King Tide

by A. J. Stewart

Ronzoni was down on his knees on the opposite side of the hot tub when I got back. He had placed a foldaway ruler by a wet footprint and was taking pictures of it. I wasn’t sure where he kept the ruler, but maybe that explained why he preferred a suit to shorts. Lots more pockets, and less obvious than Batman’s utility belt.

  He asked me to shine a flashlight at a forty-five degree angle to highlight the footprint better in his shot and then he stood and pointed to the door.

  “Two sets of prints come in here. One significantly smaller than the other. I’ll bet they’ll match the victim. We made a mess of the scene here,” he said pointing to the pool of water we had created around Carly’s body. “But we can assume the two sets of prints got in the tub, here.” He pointed at the tub. “Then here.” He turned to where he had just been kneeling, where the champagne bottle sat. “One set of footprints gets out. The larger set. And they walk out here.” He pointed along the floor to the door.

  “They might have been here before.”

  “In this humidity prints will last, that’s for sure,” said Ronzoni. “But she wasn’t alone.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing, Detective. I suggested she take a hot tub, and now she’s dead. Yes, she was drinking and it probably wasn’t the wisest suggestion in the circumstances, but I don’t see that it’s my fault. Really.”

  “First of all, Jones, I don’t care if you think it’s your fault. How your brain works is beyond me. Trust me on that. And I’m not buying it anyway. You might have suggested it, but you didn’t make her come out here and you ain’t her daddy. But I know you’re gonna beat yourself up about it anyway, regardless of what I say. So I’m not saying nothing about it. That’s your problem. ”

  “Thanks, Ronzoni, you’re a peach. But people do drink in hot tubs and fall into comas and drown. It happens. This is Florida.”

  “I know it happens, Jones. I’ve seen it. Folks just fall asleep and slip right under. It’s crazy but it’s true.”

  “So how do we know that didn’t happen here?”

  “Because folks don’t fall asleep with their eyes open.”

  I looked across the tub at Carly. “Hers eyes weren’t open.”

  “They were when I pulled her out of the water.”

  He gave me a moment to process that and then he said, “Come with me.”

  We edged around the hut, I now realized in an attempt to preserve the integrity of the scene, and we kneeled by the body. Ronzoni put his hands to Carly’s face and I noticed that he had put on latex gloves in my absence. He used his finger to delicately pull back Carly’s eyelid.

  Her eye looked like she had been on the world’s biggest bender and was now dealing with the world’s biggest hangover. It wasn’t just red. Blood vessels had literally exploded in there. I had seen her eyes when she was alive. Mediterranean blue was what I had thought. The blue was gone. Her eye looked like an old Rand McNally roadmap, but all the roads were red.

  Ronzoni dropped the eyelid. “You know what that means?”

  I nodded. I hadn’t been to the police academy, but I had done a postgrad program in criminology. It was generally useless to me, but I’d picked up a thing or two, mostly on field trips.

  “Trauma.”

  “Major league,” he said. “She drowned all right, but she didn’t drown nice. Sure as hell not in her sleep.”

  “Someone held her down there.”

  He nodded gravely.

  “You see any evidence of that on her? ”

  We both looked at the body. Ronzoni said, “I probably did a bit of damage to her torso during CPR, but given the blood flow had ceased there’ll be minimal bruising. But I didn’t do that.” He pointed his gloved finger at her upper arm. Across her bicep a ribbon of bruising had developed prior to death. Ronzoni pointed to the matching ribbon on the other arm.

  “Someone pinned her down,” I said.

  “The ME would have to confirm, but my guess is they pinned her down by kneeling on her arms.”

  “She’s pretty fit. Was pretty fit. How does she end up under water like that without a fight?”

  “Too easy,” said Ronzoni, standing. His stretched out his back. He’d been on his knees for the best part of an hour. “How do two people sit in a hot tub?”

  “Depends how friendly they are.”

  Ronzoni shook his head. “People who aren’t that friendly, Jones.”

  “More or less opposite each other. Slightly off center. Say, twelve and five on the clock.”

