Chapter 15 · Ambush in the Bilge

The flashlight caught me square between the eyes before I even heard the hatch swing.

Not harbor patrol. Patrol moves sloppy. This beam didn't tremble at all.

"Miss Shore." Dale Ketch's voice slid down the ladder ahead of him. "Set the gauge down. Two fingers. Nice and easy."

Three sets of boots hit the steel rungs. The guy at the top kicked the iron door shut, and the heavy thud rattled down the engine casing like lead shot in a bucket.

I didn't drop the tool.

Ketch was lead inspector for Beacon Harbor. First name on June's payroll, even if he still carried the city seal on his jacket. He took the last three steps in a drop, hitting the black, oily bilge water ankle-deep. It didn't bother him. The water was thirty-eight degrees and smelled like rotting diesel, eating straight through my neoprene waders.

"Little late for a hull check," he said.

"Tide chart doesn't run on your clock." My thumb stayed clamped on the calibration toggle. Nine years of clean readings locked inside that cracked yellow casing. My whole license. "Private survey. The owner gets the log."

"The owner's got a condemned pig in Berth Nine.