Chapter 1: The Surprising Quiet
The harbor was not supposed to be this quiet. Not at dawn. Lew Harper, despite a sleepless night, had woken early and walked down toward the shore for answers he couldn’t name. The water, glassy and pallid, reflected the deepening pinks and oranges of an awakening sky. The usual gulls seemed absent—or perhaps Lew just didn’t hear them over the questions that gnawed at his mind.
He paused at the edge of the weathered pier, his hand resting on a post whose paint had long since surrendered to the salt. Farther along, the row of boats rocked gently, their hulls creaking, a familiar sound that usually spoke of home. But today, to Lew, it sounded like someone’s bones under strain.
He stood there, searching for something out of place. The old fisherman’s shack at the end of the pier was dark. No sign of Ollie yet, though Ollie was never late. Lew checked his watch, sunlight glinting across the scratched glass. Just past five.
Lew’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, frowning at the message displayed: CALL ME—NOW. It was from Claire, his partner in the Harbor Police, and the capital letters meant trouble.
He dialed her number, staring out at the empty bay. She answered on the first ring.
Lew, we’ve got a body, Claire said, her voice clipped, hard-edged. By the breakwater. Local fisherman found him an hour ago. I’m heading there now.
Lew gripped the phone tighter. Did you catch a name?
Yeah, Claire replied, then hesitated. It’s Ollie. Ollie Drake.
The world contracted to a pinpoint. Lew looked down the length of the pier, picturing the old man’s easy smile, the way he’d always offered Lew a mug of instant coffee and a story. He remembered every word.
I’ll meet you there, Lew managed, the taste of salt and grief rising already in his throat.
Chapter 2: A Cold Dawn
Lew got there fast, his boots crunching over the coarse sand as he descended from the parking lot. The gulls had returned after all, circling high and shrill above the breakwater where two patrol cars had parked with their lights flashing. Claire stood waiting for him, her coat pulled tight, her eyes grim.
Beyond her, the Harbor Lights—three tall, weathered lamps that marked the entrance to the marina—threw long shadows over the rocks. At their base, a blue tarp did little to hide the outline beneath.
You sure it’s Ollie? Lew asked, keeping his voice steady.
Claire nodded. Found his wallet. And his cap. She jerked her chin toward the tarp. Only half on his head. Looked like he put up a fight.
Lew swallowed. Any sign how long he’s been dead?
Coroner estimates two, maybe three hours. So, before dawn. No witnesses, but the docks are never truly empty. They’re canvassing now. She looked at him. You okay?
He hesitated. Ollie was a friend.
Yeah. But we need to stay sharp. What else?
Claire led him toward the scene, nodding at the uniformed officers to let them through. The tarp was peeled aside just enough for Lew to see the truth. Ollie’s face was bruised, his jaw swollen and lips bloodied. His coat was torn at the collar, the buttons wrenched. One hand was clenched tight, as if still holding onto something invisible.
Lew wished he could close the old man’s eyes, but he knew better. He turned to the coroner, who was making brisk notes on a battered clipboard.
What’s the cause?
Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, the coroner replied. Then, a pause. He was hit once. Hard.
Robbery?
His wallet was there, Claire murmured. Cash untouched. So was his watch.
Lew crouched down, scanning the damp rocks. Something pale glinted near Ollie’s left hand. Lew reached for it with gloved fingers, lifting a torn scrap of paper, half-soaked and barely legible. He read the first three letters—B, O, S—before the ink dissolved into a blue blur.
Claire glanced at it. What do you think?
Lew shook his head. Could be nothing—or everything. He looked up at the looming Harbor Lights, their metal poles streaked with salt and rust. The dawn was coming fast now, painting the world brighter and more unforgiving. Lew squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of the day already climb aboard.
It was time to start asking questions.
Chapter 3: The First Clues
Claire and Lew split up. She took the east side, questioning a pair of crabbers who’d just come in, while Lew wove through the narrow lanes between the boat slips. He recognized most of the faces: the grizzled old timers who watched the world from their deck chairs, the wary-eyed men who worked the night shift unloading cargo or fixing engines in the dark.
He found Jimmy Bostwick, the marina’s unofficial night watch, stacking crates near his battered fishing skiff. Jimmy’s grizzled beard was flecked with gray and flecks of paint, and his hands shook as he tried to light a cigarette.