  “Right. So if I just reach down and pull your feet”—he mocked with a yanking motion, pulling toward himself—“the person would just slide right in. Nothing to grab, no way to stop it. Then you’re on the bottom, pinned down— ”

  “I get the picture, Ronzoni.”

  He nodded and sighed loudly.

  “We need something to collect the evidence,” he said.

  I pulled out the plastic baggies from under my poncho. Ronzoni nodded like I wasn’t a complete waste of oxygen. I left the evidence collection to him. It was a chain of custody thing, and I didn’t look forward to wasting a day in the courthouse to be part of it, despite the county courthouse being across the parking lot from my office. He inspected a light teal-colored cloth against the wall near Carly. Some kind of light shawl or sarong to wear over her swimsuit. He left it where it was. He bagged and tagged the champagne bottle and the glass.

  “Where’s the second glass?” I asked.

  “Maybe there isn’t one.”

  “She’s in the tub with a friend but not too close a friend, and they’re not both into the champagne?”

  “It’s possible she didn’t know the perp.”

  “It’s possible the governor is going to send me an invite to his Christmas party, but the sun exploding is more likely.”

  Ronzoni shrugged.

  “She knew them. We’re in the middle of a hurricane. The other option is someone was just out in this weather and happened upon her here, and she was okay with them getting in the tub.”

  “Okay. You’re right, she probably knew them.”

  “So where’s the glass?”

  “They took it. It’s got their fingerprints on it.”

  “Maybe the bottle does, too.”

  “That’s why we collect the evidence, Jones.”

  Ronzoni took a bunch more shots of the scene and then made some notes in his phone. I stood waiting, trying not to look at Carly Pastinak. Trying not to listen to the guttural howl of the wind. Like Cassandra, it was starting to get under my skin. I busied myself staring at the walls, at the CPR posters. Then I saw something interesting. I wandered over to it.

  It was a timer box, the kind of dial that you turn and that then ticks back toward the off position. The exact thing you find on hot tubs all over the world. At one end of the scale was a zero, the off position. At the other end, a thirty. Thirty minutes max of bubble time. Enough time to boil a lobster, or kill a woman.

  “The jets were on when I came in. ”

  Ronzoni looked up from his phone. “Yes. They were on when I pulled her out. I had to stand right over the tub to see her in there under the bubbles.”

  “But it wasn’t on when I came back with the defib unit.”

  Ronzoni thought for a second. “No, it went off.”

  “You know when?”

  “No, I was focused elsewhere.”

  “Sure, of course. But I was gone what, two, three minutes max?”

  “Max.”

  “And how long were you in here before I came across from the other hot tub?”

  “Same, maybe a bit more. Three, four minutes?”

  “So let’s say minimum five, maximum seven minutes total. So if someone turned this dial on as they left, they only left a maximum of twenty-five and a minimum of twenty-three minutes before you came in.”

  Ronzoni nodded. “Not bad, Jones.”

  “That’s assuming they turned it as they left.”

  “If it was on while they were in the tub, it c
ould have been less. We could have missed them by seconds.”

  “Maybe. But I’m thinking. Who was unaccounted for in the twenty minutes before we came out?”

  “For a period, almost everyone.”

  “Expect maybe Anton Ribaud,” I said. “He was at the bar.”

  “Did his hair look wet to you?”

  “His hair always looks wet to me.”

  “Is that a thing?”

  “Not in my house. If my hair looks wet it’s ’cause I went for a swim.”

  “Or got caught in a hurricane.”

  I nodded .

  Ronzoni said, “Who came down to the bar before me?”

  “Ron, Cassandra. Emery Taylor and Rosaria.”

  “And then after I came down, that Leon guy. Who also had wet hair.”

  “He might have taken a shower to wake up,” I said.

  “Not saying he didn’t, just putting it out there.”

  “But we didn’t see Shania, Deshawn or Sam. They all ran out after I went back in with Emery.”

  “So basically everyone but Anton?”

  I shrugged. “And I didn’t see the cook.”

