“Can you find out? Could you ask Mathews again?” I knew I sounded desperate, but I didn’t care.
“That’s all I got,” he said, nonchalantly running his tongue around the inside of his mouth as if he was checking for lucky leftovers. I had to force myself not to gag.
“I don’t want to talk to you any more than you want to talk to me, but please, if you find out anything else, will you let me know?”
Either I’d said something that amused him or he found some beef jerky stuck in an incisor, because his goofy grin made him look far too satisfied.
“I’ll tell you one thing, sweetheart,” he said, backing away. “Talk to Detective Martinez. He knows more than you think he does. Waaaaaayyy more.”
Sweetheart? Martinez? This loser knew just how to piss me off.
“Why him?” I started to follow the trail of slime, but he held up his hands like I’ll touch you with these greasy things if I have to.
“Remember that corrupt-cop thing your dad and I were working on all those years ago?”
“You can’t mean Martinez? If that was true, he wouldn’t have been promoted to Detective.”
“Let’s just say that Martinez was good at getting in and out of more than just your mom’s panties.” He dropped his chins and grinned. A quick palm thrust would wipe that smug look off his face. “Not long after your dad found out about the affair, he turned Martinez in to Internal Affairs for some ‘misplaced drug evidence.’ Nothing stuck of course. Jack made the move to SWAT, and Martinez made his way up the ladder all the same. That’s the thing about corruption, it’s hard to know how deep it goes. But make no mistake, Martinez’s hands weren’t clean.”
“But my dad couldn’t prove it?” It was more a statement than a question.
“The thing is, Jack and Martinez were both damn good at their jobs. In some ways, they were a lot alike. Both highly trained, ambitious Marine brothers until the end of time and all that jazz. They were tight. But the way they did things couldn’t have been more different. While Jack was all letter of the law, Martinez was all spirit of the law. Martinez bent the rules, did things his own way, and Jack didn’t like it. Jack thought he could change Martinez. That as his partner, it was his duty or some shit…pardon my French. But obviously, that didn’t happen.
“While Jack made his way up to Sergeant fairly quickly, Martinez built a reputation as a dirty cop. About a year ago, your pops allegedly began suspecting Martinez of suspicious dealings with a few drug rings.” Sammy paused to make a full-circle motion with his chubby hands, then said, “So, when I heard Martinez’s name came up in the personal complaint Jack filed the month before his death, I couldn’t help but wonder—”
“Wait,” I said. “My dad filed a report against Martinez one month before he died?” I couldn’t believe the vast amount of information I didn’t know. It kept falling on top of me like an avalanche.
“No, the report wasn’t filed against Martinez. Remember, I said the complaint was against someone else—someone from both of their pasts. Somebody I don’t know about, unfortunately. But Martinez was a witness to threats against Jack. Apparently it would’ve taken a lot more than a nearly wrecked marriage and an almost-destroyed career to break the Marine bond they shared. Water under the bridge.” Sammy stared with skeptical eyes at the water slamming against the Pier’s beams.
I shook my head in astonishment. Was he insinuating that Martinez didn’t hate my dad anymore? That they made up, and he was actually helping my dad, trying to protect him from someone—maybe the same someone who’d been setting me up? Could I believe this dirty little slop of a man? Had I misinterpreted Martinez’s concern all this time? Was he trying to protect me against the same man who murdered my father?
“Look, kid…” Sammy paused and glanced around nervously. “I gotta go, but don’t forget to call. Remember, I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
The only thing I wanted to scratch was my skin in case some of his head lice had jumped onto my body.
But he really did know my dad—and in a way I never had.
I was supposed to go see Dr. T at 3:00. First, she pushed the appointment back, which I thought was lucky since that was the time Sammy had wanted to meet. But while I was on my way over to her office, she canceled altogether, saying she wasn’t feeling well. That had happened like two times ever. Snow at the beach was more common. I wondered if I’d told her too much. If she was distancing herself from me because of what she knew I’d done.
