King Tide

by A. J. Stewart

  The light was harsh. It didn’t do any favors for anyone. But Sam was who everyone was looking at. They didn’t stop looking at him when I spoke.

  “Actually, Sam. I can prove all of it. ”

  I turned to Ken the camera guy. He was on the floor playing with his tablet computer and his cameras.

  “Ken?” I asked.

  He winked. “You wanna look on the iPad? Now we got power I can connect to the flat-screen TV.”

  “Do that. I’m sure we’d all like to see.”

  Ken pulled a cable out of his backpack and attached it to the side of the big dark television on the wall. Then he fired up the screen and hit a button on his camera.

  It took a minute to decipher what we were looking at, just as it had when I saw it live. Rex Bonetti was standing in a hurricane, arms outstretched, lit up bright on the seawall behind the hotel. There was no sound. Ken had saved us that by not bothering to attach the sound connection to the television. But we got the general idea. Bonetti was in his element. His enthusiasm was in his face. He was standing in a deadly hurricane and loving every minute of it.

  “There,” said Ken. “In the background.”

  The rear of the hotel was lit by Ken’s harsh spotlight. In the corner of the picture, on Bonetti’s left side, the north exit opened and someone stepped out onto the walkway.

  “Hello, Sam,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? That could be anyone.”

  He was right. It could have been. The distance was great and rain was heavy and there were long shadows from the spotlight. But then Ken pinched his fingers on his iPad and the picture on the television zoomed in, and we got a nice full-frame shot of Sam Venturi, walking along the concourse with a bottle of champagne in his hand.

  “Going somewhere, Sam?”

  Sam said nothing .

  Ken zoomed the picture back out and we saw Sam disappear from frame toward the south and the pool deck and the hot tub hut beyond. We got more of Rex Bonetti. He wasn’t much less annoying on mute. He was clearly talking about how awesome the hurricane was, and how it was moving and what it needed to do in order to grow and become something even more spectacular. Like he was talking about the Cubbies making a run in the play-offs rather than a natural phenomenon that was going to destroy homes and businesses and kill people.

  Ken zoomed forward a little in time, and then we saw more of Bonetti, and the waves crashing over the top of Ken, who was down on the beach and tied to a tree for a lifeline. Then Ken pinched his fingers again and the picture zoomed away from Bonetti and onto the concourse behind, where Sam Venturi was running along the concourse. He looked in a hurry. He pulled open the emergency exit and stepped inside. We all sat and watched the closed door on screen. It felt like he had gone into a bank branch to make a transaction it took so long. But eventually Sam stepped back out.

  He looked around, bent down behind the low hedge that ran along the walkway, and did something there. Then he stood up and ran back down toward the south end of the hotel and out of shot. Then Ken pulled the cable out of his iPad and the television went blank.

  “That’s it?” said Sam.

  “What were you doing in the hedge, Sam?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Discarding a glass, perhaps? A glass you had been using in the hot tub?”

  Sam lifted his head. The shock in his eyes was replaced with something else. Perhaps the notion that he had me .

  “What glass?” said Sam. “There’s no glass.”

  “Are you sure, Sam? You didn’t hide your glass in the hedge there?”

  “Why don’t we go out and take a look?” he said, challenge written all over his face.

  I shrugged. I figured it was my turn.

  “No need to get all wet, Sam. Right, Ken?”

  Ken nodded. He had connected one of his GoPro cameras to the television. It was a small thing, designed to attach to a helmet or a surfboard to catch those action shots that those lunatic adventure sports folks like to get in lieu of nice sunsets and shots on the beach.

  The television popped to life. Again it took a moment to figure out what we were looking at, because this time the angle was strange. The image was all gray at the bottom, like frost-bitten grass. Except not grass. It was the top of hedge. Ken had placed the camera in the hedge by the first pylon along from the north exit. Right where I had asked him to put it.