  “The manager, Neville, said he would talk to the chef about supper. He didn’t mention him not being in the kitchen.”

  “No, and he’s there now.”

  Ronzoni collected his bagged evidence and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What about . . .” I nodded at Carly Pastinak.

  “Best we leave her here. We can lock it up, and if there’s any physical evidence on her it will get washed away if we try to move her inside.”

  “Should we cover her up?”

  Ronzoni looked at her. He looked sad. I’d never seen him look sad before. Dumbfounded yes, but never sad. I knew he’d seen dead bodies before. He’d seen one with me. Another young woman, lost too young to some monster. And it hadn’t seemed to faze him. I figured cops had to get desensitized to that stuff in order to function in their jobs. It had never occurred to me that he could react like a human. But I’d never seen him look more human. He wasn’t on the verge of tears or anything, but often tears are like window dressing. True sadness is something much more profound. And he wore it across his face like a mask .

  I didn’t speak. I let the wind caterwaul and Ronzoni look. And then he came back and he shook his head.

  “You covered her enough. She’s beyond caring now. Better to preserve the scene. The ME’s people will take care of it when they’re done.”

  So we flicked off the light and heaved the door around and slammed it shut. We ran across the pool deck to the south exit. Someone had left a towel wedged in the door so we could open it more easily, and I thanked Ron for that. We stepped inside and shook off like ragged dogs. Ronzoni peeled off his poncho. He had jumped into the hot tub so he was drenched through despite it. My clothes were gone from the corridor so I left my poncho on. We looked at the darkened gym as we passed and I gave Ronzoni a look that he didn’t return.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ronzoni sent me in to get a set of keys from Neville. He waited by the check-in desk so he didn’t show off the evidence he was carrying. I got the keys and we went back to the gym, and after some trial and error I unlocked the door and Ronzoni stashed the evidence inside. Then I locked up and handed him the keys. He looked at me in my poncho as if he were mulling something over.

  “Your clothes are at the front desk, by the way.”

  I nodded. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”

  “You look good in a poncho, Jones.”

  “You look like a drowned rat.”

  “I’m going to change.”

  He left me at the check-in desk and dashed up the stairs to his room. It wasn’t completely fair that everyone else was left sitting in their wet clothes in the bar, but then I figured Ronzoni wasn’t a murder suspect. I collected my suit, which was hanging across the back of a chair, lest it get creased, and then I went to the lobby bathroom and toweled off. That’s the thing about fancy hotels. The bathroom hand towels are actually towels, not minuscule pieces of non-absorbent paper. When I was dry I got dressed and returned to the lounge .

  Deshawn Maxwell was standing near the door. He was practically dry. That was the advantage of wearing athlete gear all the time. It really wicked the moisture away.

  “What the hell is going on?” he said in a half whisper.

  “You tell me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I had no idea where the hot tub was. I sent her to you.”

  “I told you, she didn’t ask me.”

  “But you used the hot tub earlier?”

  “No.”

  “You told us you were headed for a soak when you left the gym today.”

  “No. Yes. I said that, but I didn’t go. I changed my mind.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just went to my room.”

  I remembered seeing him on the video. He came down the corridor from the gym, said hi to Emery at the desk and then walked north across the lobby and out of shot. Which gave me an idea. I didn’t get to play it out because Ronzoni walked in. He was back in his Filipino presidential outfit. It would have looked good on some people. Ronzoni wasn’t any of them.

  He directed Deshawn into the lounge and looked around the room. It looked like a refugee camp for billionaires. He took his time looking at every face. I wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see. Perhaps a flinch, a tell. Someone to yell I can’t take it anymore, it was me, it was me! None of that happened. Shania was the first to break the silence.

  “Is someone going to tell us what on earth is happening?”

  Ronzoni paused. He had a flair for the dramatic that I hadn’t given him credit for.

  “Yes, Miss Dawson. One of your party is dead. ”

  There was none of the shocked wails that Ronzoni might have expected. I had stolen his thunder on that count.

  “One,” Shania said. “Try two.”

  “Yes, two.”

  “And you’re telling me that’s a coincidence?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t believe so.”

