by Tom Lowe
Monica and Chuck Martin looked like they’d been hit hard in the stomach. Faces filled with grief.
“We’ll do our best to get the perpetrator off the street. I know this will be hard, but I need to ask you both some more questions, so we’ll be here for a little while. Can I get you some water, coffee or a soda?”
Monica, tears streaming down her face, shook her head. Chuck said, “No thank you.”
“I want to know if Michelle had a boyfriend, and I want to know where she got the mermaid tail that was found on her body.”
SEVENTEEN
Wynona and I finished another cup of coffee in the Tiki Bar after Rex and Savannah left. Then we walked down L dock toward Jupiter and Dragonfly, Max leading the way. I scanned the area, looking for anyone or anything that might appear out of place. Max strutted in front of us, head up, nostrils testing the breeze over the marina, doxie rump sashaying. There was the scent of charcoal smoldering, flounder on the grill, the musty odor of damp barnacles baking in the Florida sun.
Wynona smiled and said, “Maxine is on parade. She seems to be saying, ‘hey look everyone, we’re back. It’s been a while.’ She’s so animated and free-spirited.”
I laughed. “She packs a lot of bohemian attitude in her ten pounds.” We walked past dozens of boats—sail and power, all tethered to L dock. Ponce Marina had more than a dozen long piers, a wide assortment of boats bobbing in the rising tide.
As we got closer to the midpoint of L dock, I could hear the music of Guy Clark, the song—Boats to Build, coming from a houseboat. The boat owner, a man in his late forties, stepped out of the salon onto the cockpit, his hair matted, face flushed, shirtless, wearing blue swim trunks with white sailboats on them.
We kept walking, Max looking up at gulls peering down at her. My boats, both at the end of the dock, couldn’t be more different. Jupiter was a boat I bought in a DEA auction a few months after Sherri’s death. I needed a project boat, something to tinker with, to spend time and energy restoring. Jupiter proved and still proves to be that boat. She’s a 38-foot Bayliner with the classic lines of a 1980s cabin cruiser.
The other boat was a gift. Dragonfly was given to me by a married couple I grew to know well. They’d bought and refurbished the 41-foot Beneteau with hopes of taking a year off from their hectic lives to sail the Caribbean. Their dream voyage became a nightmare because of family ties to a retired CIA officer. He had been one of a half-dozen targeted by assassins fueled with hate and revenge. I got lucky and managed to help them safely return home.
After the dust had settled, the couple decided sailing wasn’t for them. With deep gratitude, they’d insisted that I take ownership of Dragonfly. Today, I could see her mast against the hard-blue sky. She was a fine sailboat, and the one I wanted to reposition to the islands, taking Wynona on an extended sail to places she’d never been. I hoped it would be the prolonged physical and mental therapy she needed to continue transitioning from the horror of the shooting, the deaths of her colleagues and our unborn child. And I hoped it would give her the opportunity to decide whether she really wanted to return to working criminal investigations. I didn’t want her to go back. But the decision had to be what she wanted.
“Hot Dawg!” came a shout from the cockpit of a boat in a slip next to Dragonfly. Max took off like a bullet, her short legs blurring as she ran toward St. Michael, a 40-foot boat owned by Nick Cronus. Nick stood in the center of the cockpit, a hose in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. As Max got closer, Nick playfully shot a brief burst of water toward her. Max stopped in midstream, taking a mock bite out of the blast of water, snorting, a dog grin across her face.
Nick laughed. Twisted the nozzle to shut off the water. “Come here, Hot Dawg. Give Uncle Nicky a kiss.” Max scurried around the short ancillary mooring leading from the main dock. Nick reached over and picked her up with one of his large hands. He held her above his head, dancing to the song, Brandy, by the band Looking Glass, the music coming through the open door leading to the boat’s salon. “I missed you, lil’ Maxie.” She licked his face filled with salt and pepper stubble.
