The smell of the fresh sea breeze invigorated Mulrooney as he walked along the dock to the boat slip where the forty-two foot Hattaras was moored. Drops of water on the decking reflected the morning sun, indicating the boat had been recently rinsed clean. Seeing no one aboard, Mulrooney yelled, “Knock, knock.” His hand automatically accompanied his voice with a knock-knock against the warm air. He looked around self-consciously. “Ahoy there!” he called, feeling as foolish as a turd hat in his vain attempt to use the lingo of the boat crowd.
“Ahoy there,” a voice answered as Mr. Armstrong, dressed in a white jumpsuit with wide pant legs, appeared from the main salon.
“Detective Mulrooney, L.B.P.D.,” Mulrooney said, flashing his shield and taking in Armstrong"s lounge lizard get-up.
“Oh,