  In the corner of the shot there was movement as we saw a dark shadow move—the emergency door opening. And a body stepped out of the shadow and crouched down by the hedge. And it was then that I realized that Ken had outdone himself. It was dark out—no power, little light, heavy clouds. Too dark to see anything on camera.

  But Ken’s camera was infrared. A night camera. I supposed those lunatic adventure sports folks liked to skate where they shouldn’t after hours, or scream down a half-pipe by nothing but moonlight. I supposed there was a market for an action sports camera with night vision. Perhaps it was just the weather camera market. But either way it showed a gray but well-focused shot of Sam Venturi’s face. He reached around inside the hedge for a moment. Then he pulled something out. He held it up to look at it. A long, thin glass, perfect for champagne. Then he stood and threw it away, into the ocean that was crashing across the lawn of the hotel. Then he turned and stepped back inside. The television went dark and all eyes turned to Sam.

  Sam was focused on his feet. His eyes dropped and slowly closed.

  “I thought your whole angle, the reason you wanted away from the island was because of your career. The fact that it hadn’t happened the way you planned. I get that. The realization that the other guy is faster, stronger, better. No matter what you do. I thought that was consuming you. But I was wrong. It wasn’t that feeling that ate you up inside. It was the oldest heartache in the world. Unrequited love.”

  We all looked at Sam. He was done. The color that had appeared was gone and his face was pale again. Even his blond hair seemed to have the color sucked from it. I glanced around the room. Everyone was looking at Sam. But despite the fact that he had killed someone, I didn’t see anger or fear in their eyes. I saw pity. I saw it in them all, even Anton. Everyone except Leon. He wasn’t looking at Sam. He was looking at me, looking at him. He lifted his chin and spoke to me.

  “Did he kill Paul, too?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “It’s a good question,” I said. “When two deaths happen in such close proximity they are often linked in some way. Right, Sam?”

  Sam didn’t open his eyes.

  He said, “I didn’t even really know Paul.”

  “But did you kill him?” asked Leon. I saw a flash of something—anger? grief?—across his face.

  “The signs suggested it was an accident,” I said. “But I didn’t buy it. Because linked doesn’t just mean the same perpetrator. It could be linked in some other way. Linked in time, or circumstance. Or linked by a secret. Linked by poor judgment from otherwise smart people. And then I thought about the secret that everyone seemed to be dancing around the edges of. The same secret that had seen Carly Pastinak killed. The high school tennis tournament. Case Academy. The faked drug test.”

  “Paul was, by consensus, a moocher. He lived his life on the goodness of others. Particularly his ‘brothers’—Anton and Leon. Anton has been overly generous. Done more than any real brother could be expected to do. He gave Paul money, lodging, even a job at times. But Anton was entering a new phase in his life. Marriage. And marriage changes everything. The feelings and thoughts of another person must be considered, possibly for the first time ever. Whether you look at it as a religious thing, or a civil union, or just a pledge, marriage is a step above all other commitments. Even the nonchalant Anton knew this. Perhaps he didn’t want the moocher on his coattails anymore.”

  I looked at Anton and got nothing. So I looked to his left.

  “Certainly his wife didn’t. You told me yourself. You wanted a clean slate.”

  “That doesn’t mean
I killed Paul. That’s crazy,” Shania said.

  “It’s not crazy. People who get into relationships, marriages, often want their partner’s past forgotten, or even erased. It happens.” I put my hands behind my back and stepped away. “But it isn’t what happened here. Paul knew things about his so-called brothers. Maybe, like Sam, he knew Leon’s secret from France.”

  “You don’t understand fraternité , you Americans,” said Leon. “I would never hurt my brother.”

  “Oh, we understand better than you think. Maybe too well. Your national motto is liberté, égalité, fraternité . Liberty, equality, fraternity. All concepts encapsulated in our constitution, our bill of rights. We’ve fought wars for those ideals. Sometimes in the right, sometimes not. Sometimes protecting your brother leads you to do the wrong thing.”

  Leon shook his head.

