He closes the door behind us.
The large room is overly full of furniture and cluttered — computers, exercise equipment, video game systems, and boxes and boxes of clothes, CDs, and DVDs.
—Just move in? I ask.
—No.
—Oh.
I turn around to face him. He doesn’t offer me a seat, so we stand — me against the back of the couch, him with a hand propped on a dining table chair.
—You reported Casey missing on —
—The fuck is Casey? Amber. I reported Amber missing. You the fool just called?
—I was told you called and reported Casey missing, but that you called her Amber.
—Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no Casey.
—I thought you said she uses different names.
—Her real name is Amber. She’s my girlfriend. She’s been missing almost a week now.
He seems as confused as I am, and I try to figure out what’s going on. Why did John Milton tell me he reported Casey missing if he didn’t?
I think back to my initial conversation with the sheriff, trying to recall if he ever used a name — Casey or Amber. He didn’t. He just said something like did you call about Miss Thunder Beach last night — but Casey is Miss Thunder Beach, so what does Amber have to do with any of this? Is it possible the answer is nothing? Are there two different missing person’s cases that have gotten intertwined? But how? How could that —
—You a cop? he asks.
I nod.
—Working with them, I lie. Tell me about Amber.
His description of her matches Casey exactly.
—She a dancer? Part of the Miss Thunder Beach competition?
He shakes his head.
—Not this year. Has in the past. She does massage therapy. Involved in it that way this time.
I know from various stories I had worked on over the years that massage therapy is often a front for prostitution.
—You got a picture of her?
—She’s on the front of the Thunder Beach Magazine, he says, beginning to look around the stacks in the room.
So he’s talking about Casey. Casey is on the front of the magazine. Why does he think her name is Amber?
—Here it is.
He withdraws a copy of the magazine from a stack of them and hands it to me.
The publication is the same as the one with Casey, but from an earlier event, and the girl on the front, though she could pass as Casey’s sister, maybe even twin, is not, in fact, Casey.
—This is Amber?
—Yeah.
—It says she’s Miss Thunder Beach.
—Was, he says. Last spring.
I look at the dates of the magazine. It’s the one from the rally this past autumn.
They publish the winner of the spring rally in the autumn edition and the winner of the autumn rally in the spring edition.
I recall now that there are two rallies, but because the one in the fall is so much smaller than the one in the spring, I think of Thunder Beach being every spring, though it’s actually both.
So, Casey won the competition at the autumn rally and Amber won it last spring, but why would they think I was calling about Amber when I first called the publication’s office? True, I hadn’t used her name, just said I was calling about the girl on the cover, but even so, they should’ve assumed I meant the most recent — and then I remember.
What was it the guys at the booth outside Mrs. Newby’s had said? They had to pass out the old edition while waiting to get some of the new ones in. I thought they were talking about different printings of the same edition, but they meant an earlier publication.
My mind begins to race.
Both blondes, both Miss Thunder Beach, both missing. Can’t be a coincidence. But which one’s dead? Is it possible Casey’s still alive?
My pulse quickens and I feel hope begin to fill me, emanating outward from a tiny wishful spark in the center of me.
—What have the police told you? I ask.
—Nothin’. Won’t tell me shit.
—Did Amber having anything to do with this year’s Thunder Beach?
He shakes his head.
—Not officially. She crowned the new one last fall, and that’s it. She did have some clients coming in for it.
—Clients?
—I told you, man. She’s a massage therapist.
—And she had clients coming in for Thunder Beach?
—Yeah. It’s her busiest week of the year. Where are you going?
Running to my car, I call Rashard.
He doesn’t answer.
As I drive away, I leave a detailed message explaining everything I’ve just learned.
I then call John Milton and do the same thing, asking him to notify all law enforcement in the area.
I cut my message a little short when Tristan beeps in.
—Any luck on identifying the cat in the picture yet? he asks.
—Not so far.
—Looks so familiar. I know I’ve seen him somewhere. Gonna pass it around today. Should have something for you soon. It’s like it’s on the tip of my brain — just need something to jog my memory.
He doesn’t know anything about the cops believing Casey to be dead, so I don’t mention Ian or anything he said.
—You able to get Brad and the boys out?
—Heading there now. They wouldn’t let me last night.
—Thank them again for me. Tell ’em I owe ’em.
—Will do. Ciao.
I call Regan next.
It takes her a while to answer, and when she does, she talks very softly.
—Casey might still be alive, I say.
—What? Hold on, let me step outside. How? Are you sure? I tell her what Ian told me.
—Oh my God, Merrick. That’s just the best news. The best. Should I stop trying to find Kevin?
—No. Keep trying. How’s it going?
—I think I’m getting pretty close. These are the nicest people. I’ll call you when I have something. Better get back in. I’m so happy for you. Let me know what you find out.
When we end the call, I become aware of where I am — 15th Street between the Port and the college, surrounded by motorcycles. As I take a left on 23rd, I search for Bay County Medical Examiner on my phone, and find that it’s on Frankford over near the airport.
