“He has a problem,” Emily said. “Drugs.”
“I see.”
More silence.
“He’s a really great guy when he’s not . . .” Emily didn’t finish.
“Thank you for bringing these to me, Emily.” Sarah moved away from the coffee table. “I don’t see any need for you to tell anyone about them, do you?”
Emily shook her head and got up stiffly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Watts. I guess I shouldn’t have brought them to you.”
“Yes, you should. You did the right thing.” Sarah held out her hand. “Here, I’ll take your cup.”
Emily stumbled to the door, Sarah shut it behind her and went back to the television set. She inserted “WATTS 1” again and watched it all the way through, fast-forwarding after each woman appeared. An hour of various women, seven or eight of them, all young, all taking showers, all completely unaware of someone spying on them. No one she knew.
She thought “WATTS 2” would be more of the same. But then she recognized one of the women. Then another. She simply couldn’t watch their private ablutions. She continued to fast-forward.
Something told her she had to view this to the end. She recognized several more of the women. The twins’ kindergarten teacher. The girl who taught riding at the stable. The Brazilian checkout woman at Cronig’s. All young women, ranging in age from teens to mid-twenties. She could hardly believe what she was seeing, videos that Roy had taken? Had Roy taken them? Her husband Roy? The upstanding civic leader, the town’s electrical inspector, scout leader, baseball coach? How long had he been filming naked women? She’d had no inkling of this hidden twist of his—that is, if Roy had taken those pictures. Would she, could she, even talk to him about this? What was she going to say? Or do?
She had another thought. Was this a game that was going both ways? One or more of the women calling Roy with suggestive talk?
If this was Roy’s little game, clearly Jerry Sparks had known about it. An awful thought crossed her mind. Was Jerry Sparks blackmailing Roy? That would explain Roy’s mood lately.
The Island’s grapevine unearthed deeply hidden secrets, seemingly without human intervention. The fact of Roy filming naked women in their showers would be all over the Island like—she couldn’t imagine anything with which to compare the speed of the Island grapevine.
CHAPTER 9
LeRoy had arisen early on Sunday, before Sarah awoke. He showered and shaved, then spent another full day fishing. He caught nothing. And nothing helped the sick feeling in his gut. All day, Jerry Sparks had perched on his shoulders.
When he got home, his wife and kids were eating supper. His wife turned away from him.
LeRoy put his gear away and hung up his waders in the mudroom. He washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink and looked for a towel.
“Don’t use my clean dish towels,” snapped Sarah.
He dried his face and hands on a paper towel and threw it in the trash. “You move the books okay?”
“She called twice yesterday.” Sarah still didn’t look at him. Probably mad at him. Who the hell was the caller?
Supper was leftover macaroni. Zeke and Jared squabbled and whined over nothing. Sarah stared at her plate.
LeRoy got a dish out of the cabinet and served himself from the casserole in the oven and sat at his usual place. Sarah continued to eat in silence.
“Something bothering you?” asked LeRoy.
“It’s nothing.”
“Suit yourself,” said LeRoy.
“Emily Cameron came by.”
“Who’s she?” Then he remembered. The baby-sitter. Jerry Sparks’s girlfriend. “Never mind. I know who she is. Lumpy girl with glasses and bangs.” LeRoy speared a forkful of macaroni and shoveled it into his mouth. “What did she want?” he asked, his mouth full.
“The ‘lumpy girl,’ as you call her, is trying to locate Jerry Sparks. It seems he’s disappeared.”
“Lucky her.”
“Jerry can be perfectly nice.”
“I’ve heard enough about Jerry Sparks.” LeRoy tossed his napkin onto his scarcely touched supper and got up from the table. The macaroni and cheese he’d shoveled into his mouth had stopped halfway to his stomach in a glutinous mass.
“She brought something to show me,” said Sarah to his departing back.
“Lucky you,” he said over his shoulder.
“Now where are you going?” Sarah asked.
“Out.” LeRoy slammed the front door behind him.