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “Maybe. But you weren’t the only one affected.” I wandered back across the room toward the bar and stopped short of it. Between Chef Dean and Mr. Neville .

  Neville said, “I feel no compulsion to defend myself, Mr. Jones. There has been no wrongdoing on my part.”

  I nodded. “I agree. But Paul did know something about his brother. He knew about Anton and the fake test. But Leon, your argument was persuasive. You convinced me that he would never use that against Anton. That he didn’t need to. You guys weren’t really brothers, but you stick together like you are. I know real brothers who aren’t that loyal.”

  I took a couple paces back and glanced at Leon.

  “But Leon gave me another idea. The notion that someone else was involved in that test. Someone substituted for Anton in the urine sample. But that presented me with a problem. Who would do that? Let’s face it, he might be loyal, but Anton’s not an easy guy to love. But someone did it.”

  I looked at Leon, and Sam next to him.

  “Sam,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  “You explained how it might affect you and your teammates if Anton failed that test. It would result in some kind of a ban for Anton. But he wasn’t pro yet, so how bad could it be? And it might taint you, but you could offer a test to refute it. But you told me the one person it would affect most of all. It’s an uneven playing field out there. Men earn way more than women. Hell, the US women won the soccer world cup and earned a tenth of what the last place men’s team got in their world cup. No one’s arguing it’s fair. Expectations for the women are different. They have to be great athletes, but feminine. Be strong, but look great in a skirt. And they have to be fierce competitors, but pure. And a failed drug test, even if it wasn’t actually hers, was going to hurt Shania most of all.”

  Shania’s mouth dropped open. “Are you going back there again? You can’t honestly believe that I killed Paul. ”

  “I don’t. Not you. But someone who would do anything for you. Someone who felt that fraternité.”

  “If you say Anton, you’ve lost me,” she said.

  “No. Anton can’t substitute in a test for himself. And I couldn’t think of anyone who was in Florida for the tournament in question who would do it for him. But for you? Would someone do it for you? Who would come up with an idea like that? Who would protect their charge like that? An agent, that’s who.”

  “But Carly wasn’t Anton’s agent back then,” Shania said.

  “I’m not talking about his agent. I’m talking about yours.”

  Shania laughed. There was no joy in it. “I didn’t have an agent. I still don’t. My dad— ”

  She stopped and stared at me, or perhaps through me. Then she came back.

  “You are certifiable,” she said.

  “A claim often made.”

  “You’re saying my dad took the test for Anton?”

  “No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying he arranged it. He saw the big picture. He knew the damage that it would do. A girl at the beginning of a great career, tainted by a positive test of a teammate. A teammate she was also in love with. Your dad knew that the public, the fans, wouldn’t make the distinction. You would be guilty by association. And if the fans thought that, so would the sponsors.

  “So he arranged it. He knew that Anton had no one in the country who would do this thing for him. Leon and Paul were in France. But your dad knew someone who would do it for you. Someone he saw as a son. Deshawn.”

  Deshawn was sitting at the back of the room. Every head turned to him. Every head except one. All those eyes on him and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t sweat. And then the one head that didn’t turn got stupid. Sam broke from his seat next to Leon and made a break for the door.

  He was fast. They said he was a great counterpuncher on the court, and I could see why. He would chase down a lot of balls with that burst of speed. I wasn’t going to stop him. I was only a couple steps away, but he was past me before I realized he had moved. I wasn’t sure where he was going. Out of the lounge, yes. But beyond that? There were hurricane shutters everywhere and the only glass was hurricane-proof and locked. And if he did get past that, the hotel was a little island surrounded by a moat of floodwater that was itself on a bigger island surrounded by ocean and the Intracoastal. Perhaps Sam hadn’t gotten that far in his thinking. Sometimes you can’t plan beyond the next pitch. You just need to focus on what you are going to throw, and what the batter doesn’t want to see. And sometimes you get it right, and you get to throw another one.

  And sometimes you get hit into the stands.

