Reign of Error (The Worst Detective Ever Book 2)

by Christy Barritt

  A witness who’d seen my dad eating at Fatty’s with a man with a skull-and-crossbones tattoo

  Shoes left at my place with traces of salt water, polyurethane, and red diesel, signaling a connection to a marina

  Dad’s personal items were missing, including his treasured grandfather clock and an old trunk

  It seemed like a lot, but it really wasn’t. Nothing was concrete enough to point me toward the next logical step in my search for Dad.

  But the board had two sides, so I flipped it over to write down clues about this Douglas guy.

  I started with the fact that I didn’t know his real name.

  Alias: Douglas Murray

  In town approximately a week

  Traveling to do supposed survey work

  My pictures found in his pocket—including one that belonged to Dad

  I’d cut his hair—a ploy to talk to me?

  Done the Polar Plunge

  Seen meeting with some punks

  Mud on shoes

  Smelled like fish

  Note found at the rental. We know who you are

  He’d warned me to be careful right before he died

  None of that made a bit of sense.

  Not even a smidgen.

  I stared at the list.

  I had no idea where to go with this. And maybe I shouldn’t go anywhere with it. Maybe I should just bow out and not get involved.

  Except I was involved. Douglas had involved me, both when he came in to get his hair cut and when he’d carried my picture with him.

  I sighed. I just wanted to find my dad. I wanted to be frustrated with this case for preventing me from doing so, but that wasn’t even the truth. Reality was that I didn’t have any good leads. Even if I hadn’t become wrapped up in this new mystery, I would still have no answers about what happened to my dad.

  And that was unacceptable. My alter ego would have never approached an investigation so lackadaisically. And I shouldn’t either.

  I began brainstorming ways to figure this mystery out. Nothing was off the table.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, on a break at work, I called Mayor Allen.

  I had a plan. It could be a lousy plan, but at least it was something.

  Now I was going to be like Will Smith in The Pursuit of Happyness: determined and unstoppable. I would see success, even if I had to be laughed at and unconventional to do so.

  “If it isn’t my favorite celebrity,” Mayor Allen said.

  “And my favorite mayor.” My throat hurt even saying the honey-dipped words. I absently began folding freshly washed towels that Dizzy had brought in.

  “Oh stop.” His voice warmed under my compliment. “What’s going on, Joey?”

  I paused from folding when I saw a copy of the National Instigator at the bottom of the pile. I scowled. Of course it was the newest one that featured my recent “scandal.” Dizzy must have bought a copy. Nice.

  I cleared my throat, putting those thoughts aside. “Mayor Allen, I was wondering if I could see the publicity shots from the Polar Plunge.”

  “Oh, Joey.” His voice dropped, almost like he was talking to a child. “We won’t be using those. Not after what happened.”

  “I realize that . . . but I still wondered if I might see them. To . . . uh, add the experience to my portfolio.” I threw a towel over the magazine, tempted to take it home and burn it.

  “Oh well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt then.” He perked up. “I’ll put my assistant on it. Is email okay?”

  “Email would be great.” That way I could blow the photos up and really look at the faces there. The killer had been present at the event. It was just a matter of pinpointing whom.

  “I’ll do that then. Oh, and you heard from ABC News, I take it?”

  I frowned at the mention. “I did.”

  “This is going to be fantastic!”

  “I’m not sure a murder in Nags Head is fantastic.” I had to get that thought out of my mind, because it kept circling and circling with nowhere to go.

  “The murder isn’t fantastic. But solving a crime and a bad guy getting justice? People love that. As long as it’s not a serial killer.” His laugh quickly faded. “Serial killers are bad.”

  At least we were both on the same page with that one.

  I paused. Should I ask him about the whole Castle/Beckett thing Zane had suggested? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.

  “Thanks for all your help, Mayor,” I said instead. “I appreciate it.”

  It was probably a long shot, but the killer should be in one of those pictures. Would I recognize him? I couldn’t say. But it was worth trying, especially since I’d put it out there that I was coming for him. Not my brightest move. Almost as bright as a burned-out light bulb, for that matter.

  “You want pictures, huh?” Dizzy said when I emerged.

  Eavesdropper. Even worse, an Instigator-loving, Christmas-music-obsessed eavesdropper.

  “I do.”

  Her eyes danced with excitement as she sat at the counter, balancing the books. “You’re investigating, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s in your blood.”

  “You’re confusing me with Raven Remington.”