Nick wore a pair of red swim shorts faded from sun and surf. The lettering across his blue T-shirt read: Eat it raw at the Tiki Bar - Ponce Inlet, Florida. The image on the shirt was that of a dewy-eyed oyster in a bikini. He laughed and set Max down next to his brown, bare feet.
Nick Cronus was born a fisherman. He was a former sponge diver in the Greek islands before coming to America and gaining citizenship twenty-five years ago. His broad chest was thick with muscle. Forearms like Popeye. He sported a head of thick black hair, dark skin the color of sunbaked creosote on the nearby dock pilings. His playful eyes were black as coal and filled with mischief. He worked hard and played harder, often spending time at the Tiki Bar spinning tales with tourists, always looking for female companionship in all the wrong places with many of the wrong women.
But no one could be a better or more loyal friend. New to the area, and late one night, I pulled my Jeep into the marina parking lot as the Tiki Bar was closing and spotted Nick and two bikers in an argument. Within seconds they’d jumped him with a tire iron and knives. I pulled them off of him in a fight of fur, tats, beer breaths, and attitude. Before they lost consciousness, both of them swore they’d come back and kill me. The result was Nick lived to tell the tale to everyone who’d listen, and he said we’d be blood brothers for life.
And we are.
“Wynona,” he said, setting Max down in his cockpit and grinning. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks. I think a lot of it has to do with living next to the river and sitting on the dock with this guy to my right.”
“I’ll come up and give you a hug. We miss you around the marina. Sean, how come you can find a beautiful woman like Wynona? Life’s not fair, brother.” He eyed Wynona. “If I’d found her first, she go fishin’ with me and be my first mate. Right Maxie?”
Max looked up, angling her head. Wynona smiled. “Nick, you are the charmer. I’m sure you’re a hit with the ladies from here to Daytona Beach.”
He smiled. “Some, not all. That’s why I like winters in Florida ‘cause the northern women come south like snowbirds, lookin’ for a place to nest in the warm sun.” He laughed and sipped the bottle of beer, Nick’s face shining from sun and alcohol.
His boat, St. Michael, was unique among a sea of boats in the marina. St. Michael had a very high bow, able to plow through large waves in the ocean. The boat came with an Old World, ancient mariner’s mold and pedigree. It had a seafarer’s DNA with a lineage to boats that sailed the Mediterranean a thousand years ago.
“The neighborhood is vastly improving.” We turned. Dave Collins walked over from his 40-foot trawler, Gibraltar, directly across L dock, near Nick’s boat. Dave grinned and said, “Anytime we’re graced with Wynona’s presence, a woman who reminds me of my own sweet daughter, Ponce Marina is a better place.” He gave her a long hug. “How are you feeling? How’s your health?”
“Excellent, thanks to Sean and some much-needed rest.”
“Good. Are you two making a surprise visit today, or are you going to spend time on the water?”
I said, “We’re planning on sailing Dragonfly down to the islands. Maybe we’ll leave her there for a few months. It’ll give Wynona and I an excuse to get away more often.”
Dave grinned. “That sounds like the kind of aquatic rehabilitation that’s beyond medicinal—perhaps something that will heal the mind and body.”
Wynona smiled. “It was Sean’s idea. I’m already feeling guilty about taking so much time off from work.”
He nodded. Dave, in his mid-sixties, had a wide chest, neatly trimmed white beard. He wore a blue and yellow, tropical print shirt out and over his white shorts, leather flip-flops on his feet. He held a ceramic Starbucks coffee mug in one hand. His blue eyes were unreadable. After thirty years with the CIA, he learned how to hold his cards close to his chest.
Nick chuckled. “
Never feel guilty when it comes to sailing Mother Ocean.” He looked at me and winked. “I picked those words up from Savannah Nelson or maybe handed down from her mama. They’re right, the ocean is the mother of all Earth’s waters.” He glanced back at Wynona. “When Mother Ocean calls to you, just go girl. You can figure the rest out later.” He sipped his beer, white foam on his moustache.
