Caribbean Moon (A Manny Williams Thriller, Book One)

by Murcer, Rick

  How did this happen? It was a wedding celebration and a Caribbean cruise. It doesn’t get much more harmless than that.

  The ship’s security staff had taken over the murder scene and cleared the deck so they could process the area and move Liz’s body to the infirmary. Richardson made it quite clear that cops from Lansing would be treated no differently from the rest of the guests, and he would call them when he needed them to identify the body. Manny started to argue, but thought better of it. Richardson was an ass, but even more so, a fool if he thought Manny wasn’t going to be a part of this investigation—with or without the security chief’s pointless approval. No one was going to put him, or the rest of the Lansing contingent, on the sidelines.

  He studied his hands, but didn’t really see them. He’d never been in this situation before. Far from home, no jurisdictional rights, and in unfamiliar surroundings: the trifecta.

  Nothing about any murder case on a cruise ship could be considered routine, especially given the emotional investment they all had with Liz. There were too many people with too many opportunities to contaminate evidence, and a clever killer would find it relatively easy to hide in a population of 5,300 people. Particularly when the ship’s senior staff wanted to keep a lid on things. It wasn’t a sound business practice to have dead bodies hanging out of lifeboats.

  Nothing like shoveling shit against the tide.

  He funneled a glance toward Alex. He was glad he had brought the chubby CSI to the morgue. Maybe Alex could see something that the ship’s staff wouldn’t or hadn’t. He had a feeling that crime-scene processing was rare on a cruise ship, and the people doing it weren’t that talented. At least not like Alex. To top things off, there had been no sign of Lynn anywhere. Where in hell was he?

  Over ninety percent of spousal deaths and assaults were committed or conspired by the other spouse, so that made Lynn a natural place to start the questioning, but they had to find him first.

  Manny’s thoughts churned over what Sophie had told him earlier—that Lynn was involved in an affair. How he took pleasure in getting his rocks off imitating the Count De Sade. Manny wanted to find Lynn first.

  If Lynn did this, then where is he now? Maybe he jumped ship after he killed Liz. But he has no money or ID. Is this an elaborate scheme to get rid of Liz and start over?

  What if it isn’t Lynn? Is he in a lifeboat too? How did Liz get into the boat without detection?

  The questions bombarded him like some frantic finale from Lord of the Dance.

  Dr. Simon Kristoff—from Kazakhstan, according to his worn name tag— entered the tiny waiting room, and Manny and Alex rose and shook his hand. The doctor’s round face was ashen and drawn. His already thin lips were mere lines grooved across his face. The doctor’s eyes were glazed over like he had seen the impossible or something close to it.

  “Are you all right?” asked Manny.

  Kristoff stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “No, I think not. In all of my years of training and studying medicine, I have never seen anything like this.” The doctor had a thick, Russian accent. “It is beyond vicious.”

  “What did you see?” quizzed Alex. “It can’t be that bad.”

  Manny thought maybe it could.

  Dr. Kristoff stared at the men and, without another word, motioned for them to follow as he turned back toward the examination rooms.

  They walked through whitewashed rooms with black, padded patient tables tilted on forty-five-degree angles. Several instrument cabinets housing medical paraphernalia eyed them as they moved past.

  The doctor led them through another door on the other end of the hospital, and Manny was surprised at the sign above the entrance. MORGUE.

  He looked at Alex. “Morgue? On a cruise ship?”

  Alex nodded. “It makes sense. I read somewhere that as many as a hundred people a year pass away while cruising. Usually older folks with health problems.”

  “Not something they put in the commercials,” said Manny.

  Alex smiled a tired smile. “Not good for their image.”

  As they walked through the last door, Manny noticed four brushed-steel, rectangular doors about the size of a dormitory refrigerator on the right, kitty corner from the entrance. He looked closer and saw a name on one: Rose Charles. He wondered what had happened to poor Rose.

