“I’m done,” he panted, holding his wrist, which I guessed I’d broken. “Please, shoot me so I can join Olivia.”
His eyes stared up at me, defeated. I knew it wasn’t the battle or the day he’d lost, it was his life. His heart was still beating, but it was empty. Everything he held most dear had been taken away. His life came to an end 246 days ago, the day his wife was murdered. I knew that look. I lived with the same pain.
My wave of anger began to shift. Fuelled by thoughts of Ridley, rage had sent me sprinting across the clearing. Now, the man wanted me to complete the final task for him.
“I’m begging you, shoot me, Nora,” Massey whispered, his eyes pleading even more than his words.
“Fy faen,” I muttered. “You’ve used me all day for what you wanted. I’m done with your games.”
I’d charged Massey and risked him getting off a shot. I knew I couldn’t take my own life, but I was willing to put it on the line. Deep down, it was clear some part of me hoped Massey would do the job for me. Now he was turning the tables. Somewhere, buried in my plethora of suppressed emotions, was a tiny sense of relief. It sparked like the final ember of last night’s fire. A warm glow in a hearth of grey ashes. I couldn’t say that I was glad to be alive, but for the first time since Ridley’s death, I was willing to live.
The police force had given me a distraction, a purpose, and perhaps the crazy events of today had shown me I had something to give. I didn’t feel like I’d succeeded, but I hadn’t completely failed. Skylar was alive, and the culprit was caught. Of course, the real culprit was Donovan Briggs, but that was above my pay grade, as they say in American movies.
“Pull the trigger, Nora. Please,” Massey tried again.
“It’s not you I want to shoot. It’s Briggs,” I replied.
“I want him to live a long life in a jail cell,” Massey groaned. “A bullet would let him off easy. Just shoot me and let me be with Olivia.”
I knew too well the pain he was in. But I had to live through it, and so would he. My conscience was already overloaded.
“Fuck no,” I replied. “You’re under arrest. Get up.”
39
Paper Moon
FBI agents Don Brandt and Faith Graham parked by the office of the Harborage Marina in St Pete. Access to the slips passed solely through the office, or via the water from Tampa Bay. Two officers exited a police car parked nearby, having assumed the black SUV belonged to the federal government agents they’d been waiting for.
“Hi guys,” Brandt greeted them. “Any movement?”
“Not since we arrived, sir,” the first officer replied, a large-framed man with a square jaw. “There’s been some folks coming and going, but no one fitting the perp’s description.”
Brandt nodded, a bead of sweat already forming on his brow in the late afternoon heat. “Okay, thanks. This is a long shot. I doubt he’s here, but we’ll check out the boat. Stay here and watch the office in case he bolts on foot.”
The brawny officer looked disappointed, but didn’t question the order. The two agents entered through the front door and enjoyed the blast of cool air. They both flashed their badges to the old man behind the reception desk.
“Oh my,” he mumbled, his eyes wide. “What can I help you with?”
“Can you tell us where the Paper Moon is docked?” Faith asked.
The old man shuffled from behind the counter and ambled towards the door leading to the slips. He swung the door open and pointed down a long, narrow pier forming the backbone of the marina. Endless jetties protruded from the east side, extending towards Tampa Bay and dotted with slips on both sides. The view was a mass of mainly white fibreglass, sailboat masts, and various towers.
“All the way to the end on the left,” the old man explained. “Big boats are down there. Paper Moon is the last one, tied on the outside of the slip.”
“Thank you,” Faith replied. “Have you seen any of the family arrive this afternoon, sir?”
“No,” he replied, scratching his mostly bald head. “But I only started my evening shift at five. Can’t say if anyone showed up before then.”
Faith gave the man a smile as she and her partner set off down the long pier. They left the old man with his mouth open, a series of unasked questions rolling through his mind. Apparently, he wasn’t one of the millions of people following the news from Grand Cayman.
The pier angled away from the sea wall of the shoreline, allowing room for increasingly larger boats on the west side the farther they walked. On the east side, the jetties and slips were also spaced farther apart, housing large sailboats and luxury yachts. They were in the high-dollar neighbourhood.
The Paper Moon was a 65-foot Ferretti, tied to the end of the final and only jetty extending towards the shore, just as the old man had described. No one was in sight. The lines were still secured to the dock, but the big diesels were idling.
“Somebody’s home,” Brandt said quietly as they both slowed their approach, assessing the situation.
The operations van had accompanied the team to Grayson Briggs’s condo across town, so the agents weren’t wired for comms. Reluctant to raise the alarm over cell service in case they were heard, Faith signalled for her partner to remain on the dock while she boarded the boat. Brandt nodded his understanding and drew his service weapon.
The Ferretti was a beautiful yacht with a spacious cockpit leading to the salon and lower helm through sliding glass doors. External stairs on the starboard side, moulded into the cabin structure, led up to the fly-bridge. Seeing the salon was clear, Faith carefully took the steps, anticipating someone up top, warming the engines. With her weapon drawn, she took a peek over the top stair and saw no one. The fly-bridge was empty.