He drove to the unlighted parking area near the bike path in the state forest and made himself a nest in the back of his van with his sleeping bag and some plastic tarps. He twisted and turned all night, and the sleeping bag wrapped itself around and between his legs. As the night moved on, the cold metal of the van floor got harder and colder and the ghost of Jerry Sparks breathed his foul breath into his face and there was no place he could think of where he could escape.
When the dawn chorus began early Monday morning, first a robin, then doves, chickadees, cardinals, and blue jays, LeRoy, who hadn’t slept at all, shuffled off his sleeping bag and climbed into the driver’s seat. He had to get to the Steamship Authority office when it opened. He was exhausted. His mouth felt as though it was full of half-composted moss and the smell of Jerry Sparks clung to him.
Around the same time LeRoy was getting ready to head to the Steamship Authority office, Victoria Trumbull was hiking the quarter mile to the police station. She used the tip of her lilac-wood stick to turn over leaves to see what interesting plants were sprouting underneath.
This was the day LeRoy Watts had promised to come to fix the outlet her guest had blown up with her hair dryer. Fortunately, Nancy had decided to leave a day early.
Across the road to her left, grass had greened in Doane’s pasture, seemingly overnight. They’d be cutting the first hay in another few weeks. A catbird called from the wild cherry tree next to the road and another catbird answered. She breathed in deeply. The scent of lilacs was everywhere. Her own lilacs reached almost to her second floor and were laden with blossoms. Neil Flynn, who owned Katama Apiaries, had set up seven beehives in her pasture, and the lilacs hummed with his bees.
She paused to catch her breath before turning in at the parking area in front of the station. Ducks rose as she approached, and waddled off toward the Mill Pond.
Victoria straightened up, lifted her head, and climbed the steps into the station house. Casey was at her desk, scowling at something on her computer.
She turned, her scowl softening. “Morning, Victoria. You’re up early.”
“I’ve been out in my garden since the sun rose. My touch-me-not is going to bloom this season.”
“The year of touch-me-not and stalkers,” said Casey.
Victoria seated herself in the wooden armchair and unbuttoned her blue coat. “Is something wrong?”
“Stalking.” Casey picked up her stone paperweight and hefted it from one hand to the other. “Exactly what the speaker on Thursday was talking about. Jessica Gordon and Maron Andrews called me again to complain. I can’t do anything; the telephone company can’t do anything. They put a tracer on the calls.”
“And, I suppose, the stalker is using a prepaid disposable cell phone. Almost impossible to trace.”
“Where on earth did you learn that?”
“I get around.” Victoria laced her hands on the top of her lilac-wood stick. “We need to talk. Three women in the knitters’ group are getting unwanted calls.”
“Three? Who’s the third?” asked Casey.
“Alyssa Adams.”
“The EMT?”
“Yes.”
“The guy’s not threatening them, is he?”
“Mostly heavy breathing. Occasional obscenities.”
Casey swiveled in her chair. “It’s distressing for the women, I know, but unless they’re getting threats, we can’t do anything. Even with overt threats, there’s not a lot we can do.” Casey stood up. “Let’s make our rounds, Victoria. Too nice
a day to be inside worrying about stuff we can’t do anything about.”
“Can’t calls be traced somehow?”
“Every cell phone has a way of being identified for billing purposes,” said Casey. “But with disposable phones, you buy cards with minutes on them that the phone itself deducts. Can’t be traced.”
“Aren’t the calls relayed by a cell tower?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Casey. “I guess so.”
“That means we can locate the caller,” said Victoria.
“ ‘We,’ Victoria? Hardly. You’re talking about an entire army of technicians,” said Casey. “Before you get any more bright ideas, let’s get out of here.”
LeRoy opened a can of Mountain Dew from his cooler, rinsed his mouth with it, and spat it out onto the ground. Still feeling grungy, he drove to the ferry terminal and went into the men’s room, where he cleaned himself up.
The woman at the ticket counter who always looked cheerful and always had a great smile, greeted him. “Morning, Mr. Watts. Going to be a beautiful day. Can I help you?”