  To the left were two stainless steel tables situated about eight feet apart. Each one had a large umbrella light hovering above it. The lamp on the second table spotlighted a sheet-covered body.

  The doctor strode to the second table and grabbed the white, bloodstained sheet, then hesitated. “Are you ready for this?” Without waiting for an answer, he rolled the sheet down to the victim’s waist.

  Hot, stinging silence raced up and down Manny’s body as the two friends took in the sight of Liz Casnovsky’s body. Manny swallowed hard. He heard Alex catch his breath.

  Angry tears of frustration and sorrow burned a path down Manny’s cheeks. He just wanted to leave his body and come back when things were normal, when God had restored sanity to the unholy portrait in front of him. Maybe then.

  Liz’s neck and chest were ransacked. Shreds of skin and muscle were tangled everywhere. Bite marks riddled both sides of her once pretty face. There was a small section of orbital bone bulging under her left eye. She barely resembled the hard-charging attorney that he’d grown to love.

  Some things never leave you. A good song. Your first kiss. A religious experience. The first time you make love. The birth of your first child. Your first car. But nothing could attach itself to a man like a violent crime scene. Its memory, forever blistered into one’s psyche, could eviscerate wonderful recollections and render one sleepless for nights without end.

  It seemed impossible that he would ever see anything like this again. Even the textbooks said so. But the textbooks were wrong. All that was pure screamed that such a depraved scene couldn’t exist again. Not in a million years, not on a cruise ship, and especially not to his friend. But here it was.

  Kristoff reached over to a small, steel table and picked up an object. It was wrapped in a plastic evidence bag, but still easy to recognize. Resting in the bag was a black rose with bloodstains running down the length of its foot-long stem.

  “We found it underneath the body.”

  Manny heard Alex mumble something under his breath. Then, as if he realized he hadn’t spoken clearly, he said it again. “Sylvia Martin’s killer.”

  CHAPTER-31

  Liz’s killer stood on his private balcony, basking in the sultry, late-night air, draped in his arrogance. The full Caribbean moon’s cloying light adorned his huge body. He hardly looked human.

  The train was in motion and picking up steam. His plan had begun to unwind just as he hoped it would. Even better. The ship’s security staff consisted of inbred misfits, especially their fearless leader, Craig Richardson, and wouldn’t be any challenge.

  A sneer enveloped the killer’s smooth-shaven face as he thought about the New York cop. The incompetent dick never had expected to be in the middle of a grandiose crime scene like this one. He was probably in his room right now playing kissy face with a bottle of rum hoping this would all be gone in the morning.

  He laughed. I’m not going anywhere.

  The FBI would be brought in, and Williams could be a problem, but that only made the plan more of a challenge, better. For him, at least.

  Feds or otherwise, none of them would ever suspect what was coming next.

  His concentration slithered back to his years at the godforsaken prison. It was where he’d developed, where he’d figured out life—and death. No one should have to be exposed to what he had seen and heard. But for him, there had been a spiritual teacher, a reciprocal lover, and an opportunity to be reborn, instead of the hopeless resignation that usually accompanied prison life. He had risen from the ashes, like the mythical Phoenix. That shithole had been the equivalent of elemental soup, where some scientists said life developed.
Order from chaos.

  There were so many truths learned by immersing one’s self in full-bore survival mode. He had fooled them all, and had more than survived. He had become.

  He’d mimicked all the right responses and avoided the wrong, playing their game and winning.

  Not one single degrading thing he had been subjected to would control him again. He had made that promise to himself and intended to keep it.

  Turning from the past, the killer’s thoughts skipped to his next “assignment.” This one would be better. Not that making sure the Casnovskys were taken care of hadn’t been a real pleasure. But this one would be . . . mindboggling.

  The more he thought about the next day, the more his body stirred. His thighs began to twitch, and he had become aroused to a steel-hard state. Blood vibrated through his veins. He could not contain himself any longer. Visions of her spun in his mind.

