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The Colors of Deception

by Norman Friberg

192 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0109; ISBN 1-55395-746-6; US$19.00, C$23.00, EUR15.00, £11.00

Bob Weber is the acknowledged expert in the investigation of sailing accidents. In The Colors of Deception, he is hired by a beautiful woman to investigate the disappearance of her boyfiend only to find himself caught in a deadly chain of events.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Bob Weber is "The Sailing Detective" Welcome to his world! Bob Weber's proven expertise in the unravelling of sailing disasters makes him the investigator of choice when a young man disappears from a chartered yacht. Hired by a mysterious, alluring woman to find her missing boyfriend, Weber unearths a baffling series of clues, and finds himself drawn into a menacing, seductive and deadly chain of events. He finds he can believe in only one thing: that no one is telling the whole truth! Weber must rely on his own instincts to uncover the astonishing motive behind the web of deceit - and then to think his way out of the most dangerous situation he has ever faced! The Colors of Deception is the first in Norm Friberg's series of Bob Weber novels. Learn more about Bob Weber and his adventures at thesailingdetective.com

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About the Author Norm Friberg is a father, engineer and writer who spent many years as Bob Weber would say, "Toeing the corporate line". When not sailing in the waters of his native Long Island, Mr. Friberg has written articles for sailing magazines as well as the "Bob Weber" novels.

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Excerpts

PROLOGUE

Wind-driven rain lashed the plexiglass windows of the bridge with the ferocity of a thousand tigers. Captain Sten Sorensson stared out into the impossible fury of the storm, barely able to see the containers stacked on the deck below him, despite the illumination of a dozen high intensity floodlights that shone down from the superstructure of the tossing, shuddering freighter. Huge windshield wipers swung vainly in an effort to clear away the hammering water that threatened to punch in the glazing.

The helmsman's face, illuminated by the light from the compass and radar screen, showed raw fear. He was doing his best to keep the seas stern-on. The ship, any ship, could be capsized if it caught one of the huge, breaking mountains of water on her beam. It was small consolation that there was no land around for hundreds of miles. A lee shore would have made it a scene of utter and perfect madness.

The captain showed no fear in his weather-beaten face. His expression was one of calm concern. As incredible as it would seem to a landsman observer, men were working on the deck below. Exposed to the full fury of the storm, wearing survival suits and life vests, their safety harnesses clipped to the nylon lifelines running across the deck, the work crew was out there attempting to secure the cargo containers that had been jarred from their moorings. Sorensson knew it was risky to send men out in weather this heavy. His first duty was to their safety, but his second duty was to the safety of the ship and its cargo.

He knew what it was like to work on deck in such a storm. He had done it several times in his long career at sea. The air would be full of foam and the rain carried the force of bullets on your face. Men had been known to drown standing on their feet. The falling and lurching of the deck that he felt in the relative comfort of the bridge would be magnified many times by the wind and the slippery steel deck. But these things were inconveniences compared to the true danger, the possibility that a really big rogue wave would come sweeping across the deck carrying men, lifelines and all, into the churning white foam of the Pacific.

The other possibility he thought about was that the ship could be hung up between waves so big that her backbone would crack under her own unsupported weight. When that happened to a ship, he knew, death came in a matter of seconds.

His last radio contact had been less thatn a half-hour before, but now he told the mate to raise Honolulu again and report their postition and the sea conditions. At least, he reasoned, they could keep other ships out of this madness. If this is the storm that takes me, he said to himself, she ain't gonna get me sleeping. As if in reply to his confidence, the ship took another wild plunge down the face of a sixty foot wave.

A companionway door opened and in came the deck chief dripping wet. He was a wiry Filipino a foot shorter than the hulking captain. "We got a cable over them topside containers aft," he said. His breathing was hard, making his poor English even harder than usual to understand. The captian nodded acknowledgement and continued to stare into the storm.

"Get the men in and see if Cooky can get anything hot up for 'em to eat."

At that moment the helmsman cursed. Sorensson's head snapped towards him in time to see the frantic spinning of the wheel; to no avail as the rudder failed to bight into the foaming crest of the wave. The ship dove head first into the next wave, then swung under their feet in a sickening yaw to port.

"Get than helm down, goddamn it!" Sorensson bellowed as the seaman fought with the wheel, "Come on, get her back downwind!"

But the ship was already broadside to the next monsterous sea. It caught them full on the port beam and the bridge deck tilted to an angle that made standing impossible. The captain, the mate and everything else that wasn't bolted down slid in a heap against the starboard bulkhead, and for the next few seconds, the sickening sound of rending metal and screaming men competed with the howling storm for prominence in the wild vastness of that woefully mis-named ocean.

