Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  “No, while I’ve been lying awake all night thinking us, I also thought about Van Morgan. We need to check out the button to make sure there wasn’t a batch of a million or something. I’ve looked up the company on the Internet. It’s a speciality store in Florida, sells only buttons. We can phone them now. Its 555-2387.”

  I dialled it and waited. A woman answered in a girlish voice. I imagined Mickey Mouse on the other end. “Quality Buttons. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I lost a button off my jacket. I was wondering if you have replacements?”

  “Can you describe it, sir?” the woman asked.

  “It’s gold, with a yacht on it. It was sold to the Cape Mistral Yacht Club.”

  “Yes, that’s one of ours. We did a batch for the members, sir. We do special engravings. It’s 24-carat gold, sir. Unfortunately, we only made a single batch, sir. There were no spare ones made because of the sheer quality of workmanship required, sir. However, I could have the workshop make a new one. It’ll only cost $19.”

  “$19 for a single button?”

  “This is a quality store, sir.”

  “Has anyone asked for one in the last month?”

  “No, sir. Why? Is there a problem with our buttons, sir?”

  At $19 each? “No. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  I looked at Sarah. “The buttons are more or less unique. We have him.”

  Boone regarded Sarah and me with disbelief. We were in his office, sitting opposite him, just finishing our summary of what Van Morgan had done to Scott. He listened without comment, but his expression said enough. “You want me to do what?”

  “Arrest Van Morgan.”

  “For losing a button?”

  “Not any button. This button. This button is unique, Sheriff. It ties him to the murder of Scott.”

  Boone faced Sarah, leaning forward. There was a photograph of Abby on his desk that he moved aside so he could rest his elbows. “And you contend the cliff on Ocean Avenue was where the car was dumped?”

  “I can prove it,” Sarah said.

  “Don’t bother.” He stood up. “Come on then. Show me this jacket you’re talking about.”

  “You’ll arrest Van Morgan?” I said, just to clarify the point.

  “If the jacket checks out, I’ll arrest him. Yes.”

  Boone drove us over to Van Morgan’s house. Boone ordered Sarah to stay in his car, given the past history she had with Van Morgan, but I went with him up to the entrance. Boone rang the bell. A man came to the door, a servant.

  “Is Mr Van Morgan in?” Boone said.

  “I’ll get him, sir. Please come into the drawing room.”

  Boone cast a hard look at me. I said nothing. We waited in the drawing room for a minute, then Van Morgan entered. He was dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt, dabbing at sweat on his forehead and neck. “I was in the gym, Sheriff. What seems to be the problem?” He didn’t even look at me.

  “Sir, Mr Quinn thinks you may have lost a button from your jacket.”

  “Which jacket would that be? And why does this groundbreaking news need your presence, Sheriff?”

  “We need to see your yachtsman’s jacket,” Boone said. “Mr Quinn believes you lost a button during a crime, sir. I’m sure we can clear this up simply by seeing the jacket.”

  “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Sheriff. This is clearly some kind of sick joke being played on the both of us by Mr Quinn. You know his people have been trying to ruin my business. Hell, his crazy friend destroyed my bulldozers.”

  “The jacket,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to report it stolen?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that I don’t bother myself with trivialities. I have servants to find my clothes.” He turned and called out a name. The man who’d opened the door reappeared. “Fenton, do you know where my yachtsman’s jacket is?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want me to get it?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  We waited.

  Fenton returned with a jacket. The sheriff took it and laid it down on a walnut table. Van Morgan looked amused. We looked at the buttons, studying each carefully. They were beautifully made.

  They were all present, too.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Boone said, his face going red. “We’ll leave now.”

  “Hold on. He must have two jackets.”

  “The yachtclub does not give out two jackets to any member,” Van Morgan said.

  “Then it was Frank Reinberg’s jacket.”

  Boone shook his head. “We’re leaving, Quinn. I don’t want you hassling anyone else, understand?”