  Sam launched across the room and was at the doorway before most of us had moved a muscle. The doorway was the first objective. The doorway that had been vacant and open when Sam drove up and out of his seat. The doorway that got filled by the massive wet frame of Rex Bonetti. His poncho flapped and served to fill the void around him. Sam used that court agility to step around Bonetti. I don’t know what Bonetti heard, or what he knew. But he stuck out his arm. Like a coat hanger. Like a chin-up bar.

  Sam Venturi ran right into it. His head stayed behind but his legs kept going. He spun around Bonetti’s thick arm, his chin as the fulcrum, his feet flying up, and then his head down, and he crashed into the floor, unconscious.

  Bonetti didn’t even look down.

  “Got the power on,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I looked back at Deshawn. No one was looking at him now. It was the perfect time for him to make a break for it if he planned to. But he hadn’t moved. He was sitting quietly. I figured he must have thought he was too clever, that he had every base covered. Then I noticed Detective Ronzoni. He had slipped in behind Deshawn’s chair and had placed his hands on Deshawn’s shoulders.

  “Not going anywhere, Deshawn?”

  He slowly shook his head. “No reason to,” he said.

  “You are cool, I’ll give you that. But that’s why Shania’s father came to you. You and Shania grew up together. He knew how you felt about her. That you loved her. That’s true, isn’t it, Deshawn?”

  “What if it is?”

  “Like Sam, it’s the worst kind. Unrequited love. But harder for you, I think. The woman you love is marrying the very guy you are linked to forever. Because Shania’s dad asked you to provide a clean urine sample. But Paul found out. Anton got drunk with his ‘brothers’ one night and told all. Leon told me he didn’t know who provided the sample but he suspected they were here because of something Paul said. Because Paul knew. Anton didn’t just tell about his end of the test. He told them who provided the sample.”

  “I did not know,” said Leon.

  “No, I don’t think you did. I think you might have been too drunk to remember. But Paul remembered. And with the Anton gravy train coming to an end, he decided to make a new plan. To blackmail Deshawn. To threaten him. I suspect not with exposure to the authorities. Hell, it was a high school event. The samples were probably discarded long ago. But he could threaten to tell Shania. Tell her that her knight in shining armor, the man she had grown up with a
nd looked up to as a brother, the man who had been in love with her for years, was a part of a cheat.”

  Deshawn didn’t move. Ronzoni wasn’t allowing that.

  He said, “That’s a great story. But even if it were true, it doesn’t translate to murder.”

  “Oh, but it does. You see, Paul knew that this was the weekend that he was going to get the bad news from Anton. So it was the weekend to put you in play. He followed you to the gym. I saw him do it on the security video. He broke it to you there, didn’t he? I think Ron and I might have interrupted you when we arrived to put the hurricane shutters up. You weren’t working too hard when we got there. And then you used us as an excuse to get out. You said you were going for a soak. But later you said you went to your room. The video we saw shows you coming down from your room via the lobby stairs.”

  “So I prefer stairs to elevators. Heart healthy isn’t a crime.”

  “Not at all. It’s a darn good idea. But here’s the thing. When you came out from the gym, the video shows you bypassing those stairs. I thought at the time it was because you were headed for the hot tub. But the hot tub was the other way.”

  “There were other stairs, nearer to my room. ”

  “So you say. There are also cameras in the elevator lobbies on the room floors. That’s where the lobby stairs come out. But you took the north staff stairs.”

  “So?”

  “So, those stairs can’t be opened at ground level without a staff key card. They are designed for emergencies, to get guests down, not up. You stopped at the check-in desk to say hi to Miss Taylor, but what you were really doing was stealing her key card.”

  “Oh, I’m a pickpocket now.”

  “I did lose my card around then,” said Emery.

  “Yes, you made one for me and one for Detective Ronzoni, and one for yourself. And Deshawn used yours to take the staff stairs to the mezzanine. Where the ballroom is. Shania told me you had a game of tennis in there, and then took Sam and her through Pilates.”