by Dani Pettrey
Avery explained they were looking for her missing friend, and that Sebastian might know where she was.
The man mulled it over and then said, “Girlfriend was shorter than Sebastian. Five-three or four, at most. Shoulder-length brown hair. Seemed nice enough.”
“Any idea where she lives?”
“May have said something about Glen Burnie once, but I could be wrong. I’m not really the sort who keeps tabs on people. For that you’d want Miss Edith.”
“Miss Edith?” Avery asked.
He gestured toward the house across the street, and the front curtain quickly fell back in place.
Parker nodded. “Thanks.”
“Take it easy.” The man waved and headed back up his front steps.
“Oh, wait,” Avery said, rushing toward him and pulling Skylar’s picture from her pocket. “Any chance you saw her around Sebastian’s?”
“Nope.”
“That was a quick response.”
“Trust me, I’d remember seeing her. Is she the one missing?”
Avery nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Hope you find her.”
“Thanks. Appreciate your time.”
She joined Parker in walking across the street, dodging the kids riding their bikes in the street. They walked past the mature dogwood in the front yard and climbed the steps of the row home, the brick painted red, the shutters white.
Avery rang the bell, and a dog started yapping. A moment later, the little dog, a Jack Russell from the looks of it, poked his nose through the lace curtains and jumped up into the bay window seat.
The door opened and a petite red-haired woman with misty blue eyes stared up at them. “So you wanna know about the photographer.”
Hope sprung in Avery’s chest. “Yes.”
Edith turned and slunk back into her house, leaving the door open for them to follow. “There ain’t much to tell.”
“Anything you can offer might be helpful.”
She turned, narrowing her eyes, wrinkles sagging at the corners. “What’s this about?”
The dog jumped down, following Edith closely.
“We think he may be able to help us find my friend.” Avery handed her Skylar’s picture.
“Pretty girl.”
“And missing.”
Edith handed the picture back. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Did you ever see her around here?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know where Sebastian moved to?”
“In with that girlfriend of his.”
“This girlfriend have a name?”
“Megan Kent.”
A match to another set of the fingerprints found in Skylar Pierce’s apartment.
Avery’s heart thumped like a whale plummeting back into the depths of the ocean as they drove toward Glen Burnie and Megan Kent’s home—at least going by her last known address. The couple, according to Edith, had been together awhile, but Sebastian liked his privacy and space, apparently only starting to bring Megan around recently.
As private as he was, it was a surprise to Edith when he actually agreed to move in with somebody else.
Money trouble was Edith’s theory. But all that mattered to Avery was that they were about to question two of the people who’d been in Skylar’s home, and most likely the photographer who’d taken her picture.
Other than the prints of Nadine, who had taken the photo off the gallery wall, the frame and picture had been fingerprint free, suggesting whoever had handled the image had worn gloves, which indicated either a meticulous clean freak—which Edith said Sebastian was not—or someone who didn’t want the portrait traced back to him. Was that because it would enrage Gerard or because something more sinister was at play? She swallowed, Parker’s earlier words coming back to haunt her. “Eyes dilate upon death.”
Please, Father, don’t let Sky be dead.
15
After leaving Lennie, Declan and Lexi had walked the neighborhood, checked in with a few business owners, and then grabbed a couple dogs from G&A. Declan’s cell rang as they climbed into his Suburban, Lexi slipping her sunglasses on and her blazer off.
“Grey,” Declan said, answering the call while also shrugging out of his blazer.
“Agent Grey, it’s Bob Matthews.”
Bob Matthews was head of Maryland Port Authority. An odd person to get a call from.
“Hey, Bob. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a situation down here at MPA Terminal Six. We could use your help.”
“No offense, but isn’t the harbor yours and the Coast Guard’s area?”
“I called your director. He told me to call you and your partner. I’ll call Agent Kadyrov next.”
“No need. She’s right here with me.”
Lexi looked over with arched brow.
“How can we help you, Bob?” FBI didn’t typically have jurisdiction at the docks.
Bob? Lexi mouthed.
Matthews, Declan mouthed back.
“We’ve got smuggled refugees, a dead first mate, and a dead federal agent.”
Shock surged through Declan, and he swallowed hard. “We’ll be there in twenty.”
“What’s up?” Lexi asked.
Declan explained the situation as they headed for the port.
Twenty minutes later they arrived to a mirage of swirling red patrol lights dancing through the parking lot as MPA police cordoned off the area.
Parker and Avery approached Megan Kent’s home. The exterior was a combination of brick and tan siding. A carport stood at the end of the short drive, lining up with the house’s side door.
For some reason it wasn’t what Parker had anticipated, but he wasn’t sure why exactly. It looked too domestic, he supposed, like a home a family shared. And from what he knew of Sebastian, based almost solely on Skylar’s portrait, he did not seem a settled or happy man.
Parker knocked on the storm door while Avery stood beside him, scoping out the neighborhood. It was quiet. No kids playing. The only other person he spotted was an elderly man mowing his lawn.
A young lady opened the door. She was about five-three, as Sebastian’s neighbor had described. Slender. Mousy brown hair and light brown eyes—the color of amber. “Hi, we’re looking for Sebastian Chadwyck.”