LeRoy attempted a smile in return. “I’m trying to remember Beany’s last name.”
“That’s funny. I just know him as Beany. Wait a sec.” She turned away from the ticket window and called out to another ticket seller. “Mike, what’s Beany’s name?”
“Albion. He’s a Fereira. Lives in Edgartown.”
“Oh, sure,” said LeRoy, not being sure at all. “I’ve done some work for them. Thanks.”
“No problem, Mr. Watts. Have a great day!”
“Thanks,” mumbled LeRoy. “Same to you.”
Back in his van, he started to page through the Island directory he kept in the glove compartment, when he remembered he’d promised to repair Victoria Trumbull’s upstairs outlet. He scribbled a note to himself to call her. First, though, he looked up Fereira in the phone book. He found listings in the directory for a dozen Fereiras. Four in Edgartown. No Albion.
He considered going back to the ticket office, and decided against making too big a deal out of trying to locate Beany. He took out his cell phone and punched in the number for the first Fereira in Edgartown.
“Beany? You want Irma, his mother,” said the woman, and gave him the number. “He in trouble again?”
“No, ma’am,” said LeRoy. “At least not that I know of. Thanks for the help.”
He checked the number in the directory, found a listing on Pine Street, and dialed.
“Beany’s my son. Haven’t seen him for a while.”
“Does he have a new computer?”
“No idea. Why?”
“He stopped by my shop on Friday, complaining about something one of my employees sold him. I was wondering if it happened to be a computer.”
“Want him to call you if he shows up?”
“I’m close by,” said LeRoy, thinking he could cover the eight miles to Edgartown in fifteen minutes. “Mind if I stop in and take a look?”
“Well,” said Irma. “I guess that’s all right. You know where I live?”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe I did some electrical work for you a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, sure, I remember you, I think.”
LeRoy closed his phone and headed toward Edgartown.
He made the trip in fifteen minutes and parked in front of the Fereira house. An Island car was out front, a green Citation held together with duct tape. The rear window was a sheet of plastic stuck in with more duct tape.
He knocked, and a short, plump woman wearing a flowing muumuu printed with magenta flowers came to the door. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled away from her face and held with plastic butterfly clips.
“Mrs. Fereira? LeRoy Watts.”
“Come in. Beany just got home.” She turned and called, “Beany! Some man to see you.”
“Who is it, Ma?” The lanky guy who’d come to the shop appeared from the back of the house. He wore a faded Red Sox cap and was drinking a Diet Coke.
“This man called about a computer,” said Mrs. Fereira.
“Yeah, Jerry Sparks’s boss. How’re ya doin’?”
“Not bad,” said LeRoy, who felt awful. “You said Jerry sold you some lemon. Was that his computer?”
“Come on in, Mr. Watts,” said Mrs. Fereira. “Don’t let all the warm air out.”
LeRoy entered the stifling house and shut the door behind him.
“Yeah, I bought his stinkin’ computer. Piece of junk.” Beany took a last swig of his diet Coke and crushed the can. “I put an ad up on the Cronig’s bulletin board and some guy came by and bought it after I talked to you. Sold it for more than I paid.”
“Who’d you sell it to?”
“I never got his name. He paid cash. What’s up?”
LeRoy thought for a moment. “I knew you were upset with Sparks. Wanted to help if I could.”
Beany lifted his cap and scratched his head. “The guy who bought it lives in West Tisbury. Drives an old white Volvo station wagon, if that helps any.”
“It’s not important. Thanks anyway.”
CHAPTER 10
Victoria stood at the foot of the station house steps, waiting for Casey to finish a phone call, when Howland Atherton pulled into the parking lot.
“Good morning, Howland,” she called out to him. “We were just leaving to do our rounds.”
“Morning, Victoria. Before you go off, I need to talk to you and the chief.” Howland was wearing his usual khakis with a dark knit shirt. A lanyard was looped around his neck, with a small metal object dangling from it.
Casey appeared and greeted Howland. “You look worried.”
