by Tracy Clark
Marta flicked a thumb toward Tim’s boat. “This is the crime we’re looking at now, and Byson’s on the hook for it.” She turned to leave, then turned back, thoroughly pissed. “I do know how to run a case.”
“I’m not questioning that.”
“Then why are you crawling up my ass?”
“A friend asked for my help, so I’m giving it. I’d do the same for you.”
Marta searched my face and grimaced, apparently seeing the truth in it. She stood down, not much, just a fraction of an inch. “You’re going to haunt my dreams, aren’t you?”
“I believe someone may have had a reason to kill Tim Ayers.”
She smoothed down her crop of dark hair, her anger having turned to quiet resignation. I knew she hated murderers as much as I did. That’s why she became a cop, and why I did. “Tell Byson I’m looking for him.”
“Tim’s family had their lawyer shoo me off their property when I went to ask questions,” I said. “Who’d they have run interference for them tonight?”
Marta didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I knew it was Felton. Where was he the night Tim died? He knew Jung. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to hire someone to impersonate him for a break-in.
“They’re hiding something,” I said. “And you’re wasting your time looking for Jung.”
Marta turned to leave, saying nothing. I watched as she trudged back toward the slips across damp, dewy grass. I stood for a long time and watched as the cops finished up and slowly moved away from the boat, along with most of the curious onlookers. The department wouldn’t have dispatched so many cops or the evidence techs, had this not been Ayers’s boat. Wealth had its privileges.
I waited for over an hour, still no sign of Cap. He had to have slipped back inside the office. Ganz could have gotten the part about the boat wrong. Darby’s got no boat registered in his name, but if the ex-con hung out here for any length of time, the nosy Cap would have to know who he was and why he was here. As the lot cleared of police, leaving the evidence van lagging behind, I headed for the marina office. The sun was well up now, the Drive just beginning to clog up with morning commuters. I flicked a look toward the lot. Barb was still in the car. It was a miracle.
“Lady PI,” Cap said when I walked in. “I thought I saw you talking to that lady cop. She’s a tough one, huh?”
I stood at the counter, my hands on it, palms down. He was a little too jovial, a little too friendly. “She’s also very good. What can you tell me about Vincent Darby?”
“Who?” Cap grinned, sliding a sideways look toward the tip jar.
“I’m not paying you.”
He shrugged, smug. “Your call.”
“What’d you and Eldon Reese have to talk about?”
“Reese? That windbag?” Cap chuckled. “He had another complaint, is all.”
I pulled my wallet out. “I want to satisfy my curiosity. How much to get a look at your back room?” I laid a hundred on the counter. Cap eyed it like a starving man might ogle a thick steak; he all but smacked his lips, but didn’t jump. He was much too wily for that. Not smart, just wily.
“You’d pay a C-note to look at an old storage room?”
Cap looked skittish, dodgy. I laid another hundred down. Slowly sweat began to form in the creases on his forehead, his ruddy face blanched. The jovial mood darkened. He leered at the money as if it were a naked woman with eyes only for him.
“Did I tell you I used to be a cop? Five years. Homicide.”
Cap took a step back as if putting air between us would keep me out of his business. “Knew I smelled cop when you came in that first time.”
I nodded. “In the absence of irrefutable evidence, the mind is left to think up all kinds of things. I’m thinking you’re hiding something back there. I want to know if that something’s connected to Tim Ayers. Drugs maybe, or something else. He stumbled onto it, and you and Reese took care of the problem.”
He tried to look unimpressed, but he was sweating too much for it. Still, he tried to play it cool. He was going down, but not without a fight. “You been watching too many cop shows, you ask me. It’s just a plain old room and it’s got nothing to do with you or that boat out there.”
I stood silently, watching Cap melt. “If I had to choose which one of you got Tim drunk and pushed him overboard, I’d have to go with you. Reese is a pest, but there’s not much ‘there’ there, if you know what I mean. You appear to be made of sterner stuff.”