  “Reinberg,” muttered Sarah, after Boone dropped us off at the courthouse. “What’s the bet he’s out of town?”

  “Van Morgan was one smug son of a bitch. He made me look like a complete fool. That jacket will never turn up.”

  We went up the steps into the courthouse. The court was packed for Vernon’s arraignment hearing, where bail would be set. On one side of the court were the environmentalists, on the other side were supporters of Van Morgan. There was an uneasy truce. The judge was Lasky, the one David Freeman said was a liberal. He silenced the court, then we listened to the defence and prosecution lawyers argue their cases. The prosecutor wanted bail to be refused. Freeman asked for the charges to be dismissed, but there was no way that would happen. Bail was set high. The trial would be in eight weeks. I’d needed money to post bail, money I didn’t have. The bail money was more than I expected, considering Lasky was the so-called soft judge. I didn’t have enough left in my diminishing bank account. But I’d find a way of paying it. I wasn’t going to let Vernon stay locked up for eight weeks.

  The largest bank in Cape Mistral was the Mercantile Atlantic. It was where Abby’s father, Richard Shannow, worked. I went in to see him in his office. He was chatting to an attractive woman about fixed rate bonds when I interrupted. He finished his conversation and urged me to have a seat.

  “Coming for a loan, Michael?”

  “Of a sort, Dick. I need to get bail money for Vernon Taylor.” I explained the situation. “The problem is I don’t have a house to put up as collateral, unless you count the piece of junk I have in Los Angeles.”

  “How much is it? The bail?”

  I told him.

  “I tell you what, Michael, I’ll lend you the full amount for a limited time at zero interest, say until the trial starts and they return your money. That way, you don’t lose any money providing Vernon doesn’t run away.”

  “He won’t do that,” I promised. “But won’t it cost the bank money?”

  “I have discretionary powers, Michael. I can lend under any terms I like as long as the share holders don’t actually lose money.”

  “Thanks for the favour. I owe you.”

  He looked at his wristwatch. “Look, I’m free now. I’ll go to the courthouse with you. I’m sure we can get this sorted out in a moment.”

  Soon after, Vernon was released. Blinking in the sunlight, he stumbled out of the courthouse. He looked pale and ill. “Mikey, you got me out!”

  “Not me - Dick did. He’s Abby’s father. Do you remember Abby?”

  “Yes, I remember Abby. Nice girl.” He shook hands with Dick. “Thanks, man.”

  “It’s only money. Other people’s money.”

  “So I’m free to go home?”

  Technically, Vernon was free, but I didn’t want him to go back to his shack. I wanted him to be examined by a doctor. He also needed to stay in a warm house - somewhere he could eat regular meals and have a doctor see to his weight loss. I thought of inviting him to stay with me, but then there was the danger of Van Morgan’s men. He needed to be somewhere nobody could find him. “I want you to stay in a hotel for a few days. I know you can’t leave the island under the court order, but you have to be somewhere safe.”

  “
I don’t want to cost you anything, Mikey. Hotels are far too expensive. I’ll go home.”

  “You can’t stay there, Vernon. It’s a bad place. Besides, you’re sick.”

  “Sick? I’m not sick.”

  “He can stay with me,” Dick said. “I can get a doctor in.”

  I looked at him. “Sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Vernon, what do you say?”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” Vernon said.

  “I have a big, empty house. I’d like the company.”

  “Well … okay.”

  “That’s settled,” Dick said. “You’re staying with me, Vernon.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Quietly, Dick Shannow said to me: “He does clean up, doesn’t he?”