“I am.”
“Come in, then. Our rounds can wait.”
Back inside, Victoria returned to her armchair, and Howland moved Junior Norton’s seat next to her and straddled it, his arms folded on the back. Casey returned to her desk and placed her hands flat on top of her large desk calendar. “Well?” she asked, turning to Howland.
Howland said, “A couple of days ago, I bought a used computer from Beany, one of the guys who works for the Steamship Authority. He’d acquired the computer from a buddy who needed some cash in a hurry, he told me.”
Casey picked up her beach-stone paperweight and rubbed the smooth surface. “Go on,” she said.
“Beany used the computer for a few days and decided it was a piece of junk.”
“Who’s the buddy he bought it from?” asked Casey, looking up.
“Jerry Sparks.”
“Oh,” said Victoria. She sat forward, hands on top of her lilac-wood stick.
Casey turned to her. “Jerry Sparks again.”
“You know him?” asked Howland.
“His boss—his former boss, LeRoy Watts—is coming to my house sometime today to repair an outlet.” Victoria stroked the smoothly sanded surface of her stick and settled back into her chair.
“Former boss?” Howland unwound himself from the chair and went to the window overlooking the Mill Pond, hands thrust into his pockets.
“LeRoy told me on Thursday he’d fired Jerry Sparks.”
“What about the computer?” asked Casey.
Howland turned from the window. “I went through the hard drive to see what was on it. Delete files I didn’t need, that sort of thing. One file was encrypted. I didn’t want to delete it until I knew its contents. When I finally did decode it . . . Well, that’s what I need to show you.”
Outside, the ducks quacked a few times, then settled down again. Through the window, Victoria could see wind riffling the surface of the Mill Pond.
“A police matter?” asked Casey.
“I’ll let you decide,” Howland replied, returning to his chair. “The file consists of a dozen or more short videos, apparently taken by a camera or cameras hidden in bathrooms and showing women taking showers.”
“Cameras installed without the resident’s knowledge?” Victoria asked. “Was the installer Jerry Sparks?”
“No way of knowing,” said Ho
wland. “The videos were on his computer. I downloaded them onto this thumb drive.” He lifted the lanyard with the inch-and-a-half-long metal object. “They’re disturbing, to say the least.”
“Jerry Sparks has free access to the places he works,” said Victoria. “I certainly have never watched over him. I suspect most people don’t.”
“Sparks has done work here in the police station,” said Casey. “He seemed competent enough.” She pushed her swivel chair away from her desk and stood up. “Can you download the videos onto my computer?”
“Sure,” said Howland.
“There’s something I should tell you,” Victoria said to Casey. “Alyssa Adams came to see me on Thursday evening.” She turned to Howland and explained. “She’s a member of the mathematical knitters’ group, and she, too, has been getting calls from the breather.” Victoria turned back to Casey. “Alyssa believes she knows who’s making the calls.”
“Not Jerry Sparks?” said Casey.
Victoria nodded.
“Double whammy, if he’s the one,” murmured Casey. “Phone calls and videos.”
“Did she recognize his voice?” asked Howland.
“He didn’t speak. But a couple of months ago, she had a movie date with Jerry that ended unsatisfactorily, and she’s been getting calls since then.”
“Did he ever identify himself?” asked Howland.
“He did in the first couple of calls. Jerry apologized and invited her on another date. She accepted the apology and declined the date. He called two or three times after that, getting more and more insistent.”
Casey shifted the beach stone from one hand to the other and back again.
“And after those first calls?” asked Howland.
“There was a period of several weeks when she didn’t hear from him, and then the calls started again, but this time they’ve consisted of heavy breathing or muttered obscenities.”
“How often does she get the calls?” asked Casey.
“At irregular intervals, two or three times a week.”
“The videos were filmed over several months,” said Howland. “Dates are noted on the right side, near the bottom. He may have used only one camera and moved it around. Many of the videos seem to have been taken in the same bathroom. Possibly a rental unit, or a gym or fitness center.”
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