by Dea Poirier
“So?” I sit down and unwrap a turkey club sandwich.
He pulls his laptop out of his bag. Just as I pop a french fry in my mouth, he scoots closer so he can show me his screen. Sitting this close to him kicks my heart up a notch and threatens to drag my thoughts away from the case.
“So I found some records about the Dyer brothers.”
“Go on.”
“They both left the island in 2005, about four months after Rachel died. Mayor Dyer had a heart attack not long after and died. Sheriff Jeb Dyer went to work for a police department in Massachusetts.” He clears his throat before continuing. “Jeb was only at the police station six months before he was fired.”
I gape at him. In my time at the Detroit Police Department, I only heard of one officer getting fired. It took years and several suspensions. Being a cop is filled with red tape, for better or for worse. Sometimes that red tape keeps departments from getting rid of assholes that shouldn’t be cops. “For what?”
“Destroying evidence.”
My eyes go wide at that. Destroying evidence is serious. “So he’s likely the guy who took those pages out of Rachel’s file, then.”
“But why would he do that? Unless he’s trying to cover up his involvement or maybe to cover for someone else,” Noah says as if reading my mind.
Could he really have killed Rachel? He couldn’t have killed Madeline, Emma, or any of the other recent victims; he’s long dead. “It doesn’t make any sense. What evidence did he destroy at the station in Mass?” Even though it’s unlikely I’ll be able to get anyone to breathe a word of it, as those things are confidential, I’ve got to start digging. “I’m going to find out why he was fired,” I say as I pop another french fry in my mouth.
“If there’s anyone who can, it’s you.” The way he looks at me lends me confidence—and also makes me want to rip his clothes off. But I don’t have time for that.
I put in a call to the Salem Police Department. I’m passed around the station for twenty minutes until I finally reach a man with a low, rocky voice.
“Banks,” he says when he answers. Even though I’ve only heard his voice, I can imagine him clearly by the misery in his tone. He must be a jowly, middle-aged man counting down the days until his pension kicks in. He probably hasn’t worked the streets since the nineties. I’ve worked with men just like him.
I introduce myself and wait to see if there’s a change in his tone so I can get a read on whether he’s going to be helpful.
He clears his throat, and I imagine him straightening up in his seat. “What can I do you for, Calderwood?” His voice drops an octave and comes in clearer, like he’s repositioned the phone.
“I’m looking for information on an officer who was fired from your station in 2005, Jeb Dyer,” I say and hold my breath. If I still believed in God, I’d say a silent prayer. The long pause makes tension gather beneath my skin. In the background, the commotion of the station cuts into the line. There’s a baby crying and two people arguing, but I can’t make out enough words to figure out what it’s over. He must be stuffed onto the floor, at a desk in the back, forgotten.
“You know I can—” he starts, but I interrupt him.
A thought has flickered from the back of my mind. I know someone who works in his station. Maybe it’ll help me grease these gears a little. “You’re in Salem, right? That must mean you work with Adam Gomez. He and I go way back.” Gomez worked with me in Detroit before transferring a year ago. “Look, I don’t need this for a case. It’s completely off the record.” The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. I’m not sure if he’s hung up on me or if he’s weighing his options. The background noise quiets, like he’s muffled the receiver.
“You know Gomez?” he asks and pauses. “You didn’t get this info from me, got it?” His voice is low, and I swear he’s talking closer to the receiver now.
“Of course. We never even spoke.”
“Someone caught him destroying files in disappearance cases,” he says, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, the line goes dead.
Disappearances here, disappearances there—what the hell did Sheriff Dyer get himself into?
CHAPTER 23
Gray morning light filters through the dingy striped hotel curtains. A glance at the clock warns me I needed to be out of bed fifteen minutes ago. It’s not that I need to be in the office at a set time. It’s that I need to get to the docks. A company name is etched on the side of every crab trap, and that’s the best lead I have to go on right now. If someone saw who took it, maybe then I could make some headway in this. There’s a good chance a fisherman might have seen something; they come and go at all hours.
I slide out of bed, and Noah groans while reaching for me. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to get to the docks. Interviews.” I lean over and kiss him on the forehead. “Sleep. I’ll see you later.”
“Eh, I might as well get up. I’ve got to write an article on the situation in the Middle East.” His voice falls, and he grimaces. He’s clearly not looking forward to it. “I hate writing these. Half the time the situation changes before I’m even done writing the article, and then I’ve got to start over.”
“I’m not sure if I’d rather investigate a murder or have to write that article,” I say as I pull my clothes on.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
After I change, I head downtown. A thick fog rolls off the bay; it spreads slowly, like blood. There are only a few people on the streets: an older woman walking a small poodle that must be freezing in this weather and a man shuffling quickly toward the café. When I get down to the docks, I see a flurry of activity as people scramble on and off the boats.
“Where’s the captain?” I ask a man in a thick leather coat as he stacks cages, a nub of a cigarette trapped between his chapped lips. He scratches his long gray beard and points down the docks. I nod my thanks and head in that direction.