Cap brushed a calloused hand across his brow to wipe the sweat away, then wiped his hand along the side of his dirty khakis. His chin lifted, and he sneered. “I’m done talking. You got no badge, which means you got no reason to be sniffing around. You just wore out your welcome, so sling your hook.”
I didn’t move. The money stayed where it was and Cap checked on it occasionally.
“How much would you say you weigh, Cap?”
He shot me a confused look. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’d help me figure out how many cops, with badges, I’d need to call in to turn you upside down and shake that backdoor key off your belt.”
He searched my face, ran his tongue over cracked, dry lips. “You’re bluffing. You can’t do that.”
I leaned forward, my right palm covering the money. “They’re going to shake that key off your belt, Cap, and they’re going to open that door. If I’m wrong and they don’t find anything, you win. If I’m right, well . . .” I let the sentence hang. “You and Reese will go down together, only here’s the kicker. Reese can afford a good lawyer, and likely won’t spend a day in jail. You? Depending on what’s back there, you won’t see the light of day for a long, long time. You’re not a young man, Cap, and jail’s a dark, lonely place.”
“Cops need warrants,” Cap barked, but he looked a little unsure.
I chuckled. “Yeah, okay.”
Cap thought it through. He tried bluffing. That didn’t work. He tried charm. That got him nowhere. Threats would come next, so I waited for them. And, as if on cue, he pounded his fists on the counter, rattling the mini fan sitting on the far end. I didn’t flinch.
“You get out of here,” Cap barked.
I waited for the rest of it, but apparently that’s all he had. I went in again. “You like deals, so here’s one. You give me the information I need, and I’ll forget about the back room.” For now. “I could be wrong. I’ve been out of the cop game a few years. My instincts could be rusty.”
He eyed the money again. He wanted it, but there was no way in Hell I was parting with two hundred dollars. I slid the money off the counter, back into my bag.
Cap sneered. “No money, no deal.”
“The deal is information on Vincent Darby in exchange for me walking out of here without dropping a dime on you. Seems like a fair trade to me.”
Cap’s eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “You’re fishing. You got nothing.”
I smiled. “Nothing but the good sense to smell crap when it’s lobbed my way.”
Cap’s bushy brows rammed together, his mouth twisted. He reached under the counter and produced a worn leather sap. I had one just like it in the top drawer of my office desk for troublesome visitors. The look on Cap’s face told me that he thought the sap was all he’d need to get me walking. I held my spot.
“You’re quick to violence,” I said. “Hard to believe you held back with Tim, given the trouble he caused you.” I flicked a disdainful look at the sap. “That won’t solve anything, though. The offer still stands.”
I took a step back from the counter and waited for greedy old Cap to notice the bulge at my right side. I wasn’t carrying a sap. I had a Glock 19, fully loaded with a fifteen-round magazine, but I wasn’t going to use it unless I absolutely had to; and, unless I’d completely misjudged the old man, I didn’t think I’d have to. I stood there, waiting, watching, as Cap slowly realized that he’d brought a sap to a gunfight.
“All right,” he groused, jamming the sap
into his pocket. “What the hell do you want?”
“Vincent Darby—white guy, dark hair, bedroom eyes—you know him?”
“So what?”
“Which boat does he own out there?”
Cap clamped his lips shut to keep the information inside, obstructive to the last. I stood silently, giving him a chance to think things over. “He doesn’t own. He sits. A few of them out there hire slugs like him to sit on their boats so they don’t get broken into. Darby’s on the Magnifique. Slip eight.”
“Blue canopy?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
Tim’s boat was in slip eleven. Three slips down from Tim’s. “If he doesn’t own it, who does?”
Cap took his time, still fighting it. He was boxed in, but that didn’t mean he had to like it, that didn’t mean he had to make things easy. There had to be something really juicy in that back room he didn’t want anybody to see. “His name’s Nick Spada. Now get the hell out of here.”
Darby was sitting on his boss’s boat, which was moored at the same marina where one of their clients, Tim Ayers, was living out his last days. Darby, the ex-con, was also driving his boss’s Mercedes and living in a dead man’s house. What about that sounded hinky? Everything.
