“McCaleb,” he corrected. “Terry McCaleb.”

“Sorry. I, uh, I thought maybe you were inside. I didn’t know if it was okay to walk on the boat and knock.”

“But you did anyway.”

She ignored the reprimand and went on. It was as if what she was doing and what she had to say had been rehearsed.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

He pointed to the open bilge hatch she was lucky not to have fallen into and the tools he had left spread out on a drop cloth by the stern transom.

“I’ve been walking around, looking for this boat, for almost an hour,” she said. “It won’t take long. My name is Graciela Rivers and I wanted-”

“Look, Miss Rivers,” he said, holding his hands up and interrupting. “I’m really… You read about me in the newspaper, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, before you start your story, I have to tell you, you’re not the first one to come out here and find me or to get my number and call me. And I’m just going to tell you what I told all of the others. I’m not looking for a job. So if this is about you wanting to hire me or have me help you some way, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I’m not looking for that kind of work.”

She didn’t say anything and he felt a pang of sympathy for her, just as he had for the others who had come to him before her.

“Look, I do know a couple of private investigators I can recommend. Good ones that will work hard and won’t rip you off.”

He stepped over to the stern gunwale, picked up the sunglasses he had forgotten to take on his walk and put them on, signaling the end of the conversation. But the gesture and his words went by her.

“The article said you were good. It said you hated it whenever somebody got away.”