Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series) Read Online Free Page B

twenty percent to Mister McCormick and twenty percent to Russ. I’m sure he’d have wanted his share going to his grandkids education.”
    “But it was your boat, Jesse. You should get a bigger share. Plus, you had all the expense.”
    I stopped and turned to him at the gangplank to his sailboat. “Deuce, I have way more money than I’ll need in two lifetimes and you know my needs are few. I’m giving a chunk of my share to Chyrel and the rest is going into maintaining the island for a few years.”
    “ Dad always put a lot of stock in education. He and mom lived on base most of the time and he put away every penny he could so my sister and I could go to college. I guess I’ll do the same.” Then he grinned and added, “Julie ever tell you she wants a bunch of kids?”
    Then he turned and went down the gangplank to his cockpit and disappeared into the aft cabin. Pescador and I continued to the end of the long dock to the Revenge and turned in. I set the coffee maker up to start at 0700 and turned in for a short nap.
    The aroma of Columbia’s greatest export roused me three hours later. The sun was streaming in through the port side portholes. I poured a cup into a heavy mug that had the Marine Recon emblem on it, a winged skull with a regulator in its mouth and crossed oars behind it and then poured the rest into a large thermos. Carrying both and an extra mug up to the bridge, I sat down and watched the early morning activity in the marina. Mornings were my favorite time of day. Enjoying a cup of coffee while watching the sun slowly climb into the sky seems to recharge me, regardless of how little sleep I might have had the night before.
    Rusty had done a lot of work over the last year and it showed. Just over a year ago, this was nothing more than a shallow canal, accessible only by skiff, a type of shallow water boat that’s very common in the Keys. He’d dredged it to ten feet and enlarged the end to make a turning basin large enough for a 60 footer to comfortably turn around. He had concrete poured along both sides down to the waterline, with built in rubber fenders and added water and electric hookups every thirty feet. The result was a slow influx of permanent and semi-permanent liveaboards.
    Across the canal from me was a beautiful blue and white wooden sailboat. It belonged to my old friend, Dan Sullivan. He spent nearly as much time taking care of his boat as he did playing his guitar, which was considerable. She was over 100 years old, a gaff rigged Friendship, built in Maine at the turn of the last century.
    Next to him was a big, slow moving, 36’ Monk trawler, owned by a young couple from South Carolina. They arrived in Marathon a few months ago and I hadn’t met them yet. Of course, I spend most of my time on my island up in the Content Keys.
    Further north from the Monk were two smaller sloops. Nobody lived on them and I had no idea who owned them.
    Astern the Revenge was an old, sedate, 30 foot Pearson cabin cruiser. She was owned by a middle aged man by the name of Hank Cooper. He’d arrived in Marathon nearly broke and devastated after a divorce, the Pearson was apparently the only thing his ex-wife didn’t get. He seemed intelligent and educated, but took the first job he could find as an overnight cab driver for the islands largest cab company, Cheapo Taxi.
    Aft the Pearson was the small boat dockage, with an assortment of ten or twelve skiffs and open fishing boats, depending on the season. Rusty had installed a fuel dock at the end next to his big, flat topped barge and offered both gas and diesel fuel. The lower rates he charged for dockage attracted the small boat owners and offset a slightly higher gas price than surrounding marinas.
    “Jesse!” The familiar voice came from across the canal. Dan was in the cockpit of his sloop. “When did you guys get back?”
    “A few hours ago, Dan. How’s things been here this week?”
    “Nothing exciting,” he called back. “You up for a