saving live people, while I’m just checking out a bunch of stiffs.”
    There were another couple of reasons why he was thankful about the case. The M.E. had reported no signs of physical or sexual abuse. And the tabloids were still so dominated by every detail of the Trade Center attack that the story of the waterborne coffin had received surprisingly little play.
    “Any idea who the victim is?”
    Jack shook his head. “I haven’t found him in any Missing Persons reports. And we’ve checked with every school in the city.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t think a kid could just disappear and nobody would give a damn. Pretty soon we’ll have to set up a hotline and put a photo in the papers, but I’m not looking forward to that; we’ll get calls from every nut job in the Tristate area.”
    “You’re working with a guy from the Seven-six on this?”
    Jack nodded. “He’s organizing a team of uniforms to canvass along the waterfront, to ask if anybody saw that box go in the water. That’s why I want your help. Obviously, we can’t cover every mile of the shoreline—we need some idea where to focus.”
    He heard a clanking and looked across the bow; the launch was nearing a buoy, a scaffolded metal tower bobbing in the water like a punch-drunk boxer. Pacelli steered to the right, following the rules of this watery road. He brought the launch around the southern end of Red Hook and into narrow Buttermilk Channel, which separated Brooklyn from a low, flat island covered with redbrick barracks. Some old Coast Guard base. It was just a quarter-mile from the Brooklyn shore, but so quiet and removed from the hubbub of New York life that nobody paid it any mind.
    Jack stared at it, thunderstruck. How could he have missed something so obvious?
    The name of the place was Governors Island. G.I.
    “What’s the matter?” Pacelli said.
    Jack filled him in.
    Pacelli shook his head. “Sorry, but I doubt that’s your answer. The island has been pretty much closed down since the Coast Guard gave up their base there in the mid-nineties. The public’s not allowed at all. There are still a few security guards and a little fire-house, to keep an eye on things, but there’s only one ferry for transportation; it goes to and from Manhattan just a couple of times a day. There’d be no reason for it to carry a kid, and definitely not a coffin. You can talk to whoever’s in charge over there these days, but it’s basically off-limits.”
    Jack frowned. It didn’t sound promising, but he made a mental note to ask Tommy Balfa to contact whoever was running the island’s security.
    Pacelli veered to the left, around a blackened chunk of wood.
    “You get a lot of stuff floating around out here?”
    Pacelli nodded. “The most common thing is wood from old piers, but we get just about everything you could imagine: plastic bags, crack vials, Styrofoam coolers, Coney Island whitefish…”
    Jack smiled at this childhood slang for floating condoms.
    As Pacelli neared the Red Hook pier where the coffin had first been spotted, he cut the engine. The boat swung like a hammock at the mercy of the water, and the cabin began to strike Jack as very small and airless.
    “You okay?”
    Jack swallowed uneasily.
    Pacelli grinned. “Waves getting to ya, huh? Here’s what you do: Just think of cold pork chops smothered in maple syrup. Or fried eggs floating in oil…”
    Jack grimaced and his old friend laughed. “Sorry. Tell you what: Why don’t we just cruise along?”
    Jack gripped a handrail and nodded.
    Pacelli restarted the engine and turned north again. They motored through the channel