Standing at the fly-bridge helm, she signalled down to Brandt on the dock that all was clear before hitting the kill buttons and shutting down the diesels. The big engines shuddered to a stop, and the console lit up and beeped. Faith turned the two ignition keys off and all fell silent.
She was about to descend and search the lower deck when she heard movement off the port side. Faith leaned over the fly-bridge and watched several pieces of clothing sail from a porthole into the water. If her guess was correct, the blue jeans she saw floating in the bay would have a piece torn from them that would match the scrap retrieved from Myra Shah’s condo.
Faith softly stepped to the starboard side and conveyed the suspect’s presence to her partner via hand signals. She descended the stairs and took a careful look into the salon. It was still clear. The sliding door was unlocked and smoothly glided open with the efficiency of well-engineered hardware. Faith stepped inside and felt the cool air conditioning of the interior. To her right was a well-appointed galley and ahead, two comfortable couches lined the sides of the room, one with a dining table.
“FBI. We have a warrant to search the boat,” she announced loudly. “Show yourself.”
She heard footsteps from the narrow steps at the front of the room beside the helm. A figure appeared.
“Hello there?” came a man’s voice. “How can I help you?”
Faith aimed her gun at the floor near the stairs in the low ready position, and the young man stopped.
“Woah! What the hell?” he exclaimed. “What’s with the gun?”
“Grayson Briggs?” Faith asked, holding her gun steady as the man raised his arms.
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed. “Put the damn gun down. I’m one of the good guys! Have you recovered my sister yet?”
“Move slowly to the couch, put your hands on your head, and sit down,” Faith ordered, tracking him carefully.
“I’m unarmed,” Grayson said. “I’m the only one aboard. I figured you were here with an update on my family.”
He sat on the couch and placed his hands on his head as ordered. Faith stepped back to the sliding door and called out to her partner. “Brandt, come on in.”
She turned back to the suspect. “Where were you going?”
“Nowhere,” he replied confidently. “We routinely run the engines when the boat hasn’t been out in a while.”
Brandt entered, and Faith looked over with a grin. “Mind frisking him before you go for a swim?”
“Swim?” Brandt replied with a frown as he walked across the salon, and after having Grayson stand up, checked him for weapons. The man was wearing board shorts and a T-shirt, so he wasn’t concealing anything.
“He tossed his clothes off the side,” Faith explained. “Our evidence is floating away.”
Brandt rolled his eyes. “Great.”
He left the salon, and after spotting the garments in the water, stripped down to his boxer shorts. Faith heard a splash as her partner dived in the bay.
“Why did you throw your clothes away?”
Grayson slumped back down on the couch.
“Hands on your head,” she reminded him, her gun still aimed at the floor in front of the man. He complied.
“Not my clothes,” he replied. “I didn’t throw anything overboard.”
“So you lied,” she countered.
Grayson shook his head. “I didn’t lie, they’re not my clothes.”
“You told me you were the only one aboard,” she said calmly. “You either lied about that, or you threw the clothes off the boat.”
His eyes narrowed, and he went to reply, but stopped himself.
“Exactly,” Faith continued. “So we’ve established you’re lying to me. That’s a bad start, Mr Briggs.”
“I don’t know anything about any clothes,” Grayson said after thinking a moment, although his smug confidence was fading.
“If you don’t know anything about them, how do you know they’re not your clothes?” Faith asked, finally holstering her weapon.
“I was in my cabin,” he mumbled back, his brow furrowed. “I’d know if someone took my clothes.”
“So you’re settling on some stranger was on the boat, threw some clothes off the boat, but you don’t know whose clothes, or who this stealthy person was?” Faith continued, enjoying herself and glad she wasn’t the one in the bay.
The boat rocked slightly as Brandt clambered back aboard the large swim step at the stern.
“Where’s your cabin, Mr Briggs?” she asked.
“Port side, below here,” Grayson said and closed his eyes. He knew he’d screwed up.
“That’ll be right below where I was standing on the fly-bridge,” she said, grinning at him. “Where I saw the clothes come from. The clothes that will undoubtedly be your exact size, Mr Briggs.”
The glass door slid open and Brandt stood there, dripping wet, holding a soaking bundle of garments in his hands.
“Am I under arrest?” Grayson demanded, his voice losing all trace of civility.
Brandt dropped everything with a soggy splash to the floor. Except a pair of blue jeans. He unravelled them and held them by one leg. A small section of cotton was missing.
“You are most certainly under arrest, Grayson Briggs,” Faith took pleasure in saying, “for the murder of Myra Shah.”
“For starters,” Brandt added. “I’m confident we’ll be adding charges surrounding the death of Olivia Massey to the list shortly.”
“Lawyer,” was all Grayson Briggs replied as he stared dejectedly at the floor of the luxury yacht.
40
Worded Out
I made Massey keep his hands on his head, although I doubted he would try anything. It was over and we both knew it. He seemed exhausted, and looking at all the physical and mental work he’d put into his production, I could see why. If what he’d said was all true, I couldn’t blame him. But he’d still ruined my Sunday.
With the gun at his back, he stepped from the woods to various shouts and commands. Once I followed and they saw the gun in my hand, everyone calmed down. Williams handcuffed Massey, and I gave him the gun for safe keeping. The Firearms Response Unit man was all smiles and congratulations.