CHAPTER ONE

BROWN AND TAN

Rays of setting sunlight flashed and reverberated among cloud strata in brilliant shades of yellow and green. The lee rail was just clear of the water on the starboard tack. Occasional bouts of spray showered the cockpit. I was close hauled under main and jenny in a breeze somewhere around 15 knots. If I didn't know these waters I'd be crazy to push the boat this hard. So why was I doing it; risking my boat and my life in unnecessary pursuit of speed? Because I could, that's why. Because I had this splendid craft under me, and I was showing off my stuff to the dozen or so other sailors and power boaters crowding the approaches to Missapoque Harbor, Long Island.

I had been off cruising up the coast for the past week; Block Island, the Vineyard, Nantucket. Spent a night anchored off each, savoring the peace and quiet and fine weather of late spring before the crush of summertime sailors descended on the northeast. And to think that a couple of years ago I was one of those weekend warriors, or rather, mariners; fighting the traffic out to marinas up and down the island, hastily making boats ready, packing lunches and beers into dank coolers, and dueling our way through scads of poorly operated power boats to seek a few miles of open water and fair breeze.

Then came the fascinating turning point in my life when my first novel actually started selling and my publisher started asking for more. That's when I asked my former employer for the early retirement option and clapped the proceeds of the book down on this glorious yacht. Well, modest by some standards, but a lifelong dream to me. Forty seven feet of gleaming fiberglass and teak, aluminum and dacron, diesel and electronics. My home on the water, my escape, my office afloat, my reward for twenty-odd years of toeing the corporate line, rowing the family boat, mowing the suburban yard.

And now here I was, proudly sailing her, boldly on the wind, coming into my mooring hot and heavy, and, oh shit, better slow down!

There are no brakes on a sailing yacht. You ease off the main sheet, loosen the genoa an begin to furl it in by pulling in the furling line while keeping tension with the sheet. In the meantime you have a hand on the wheel and eyes constantly darting around keeping track of the traffic. Thus is the joy of single-handed sailing.

The big boat slowed almost immediately. Some damn fool on a 'personal watercraft' passed about three feet under my bow, and another jerk in a cigarette boat, totally oblivious to navigation rules, shook his fist at me for forcing him to steer out of the way; my right of way, of course. I finished furling the jib and tied off the sheet.

I could see the mooring bouy now, right between the Island Packet 37 and the big Beneteau. I put her nose to port so as to pass it by about two boat lengths. Steady now Bob. Don't look like a beginner this time.

As the bouy slid off to starboard I eased the main again. Smooth and easy I spun the wheel. As the bow came up into the wind the main flapped uselessly in the breeze. If I timed it right, she would just slide right up to the mooring. Had to move quickly now; not easy for a gentleman of my years having sat essentially motionless for four hours in the sun. I walked quickly but carefully forward, holding on to shrouds and lifelines for stability in the choppy harbor.

I was just able, by dint of stretching out far over the bowspit, to snag the mooring pendant and pull it on board. I cleated off the mooring lines. I had done it. I was home, and I had done it with style. I looked quickly around. Nobody was watching. Damn. Only God and I knew how well I had done that. Thanks, God. Nice sunset, by the way. You didn't do so bad yourself.

I flaked the mainsail neatly on the boom and was putting on the sail cover when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a woman sitting on the dock of the marina bar with sunglasses and a drink. A flouncy wrap drifted away from a slinky one-piece bathing suit. I made a mental note to check that out on my way to the bar.

I was busy buttoning up the boat when Steve came out in his launch to give me the ride in. Steve was one of those boatyard boys, perpetually nineteen, tan as a nut, his shirt wide open and flapping in the breeze as he stood up in the little boat, steering with his foot. "Howdy Bob" he yelled, "ready to come in?"

"In a minute Stevie," I was busy packing things up, collecting a week's worth of garbage, packing smelly laundry into my duffel, and setting various gear in order. "Notice I didn't even start up the engine that time."

"Yeah" said Steve, unimpressed. "Hey, there's a lady came here looking for you. I told her your trip plan said you'd be back today so she's been hanging around the last couple hours."

"Who? Her?" I nodded in the direction of the slinky one-piece. "What about? She say?"

"Uh-uh. Just asked if you were gonna be here and said could she wait and that's her over there been drinkin' rum and cokes since like four o'clock."

So, an attractive, scantily clad lady, tipsy, no less, was waiting for me dockside. "OK, Stevie," I said, snapping the lock on the companionway. "Let's go." I tossed the trash and the duffel bag into the launch and lowered myself gingerly onto a thwart. I gave Circe a final visual check. She looked perfect there in the Peconic sunset, swinging slowly and stately at her mooring. God bless the readers of paperbacks everywhere, I thought.

In the two minutes it took Steve to maneuver the boat back through the maze of mooring lines an anchor chains, I tried not to stare too hard at Miss One piece. She apparently recognized it was me coming in on the launch, as she put down the drink and stood up, placing a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head and tying the ribbon under her pretty chin.