  Chapter 40

  In the cooling evening I sat on the porch watching the sun go down, thinking about Van Morgan. The gold button was in my fist, making an indent in my palm. It was a reminder of the humiliation. I had been doing some hard thinking. Something bothered me about the night of the knife attack, but I didn’t know what exactly. The attack seemed so convenient. It was an obvious set up (I’d figured that out already), but had also depended on so many factors, such as my falling for it, being there at the bar, going out to the parking lot. The coincidences didn’t add up. I shouldn’t have been at the bar, but I was drawn there due to circumstances. Who knew I’d be there? I hadn’t known until a couple of hours before – when my dad told me his relief bartender Ed was sick. What were the chances of that happening on that particular night? Since I could rule out my dad as a suspect, that left the relief bartender as possibly involved. I didn’t know Ed well, so I went inside and asked my dad.

  “Ed Wendel’s worked for me about two years. He came to Cape Mistral from the mainland. Why?”

  “How often is he off sick?”

  “Apart from last week – never. He’s as strong as a horse, usually.” He saw my frown. “Wait a minute. You don’t think he was lying?”

  I touched the ridge of scar tissue under my shirt. “How well do you know him as a person?”

  “Ed’s reliable, hard-working. He’s had a rough time recently because his wife’s pregnant with their fourth kid, so he works two jobs. One for me, one at the marina, where he owns a fishing boat. He needs the money …” The realisation struck my dad like a rock. “No, no. He wouldn’t. I trusted him, gave him a job …”

  “Maybe he’s innocent, but I need to find out for myself. Someone set me up. What’s his home address?”

  “He lives at Everglade House, 551 Shore Side. It’s a big brownstone tenement building.”

  “Owned by Heaven and Earth,” I said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I remember reading it at the library. Heaven and Earth owns several properties on that street. Everglade House is one of them.”

  “I’ll be damned. If Ed betrayed us, I’ll kill him.”

  “No, Dad,” I said, calmer than I felt. “I need him to talk. What I need is a witness, someone who will go to court and testify against Van Morgan.”

  I called Wayne. Wayne knew Ed and the way to Everglade House. He picked me up in his truck and we drove to the building. It was close to twilight. The day was turning cold, the sky an uneasy mix of purples and deep blues. The building was just a block away from the docks. The sun was just poking above the water, a blazing crescent. We both wore our guns as we exited Wayne’s pickup and crossed the street. We weren’t expecting Ed to give us any trouble, but there was no reason to be stupid. Ed could panic if he thought we were after him. I buzzed our way into the building, then we took the elevator to his floor. I knocked on his door. There was no reply. It sounded quiet inside. I knocked again - louder.

  “They’re not in,” said a man from the next apartment. He was about eighty, holding a cane with a metal tip. He looked at us with suspicion. He had a hard, firm grip on the cane. He was prepared to swing it if we frightened him. “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Ed. He lives here.”

  “I know Ed. Ed’s out. And his wife took the kids out for dinner because he was late.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Ed has a boat. It’s navy blue.”

  “He’s fishing?”

  “He loves his boat. It’s a real nice one he bought at the government auction a couple of summers back. Used to be owned by drug dealers, but the Coast Guard caught them and sold it for a knock down price. Worth a hundred grand, but he paid fifteen. Ed’s proud of it, though I don’t know where he got fifteen grand when he lives in a dump like this. He’s always arguing with his wife about money. I can hear them yattering through the damn walls. These walls are like paper. When they get arguing it’s like an episode of the Honeymooners. Hey – you’re not from a debt collection place, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  “No.”

  “We’re old friends,” Wayne said.

  “Like I believe that,” the man said. “Look, whatever you guys want, do it somewhere else. I’m missing the commercials.” He closed his door. I heard six or seven deadbolts click.

  The marina was nearly dark when we arrived. Wayne parked behind the yacht club in the lot reserved for boat owners. It was quiet. There was no one around that I could see. I could hear the water lapping at the shore and see the shadows of boats lying silent and dead.

  “I know the boat the man was talking about,” Wayne said as we walked along the marina. “It should be over there -”

  Ed’s boat should have been moored for the night at the end of the jetty in question. It wasn’t. There was a space.

  Nearby, a fisherman was washing the deck of his boat. Wayne knew him. They spoke for a minute before Wayne walked back to me, shaking his head.