My feet thud against the dock as I approach the captain. While everyone else is built wide, thick, this man is slender. If the boat shifted too hard in stormy seas, he’d be knocked overboard in an instant. He’s like a palm tree growing in the middle of a forest of oaks.
“Captain?” I ask.
He nods as he turns to look at me. “Ah, the new detective,” he says with a grin as he rubs his chin.
“I need to ask you a few questions, if you have a minute.” I pull out my notebook.
He cocks his head before asking, “I don’t need a lawyer, do I?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. I have a few questions about your operation, your employees. I’m looking for some connections to evidence I found.”
He nods. “Sure, let’s step over here.” He waves me away from the boat, toward Miller Ship Repair, the small shop Frank’s got set up near the docks. Frank looks at us, wide eyed, when the door jingles. He doesn’t get much foot traffic in here since he goes out to the docks to see the boats.
“We need to talk for a few minutes, if that’s all right,” the captain says to Frank.
“Of course. I’ll be in the back if you need me,” Frank says as he ambles out of the room.
“So what do you want to know?” the captain asks as he leans against the door. “I’m Adrian Hopkins, by the way.” He holds his hand out. His skin is rough and calloused beneath my hand. Adrian has about a foot on me. He doesn’t look like a fisherman. While the typical man at the docks is grizzly and a bit feral looking, Adrian is clean shaven and kempt.
“Good to meet you,” I say as I pull out my notebook. “Have you had anything go missing from your boats recently?”
He crosses his arms and laughs. “There’s always something going missing on my damn boats.”
“Can you be more specific about what usually goes missing?” I ask as my eyebrow rises.
“Rope, tools, crab, lobster.” He chuckles again. “That specific enough?”
“You have any traps go missing recently?”
&nb
sp; “At least one a week,” he says as he shrugs as if it’s no big deal. I’m sure they’re not expensive, but it’s not like they’re free. “It’s the nature of the business. Some never come up when the traps are set.”
“Have you seen anyone taking them? Or seen anyone suspicious around the boats?”
He shakes his head and shifts weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve heard from the guys once that they caught someone, but he ran onto a boat. They haven’t seen him again after that.”
“Is there anyone in particular you think might be taking the items?”
“For a while, I thought maybe it was Carver Fishing, but when I talked to Tom Carver about it, he’d had a few stolen too.”
“Are there any employees you’ve both let go who might steal things to get back at both of you?”
He uncrosses his arms and walks across the room to peek out the window. “Most of the guys on the boats, they’ve got a criminal record. I don’t have much of a choice. There aren’t a whole lot of people who want to work on a boat anymore. So we work with whoever seems willing—but also remorseful for their past,” he explains. “They’re not bad guys, really.”
It’s not that surprising; I know about the history between fishing and criminal activity. At the very least I’ve got to ask if there could be any leads from this.
“Do you keep records of what each of the guys did before getting here?” I ask.
“I don’t. I mostly have a ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. I’d rather not know, you know? As long as they do the job and don’t cause any problems, what business is it of mine?”
I know he’s got a business to run, but that doesn’t excuse it. The thought that there are criminals on these boats has always been in the back of my mind, but I hoped none of the guys were violent. Who knows at this point.
“One of the guys, though, I doubt he’s going to stay for long. He’s gotten locked up for beating his girlfriend a few times now,” he explains and turns around to face me. “You’re looking for who killed Madeline—that’s what this is about, right?”
I nod. “Yes, it is.” I glance over toward the boat, my eyes skimming the crew. “Who’s the guy that assaulted his girlfriend? Do you think he could have done something to Madeline?”
“I don’t think he’d do anything like that.” He crosses his arms and takes a step closer. When he speaks again, his voice is much lower. “I saw Madeline talk to him a few times, though. She came down to talk to the guys a lot more often than she should have, but you didn’t hear that from me. I called in a tip to your station about it.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard about her trips to the docks; it’s the first I’ve heard of his tip, though.
Vince didn’t have any luck with his questioning, so I decide to ask, “What was she talking to them about?” Though I suppose the answer is Adderall, she could have also been looking for another boat to spend time on.
“She was flirting with them, like she was trying to find herself a boyfriend down here. The guys would talk to her—she’s a pretty girl, after all—but everyone knew who she was. They knew how young.”
“Can you point out the guy she interacted with the most?”
“Of course,” he says. He motions toward a guy with shaggy brown hair and a coat that’s so big on him I think he might have taken it from someone else.
“That’s the guy who assaulted his girlfriend as well?” I confirm.
He nods and shifts away from me, like he can’t wait to be rid of me.
I open the door, and he follows me back to the docks. “If you see anything else.” I hand him my card.
“You’ll be the first to know. Feel free to talk to the guys; maybe they can help you out. They see things that I don’t.”
“Thanks—I’ll do that,” I call back.
The docks creak beneath my feet, the boats are swimming with fishermen, and the gulls are circling above us, begging for scraps like winged hound dogs. This is a futile exercise, just like when I sent Vince out here. None of them are going to talk. If they’ve ever been to jail, they know the danger of blabbing. Then again, if I can’t get a word out of them, I can always see if Noah has better luck.