Lew stopped in front of him. Jimmy, you out here last night?
Jimmy looked up, eyes darting. Saw you fellas over by the lights. That about Ollie?
Lew nodded. Did you see anything?
Jimmy shrugged. Heard some voices, round three, maybe. Didn’t see faces, but there was shouting. Not the friendly kind. He shivered, glancing at the water. Then a bang, like something heavy hitting the rocks. After that, just quiet. Too quiet.
Did you recognize the voices?
Jimmy hesitated, chewing his lip. One of ‘em sounded like that guy from the Bosworth—y’know, the big boat docked at slip seventeen. The fancy one they charter out. Can’t recall his name, but he’s always running his mouth.
Lew’s heart skipped. The Bosworth. That matched the first three letters on the paper scrap. He pocketed his notebook, thanked Jimmy, and headed for slip seventeen, his mind racing with possibilities.
As he approached the Bosworth, he saw movement on deck. A woman—tall, dark-haired, early thirties—was scrubbing the rails with a vengeance. She looked up, eyes wary.
Can I help you?
Lew introduced himself, flashing his badge. I’m investigating something that happened near the breakwater last night. You or your crew see anything unusual?
She shook her head. I was below deck most of the night. Cleaning up from the last charter. The captain—Rick Hollis—he stayed out late, but I don’t know where. Why?
Lew handed her his card. If you remember anything, call me. And tell your captain we’ll need to talk.
He turned away, a chill crawling up his spine. The Bosworth. A fight. A body. Lew’s hunch was growing roots.
Chapter 4: Harbor Shadows
By late morning, the marina was a hive of rumors. Lew and Claire regrouped at the harbormaster’s office, comparing notes as sunlight poured in through salt-streaked windows.
Claire had found two teens who claimed to have seen a dark figure running from the breakwater at dawn. They described someone in a black jacket, tall, moving fast. But the details blurred quickly under pressure.
Lew filled her in on the Bosworth and Jimmy’s account. Claire’s eyes narrowed.
So, Rick Hollis. I know that name. He’s had run-ins with the law—brawling, unpaid bills, a couple of angry crew members. Nothing stuck, but plenty of smoke.
Lew nodded. If Ollie was meeting someone there, maybe Hollis was trying to keep him quiet.
Or maybe Ollie saw something he shouldn’t have, Claire added.
They decided to visit the Bosworth together. As they walked there, Lew kept replaying the scene—Ollie’s battered face, the crumpled note, the boat’s name. The pieces almost fit, but not quite.
Rick Hollis was waiting on deck when they arrived, arms folded, jaw set. He looked every bit the bruiser—broad shoulders, unshaven, a faded tattoo on his forearm.
Hollis greeted them with a stiff nod. Heard you’re asking questions. What’s this about?
Lew kept his voice calm. There was an incident near the breakwater last night. We’re talking to everyone who was on the water.
Hollis’s eyes narrowed. I was at the Rusty Anchor until two. Had a beer, came back, went straight to bed. You can ask the bartender.
Claire glanced at Lew. Mind if we look around?
Hollis hesitated, then shrugged. Knock yourselves out. Nothing to hide.
They searched the main cabin, the galley, even the storage lockers. Nothing out of place. But as Lew reached into a small drawer by the captain’s chair, his fingers brushed a bloodstained rag, hastily shoved out of sight.
He held it up, meeting Hollis’s hard gaze.
Care to explain?
Hollis’s jaw clenched. That’s not mine. Must’ve come with the boat. Maybe your old man put it there.
Lew felt anger pulse through him, but he kept his cool. We’ll be taking this for tests. Don’t leave town.
As they left, Claire leaned close. He’s hiding something. But what?
Lew stared back at the harbor lights, their bulbs now cold, casting long shadows across the water. Ollie’s death was just the beginning.
Chapter 5: The Rusty Anchor
Lew and Claire’s next stop was the Rusty Anchor, a faded tavern near the marina, its windows fogged by years of cigarette smoke and secrets. The bartender, a stocky man named Marty, eyed them warily.
You here about Ollie? Damn shame. He was a good one.
Lew nodded. Was Rick Hollis here last night?
Marty scratched his chin. Yeah, came in late. Drank two beers, left before closing. Kept looking over his shoulder, like he was expecting trouble.