  “What’s up?”

  “He says he saw Ed this morning. He went out to fish off the coast of Port Island. Ed normally comes in before nine, but he hasn’t come back. That’s unusual for Ed, apparently. We can try contacting him on the radio in my boat.”

  We boarded The Scud Hunter, where Wayne showed his skill with the radio while I listened in. The radio looked extremely complicated, with more buttons and displays than a 747’s cockpit. I didn’t understand half of what he said – or what the replies meant. But Wayne’s eyes lit up with understanding. Suddenly Wayne started up the engine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ed hasn’t called in for hours. The Dutchman – that’s a trawler - saw his boat at four o’clock. Ed didn’t reply to the radio. Luckily, I have the location. I figured we could look for him. He won’t have gone far. He will be going with radio silence if he’s found a good spot to fish – he won’t want to attract other boats. Fishermen are very territorial. We don’t like to share.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “In my boat? Not long.”

  The darkness was coming. Wayne disembarked, steering his boat into the cold waters. I walked out onto the deck and watched the lights of the marina as they dwindled. I could see Port Island ahead and the cliffs. We were going around it. After twenty minutes I thought I could see lights on the water about a mile away. Chilly, I went inside. I looked at the green radar screen and saw a few white dots here and there. One looked much closer than the others.

  “What’s that out there?”

  “It’s Ed’s boat.”

  He handed me his binoculars. I could see the lights clearer. There seemed to be a soft light coming out of the portholes, a light barely brighter than the twilight. The running lights were much brighter.

  I swept my view around. I could see some more lights in the distance. It was also on the radar.

  “What’s that other blob?” It was quite close to the first blob, Ed’s boat.

  “A boat going back to Cape Mistral.”

  “Can you identify it?”

  “Yes.” He was silent for a minute as he worked his equipment. “Uh-oh. That other boa
t – the one now heading for shore - it’s Van Morgan’s cabin cruiser. What the hell is that doing around?”

  “Get us to Ed’s boat now,” I said.

  Wayne steered a course towards it. It was about 200 yards off our bow. He tried calling it on the radio, but he received no answer. “I don’t like this. I’m pulling alongside.”

  When we got close enough the running lights of the Scud Hunter lit up the deck. I could see nobody aboard the boat. I could read the name on the side: Mermaid II. Wayne slowed down. The other boat was rocking on the water, making no sounds. Van Morgan’s yacht was just a small star on the horizon. I watched it on the radar. I was worried it would change course and come back, but it did not. Wayne went onto the deck and shouted at the Mermaid II, calling out for Ed. His booming voice would have woken the dead. He received no answer. He rubbed the butt of his gun.

  “You want to check it out, Captain Ahab?”

  “I guess so.” My enthusiasm wasn’t huge. There was something frightening about the Mermaid II. I dreaded what we might find aboard. “How am I going to get across?”

  “I’ll steer closer and tie some mooring lines.”

  I swore. “Okay. Do it.”

  The Scud Hunter was soon almost touching Ed’s boat. Wayne tied the two boats together with mooring lines. The Scud Hunter was higher than the Mermaid II, so I sort of stepped down from one gunnel onto the next and dropped down onto the deck of the Mermaid II. Before advancing, I took out my Beretta and a waterproof flashlight. First, I checked the deck. I opened a hatch and looked down into the dank hold. The flashlight illuminated something dark and slimy – fish. The hold was filled with fish. The stink made me cough. I closed the hatch and approached the cabin. It was empty. I checked out the engine room and galley and crew quarters – all were deserted. Ed was nowhere aboard. I was relieved not to find a body, but spooked by the empty boat.

  I had no doubt Ed was dead.

  I returned to the deck having found no trace of Ed. Wayne reached down and pulled me aboard The Scud Hunter. He untied the mooring lines. I kept looking back at the Mermaid II and the shore, feeling paranoid. “He’s not aboard, so where is he?”