I would’ve considered it another stroke of luck that the house was empty when I got back, but who was I kidding? My mother was never home.
I pulled the pictures out of the envelope and thought about burning it in the trash can to make sure all Sammy’s slime was gone. But that would raise flags I didn’t need, so I put it in the kitchen trash compactor and washed my hands four times. Just to be sure.
He had four pictures of the van. Clear, digitally enhanced photos. I pulled open my dad’s database again and plugged in the plate number.
One name popped up: D. Silver. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. D. S. now had a last name and an address: 4081 Royal Hill Bay, Newport Beach, California—only twenty minutes from here.
Now I wished Liam wasn’t away at his game. I shouldn’t go—no, I couldn’t go—to Newport without him. And yet it would be virtually impossible for me to sit here alone and twiddle my thumbs all night. Surely doing a simple drive-by would be a safe enough activity in my Mary Poppins–equipped Big Black. We could just go check out the address.
I closed out my dad’s computer and headed over to his gun safe, putting in the pathetically simple code—911. The safe door creaked open, and I stared at the racks of weapons like a kid at a candy store. Since my handgun, Smith, had gone into the LeMarq evidence logs, never to be returned, I wanted something similar. Hanging on its hook was my dad’s nickel-plated Glock, but I could barely stand to look at it, let alone touch it. Maybe I shouldn’t be taking a gun at all.
I’d been somewhat successful at blocking out most of what happened that night at the warehouse. Liam and I had an unspoken agreement not to talk about it. But now, as I stared at the Glock, I couldn’t help feeling the darkness of those deaths creep over me again. Why had Silver returned my dad’s gun to me?
The only reasonable choice seemed like my mom’s Ruger pocket revolver. It was tiny enough to seem like middle ground between a real gun and nothing at all. The only reason we even had it was because my mom once told my dad she wanted a gun small enough to fit in her small Coach purse, and he bought it for her anniversary present. She got so mad that he’d dared offer it in the place of a “real anniversary gift” that she never picked it up. I couldn’t tell if it had ever been used. I knew my dad wouldn’t have been caught dead with a little thing like this.
And I hoped I wouldn’t be, either.
I slid it into my jeans pocket, next to the Challenge Coin I now carried with me at all times. As I was about to close the safe, the hilt of a knife caught my eye. It was one of those Rambo-type blades, with a leather holder that strapped on to the leg under clothing. I pulled up my jeans, tied it above my boot for good measure, and heaved a big sigh of relief.
I finally had a lead.
CHAPTER 17
I could barely make out the faded address sign on the decaying post at the entrance of the marina. “Bayside Buccaneer Yacht Club” had seen better times. Half of the old-fashioned street lamps were burned out, and half cast a faint Halloween-orange glow that did nothing to illuminate their surroundings. The place was littered with garbage, and the bitter reek of fish seeping through my rolled-up windows made it feel more like a deserted shipyard than a yacht club.
Aside from a few old beater cars lining the street, several abandoned-looking RVs in the parking lot, and a small office near the docks, no other evidence of life existed. This place was totally isolated. Even half of the boat slips were empty.
Could Silver live on one of these eyesores? It seemed
unlikely considering his profile. Yet, as I sat safely inside Big Black watching a lonely plastic bag blow down the planked walkway toward the water—which I told myself didn’t look like a ghost floating in the darkness—it started to make sense. This might be an ideal place for a criminal to hide. Nobody around except for the rotting fish.
The lights in the small office down the walkway flickered, catching my eye, and I toyed with the idea of jogging down there just to verify that D. Silver really did have a registered slip. But it was dark. And Halloween night. And logic told me to wait for Liam.
Except, logic also told me that I was fully capable of walking a hundred yards to ask one stupid question. Especially with the heat I was packing in my pocket. I grabbed my phone and quickly typed a message to Liam, telling him where I was and what I was doing, just in case. But as soon as I pressed “Send,” the message came back undelivered with a huge exclamation point indicating no service. Just perfect.
