“Maybe he wasn’t hired.”

“Maybe. But now good old reality comes along in a non-scripted scene in real life where that older man walks in here with a 160-year-old Civil War puzzle, and he’s asked you to solve it for him. That’s the kind of thing that gives me goose bumps.”

O’Brien slid the photo back in the folder, closed it and smiled. “You have an active imagination.”

“Sometimes, but when I first saw the old man guarding that folder on the table waiting for you, I felt it was harmless. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“It’s only an old photo. Come on, Max. Let’s head down the dock to Jupiter. We have some work to do.” O’Brien stood. He looked at Kim. “Don’t worry. I haven’t even taken the job. Finding a 160-year-old painting would be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack of time. The question is where is the painting today? It might not still exist.”

“But like the old man said, Sean, you have a way of finding things…or they have a way of finding you. Maybe it’s because you have the courage to look under the rocks.”

“I’ve got to fix a bilge pump on Jupiter. See you later.”

Kim watched O’Brien step out the restaurant door facing the marina. She looked through the open window as he walked down the long dock, the sound of laughing gulls in the warm breeze, a flock of the white pelicans sailing over the moored boats.

She glanced down at her tanned upper arms, the warm breeze doing nothing to make her goose bumps go away.

Nick Cronus stuck his head out of the open window of the wheelhouse and shouted to O’Brien, “Sean, great timing — grab the stern line, and tie it to the white cleat.” Nick reversed the engines of his forty-foot fishing boat and backed into the slip as easily as a New York cabbie parallel parking. He stepped down from the wheelhouse and tossed O’Brien a rope. Max paced the dock, eyes bright, barking twice while Nick quickly climbed back in the captain’s chair and worked the bow-thrusters, inching the boat closer to the dock.

O’Brien tied the stern line and walked to the bow, Nick adjusting the engine on St. Michael, working against the rising tide and wind out of the east. O’Brien grabbed the rope on the bow, rapidly tying it to a cleat. Nick shot his brown arm out the window, killing the engine, giving O’Brien the thumbs-up sign. Max cocked her head, watching Nick climb down from the wheelhouse. “Hot Dog,” he said, scooping Max off the dock with one large hand. “I caught a lot of fish out there. Gonna cook some after I sell some. Sound good? Hell yeah it sounds good ‘cause Uncle Nicky is hungry.”

O’Brien smiled. “Between you and Kim, Max will forever turn her nose up at dog food.”

“That’s because ‘lil Max is the queen of the marina, and she knows it.” Nick laughed and set Max down in St. Michael’s cockpit. The fishing boat had the seafaring look and lineage of Greek boats that sailed and fished the Mediterranean Sea for centuries.

Nick reached inside a large cooler and pulled out two cans of beer. He popped the top on one, taking a long pull, his eyes watering. He used the back of his hand to wipe the beer foam from his bushy moustache, handing the second beer to O’Brien. “Cheers, Sean. I’ve been at sea five days. Didn’t catch nothing the first three days. I say a little prayer and bam! I’m toasting to a damn good catch. Amen, brother.” He touched the gold cross hanging from his neck and knocked back a second long swallow from the can, shaved ice running down the side and splattering on the top of his brown feet.

Born on the Greek island of Mykonos forty-four years ago, Nick Cronus’s accent was still as thick as his mop of curly black hair. He had the shoulders of a pro linebacker, ham-sized forearms, and black eyes that smiled from an olive-skinned face tanned the color of light tea. He had a generous and yet fearless heart. Three years earlier, O’Brien pulled two bikers off Nick, saving his life in a brutal bar fight taken into a parking lot. And since that day, Nick said he and O’Brien were “brothers for life.”

O’Brien nodded. “Good to hear you did well out there. What’d you catch?”

“Got about a hundred pounds of red snapper. Maybe another seventy-five in grouper. A half dozen mackerel. I’ll sell ‘em to Johnson Seafood this afternoon. Old man Johnson prefers to pay me in cash. I don’t have a problem with that.” Nick grinned and finished his can of beer, crushing it with one hand. He gestured with his head toward the dock. “Look who’s here looking for a handout. My buddy, Ol Joe.”

Max growled when a large black and orange cat sauntered down the dock and sat less than ten feet behind St. Michael. Nick said, “Maxie, you may be queen of the marina, but Ol’ Joe is king of the docks. That cat is the Scarface of the harbor.” Nick reached in a fish cooler, searched through ice, pulling out a small yellowtail snapper. He slid the filet knife from the leather sheath on his belt, cut the head off the fish, and tossed it to the cat. Ol’ Joe clamped down on the fish head with one bite, held it in his mouth, and strolled back down the dock, a sea gull squawking from one of the pilings.

“Sean, are you expecting a package?” Dave Collins shouted, standing in the center of his cockpit across the dock and one boat away from St. Michael. He held up a brown box.

“It might be my bilge pump,” O’Brien said, walking toward Dave’s boat, Gibraltar, a 45-foot trawler. Nick set Max back on the dock, and she followed O’Brien, pausing a moment to look in the direction she’d last seen Ol’ Joe disappear.

Nick tossed the fish in the cooler and also followed O’Brien over to Gibraltar. Dave said, “Shipping label indicates it came from Pacific Marine. UPS guy left it with me since you weren’t on Jupiter. I signed for it. Let me know if you need any help installing the pump. Not that you’re challenged in that area.” Dave grinned. “How’d you do, Nick?”

“Real good. Caught enough to pay dockage fees, fuel, beer, food — a few bucks to entertain the ladies. What else is there in life, huh?”

Dave nodded, pushing his glasses on top of his thick white hair. He had a matching beard, wide chest, and inquisitive, sea-blue eyes. For a man in his mid-sixties, he kept in shape, jogging daily on the beach, spending time at the gym. He had a passion for craft beers and scotch. He’d spent most of his career in the Middle East, Germany and England before returning to Washington and a desk job at Langley. After retiring, he moved to Florida with his wife of twenty-eight years, divorcing within eight months. The only times O’Brien ever saw Dave sad was when, after a few martinis, past reflection brought out bits and pieces of the story.

O’Brien moved the file folder under one arm and lifted the package. Dave said, “When did you start carrying your newspaper in a file folder?”

“Since an elderly man asked me to search for a ghost.”

“Ghostbusters,” Nick said, smiling.

Dave nodded. “I have to hear this. Nothing like a good ghost story. Come aboard, gentlemen. I’ve had a pot of chili simmering since the pelican crowed this morning. It ought to be ripe about now.”

They boarded Gibraltar, Max following at the rear, her nose going into overdrive as soon as she trotted inside the salon. A crockpot sat on the bar in the salon. Dave went into the galley and came back with three bowls and a small saucer. He lifted the glass top off the crockpot, steam rising, the salon filling with the smell of rich chili. Max stood on her hind legs and glanced at Nick.

“We gottcha covered, hot dog,” Nick said.

Dave ladled chili into the bowls and cut up some turkey meat for Max. He reached inside a small refrigerator under the bar and brought out three cans of craft beer, The Poet, from a Michigan craft brewery. “Let’s eat,” he said, taking a seat on the leather couch. “Ghost stories are told, or received, better at night, but I’m sure we’ll get the effect, Sean.”