  It will be so good.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the plan. He had to stay clear, unattached, unemotional, setting aside any desire he might possess—because the only thing that mattered was completion of the goal.

  He slowed his breathing until it became shallow and controlled. His muscles, his entire system, bridled down enough so that he could get dressed for dinner. A meal with all the trimmings was just what the doctor ordered.

  As he left the room, his contemplation was about the island of Dominica and her trimmings. How he’d collect them. Make them his own.

  What a stop it would be. Not just for him, no, but also for the sweet object of his affections, his new woman, particularly for her.

  CHAPTER-32

  “You can’t be serious. I don’t need any help with this investigation,” fumed Richardson. “Carousel hired me to handle these things, especially situations like this. These people are from Podunk, Michigan, for God’s sake. How in blazes do you think they can help me?”

  Captain Serafini’s black eyes simmered as he addressed the ship’s security chief. They snapped across the great expanse of his desk as the captain struggled to stay his infamous temper.

  The large, leather chair shifted under his weight. He had never really cared for Richardson. He found it difficult to respect a man who wouldn’t look him in the eye. His father had always told him it was a way to judge a man’s character. Papa was right.

  He knew Richardson’s drinking was worse than the chief let on, much worse. If he pushed the issue, he supposed he could have him removed, but the position wasn’t high profile. Until now, that is.

  There were the usual drunken guest scenarios, an occasional assault, even accusations that guests were cheating in the casino—all needing to be discreetly investigated. But that was the problem with Richardson, wasn’t it? Discretion was not his typical modus operandi. The man probably couldn’t even spell the term. He’d upset more than one innocent guest with false accusations. Throw in a drinking problem, and there could be real trouble.

  The captain shifted to the opposite side of the chair and drank a mouthful of his gourmet coffee. There had never been anything like this on any of his ships: a murdered woman for the whole ship to see and a missing husband who had vanished in the tropical breeze. Damn it. Guests on a cruise ship weren’t supposed to see ungodly things like that. It was bad for business and bad for him.

  He needed Richardson functioning at full capacity, whatever that may be for him.

  “Mr. Richardson. How much are you drinking these days?”

  The chief’s eyes darted to his sandals and then spiked contempt toward the captain.

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “You don’t? Well, I do. Let me spell it out for you. If you’re drunk or even under the influence a tiny bit, you could miss something important.” Serafini leaned over his desk. “Now, please answer the damned question.”

  “I had three beers Sunday night and nothing last night,” he said.

  The captain knew better. “No more. Not another drop until this is over. Do you understand me?”

  Richardson bit his lip, holding back words that would most certainly cost him his job, and then seemed to have a change of heart. “I won’t. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Do I look like I feel better?” He hoped Richardson was telling the truth, but he knew he had to play the hand he was dealt, even if it was most assuredly going to cost him. Maybe dearly. He had, at least, made his point.

  “I talked to Dr. Kristoff last night,” Serafini said, “and he told me what the Lansing officers said about the woman’s injuries, what they had seen before—which you, by the way, never bothered to share with me.”

  “Captain, I think they’re blowing smoke up my ass with a peace pipe. I don’t think they have ever seen anything like that before. My professional opinion is that when we find the husband, we find the killer. There is no psycho lunatic running around on this ship ripping out women’s throats. Especially a killer that followed them down here.” A defiant tone rose in his voice. “I know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  Without speaking, the captain yanked open the top, right-hand drawer of his immaculate desk and pulled out two documents, sliding them across the polished finish.

  “I received the first one from the San Juan PD yesterday morning. I got the second one about an hour ago. It’s from the authorities in the Virgin Islands. Read them, and then tell me you still know ‘what the hell you’re talking about.’”

  The chief picked up the papers and gave the captain an uneasy glance. He read both faxes. His eyes widened, quickly looking back to the captain. “Is this shit for real?”

  “Oh, I assure you, my fine chief, it’s for real. That’s three murders in less than forty-eight hours, and it would appear that the sick maniac is on this ship. My ship.”

