Fairlead was a management company in Palm Beach that had been trying to take Keelhaven's clients for five years, and the Coriolis was Keelhaven's largest client, and Dex knew that, and he watched her face when he said it.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, he said it. Go on. The crane."
"The bosun's taken the crane out of service and tagged it. Lachlan. He's got the failed shackle in a plastic bag in the bosun's locker, he wouldn't let anybody touch it. The surveyor from Narragansett Lifting can do a proof load test this afternoon if the replacement hardware is on board and correct, and Lachlan says it is, he drove to the rigging shop in Portsmouth himself on Saturday. Test takes about an hour and a half with the water bags. If it passes, they can lift the tender in daylight and secure it for sea."
"Who's operating?"
"Lachlan."
"Not the captain."
Dex looked at her. "Not the captain. Why would the captain operate the crane?"
She did not answer that. They had come to the root of C pier, where the service path met the main walkway, and the Coriolis lay ahead of them at the end of the long concrete finger, dark blue and shining, her passerelle down to the pier with a rope across it and a little brass stanchion at each side. A deckhand in a white polo shirt was standing at the foot of it with a radio, and when he saw them coming he said something into the radio, and up on the bridge deck a door opened and a tall figure in a white shirt with epaulettes came out onto the wing and stood with his hands on the rail, looking down the pier at her.