Was anyone with him?
Not for long. Had words with a guy at the bar—short, heavyset, wore a blue cap. Never seen him before.
Claire perked up. Did you catch a name?
Marty shrugged. Think he paid with a card. Wait, let me check.
He rummaged through receipts and handed one to Claire. Name’s Alan Royce.
Lew pocketed the slip. Another thread to pull.
They left the bar and sat on a bench overlooking the harbor, letting the salt air clear their heads.
Claire said, So, Hollis and Royce meet. Maybe argue. Then what? Royce leaves, Hollis goes back to the boat, and something happens to Ollie.
Lew frowned. What if Ollie stumbled onto a deal gone wrong? Or tried to stop something?
Either way, we need to find Alan Royce.
Chapter 6: Royce’s Story
Alan Royce lived in a cramped apartment above a bait shop, the kind of place where the scent of old fish lingered in the curtains. He opened the door after three knocks, blinking at the morning sun.
Can I help you?
Claire showed her badge. We need to talk about last night.
Royce paled. I didn’t do anything. I just talked to Hollis, that’s all. He invited me for a drink, said he wanted to discuss charter work.
Lew studied his face. Did you see Ollie Drake?
Royce shook his head. No, but I heard someone yelling as I was leaving. Sounded like a fight down by the breakwater. I didn’t want any trouble, so I went home.
Did you see anyone else?
A shadow flickered in Royce’s eyes. Maybe. There was a woman—red hair, blue jacket. She was walking fast, almost running. I think she came from the direction of the Bosworth.
Lew and Claire exchanged a look. That didn’t fit with their earlier timeline.
You’d testify to that?
Royce nodded. Please—I don’t want any trouble.
They left him with a warning not to leave town.
Back in the car, Claire said, A red-haired woman. None of the crew on the Bosworth matches that.
Lew nodded. Unless she was a guest, or someone else with a reason to be there.
Time to ask more questions.
Chapter 7: The Red-Haired Mystery
The marina’s office kept detailed logs of visitors and guests for insurance reasons. Claire scrolled through the sign-in sheet from the night before until her finger stopped on a name: Lydia Crane. Arrived 2:10 AM, listed as a guest for the Bosworth.
Lew remembered her now—a local artist, known for her wild hair and sharper tongue. She’d painted murals on half the shuttered shops downtown; lately, she’d been seen arguing with Hollis about unpaid commissions.
They found her at her studio above the bakery, paint under her nails, her eyes flickering with nerves when she saw their badges.
I heard about Ollie, Lydia said, her voice trembling. I didn’t see him last night. I was on the Bosworth, sorting payment with Rick. He owed me money.
Lew pressed. Did you leave the boat around three?
Lydia hesitated. Maybe closer to four. I walked past the breakwater, but I didn’t see anyone—just a boat pulling away. I thought it was Rick, but maybe not.
Lew asked, Did you hear a fight?
She shook her head. Just the wind and the gulls.
They left her with a warning to stay available, but Lew’s gut told him she wasn’t the killer. She’d have nothing to gain from hurting Ollie—unless she was covering for someone.
Back at the station, Lew unfolded the sodden scrap of paper again. B, O, S—Bosworth. He remembered Ollie’s clenched fist, as if he’d tried to grab onto something. Or someone.
What if Ollie had tried to leave a message?
Chapter 8: Threads Unravel
The forensics report came in that afternoon. The blood on the rag matched Ollie’s blood type, but so did hundreds of people in town. More interestingly, a partial fingerprint was found on the paper scrap. The techs ran it through their database and hit a match: Rick Hollis.
Lew and Claire brought Hollis back in for questioning. He looked tired now, skin sallow and hands twitching.
We found your print on the paper Ollie was holding, Lew said.
Hollis glared. So what? He was always hanging around my boat, asking questions. Maybe he picked it up off my deck.
Claire leaned in. What kind of questions?
Hollis hesitated. He wanted to know about some missing shipments. Said someone was running drugs through the harbor. I told him to stay out of it.
Lew’s pulse raced. Ollie was onto something, wasn’t he?
Hollis looked away. I didn’t kill him. Yeah, we argued. But I went back to my boat, passed out. That’s it.
Lew watched him carefully. Who else knew about the shipments?