  That got a ripple of interest and some shared glances.

  “What does that mean?” asked Leon.

  “It means that Ms. Pastinak has drowned. It is possible that it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Wait,” said Neville. “Are you suggesting, sir, that someone killed her?”

  “That would be the inference.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “That would be the question.”

  “But I mean, you think it was someone in this hotel?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “You mean someone in this room?”

  “Yes, Mr. Neville.”

  Now the mood got interesting. Nothing like suggesting one among you is a murderer to shake up a bachelor party.

  “Are you serious?” asked Deshawn. He had taken a seat next to Shania on a sofa. Anton sat on her other side.

  I thought Ronzoni might say deadly in response, but all he said was yes.

  The chef wandered out with a platter of sandwiches and placed them loudly on the counter of the bar. The slap of tray on stone turned every head. The chef gave a look like he didn’t know what everyone’s problem was.

  “As a result I am sure you will understand when I say that I must insist that you all remain in this room for the rest of the night. ”

  There were moans and complaints but they were half-hearted. I didn’t think anyone liked the idea of a killer in the room, but they liked the idea of a killer roaming the hotel even less.

  Anton said, “And if we don’t want to stay in this room? You cannot make us do it.”

  “Actually, Mr. Ribaud, I can make you. We’re in the middle of a hurricane. Don’t make me arrest you. You won’t be very comfortable handcuffed in the manager’s office.”

  That quashed that little rebellion. This wasn’t Ronzoni’s first time at the rodeo.

  “W
hat about fresh clothes and blankets?” asked Cassandra.

  “And pillows,” said Sam.

  “We’ll sort those out shortly,” said Ronzoni. “Please eat if you like.” He looked at Neville. “Mr. Neville, I would ask that no further alcohol be served, as a matter of safety.”

  “As you wish, Detective.”

  “But brandy is good for the nerves,” said Anton.

  “So is green tea,” said Ronzoni. “Drink all of that you want.”

  Ronzoni left Anton to mull that concept over and turned to me. I was about to tell him that we needed to go and look at the security video but he didn’t let me.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ronzoni led me to the general manager’s office behind the check-in desk. Great minds think alike and sometimes so do Ronzoni and I. He sat in the chair and fired up the computer attached to the security system. Computers weren’t Ronzoni’s strong point. I was pretty sure I knew what he wanted to see because I wanted to see it too, but I stopped him before he lost his cool and tossed the computer onto the floor.

  “Before you do that, just watch the damned screen, will you?”

  Ronzoni turned his eyes to the bank of screens. There was nothing happening.

  “What?”

  “Just watch,” I said, and I walked out.

  I walked around the check-in desk and out into the lobby. There I turned back on myself and wandered toward the corridor that led to the gym. I walked down the corridor and stopped just before the frosted glass of the gym. And I turned away from it. It was the door on the other side of the corridor I was interested in. I pushed it open and found myself surrounded by the bare concrete of fire stairs. The concrete hadn’t been painted. The steel balustrade was painted sky blue, which gave the space a feel somewhere between a daycare and a prison. I strode up the stairs and came out on the mezzanine level, closing the door gently. Stenciled on it was the word stairs . The same word didn’t appear on the door in the gym corridor. I figured most people didn’t run up in case of a fire.

  The stairs were directly behind the ballroom where Shania and Sam had set up their tennis facility. The walls of the ballroom were actually mostly doors that looked like walls, designed to offer maximum flexibility in the use of the space. I found one that was open and slipped inside. It was dark. Really dark. Without vision my hearing kicked into overdrive and the sound of the storm outside focused in. The only light came from a red exit sign above the nominated door on the opposite side of the room. I didn’t go straight for it. I knew there were dining tables set up like mines right across the space, so I stuck to the walls and edged around the large room until I reached the door. There I stepped out into the corridor. It was bright after the dark ballroom. I slid around the outside of the ballroom, back into the little coffee break space where I had spoken to Shania earlier in the day. Then I followed the line of windows along the beach side of the building until I reached another elevator and another door.