“Did you ever see Darby and Ayers together?”
Cap shot daggers at me. “They were friendly till they weren’t. None of my business why.”
“And you and Reese?”
“He’s just another rich cream puff with too much time on his hands, and that’s all you get out of me with or without the cops. Now shove off.”
I smiled, backed out of the office. No way I wanted a sap to the back of the head. When I stepped through the door, Cap rushed over and locked it behind me. Guess he’d had enough for one day.
Chapter 22
The Magnifique was dark, locked up tight. Darby was living high on the hog for somebody just recently out of the stir. I wondered what he was giving in exchange for all the luxury.
I checked the lot. My car was still there, Barb still inside it. I spotted the police evidence van at about the same time I spotted a black SUV with tinted windows idling in a faraway spot. I stopped to watch the car, not liking how close it was to mine. The back window was rolled down partway and a long camera lens stuck through the crack was aimed in my direction. Someone was taking an interest. Was it Felton spying for Stephen Ayers? Was it Ayers doing his own spying? Was it Darby? I flicked a look toward my car again, worried about Barb. The SUV was way too close.
I stood there and stared at the black car, giving whoever was inside a good, long look. Slowly the camera was drawn back, the window raised, and the car sped out of the lot and away. My heart racing, I managed to get just the first three numbers on the plate and a quick flash of a round decal in the rear window. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I’d follow up, but for now, I turned and jogged for the evidence van, hoping one of the evidence technicians was one I knew. I got a lucky break when I spotted Cleo Barker loading equipment into the back.
“Cleo, the best ET on the CPD.”
She turned, her chestnut hair tucked tightly under a CPD cap, and a digital camera hanging from a strap around her long neck. She smiled when she recognized me, her department windbreaker half-zipped against the morning chill.
“Detective Raines. Oops, I forgot. It’s PI Raines now, isn’t it? What’re you doing out here?”
Cleo also sported a schnauzer pendant dangling from a chain around her neck. She was into dogs, all kinds. She rescued them, found homes for them, and owned at least half a dozen of her own. No kids, no husband, just dogs.
“Working a case. You just processed the Safe Passage?”
She grinned, whistled appreciatively. “Is that some sweet setup, or what? Teak decks, all that brass. If I ever hit the lottery, I’m getting one of those, for absolute sure.”
“Marta tells me the place was tossed around good.”
She rolled her eyes, made a face. “Was it! Stuff was everywhere. Sad, really. It’s kind of like taking an axe to the Mona Lisa.”
I pointed to her camera. It was police property, the photos on it, evidence. I had no right to any of it. In fact, even touching it got me in hot water. Still, I hoped Cleo would be a pal. I smiled sweetly. “Mind if I take a look?”
She drew back, clutched the camera, shielding it as though it was one of her fur babies and I was trying to snatch it from her bosom. “Are you kidding? You know I can’t do that.”
“Look, Cleo. I’ve been on that boat. I’ve searched it. If I could just take a quick look, I may be able to tell if something’s missing, which would help you guys out, right?”
Cleo searched the lot wildly as if looking for someone with a star to intervene. She turned back, eyes suspicious, cutting. “It’s against procedure. Chain of evidence. I can’t let you anywhere near these photos.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “Hold on to your camera. But if you just happened to review the shots while I’m standing behind you, there’s no rule against that, is there? That’s just you reviewing your work, and me just happening by.”
Cleo fingered the schnauzer pendant around her neck, as though it were some kind of talisman, as though it had the power to keep bad juju away.
“Two minutes,” I pressed. “One quick scan through, my hands stay in my pockets the whole time, and I’m gone like smoke. I swear.” The silence that followed threatened to stretch on forever. “One look,” I said. “And I take this to my grave.”
Cleo bit down on her lip and caved. “One pass, and only one. No rewinds.”
I released the breath I’d been holding. “Deal. Thanks.”