I turned off the engine and reached down to make sure the knife was secure under my boot-cut jeans. Reminding myself of all my dad’s training, I turned up all my senses as I walked across the parking lot and onto the creaking wooden causeway. I could do this.
The wicked wind picked up as I drew nearer to the office, and a tattered flag on a pole whipped and snapped at me. I knocked on the glass door of the small shack. Across the room, I saw the top of the guard’s unmoving sun-spotted head behind his chair.
I could tell he was watching TV, not only because of the flickering blue light dancing across the ceiling, but because the volume was vibrating the floorboards beneath me. He was watching the USC versus UCLA football game—it was late in the fourth quarter, all tied up.
I let myself in.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called over the front counter. The guy obviously had no peripheral vision left, because he didn’t budge except to scratch himself in some wish-I-hadn’t-seen-them places.
“Excuse me.” I raised my voice even louder. He took a sip of a dark liquid I was sure wasn’t Coke and adjusted his legs on the chair opposite him. Good gracious, was I going to have to give the guy a coronary just to get his attention?
I walked past the desk and rounded him so he could catch me in his peripheral vision. Instantly, his eyes bulged open, his legs and his drink went flying, and the old man overturned his folding chair and landed flat on his back.
“What the…!” he screamed. “Who the P-P-Pete are you?” he stuttered from the floor.
“I knocked,” I said while helping him up. “I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“What you d-d-doin’ here, girlie? Making me miss my damn game!” he barked. “We ain’t doin’ no trick-or-treatin’ round here!”
“I’m not here to trick-or-treat. If I could just get some information, I’ll be out of your hair.” Oops, he only had like five hairs left.
“Fine,” he groaned, holding his back as he went over to the desk, motioning for me to evacuate his personal space. “What you want?”
“Could you please tell me where Mr. D. Silver’s boat is docked?” I asked politely.
He blew out a stale-smelling breath and started poking at the computer keyboard with one finger. “What’s the first name, girlie?”
“I don’t know. Everyone calls him D. Silver,” I said casually, not wanting to raise any red flags. Legally, he shouldn’t be offering any information, but something told me this guy wasn’t exactly a stickler for the rules.
“If it will get you out of here sooner…” he muttered, pushing up his sagging bifocals and leaning in to the monitor. “B-16. That’s down the left side here—”
“Really?” I asked, craning my neck to sneak a glance at the monitor. “Do you know him?”
“Know who?” The old man tilted the screen away from me. So it was OK to tell me the info but not to let me see it?
“D. Silver,” I said pointing at the screen. “Have you seen him around? Do you know what he looks like?”
“What’s this about?” He took off his skinny reading glasses hanging for dear life off the end of his nose and gave me a see-here-young-lady look. I could tell he was gearing up to run me off when a staticky voice came to life from the ground. An ancient walkie-talkie.
“So B-16 is empty, then?” I asked as I backed out of the office, glancing out the window in the direction of the slip.
“I didn’t say that.” He bent over to pick up the walkie-talkie off the floor. “But ain’t nobody out there tonight, rest assured.”
“Thanks,” I said, almost out the door already. “Sorry about the fright.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbled as I left.
I turned left and made my way down to the B dock. I was operating on instinct now, not fear and certainly not logic. The guard said no one was out here tonight, so if I went and had a peek around the boat, it might pay off. And if he was wrong and I found any signs of life—lights, noise, or movement on the boat—I’d leave and come back later with backup. Lots of backup.
The wind was getting stronger, pushing me backward, but I was almost to the B dock when I heard a shriek.
A man’s.
My feet—and my heart—stopped.
“Help, help…I’m drowning…please help!” The voice and the splashing water weren’t far away, but I couldn’t see where in the darkness.
I pulled the gun from my pocket and made sure it was cocked and ready.
Damn it. This wasn’t good. I shouldn’t have ever gotten out of Big Black. Or more to the point, I shouldn’t have ever gotten in Big Black tonight. This was a setup. But how? How could he have known I’d come tonight? Was he watching Sammy?
