Part 7: The Dropped Anchor
Matthew bent down slowly and picked it up.
His fingers trembled once.
Only once.
Then the maritime investigator said,
“Mr. Barrett, step away from Commander Hale.”
Brett laughed nervously.
“Commander Hale? Wait. Hale as in—”
Preston whispered,
“Hale Maritime Holdings.”
That name hit the wealthy side of the terrace like a dropped anchor.
Hale Maritime Holdings was not a celebrity company.
It did not buy flashy magazine covers.
It owned dry docks.
Rescue vessel patents.
Deep-sea recovery systems.
Navigation software.
Specialized submersibles.
And, quietly, controlling stakes in several shipyards that Barrett OceanWorks depended on.
Brett stared at Matthew.
The old man he had called a dock rat was not begging to enter the yacht world.
He owned pieces of the world that kept yachts afloat.
Matthew slid the broken watch into his palm.
“Preston,” he said, “your son has had a loud evening.”
Preston’s face drained.
“Matthew, let’s discuss this privately.”
Matthew looked around at the phones.
“At what point did this become private?”
A murmur moved through the room.
That line landed exactly where it needed to land.
Brett tried to recover.
“Okay, fine, he’s some rich veteran. I didn’t know. I’ll buy him another watch.”
Matthew’s eyes hardened.
“You can’t buy another dead man’s watch.”
Brett swallowed.
Then anger rushed back in to cover the fear.
“This is insane. You people are acting like I killed someone. It was a joke.”
May you like
The sheriff stepped closer.
“Destroying military memorabilia tied to a line-of-duty death is not a joke. Public assault is not a joke. And tonight, that is not the only reason we’re here.”