  Serafini swiveled in his chair and looked out his window, intently focusing on the lush, green, island landscape.

  The ship’s crew had done its best, with fair success, to minimize the traumatic effect of last night’s incident. The rumor mill, fueled by the crew at his orders, depicted an awful suicide by an unhappy woman. If word got out that this was the third incident in three days, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the killer was cruising on the Ocean Duchess.

  He desperately needed to keep a lid on this. It was hard to accept that Richardson was his best shot at doing that. His security officer may be as sloppy as the killer was clever. They needed real help.

  He curved his chair back to face Richardson. “In an hour, Detective Perez from the San Juan Police, FBI Agent Josh Corner, his associate, and four members of the Lansing Police, to whom I have extended invitations, will meet with our staff to discuss this situation. If the people from Lansing think they have information that can help and are willing to assist us, we are going to accept that assistance. Is that clear?”

  Richardson slapped the two documents on the desk. “Perfectly.” He lifted his large frame as the chair squeaked in protest. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  After the chief slammed the door, Serafini let out a long breath. “So do I. So do I.”

  CHAPTER-33

  Gavin, Alex, Sophie, and Manny sat around the white deck table. The half-eaten breakfast and barely sipped coffee bore witness that Liz’s death weighed heavy on their hearts.

  The Tuesday morning sun spilled its rays over the deck, hypnotic in a cloudless sky. The smell of coconut mixed with banana came from the fruit bar to their left, while festive tin-drum music flowed from hidden speakers, striving to lift its listeners to no-worry mode. A perfect morning in paradise—except it isn’t, Gavin thought. He had witnessed a thing or two during his tenure in law enforcement, ugly things. Too many times he’d knocked on the door of a slain officer’s family. And each time he’d walked away from those families swearing never again. But nothing had prepared him for the death of a close colleague, particularly that way. He was glad he hadn’t had to ID the body. That was an assignment ordered for younger men like Manny a
nd Alex. They seemed to rebound better than him, especially these days.

  Manny and Alex had spent the last forty-five minutes bringing him and Sophie up to speed with what they had seen in the morgue. Gavin didn’t like what he heard.

  “Could it be Peppercorn?” Sophie asked. “I mean we put him away for ten years for those assaults, then his doctor said he was cured and no threat to society. In fact, the warden vouched for it. But then he disappeared right after he was released, what, fifteen months ago? Like the day after.” Emotion seeped into her voice. “I know we want to talk to him about the Martin case, but we don’t even know if he was near Lansing in May, and now we’re supposed to make the leap that he could be here, on this ship? To what end?” She tasted her tea. “I’m just not buying it, I can’t.”

  “I don’t know, but I have to agree with Sophie on this one,” Gavin said. “Why would he suddenly show up in the Caribbean? Furthermore, how? It’s not like the guy was returning to a lifestyle of the rich and famous.”

  Manny put his hands on the table. “We saw what we saw. I know it seems crazy, but he is the only one we’ve seen do anything remotely close to this. Just because we couldn’t locate him to talk about Sylvia Martin’s murder doesn’t mean he’s farming peacefully in Montana. He could have been in Lansing.” Manny lifted his fork from the table. “Listen. Peppercorn used the same rose-as-a-gift setup—except the roses were red—on his four victims. Whoever killed Silvia Martin left a black rose, and now one shows up next to Liz’s body. What happened to . . . to Liz and the Martin woman is disturbingly similar. Does anyone think that’s a coincidence?”

  Manny picked at his eggs and then finished his thought. “Sophie just said it. He disappeared and hasn’t been seen since his release, the consummate white rabbit. Of course, having said what I just said, it doesn’t figure that a man with his limited intellect could get this done.”

  “He couldn’t, unless . . . well . . . unless there is something more to that whole Dissociative Identity Disorder thing than we gave credence. I mean, Peppercorn’s stepdad was no saint, and what he did to him and his sister could cause serious psychological damage,” said Gavin.