“Who did?”
“The guy. The guy at the door. He grabs my throat, really tight. Christ, he’s a strong one. And he smacks me on the head… Ah, fuck…”
“Can you see him, Nicky? What does he look like?”
“He’s black. Seems too thin to be that strong. And fast. Christ on a bun, he moves faster than… anything.”
“Describe the guy who hits you, Nicky.”
Nicky frowned. “Pencil…” he said.
Deacon shoved a pencil and a legal pad across the desk and without looking, Nicky grabbed them up. Eyes still closed, he began to sketch quickly.
I watched as a face began to take shape. It was lean and triangular, running from a wide forehead across slightly slanted eyes, a strong, wide nose, down to a sharp chin. High cheekbones stood out, and so did the bones around the deep-set eyes.
The face was handsome, even pretty, without being even a little bit attractive. “Guy’s about thirty-five, thirty-six,” Nicky said, eyes still closed. “About five foot ten, 165 pounds. Moves like a fucking snake. Oh,” he said, sounding surprised.
“What is it?” Deacon asked.
“The snake. He’s got a snake tattooed on his arm, left arm, just above the wrist.” Nicky frowned, shivered all over, and opened his eyes. “How’d I do?”
“How the hell would I know?” Deacon said, staring at the picture. He reached over and picked it up. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Nicky looked offended. “You’re supposed to use it,” he said.
Deacon shook his head, looked at me. “Billy?”
“I think the description is probably pretty good,” I said.
“A snake tattoo?” Deacon said. “I’m supposed to put out a BOLO for a guy with a snake tattoo because Captain Marvel here saw it in his magic trance?”
“You have something better?” I asked him.
He shook his head again. “I got nothing, buddy.”
“He’s had Anna for twelve hours,” I said.
Deacon looked at the picture again, then at Nicky, then at me. “I’ll put this out,” he said. “And then you and me are going snooping.”
He turned back to the computer and typed in the description. When he was done he punched a final button extra hard and a printer whirred behind him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll put that out as a BOLO. Now let’s us do the real work.” He crammed himself in behind the desk again and leaned on an elbow. “We’re figuring this is connected to these two murders,” he said. “Nagle and—what’s the other guy?”
“Oto,” I said. “I don’t remember his last name.”
“Don’t matter,” he said, turning back to the computer. “I’ll have it all up here in a second.” He slowly punched at the keyboard, looking more like he was sparring than typing. The printer whirred again and he pulled out a page.
“Otoniel Varela,” he read in the syllable-by-syllable way cops from the South use on Hispanic names. “Age thirty-four, occupation merchant seaman. Currently unemployed.”
r /> “Currently dead,” I said. “If we can find out the last couple of boats he worked, one of them will be the Black Freighter.”
“You think that’s where she is?”
I shrugged. It took all my energy. “It’s all I can come up with. It’s a start, anyway.”
He started whacking away at the keyboard again. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can call up the records from the Union rolls, and…” He trailed off, lost in trying to work the computer. “Bingo,” he said after a long moment of silence. “The Maria Chinea, about six months ago. Been on shore since then.”
“Before that?”
Deacon frowned. “Little bit confused here. He’s down for a couple of them at the same time, and then it shows he didn’t take either one. Then before that, about two years on the Petit Fleur.”