From behind the cover of the van door, Cleo queued up the shots of Tim’s boat, scrolling through images taken of the tiny kitchen, the gilded bathroom. The main cabin was where the most damage had been done. Everything was overturned, upended, strewn about. Wood paneling was torn from its foundation, the carpet pulled up. This wasn’t just a crime of opportunity. It wasn’t a burglary. Someone had been looking for something. Cleo flicked through at a steady pace and I stood behind her, my hands nowhere near the camera. She’d taken numerous shots of Tim’s paintings, too, the lighthouses. It looked as though someone had punched a fist through the canvases. I counted six. Six.
“Stop.” I placed a hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “The paintings. Did you find any others outside of the main cabin?”
Cleo frowned. “No. Why?”
I tapped her shoulder again. “Never mind. Keep going.”
She ran through the remainder of the photos, but it was just more of the same. Someone had done a complete and thorough job of searching Tim’s boat. They’d even sliced the custom cushions and tossed the stuffing about. I’d counted Tim’s paintings when I searched the boat, wondering why there were so many, wondering why they were all of lighthouses. There’d been seven, not six. All dated, all signed, all Tim’s. I was sure of the number. So what happened to the seventh painting? Had Eldon Reese taken it? Cap? They’d both been here. Would Jung have had any reason to take it?
Cleo came to the end. “That’s it.” She hastily stowed the camera away, relieved that the ordeal was over. “I have to get going.”
I stood there, my mind still on the problem. “Thanks, Cleo. I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do, but if anyone asks, I never saw you today.”
I smiled absently. “How could you have? I was never here.”
She nodded, got into the van, and sped away, leaving me standing in the middle of the lot with wheels turning in my head. I went back to the car, started it, and moved it across the lot behind a stand of bushes, though at this vantage point I still had a full view of the front of the marina office.
“What’re we doing?” Barb asked as I peered out of the windshield, barely blinking.
“Shhh. Working. Explain later.”
It didn’t take long. No more than fifteen minutes later, I watched as Eldon Reese climbed down off his boat and made his way to t
he office. When Cap met him at the door, the two of them started talking, the conversation becoming quite animated after a time. Something was up. When they disappeared inside, I started the car, dug my phone out of my pocket, and made a call.
“Who’d you call the police on?” Barb asked when I hung up.
“A slippery old coot with a secret room,” I said.
Barb turned to me “A what?”
I kept my eyes on the door. “Shhh.”
When the unmarked car slid into the lot a few minutes later, I had a quick talk with the tact officers, pointed them toward Cap, and then left them to it.
Six, not seven.
Chapter 23
“I know I can count to seven,” I said.
The dubious look Barb gave me was a little annoying. “You could have miscounted.”
“To seven? I don’t think so.”
We were sitting in my living room that evening, along with Ben and Whip, and, strangely enough, also Pouch, a semi-reformed pickpocket that Whip was trying to retrain to be a law-abiding citizen. Pouch was a funny-looking little guy, about four eleven, fiftyish, bald, pudgy, white, but with the long, delicate fingers of a classical violinist. Pouch always dressed monochro-matically, but also always wore a fanny pack around his round middle, hence the nickname. Today’s color was navy blue, and even his suede shoes matched. It was his homage to Elvis.
I’d taken Mrs. Vincent’s advice. These were my people and I was letting them in, using them to run through my case, troubleshooting it. I wasn’t sure yet about Pouch. It usually took me a while to warm to people. Mrs. Vincent wasn’t here. She had a thing at her church, but everybody else was accounted for. It was dinnertime, a little after six. The pizza was on its way.
“But where’s Byson?” Ben asked as he lounged on the sofa. “All you got was that one stupid call?”
“Yeah, and I’ve been looking for him all day. No one’s seen him. I even called the hospitals and the morgue, but no one brought in recently matched Jung’s description. I don’t know which tail to chase first, his or Darby’s or Ayers’s.”
“Hate to say it, but it kinda sounds like he hit that boat, then ran,” Whip said. “That’s what I’d do. Only a fool hangs around waiting for the cops to show up.” He slid a sideways glance at Ben, who narrowed shrewd eyes at him. Ben was a cop. Whip was an ex-felon. Neither was fully comfortable with the other, at least not yet.