She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t we all.”
“Excuse me?” Parker asked.
“I haven’t seen Sebastian.”
“Since . . . ?” Avery asked.
“Last night.”
“Are you Megan?”
“Yeah.” She looked directly at Avery. “Who are you?”
“Avery Tate, and this is Parker Mitchell. Can we ask you a few questions about Sebastian?”
“What’s this about?”
Parker explained they were looking into the disappearance of a young woman Sebastian had recently photographed.
Megan frowned, her eyes narrowing. “Who?”
“Skylar Pierce.”
Anger burned in her eyes. “He photographed her?”
“Yes. Apparently shortly before she disappeared.”
“You’re certain?”
“That’s what we’ve been told, but we need to talk to Sebastian to be positive.”
“Where’s the photograph?” she asked, irritation streaked across her freckled face.
“We have it,” Avery said.
“Before we talk anymore, I want to see it.”
“It’s evidence in a criminal investigation. We can’t just bring it.”
Megan linked her arms across her chest. “Then I’m not talking.”
“What if we took a picture on my cell of it?” Avery asked, praying it would suffice.
Her jaw shifted. “Fine. Bring me the picture of it, and then I’ll talk.” Megan slammed the door.
16
Agent Grey, Agent Kadyrov.” Maryland Port Authority director Bob Matthews strode toward them wearing a navy blue suit, navy-and-white pinstripe shirt, and yellow tie. Very
professional but still personable—the image the director had been trying to portray as he worked to make Baltimore America’s number one transit port. “Thank you for coming. Let me introduce you to the key personnel.”
He escorted them aboard the Hiram, a merchant ship flying the Malaysian flag.
Coast Guard, MPA, and Customs were all present. The refugees were huddled with extremely itchy-looking gray blankets draped across their trembling shoulders. Declan’s heart went out to them. He couldn’t believe what he was about to suggest, or rather who, but it was clear no one was helping the refugees, just guarding them. “I know a wonderful crisis counselor with the Intercultural Resource Center. I could call her if it would be of help with the refugees.”
“Excellent idea. We’ve been so focused on the murders we hadn’t paid much attention to them.”
“Tanner, huh.” Lexi rocked back on her heels with a smirk.
“Not you too.” He stepped away and placed the call and, unsurprisingly, Tanner agreed to come straight away. Whenever someone was in need.
Meeting back up with Lexi and Bob on the deck, he followed as Bob led them up the exterior ladder and onto the bridge, where two men lay dead on the floor.
Declan surveyed the scene, knowing he wanted Parker on the case. The Coast Guard Investigative Service crew was already in place, but once they made their initial assessment, they typically turned the case over to local authorities, or in this case—with a dead federal officer—to the FBI, which meant Lexi and him. CGIS’s work was impeccable—Declan had no major concerns with them—but Parker was the best. “Run me through what happened here?” he asked.
“Row”—Bob signaled to one of the CGIS men—“can you spare a minute? These are the federal agents I called in.”
The man—tall, at least six-two, with short cropped hair and a muscular swimmer’s build—joined them.
Bob said, “This is Special Agent Grey with the FBI and his partner, Special Agent Kadyrov.”
Declan extended his hand. “Declan.”
“Noah Rowley.” That explained the Row nickname. Somehow fitting, given his profession.
“Lexi,” she said, shaking his hand in turn.
Declan rolled his eyes at her flirtatious tone.
“Rowley,” Bob said, “is the CGIS Special Agent in Charge.”
“So you’re leading the investigation?” Declan asked, just so he knew exactly who Rowley was and where he stood in the hierarchy. It was always good to confirm every person’s role when multiple agencies were involved.
“For now,” Rowley said. “But we’ll turn it over once we’ve finished our assessment.”
“Can you run me through it?” Declan asked.
“Of course. The ship was five nautical miles out of the harbor when a fishing vessel heard shots fired on board. They radioed the Coast Guard immediately, and when our men boarded, they found two dead on the bridge, the captain unconscious, a crew in disarray, and twenty-four refugees in the hold. They then directed the ship into Terminal Six and called Customs and Immigration. We’re still waiting on an Immigration rep to arrive.”
“You said one of the deceased is . . . was a federal agent?” Lexi asked.
“His name is Steven Burke. He’s an agent out of Houston. Had no ID on him. We ran his prints. He was dressed like a crew member.”
“Was he undercover?”
“Not according to his superior. Apparently he asked for personal leave almost two months ago. Was due to return to duty next week.”
“So what was he doing on a merchant ship flying a Malaysian flag, and who killed him?” The federal agent’s presence and circumstances made no sense. Had the guy just decided to ask for a two-month leave to sign on to a Malaysian merchant crew? Nuh-uh. Steven Burke was up to something. Perhaps something personal, but definitely something investigative.
Bob slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “That’s why we called you two.”
Declan’s gaze tracked from Steven Burke lying on the floor to a man lying a bit closer to the door.
“The first mate,” Noah said. “Joseph Contee. Citizen of Tanzania.”