“Come aboard,” Dave said. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen you two … pardon me, you three. I didn’t see Miss Max behind Nick’s transom. Although I did hear her bark. That’s what alerted me to your presence. I just caught something on the national news that’s giving this area in particular and Florida in general, the unabashed definition of the weird state. Come aboard for a look and listen as to why news reporters too often begin their stories by saying ‘in Florida today, there was another … just fill in the blank.”
EIGHTEEN
Detective Dan Grant placed the picture of the dead girl back in the file folder. He looked across the table at Monica and Chuck Martin and said, “Tell me about the boyfriend. Who is he?”
Monica removed a tissue from her purse and dabbed below her eyes. “His name is Craig Blake.”
“Do you know the last time your daughter saw Craig?”
“A couple of weeks ago. Before Michelle went to the casting call.”
“How would you describe their relationship?”
Monica glanced at her husband and looked back at Grant. “It was on again and off again. Every time they broke up, I prayed they’d not get back together.”
“Why?”
Chuck leaned back in his chair. “Because Craig was verbally abusive to Michelle. He has a quick temper. In my opinion, he treats women with contempt. After they broke up the first time and got back together, I told him I wouldn’t tolerate any abuse to my daughter, and if it happened again, my family was going to the police to file a restraining order.”
“How did he receive that?”
“He was apologetic. But he was always that way. Lots of saying ‘I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.’ Then he’d profess his love for Michelle. He pretends to change. But it’s temporary and superficial at best.”
“Do either of you think he could have killed your daughter?”
“Yes,” Monica said, folding her hands on the table and looking straight at Grant. “I think he has a mean streak that he tries hard to hide. Michelle told me things that frightened me.”
“What kind of things?”
“Some of the nasty names he’d call her if he thought she even looked at another guy. He is definitely the jealous kind. She told me that he grabbed her by the back of her hair and told her if she ever left him, she’d regret it.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“It’s been a little more than two months. I begged her to leave him. Every time she did, he would come to our house like a lovesick Tomcat looking to make amends, as my husband suggested.”
Grant looked across at Chuck. “What do you think, Mr. Martin? Do you believe Craig Blake is capable of murder when it came to your daughter?”
Chuck licked his dry lips, and a clicking sound came from his throat. “Unfortunately, yes. That’s why Monica and I were so fearful for Michelle.”
“Where does Craig live?”
“In Palm Coast. An exclusive, wealthy area, on a lake. He moved back in with his parents. I don’t have the address. It’s a large, stately home on a lake. And there’s a big royal poinciana tree in the front yard.”
Grant wrote in his notepad, the air-conditioning making a whispering sound blowing through the vents in the small room. “Do either of you have any information about the mermaid tail that Michelle was found wearing?”
Monica took a deep breath. “She was auditioning for a small part in the movie they’re going to be filming. She had attended a casting call and one call back. The producers are holding auditions at a private pool they’re leasing. Apparently, they would need at least seventy-five girls for the roles of mermaids. Michelle told me she had been invited back for another call-back round and that made her hopeful. She said the casting director thought she had a good look for one of the parts and wanted her to practice more with the tail.”
“Did she buy a mermaid tail?”
Chuck shook his head. “No, the casting guy let her borrow one.”
Grant took notes. “Why would Michelle be on the beach? Did she go there to practice?”
Monica looked down at the closed file folder. “She never told us she was going to the beach. She planned to practice in our pool. We have one in our backyard.”
“Did she share anything else about her time auditioning? People she met. How the casting session went. Things like that.”
Monica said, “She told me that she absolutely loved every minute of it. Michelle has always wanted to act. She was in all of her high school plays, and she was studying drama and theater arts at the University of Florida.” Monica glanced over at her husband and then turned to Grant. “She did tell me that there was one person, a man, who was there at the audition. She said he didn’t say much to any of the girls. But he did tell Michelle that he liked the way she swims. He said it reminded him of how a porpoise swims in the ocean. He asked her if she’d ever touched a porpoise. She hadn’t. He said porpoises are passionate … called them the Romeo and Juliet of the seas. Michelle said he had eyes that made her feel uncomfortable. She used the words creepy eyes.”