I’m nearing Frankford when Rashard calls back.
—How the fuck this happen? he says.
—They fit the same description, both won Miss Thunder Beach, were on the cover — of different issues, but they were both being passed out this weekend. When I called and asked about the girl on the cover and described her, the woman taking the call assumed I meant the girl she had already been called about — Amber. Ian had already reported her missing by then.
—So she who’s in the morgue?
—I’ll know if I can see her, I say. I’m headed there now. Can you get me in?
—They haven’t even done the autopsy yet.
—I’m almost there. Make some calls. Let Frank know what’s going on. You’ve got to get me in. I’ve got to know — hell, the detectives heading up the investigation have to know.
—I’ll see what I can do, but I can tell you it ain’t gonna happen.
—Thanks.
When I walk out of the ME’s office, Rashard is waiting on me, in uniform, leaning against his patrol car.
He pushes himself up.
—Couldn’t wait any longer, I say. Went in to see if I could talk them into letting me view the body.
—And?
I shake my head.
—Told you.
—I don’t get it. We’ve got to know. How can they investigate if they don’t know who they’re victim is?
—I’ve got a way we can do it, he says.
—How?
—Crime scene photos.
I nod.
—Great idea, I say. Where are they?
—I’ve got ’em with me, but jus
t hold on a minute. You’ve got to prepare yourself. It could still be Casey. And if it’s not, they’re still unpleasant as hell to look at.
—I understand. I’m ready.
—You sure?
—Yeah. Come on.
He reaches is into the open window of his car and withdraws a file folder. Opening it, he begins to flip through the pictures.
—Let me find the best one for identification, he says.
I snatch the folder from him and begin to examine the pictures.
The small, pale body is splayed out atop the bunched up and wadded white sheets of a hotel bed. Though there’s no blood or any obvious signs of violence, her smeared lipstick and tear- and mascara-streaked cheeks do tell a story with an unhappy ending — and it’s clear the girl is dead, not sleeping.
It’s not Casey, and this makes me so happy that I feel like a monster. How can I look at this poor, abused, and abandoned girl and be glad she is dead? And that’s what it is. I am glad it’s her and not Casey. A wave of nausea rises up from the pit of my stomach, and I think I’m going to vomit.
—Well? Rashard asks.
I shake my head.
—It’s not Casey, I say.
—You sure?
I nod.
—How?
—She has a scar on her leg from her twelfth birthday party at Miracle Strip.
—You okay?
—Yeah. Will be.
—You think that’s Amber? he asks, nodding toward the folder I’ve now closed.
—Don’t know who else it could be.
—Any idea what the fuck’s goin’ on?
—None. But I’m not thinking it’s a coincidence they both were part of the Thunder Beach pageant. They were actually on stage together this past fall.
—Think the killer saw them then? If so, why wait ’til now? That’s a long time.
—Could just come here for Thunder Beach, I say. You could do a search for similar victims around the country. Might let us know where he’s from — help figure out who it is.
—Great idea, he says. I’ll pass it along.
—So we’re thinking the same guy that killed Amber has Casey?
—Too many similarities not to consider, he says, turning toward his car. I’ve got to let the lead detective know all this. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.
Back in my car, I’m so happy, so relieved, I can hardly drive.
The euphoria I’m experiencing is far better than the best drug I’ve ever taken.
As if on a loop, my mind keeps repeating: She’s still alive. She’s still alive. She’s still alive.
She is, another voice in my head says, but she won’t be for long. Don’t celebrate until you have her safely back, unharmed.
My mind continues its loop, but with a different mantra now: She’s still out there. She’s still out there. She’s still out there.
I’ve got to find her — and fast — or the next victim in a crime scene photo I see will be her.
— You’re pretty good at this, Frank Clemmons says. Ever thought about being a detective?
I laugh.
Frank Clemmons, a detective with the Panama City Police Department, is the lead investigator in Amber’s death. He’s a thick, but fit, gray-haired man in his late fifties with tanned, puffy skin.
I’ve just finished telling him everything I know about Amber and Casey and what I’ve been up to the past few days — sans the break-in at The Dollhouse.
—I’m serious, he says. We got three agencies working this thing and you’ve found out more than all of us put together.
—Not very different from chasing down a story, I say, but, truth is, this is personal. I’m highly motivated.
He nods.
We’re seated in the front booth of Pizzeria Napoli at the corner of 22 and Business 98 in Springfield.
We’re here because he was in the area conducting an interview, but it’s by far my favorite pizza, and with my appetite back, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
Since Amber’s body was found in a room at the Marie Motel in downtown, Panama City PD is handling the case, but because she lived on the beach and because of the possible connections to the rally, several agencies are involved — including the Bay County Sheriff’s Department and Panama City Beach PD.