“I can’t…stay up…please!” The voice cut through my thoughts.
I grabbed my cell out of The Cleave. I had a choice to make:
A. Call 911 and go back to the security office, hoping the drunk and feeble old man could move fast enough to help me save whoever was out there;
B. Call 911, go back to Big Black and leave, knowing the police would trace my number and I’d have to explain myself;
C. Call 911 and go save the man myself; or
D. Don’t call 911 at all, because I just remembered I have no effin’ service! I held up my phone to the night, willing the phone gods to send me some little bars of mobile coverage. Curse words I’d never used before came flowing out of my mouth.
What choice did I have at this point but to get out of there, and fast—before it was too late? But if this was Silver’s work, I already knew he wasn’t afraid of putting innocent lives at risk. And what if the person in the water was someone I knew?
I took off toward the cries. Sprinting down the narrow, uneven dock, I nearly fell over some loose ropes. The poor lighting and slipshod care of the dock were dangerous.
In the moonless night, I couldn’t get my bearings. I couldn’t see anything in the water, and the sounds were echoing off the boats in every direction.
Until the light.
Like a spotlight centered just for me, a bright beam shone directly on the side of the old rickety houseboat at Slip B-16.
Its name, Ruby Belle, was painted on the side of the boat.
Time seemed to stand still. Information overload started falling into designated Tetris-like slots: The boat was named after me. It was docked at Silver’s slip. And someone was in the water next to it, calling out for help.
He’d done it again. He wanted to toy with me. And I’d been stupid, impatient, and impetuous enough to walk right into his trap.
“Help,” the voice called again. Whose voice was it? Whose life would I have to save, and whose would I have to take?
I jumped onto the boat—a motorboat with a small cabin—and raised my gun to prevent a surprise attack. The deck floor was wet and slippery as I found the bait in the waters beyond the front hull—the human bait meant for me. My eyes adjusted to find another familiar face, another monster fighting for his life.
Father Michael McMullin. Number three on my F
ilthy Five list, of course. Without his thick-rimmed 1970s glasses, I almost didn’t recognize the pedophile priest my mom had prosecuted and failed to convict. Still wearing the white collar of God. But now, tied up in the silver chains of Mr. D. Silver. The thin chains tightly wrapped around his neck didn’t look heavy enough to drown him, but the ties binding his wrists together weren’t helping.
“Help!” he cried. “I can’t swim.”
Considering what he’d done to all those children, he deserved to drown. The chain around his neck couldn’t have been more appropriate—several of his victims had been tied up with rosary beads.
As I watched this grown man (who’d never learned the basic skill of treading water but had most definitely mastered the skill of ruining lives) struggle for air, I couldn’t help but marvel at how Silver had outdone himself. If I didn’t save Father Michael, technically it would be me who killed him. I wouldn’t have pulled a trigger, but he would be dead at the bottom of the ocean just the same.
But I wasn’t a killer like Silver—or like Father Michael.
“Help!” he called again, more desperate now.
I scanned the deck for a flotation device, rummaged through the sparse galley, and even scoured the two other boats docked nearby. Everything had been removed, as though pirates had pillaged the place. Of course I knew there was only one pirate behind this sick trap.
I hurried back to Ruby Belle’s bow and found the only thing that might save Father Michael—a short mariner’s rope with hooks at each end. I threw one end out into the water for him to grab, but it wasn’t close enough to him to see in the dark night. Not that he was even looking for it. He was probably so blind without his glasses that I’d have to hit him over the head with it.
I reeled the rope back in and yelled, “I’m throwing you a rope. Grab it!”
He was too out of his mind, flailing about for air.
My choices became abundantly clear. Let him die—saving countless souls, and the justice system hundreds of thousands of dollars. Or attach the rope to the boat, jump in to attach the other end to his body, and pull both of us back into the boat—risking not only my life, but others’ lives in the future.
Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series) Page 15