“Good job, kid,” Williams said, and offered me a fist bump.
I wasn’t keen on being called a kid, and I certainly wasn’t the fist-bumping kind of person, but I obliged.
“We have your back,” he added, with a nod. “You’re one of us now.”
As Williams marched Jensen Massey away, I wondered why they wouldn’t have had my back for the past three months. It was their job, after all. Still, it felt better to have their respect than the bullshit attitude they’d been giving me.
Whittaker looked like he wanted to hug me. He resisted and settled for a hand on my shoulder. I hugged more than I fist-bumped, but not by much. Part of me would have been okay with Whittaker hugging me. I’d run away from a wonderful family at sixteen, and sometimes I missed my father’s embrace.
“You should have waited for us, Nora,” he said, attempting to be stern. His relieved smile took all the sting from his reprimand.
“I know,” I replied.
I thought about explaining how I knew they’d get Skylar to safety, and I didn’t want to lose Massey. But it was too many words that would just require more words, and I was worded out. I was worn out.
“Are you okay?” Whittaker asked.
I nodded and managed a brief smile. The look in his eyes made me want to hug him. I didn’t, but the concern and care emanating from the man was comforting, and as the adrenaline ebbed from my system, my own exhaustion continued to grow.
“I’m done with my shift. I’d like to go home if that’s okay?”
Whittaker laughed. “I think that’s fair. We can debrief tomorrow when you’ve had some rest.” He gently squeezed my shoulder. “You did the right thing.”
“Which bit?” I wondered aloud, as though he’d just told me I’d done the wrong thing.
“All of it, really,” he replied with a grin before his expression turned serious again. “But at the end there. This wouldn’t have been suicide by police. You’d already disarmed him.”
“You saw all that?” I said, surprised we’d been on camera. I hadn’t thought about it, but I realised the camera had been running when I charged him and bowled him over. Apparently, we were still in view.
“We were watching the entire time,” Whittaker confirmed. “It was on the edge of the screen, but we could see and hear you both.”
A smartly dressed woman who’d arrived with Whittaker offered her hand, and I shook. She had a firm grip.
“Special Agent Ricci, FBI,” she said. “Good work, officer.”
“I’m sorry,” Whittaker apologised. “Beth and her partner have been helping us this afternoon. Her experience has been invaluable.”
My mentor’s previous statement still rang through my head. I hadn’t shot Massey for selfish reasons. The idea I’d be executing the man had never entered my mind. He was still alive because I was angry. He’d put me through hell and cut off a girl’s finger. Living with the pain of his own loss was a far worse punishment than a bullet in the brain.
“I was telling the detective,” Beth said keenly, “you’re a resourceful and tough young woman. You’d make a fine FBI agent if you were interested.”
I pushed my other thoughts away. The FBI lady seemed nice. She had a bold and confident manner, without being overbearing. I wondered if FBI agents got to play with cool gadgets and spy stuff. Somehow I doubted it. I bet they sat around most of the time staring at computer screens and filling out paperwork, occasionally getting to knock on a door and question people. Maybe there was some cool stuff thrown in every once in a while.
“Do the FBI have an office in Grand Cayman?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” she answered. “But we have a unit specialising in the Caribbean. It’s based in Miami and we have offices in the Dominican Republic and Barbados.”
“This is home,” I heard myself replying.
Since leaving Norway three years ago, I’d been a nomad. Grand Cayman had been where I’d spent the most time, but it was also where I’d experienced several traumatic events. I had no idea why I didn’t want t
o be as far away from the place as possible. People, I guessed. Home can be about familiarity, where you were born, or where you spent the most time, but ultimately it came down to people. Norway would always be home because of my family and wonderful childhood memories. Cayman had become my new home despite the trauma because of people like AJ and Detective Whittaker. Leaving the island also felt like I’d be leaving Ridley.
“Let’s get you out of here and see if we can sneak you home,” Whittaker said, his hand again on my shoulder, urging me along the bank of the canal. “We’ll have to dodge the press.”
I picked my way along the rough and rocky bank, noticing my feet were sore in the flimsy water shoes.
“My dive gear!” I blurted, remembering I’d left it on the shore of the North Sound.
Whittaker laughed. “Don’t worry, we found it,” he assured me. “Your directions left a perfect trail for us to follow.”
“That was quick thinking,” Beth added. “So were the hand signals.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t reach you sooner, Nora,” Whittaker said as we turned into the woods and followed the trail past the wooden building Massey had built. “You did your part. I was slow putting it all together.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s okay.”
Skylar might not agree with me as she’d be short of some notes if she played guitar, but none of us knew what Massey would have done if the police had burst through the door.
“Do you think he would have shot either of you?” Beth asked as we approached the source of the droning sound.
I thought about the question for a moment as Whittaker instructed a constable to shut down the generator. We stood in the small clearing and I faced the FBI agent.
“Maybe, but it didn’t fit his objective. Or his character,” I replied. “From what I saw,” I added, realising I was profiling the man in front of someone who was undoubtedly trained to do that properly.
Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One Page 23