I take another bite of my pizza and savor the taste on my tongue. Though every aspect of the pie at Pizzeria Napoli is delicious, it’s the hand-tossed, homemade garlic butter crust that separates it from every other pizza I’ve tried.
—So, he says, the guy who threatened you when you were leaving Newby’s and the calls you got Wednesday night, think those were about Amber or Casey?
I shrug.
—I think Amber, but no way to know, is there?
—Not ’til we find the fucker and ask him.
I think back to the calls from Wednesday night. No one ever used a name — just Miss Thunder Beach. I try to recall the magazine the man in the parking lot held up when warning me off. At the time, I thought it was an alternative cover of Casey or an earlier edition, but now I believe it was an older issue with Amber’s picture on it.
Even Regan’s response to the cover was strange. I had both issues that night. Which one did I show her? It must have been the one of Amber — the one I first found inside Mrs. Newby’s. What was it she said later in the club when I asked her about it? I don’t think I know her, but I think I know who you mean. Something like that.
As usual, the TV mounted in the back left corner of Pizzeria Napoli shows The Food Network. A gray-haired southern woman is talking while stirring items into a skillet, though I can neither hear her nor make out the items.
—How long you been a detective? I ask.
—Coming up on twenty-six years.
—So you’ve seen a lot, I say.
He nods.
—Too much, he says.
—You got a read on whether Amber’s overdose was accidental or —
—Whether it was or not, she wasn’t alone.
—How do you —
—It didn’t happen at the Marie. Somebody dumped the body there.
I nod and think about it.
—Was there anything — a signature or something — that makes you think you’re dealing with a serial —
—Nothing yet. Too soon to tell.
—Had she been raped?
—She’d had vigorous intercourse — not sure if it was consensual or not.
I nod, and wonder why he’s being so forthcoming. I don’t have to wonder long.
—Remember the Alfonzo Williams case? he asks.
I nod again.
I had reported on it, had actually written a series of articles about it. A white cop had shot and paralyzed a black kid, in what was believed to be a racially motivated shooting.
—The cop involved, he says. Colvin.
—Yeah?
—He’s a good friend of mine — like a son to me. He’s a good man. It was a righteous shoot.
I nod.
—You were the first and only one to say so for a long time, he adds.
—Just wrote the facts.
—Saved his career. Maybe his life.
I shoot him an incredulous look.
—Cops don’t last long inside, he says. I owe you for that, and for what you’ve turned up in this case, so I’m gonna give you some advice.
Here we go, I think. Back off and let the cops deal with this.
—We’re good at what we do, he says. But we move slow. Can’t be helped. The way the system’s set up. I know of victims who were alive when we figured out where they were likely to be and dead by the time we got a warrant.
I nod again, wondering if he’s telling me what I think he is.
—I’m not saying do anything stupid or rash. You do, you’ll get yourself and the girl killed, but this was my daughter or stepdaughter or niece or someone I cared about, I wouldn’t wait on us, I’d go off the reservation if I had to.
—Thanks.
—I’m not saying try to catch this prick. I’m saying keep doing what you’re doing. Keep digging. You find something, you let us know. You let me know, and I’ll take this cocksucker down.
—I will.
—Like I said, you’re good at this. The clock is ticking. We got one dead girl. Don’t want another.
While I was meeting with Clemmons, I missed a call from Tristan, but before calling him back, I tap in Regan’s number.
Getting her voicemail, I ask her to call me as soon as she can, tell her I love her, end the call, then call Tristan.
—You get my message? he asks.
—Didn’t take time to listen to it, I say. Figured it’d be quicker just to call you back.
—Cool. Well, get this.
—Yeah?
—Brad recognizes the guy in the picture. Said he’d know that awful fuckin’ haircut anywhere.
—What? Who is it?
—Doesn’t know his name, but knows where he works.
—Where?
—Jade Gardens, he says.
—What is —
—The massage parlor on Front Beach.
—Let me call you right back, I say.
—Okay.
When he’s gone, I call Ian King.
—Where does Amber work? I ask.
—Who is —
—You said she did massage therapy, I say. Where?
—She did a lot of outcall work.
I knew from a story I had done about sex trafficking that outcall was a term used mostly by escort services for in-home visits. Outcall, the escort goes to the client. Incall, the client goes to the escort. Like a lot of massage parlor workers, I’m betting Amber was a prostitute.
—But when it’s incall, I say. Where is it?
—Jade Gardens. Why?
—Thanks.
I end the call and bring up Tristan again.
—Can you have Brad meet me at Jade Gardens? I ask.
—Why?
—Because, I say, I’m about to go off the reservation.
Jade Gardens Oriental Massage Parlor is a storefront joint in a strip mall not far from the Y on Panama City Beach.
Like so many fronts for prostitution or even sex work, Jade Gardens has a locked wrought iron door that must be buzzed open.
When I ring the bell, a small, middle-aged Asian woman with short, black hair opens the interior door and looks me over through the iron bars.
—You want massage?
I nod.
—Seventy dollar.
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 44