“Do you know his name?”
“She said it was a name easy to remember because it reminded her of one of her favorite places in Florida … Sebastian Inlet and one of her favorite characters in the movie Little Mermaid. His name was Sebastian. I don’t recall his last name.”
Grant nodded and took notes. He reached into the inside pocket of his sportscoat and pulled out a business card. He slid the card across the table to the Martins. “Please, take my card. If you can think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call me. I don’t care how small or insignificant you think it might be to the case, it could connect to another piece of the puzzle. Just call, okay?”
Monica released a deep breath. “We will.”
Grant closed his notebook and stood. “Thank you both for coming here today. You have my deepest sympathy. We’ll do everything in our power to catch the person who did this to your daughter.”
The Martins stood, Monica pulling her purse strap over one shoulder. She looked across the table. “Detective, we’d like to take Michelle to be buried in our family cemetery. When can we do that?” She tried to blink back the tears which rolled down her cheeks, her mouth like a knot.
“The ME will release the body very soon. They’ll call you to make arrangements for the funeral home to come get her.”
They nodded and moved around the table, Grant opening the door for them. He watched the Martins walk down the hall, into the lobby and exit the glass doors to the parking lot. Chuck placed his hand over his wife’s shoulders, Monica leaning closer to him, their emotional pain visible in the way they walked, as if every step was a burden.
Grant entered the foyer, using his phone to make a call to his office. The receptionist put him through the extension in the detective division. “Lawson, homicide.”
“Jason, the parents of Michelle Martin made a positive ID.”
“That’s good and bad at the same time. But I do feel really bad for them.” Lawson sat behind his desk, other detectives across the large room. His swarthy face was impassive, staring at a stack of phone messages on his desk. “The news hounds are all over this one. And I’m not just talking about the local guys. We’ve had calls from TV networks. If we’d simply found a girl’s body on the beach, that would be one thing. But, when she’s wearing the tail of a mermaid, that shoots the morbid curiosity factor into the stratosphere.”
Grant watched two TV news trucks enter the medical examiner’s parking lot. A black Ford Explorer followed them. The driver of the SUV parked, got out with another man and began unloading
a TV camera and sound equipment. A female reporter, a woman Grant recognized, got out of the passenger side, holding a phone to her ear.
“Dan, are you there?” asked Lawson.
“Yeah, I’m here. News media are arriving as we speak. I don’t want them talking with the ME, at least not yet, so it looks like I’m going to have to give a comment but no real comment soundbite. It’s an art.” Grant pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lawson smiled. “But you’ve become pretty good at it.”
“I try to keep open dialogue. Sometimes it’ll work to our advantage, but not always. There’s no such thing as off the record. The ME believes the time of death was eight hours before the body was found.”
“Which means she was killed away from where she was found.”
“Yeah … we have a homicide. And a damn strange one at that. Something else … see if you can find an address for a Craig Blake. He lives with his parents in Palm Coast, lakefront house.”
“No problem. Who is he?”
“Right now, he’s the best suspect we have. We need to ride over there and speak with him. After that I’m hoping we’ll know a lot more. How’s the investigation coming into the perp that abducted the little girl and took her down to the river?”
“She’s going to be okay. No physical damage. The emotional stuff will be tough. At least she’s alive. Oh, the reason she’s alive is due to the efforts of a guy who was in his Jeep when the Amber Alert was sent, and he spotted the perp’s car.”
“That observant? Who the hell is he?”
“Big, tall guy. And he knows you. Name’s Sean O’Brien. He told me to give you his regards.”
Grant said nothing, watching the TV news crews come closer.
“Dan, you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Whoever kidnapped that girl was lucky. From what I know about O’Brien in those kind of cases … he takes no prisoners. That’s one reason he’s no longer in law enforcement … or so the rumor goes. Gotta go. News guys are at the door. Grant ended the call and walked out into the bright sunlight, TV cameras staring back like one-eyed beasts that never blinked.