The Poacher's Son (Mike Bowditch 1)

my next move.
     
    Maine used to be famous for its cool summers. Now it seemed that every August came with an actual heat wave. Hello, global warming.
    This day was another scorcher, ninety degrees in the shade, which meant no fish biting on the lakes, which meant fewer fishermen to check but lots more recreational boaters. I drove around to the various public landings with the air-conditioning at full power and the police radio turned loud, listening for anything that might indicate a break in my dad’s case. And I did my best not to dwell on Sarah’s expression as she drove off this morning.
    Then, in the afternoon, I stopped at the municipal boat launch at Indian Pond and there was Anthony DeSalle’s black Suburban in the parking lot.
    Through my binoculars I saw his big powerboat floating on the water. I should’ve known I might run into him again. He’d said he was renting a house on Indian Pond, and it was only logical to conclude that he intended to make use of his boat again while he was on vacation. Sooner or later we were bound to cross paths.
    Maybe he figured he’d scared me off by filing a complaint. Maybe he figured I would leave him alone now.
    Fat chance.
    I nosed my truck into a parking space facing the water, rolled down the window, and waited. The smell of the lake drifted in, a languorous odor of algae blooms and gasoline from outboard motors.
    When I finally saw DeSalle’s boat headed in, I felt a surge of adrenaline. I climbed out of the truck and walked to the end of the ramp.
    DeSalle was at the helm, and his son was with him. There was another man in the boat this time, dark haired and deeply tanned. He had a thick chest, big arms, and spindly little legs, all shiny with suntan oil, and he wore a red bathing suit and a gold chain around his neck. The little boy, I noticed, wasn’t wearing a personal flotation device.
    “Maine game warden. I need to inspect your boat, please.”
    “I don’t believe this bullshit,” said DeSalle.
    The other man hopped over the gunwale into knee-deep water and splashed ahead of the boat, guiding it with his hand into the shallows. He came right toward me, but I held my ground at the base of the ramp.
    “What’s your problem?” he said. His eyes were so brown they were almost black, and his breath smelled of gin.
    “I need to inspect your boat, please.”
    “We saw you watching us,” said DeSalle. “You’ve been waiting here for us to come in.”
    “Just doing my job, Mr. DeSalle.”
    “The hell you are.”
    DeSalle pointed his finger at me. “This is fucking harrassment.”
    “If you have a problem with me, Mr. DeSalle, you can make another complaint.”
    “Screw you,” said the other man.
    “What’s your name? I want to see some I.D.”
    He threw back his head and laughed. “You want to see some I.D.? Here it is.” He grabbed the crotch of his bathing suit and squeezed.
    I took a half step forward.
    “Knock it off, Frank,” said DeSalle. He nodded his head in the direction of the parking lot.
    A car had pulled up without my hearing it, and a man and a woman were busy removing a pair of river kayaks from its roof.
    “You want to inspect my boat, Officer?” said Anthony DeSalle in a loud voice, loud enough for the couple to hear, “Go right ahead. Be my guest.”
    “I want to see your I.D. first,” I said to the man he’d called Frank.
    “Sure thing,
Officer
.”
    He reached over the gunwale to pick up a flowered shirt. His wallet was in the pocket. The name on the driver’s license was Frank Nappi, of Saugus, Massachusetts. He also had a valid fifteen-day Maine fishing license.
    DeSalle held up a piece of paper. “Here’s my registration—which you’ve already seen—unless it expired since two days ago.”
    The registration was in order, of course. There were sufficient PFDs in the boat now, and the fire extinguisher was approved and fully charged. There were three fishing rods in the stern, but no indication that they’d caught any fish or used illegal tackle.
    When I looked up, DeSalle was leaning against the dashboard with his arms crossed and a smug smile on his face. “I talked with your lieutenant. You’re in a shitload of trouble.”
    “How old is your son, Mr. DeSalle?”
    The smile left his face. “He’s ten. Why?”
    “He doesn’t need a fishing license,” said Frank Nappi.
    “You’re right, Mr. Nappi. He doesn’t. But he is required by law to wear at least a Type III personal flotation device