I imagine myself at fifteen again, caution thrown to the wind, walking down these docks with my best friend at my side. When you’re naive, these men are dangerously alluring. They’re the key to an outside world that you can’t touch otherwise. When you’re looking through the lens of a homicide detective, they might as well be wrapped in warning signs.
“Excuse me,” I call as I approach the first boat.
“Hey, sugar,” a man calls in a singsong voice. He has shaggy brown hair and eyes so dark I’d swear they were black. Luckily, this is the guy the captain said I should talk to, the guy who thinks his girlfriend is a punching bag.
If I didn’t need answers, I’d kick this asshat into the bay. I almost wish my jacket weren’t covering my rig; that usually intimidates this type.
“I’ve got a few questions, if you have a minute.”
“Shit, she’s a cop,” one of the guys mumbles under his breath.
“Hottest cop I’ve ever seen,” the first guy says as he flashes his teeth at me. “You got cuffs?” He drags his tongue across his yellow teeth. “I love cuffs.”
I sneer as I bite back the comment waiting on my tongue. It’s as sharp as a barb.
When I don’t respond to the cuffs comment, he takes a step toward me and crosses his arms. “What questions have you got, sugar?”
“Have you seen this girl recently?” I ask, pulling up a picture of Madeline on my phone.
He grins a little too wide for my liking. “She, uh, she came down here a lot.” It’s clear on his face that he’s not lying. Chances are she wasn’t just coming to the docks; she was coming here to see him.
“What was she coming here for?”
The other guys back off, thankfully. I’ll take one person willing to give me info over the others.
He shrugs and looks back toward the bay. “The usual—vodka, cigarettes. She asked about Adderall a few times. But, of course, I don’t give those kinds of things to underage girls. And I don’t dabble in pharmaceuticals.”
“Of course not,” I say, not believing a word of it.
“There was something different, though. She asked if I could get her and a boy off the island without anyone knowing.” He shakes his head and looks me dead in the eyes. “No one out here is going to be willing to commandeer their boss’s boat to ferry kids off the island, especially not me. I’ve got kids of my own.”
His voice is serious, firm. Every hint of the smile he had earlier is gone.
“Was there anyone around here you can think of who she might have asked, or who would have agreed to that arrangement?” I’d imagine most of the guys wouldn’t be interested in helping a couple of sixteen-year-olds get off the island. That’s more likely to get them locked up than weed.
He crosses his arms. “I’ve got no doubt she asked others. She was a determined, fiery thing. But no one would have taken her. That’s a whole world of trouble none of us want. Some of us might have gotten in trouble before, but we don’t mess with kids. We don’t put them in danger. And we sure as hell wouldn’t take them off the island.”
I nod. “If you think of anything else, give me a call,” I say as I slip him my card.
“Is that the only reason I can call?” he asks, his smirk returning.
“I’m not on the market, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say as I start to walk away.
“Sounds temporary to me,” he calls back.
CHAPTER 24
The next day, a cold snap has gripped the island. I step outside my rental with my coat bundled around me, but it’s so frigid that winter rips the breath from my lungs. My car offers little reprieve against it; though I turn the heat on, it doesn’t do much more than circulate the cold air around. I back out of the driveway and steer toward the church. A few of the victims have come
from outside of the church, but a majority have had some connection. I need to determine why this killer is so interested in the church and if Father Samuel has any new information for me. The streets of the city are nearly empty, thanks to the Thanksgiving holiday but I know Father Samuel will be here. I pull in to the church parking lot and walk toward the building.
Outside a hard freeze has seized the island, and I can almost imagine the cold grip of winter squeezing the town. Though I’ve got on one of my thickest jackets, it does little to shield me from the wind. Icicles nearly three feet long hang from the roofline of the church, and I try to keep a healthy distance from them. When I step through the double doors, it’s only slightly warmer inside than it was out.
What seem like a thousand white candles flicker on the altar, casting a shifting light on the wall behind them. Father Samuel stands in front, backlit as if shrouded. He turns slowly when the door snaps shut behind me and takes a few steps from the altar. As he grows closer, it’s as if a dark shroud is being lifted.
“Claire, it’s so good to see you,” he says with a warm smile.
“Could I steal a few minutes of your time, Father?” I ask as I reach him in the middle of the room.
He leads me to the front pew and motions at it. “Will this do, or would you rather speak in my office?”
“For now, this will work,” I say. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is coming in. If they do, then I’ll suggest that we move.
“What can I help you with today?”
“I’m here because of the investigation. I’m deeply concerned about the continued safety of the girls that are members of this church,” I say.
“I am as concerned as you are,” he says gravely, his brown eyes shadowed with worry.
“Since our last conversation, I wanted to see if you have noticed anything here at the church that has troubled you.”
He shakes his head. “No, though I did want to tell you that your mother has decided to step away from the choir group. She’s no longer participating; Mrs. Miller has stepped in instead.”