Hollis shrugged. Anyone with eyes. You cops should look at the harbor lights crew. They handle the cargo at night.
After Hollis left, Claire frowned. He’s scared. But maybe not of us.
Lew nodded. Let’s talk to the lights crew.
Chapter 9: Under the Harbor Lights
The Harbor Lights were maintained by a small crew, mostly paid under the table. The foreman, Joe Pinnock, met them at the maintenance shed, reeking of coffee and oil.
Hollis says you handle cargo at night, Lew said.
Pinnock snorted. We keep the lights on and fix whatever the tourists break. That’s it.
Claire showed him a photo of Ollie. Did he come to you with questions?
Pinnock’s lips tightened. Maybe. He poked his nose in everywhere. Liked to play detective. He said he thought someone was using the lights to signal boats offshore. I told him he watched too many movies.
Lew’s thoughts spun. Lights as signals. Smuggling. Ollie’s murder.
Was anyone missing from your crew last night?
Pinnock looked away. Pete Jackson. Called in sick.
Lew made a note. Where can we find him?
Pinnock hesitated. He lives on his boat—the Nightjar. Slip twenty-three.
Lew and Claire left quickly, the day suddenly feeling much darker.
Chapter 10: The Nightjar
The Nightjar bobbed quietly in the last slip, its paint peeling and windows crusted with grime. Lew and Claire knocked on the cabin door. No answer. Lew tried the handle. Unlocked.
Inside, it was dark and musty, smelling of old oil and mildew. A mattress lay on the floor, blankets piled in a heap. A duffel bag sat open, half-packed.
Claire opened a drawer and found a stash of cash, several burner phones, and a small pistol. Lew found a notebook filled with dates, times, and cryptic codes—ship names, cargo numbers, and a recurring phrase: HL at dawn.
The Harbor Lights. Dawn. Lew’s skin prickled.
They heard footsteps on the dock. Pete Jackson climbed aboard, eyes widening when he saw them.
What are you doing here?
Lew stepped forward. We need to talk about last night.
Pete tried to run, but Claire was faster. She grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back, and Lew cuffed him.
Back at the station, Pete broke quickly under questioning.
Ollie was getting too close, he muttered. He saw us signaling a pickup offshore, said he’d call the cops. I tried to scare him, just to keep him quiet, but he fought back. I didn’t mean to hit him so hard.
Lew closed his eyes, letting the confession sink in. Ollie, with his stubborn curiosity, had stumbled onto a smuggling ring using the Harbor Lights to guide boats in for illegal shipments. And in trying to protect the harbor he loved, he’d paid the ultimate price.
Chapter 11: Harbor Lights at Dawn
The case was closed by dusk. Pete Jackson was charged with manslaughter and conspiracy, and the rest of the crew rounded up before the evening tide. Rick Hollis, though still guilty of lesser crimes, was exonerated for Ollie’s death. Lydia Crane’s name was cleared, though she swore never to set foot on the Bosworth again.
Lew stood alone at the breakwater as the sun rose the next day, the Harbor Lights flickering off as the sky bloomed pink and gold. The gulls returned, their cries sharp and bright, echoing across the empty water.
He thought of Ollie—his laughter, his stubbornness, his endless stories. The harbor felt emptier without him, but safer, too.
Claire joined him, two steaming mugs in hand. She pressed one into his palm.
Here’s to Ollie, she said quietly. And to asking the right questions.
Lew nodded, watching the lights fade into the dawn. The harbor would heal, as it always did. But it would never forget.
The sea mirrored the sky, calm and clear, as the day truly began.
Chapter 12: Epilogue
A month passed. The harbor lights burned steady every night, but now, new patrols swept the docks, alert for trouble. The Bosworth was sold, its debts paid. The Rusty Anchor hung a plaque for Ollie Drake, a fisherman, a friend, and, unbeknownst to many, a quiet hero.
Lew Harper found himself drawn to the breakwater often, to walk where Ollie had walked, to listen for secrets hidden in the lapping waves.
He’d learned that justice in a small town came slowly, and sometimes, at a cost. But as long as the lights shone at dawn, there’d be someone to keep watch.
Lew tossed a single rose into the bay, watching it drift on the current, sunlight sparkling on its petals.
For Ollie, he whispered, and for all the stories still waiting, beneath the harbor lights at dawn.
The End.