Stevie brought the launch in to the dock right in front of a brand new fifty-foot yawl that was set up for its christening the next day. Lines of signal flags, with every color imaginable, were run up and down the stays, giving the boat a festive and fairy-tale look. I wondered whether the boat's owner knew how much work and heartache he was in for. Party now, I thought to myself. Enjoy the colors of joy and beauty. The works starts tomorrow, and the endless spending, the heartache, and ultimately the parting of ways. The day he sells that boat will be twice as happy as the day he christens it.

I'm usually not crazy about it when people wear shades even when they're introduced to others. It was refreshing when, as I stepped up onto the dock, the girl in the bathing suit walked right up an slid the shades down to the tip of her nose, exposing a pair of the darkest eyes I have ever seen in my life, outside of Bambi. She smiled a smile that was designed to melt ice and harden other things. "Mr. Weber. I presume?" Those words came in a soft alto from lips basted in glossy red that were painted exquisitely across a face that had been carved by an Italian master from tawny alabaster. The face rested amidst a wind-blown cloud of chestnut hair, supported by a neck carved by the same master thirty years ago I expect, atop a body that belonged on a TV commercial for a tanning salon. The whole package stood about five eight in a pair of high-heeled sandles. I realized I was staring at about the same time she giggled. "You don't know me. I'm Terry - Terry Brown."

Hello Miss Brown!" I replied, the exclamation point clear in my thirsty voice. "I understand you have been waiting."

"Oh, not for too long, Mr. Weber. Can I call you Bob?"

"Young lady," I was honestly smitten, and not making an effort to hide it, "you can call me Rover and lead me on a leash if you like. As long as it take me in the direction of a drinking establishment." Her laugh sent the hair cascading down to her breasts, which met demurely in the vee of the swimsuit. I felt compelled to comment, "Love outfit you're wearing. A sight for these sore salty eyes after a week at sea."

Another laugh. "It's one of those bathing suits that lets the sun shine through, so you get tan all over. Well supposedly." She giggled again. My expression probably conveyed in a small way the image that this information brought to my mind's very skillful eye.

"Ah" was all I could muster. "Very nice indeed. And so's the suit." Another giggle. Three or four rum and cokes poured into a hundred and ten pound woman does wonders for the disposition and right now, as unlikely as it seemed, I was the object of her giggles. I asked Steve to throw the duffel into my car. I crooked my arm toward Terry. "Milady, wilst thou accompany me to yon public house?" She took the arm, giggling all the way, and we gamboled thus into Wily Willie's Missapoque Inn.

We swung into a booth toward the back of the long bar. Willie was regaling his only customer with stories of pre-chic Hamptons life. "Willie my lad," I said, "I'll have a Corona, followed by another Corona, followed by whatever the young lady is having."

"Oh," she giggled (natch) "rum and coke, please."

"Make that shaken, not stirred, Willie," I added. She giggled again, but I doubt she was old enough to catch the lame Bond reference. Damn, but she had me in quite a good mood. As Willie brought over the first Corona, which I intended to drink in about ten seconds flat, I finally asked, "Now that we're acquainted, Miss Terry, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?"

There was a remarkable change in her composure. The smile went away for a second, and I could feel, as much as see, the dark, dark eyes boring straight through into my head. For an instant the giggly, ready to party, tan-all-over playgirl vanished, and in her place across the table was a cold, no nonsense woman with a definite agenda.

She covered the pause by removing the hat and shaking her hair out, her eyes closed, head swinging on that long, graceful neck. When she was good and ready, she looked at me again. This time a new face the pouting, sad face of the pained, concerned damsel in distress. I had been waiting for this. Now would come the story.

"I came to ask you... to ask you to help me find someone," she said.

"Okay..." I replied, drawing out the "ay" sound to encourage continuation. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. When I'm not sailing or writing , I supplement my meager pension as a finder of lost souls and other things. I do investigations.

"It's my boyfriend. His name is Michael Donovan," which she pronounced the good old Irish way: "dunnavin"."He's been missing for three weeks. I'm very worried he's....he's..." Her voice was one syllable short of sobbing.

"Steady honey, take your time." I consoled her with a hand on her elbow. "You think he might be hurt or something." Sure, Bob, I was thinking, and Jimmy Hoffa might be hurt, too. Three weeks is something of a watershed in the search for missing persons. Police are beginning to think this person might actually be lost. Insurance companies are willing to talk. Churches are scheduling prayer vigils, and the loved ones are pretty much resigned that they are never going to see this person again. But Miss Brown, close to tears, had come to me for help, and I was going to listen to her story if I had to finish fifteen Coronas in the process.

"He went out sailing one night and never came back. They found the boat a couple of days later, but he was gone" she fought the tears back bravely. Her voice was normal now; as normal as a panic and grief-stricken woman, half inebriated, can get.

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Catalogue Information

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