Declan spun around looking for someone in custody and not finding anyone. Perhaps they’d moved the killer belowdecks. “And the shooter?”
“The captain claims Burke opened fire on the first mate and then moved to shoot him,” Noah explained. “But the captain pulled a revolver kept on the bridge in case of pirates and shot Burke before slipping backward and conking his head on the control panel. He says no other crew members were present, and that has been corroborated by the crew members we have spoken to so far.”
Declan surveyed the bridge. “May I speak to the captain?” Undoubtedly the man seated next to the control panel with the icepack on his head and a medic at his side.
He and Lexi strode to the man, Bob Matthews following, and Noah returned to his work.
“Captain Randal Jackson, federal agents Declan Grey and Alexis Kadyrov,” Bob said.
Jackson nodded.
“Are you American?” Lexi asked.
“Kentucky born and raised,” Jackson said, a hint of Kentuckian accent remaining.
“Later you’re going to have to tell me how you ended up captaining a Malaysian merchant ship, but for now I need you to tell me what happened here,” Lexi said, squatting beside him.
“That man”—Jackson lifted his chin, indicating Noah—“just did.”
Declan purposely stood over the man rather than squatting to his level. “So you’re sticking with that story?” Because he just couldn’t see it playing out that way. Not without some pretty extreme extenuating circumstances.
“It’s not a story,” Jackson said heatedly. “It’s the truth.”
So the captain had a hair-trigger temper. Even more interesting. No sense pressing the issue just yet though. Ballistics would either confirm or contradict Jackson’s story.
Jackson removed the icepack from his head, and Declan leaned over to survey the gash and dried blood on the back of Jackson’s head. It was an awful lot of damage for a slip and knock. Looked more like someone had whacked him over the head—with what, he wasn’t sure. But why claim he fell if he’d been hit over the head instead? Unless he wanted to be hit over the head.
“Any idea why Agent Burke would want to shoot you and your first mate?” he asked, extremely curious about Jackson’s assessment of what led up to the shooting.
“Because the first mate discovered his true identity,” Jackson finally said.
“And . . . ?” Declan left it there. Better to let Jackson try to fill in the pieces.
“And he panicked.”
Now he knew Jackson was lying. Federal agents didn’t panic when their cover was blown unless they had a serious reason to.
“Did he have cause to panic?” Lexi asked.
“What do you mean?” Jackson scoffed, tenderly touching his wound.
Was he intentionally trying to draw attention to his injury, to remind them he was a victim?
“Had Burke been threatened? Had he discovered something he wasn’t supposed to?” Lexi pressed.
Jackson frowned. “Like what?”
“The refugees in the hold for one,” she said, disgust for their mistreatment evident in the heightening of her typically throaty voice.
Declan studied Jackson. “Did you know Burke was a federal agent when he joined the crew?”
“No. How would I know something like that?”
“So you just thought he was one of the crew?”
“Yeah.”
“How did it make you feel when you learned Burke was a federal agent?” Lexi asked.
Jackson shrugged.
“That’s not an answer,” Declan said.
“I don’t know. Guess I haven’t thought about it.”
Yep. The captain was most definitely lying. The question was why and to what extent?
Bob Matthews cleared his throat. “Agent Grey, your associate is here. They are holding her at the
tape line until one of us escorts her in. I thought you could accompany me.”
He looked to his partner, and Lexi gave a nod, signaling him to go. She had this.
“Of course,” he said, moving to Bob’s side.
They climbed back down the ladder, the metal hot beneath Declan’s grip.
“You think the captain’s lying, don’t you,” Bob said.
“It crossed my mind.”
Bob straightened his jacket and tightened his tie as he stepped onto the deck. “All I care about is bringing the man or men responsible to justice.”
He wanted a quickly closed case—not a publicity nightmare for the port’s image.
Declan spotted Tanner on the other side of the yellow-and-black crime-scene tape, her hair blowing in the stale breeze. Even the slight wind coming off the water felt hot in the humid August air. It was a blistering weekend.
Tanner shifted from one foot to another and back again.
Curious. Was she simply anxious to help, or was something else going on? A few more steps in her direction and he spotted the source of her shifting. She was wearing paper-thin flip-flops. Her feet had to be burning on the scalding asphalt.
“She’s with me,” he said, approaching the officer guarding that portion of the line.
The officer gestured her in under the tape.
“Thanks,” Declan said, and the officer nodded.
“Tanner Shaw, Bob Matthews.”
Bob shook her hand. “Thank you so much for coming, but I’m not certain how much help you’ll be able to offer. It appears none of them speak English or they simply aren’t talking.”
“It could be either case, but I do speak a number of languages. Hopefully one of them fits.”
“Well, I appreciate you coming down on such short notice.” Bob looked across the parking lot to the gathering reporters. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a statement to make.”
“Of course,” Declan said.
“I’m surprised you called,” Tanner said.
“I’m surprised you wore what are basically sheets of paper on your feet when you were coming on a ship. Your feet must be burning.”
Now that Bob had excused himself, she was practically hopping.
“I’m fine. Besides, I was at a friend’s when you called. We were heading to the beach for the day.”