  She laughed so hard she slapped her knee. The force of wind from the action sent some receipts floating to the floor, and she scrambled to pick them up. “You’re so funny! Of course I’m not. I can just see the fire in your eyes.”

  Self-preservation. That was really what it was. But I kept my mouth shut because I knew it wouldn’t change her opinion.

  “Besides, there are some things you can’t fake,” she continued, punching more numbers into the calculator. “Raven Remington has always been a part of you, deep down inside.”

  Her words gave me pause. I couldn’t think about them too long. Because they were wrong. Raven and I were nothing alike.

  Raven was a sharpshooter. Was I? No.

  She was a genius. I wasn’t.

  A martial arts expert. No way.

  Amazingly adept on the computer. Me? Nope, I couldn’t even remember my passwords.

  “How’s the love life going?” Dizzy asked, changing the subject like Raven changed lanes on the freeway in rush-hour traffic—brashly and without apology.

  I’d answered this very question before, and I really felt like I needed something more interesting to tell her today. “I’m going to move to Tuscany while battling career obstacles and in hopes of meeting a handsome Italian while recovering from a lousy ex-husband who took all of my money.”

  “What?”

  “Under the Tuscan Sun? That movie is much more interesting than my life right now.” I sighed, surprised at what my life had in common with that film, now that I thought about it. “I don’t have a love life.”

  Seriously. We’d been over this before. Many times. Just because Raven always found love didn’t mean I would. Especially not after Eric.

  “Oh, come on. Admit it.” She wiggled her eyebrows, her blue eye shadow reminding me of cartoon dolphins breaking the surface of the ocean on a clear day. “You’re interested.”

  “In whom? A handsome Italian?”

  “No, of course not. I can’t decide. Either Zane or Jackson. I don’t know which one is better for you.”

  “Neither are interested. Jackson, for obvious reasons. And Zane is dating someone.” I really needed to change the subject. “We don’t have any appointments scheduled, do we?”

  “No, we don’t. It’s a slow day.”

  I rose from my twirly chair. “Do you care if I head out? I have some things I need to do.”

  “Are they Raven Remington type of things?”

  “Actually, they are.”

  “Then I insist you take the time off today. Go get ’em, Tiger!”

  Last night, Zane had mentioned that he had nothing scheduled for today, so I called him, hoping I wasn’t interrupting his time with April. I sat in my car wi
th the heat cranked as I waited for him to answer.

  “Joey? What’s going on?” He sounded like he’d just woken up.

  I glanced at my watch. It was already 11:30. Sheesh. Talk about a sleepyhead. “Zane, where would people who are up to no good hang out in this area?”

  “What?”

  I wiped some dust from the dash with my fingers. I really needed to have this car detailed. Except I had no money. Which meant I should do it myself. Which meant it probably wouldn’t get done.

  “I need to track down people who are troublemakers,” I continued. “Where would they be in this area? Any hot spots? I’m guessing they probably can’t afford one of these beach houses, but they’re here somewhere.”

  “Okay . . . um, I need to think.”

  Thinking was good. Except when it led to thoughts like Why hasn’t the bad guy tried to kill me yet?

  Then it hit me: maybe he hadn’t seen the video yet because he had more important things to do than watch TV. Things like kill people.

  “Do I need to bring you coffee?” I finally asked when I realized Zane was still thinking.

  “Do that. I’ll get dressed. And I’ll look at the map to figure out what places to hit and in what order.”

  “That sounds so organized.”

  “I am a Realtor. This is kind of my jam. I’ll even go with you.”

  “But April . . .” I was seriously worried about this whole April thing. I didn’t want to cross any boundaries.

  “I told you—she’s cool. We’ll hit some vape shops. Maybe an old marina. Campgrounds are always good. We’ll have a plan. Hashtag: adventure!”

  Zane and I went to ten different places. Yes, ten. We went to four pawnshops, three vape shops, and one store with drug paraphernalia everywhere. We also went to an arcade and the cheapest hotel on the beach.

  I told Zane only one more place, and then I was giving up. I’d given it the good old college try.

  Our final stop was at a secondhand store—a mix of a pawnshop and thrift store. I approached the front counter, where a man with flaky white hair stood picking stuff out of his ear with his keys.

  Gross.

  The only thing that redeemed this place was the big sign hanging over the register reading, Our junk can be your junk. Well, that and the eighties death-metal music on the overhead. It almost made me forget the ear picking, as well as the strange scent of garbage and body odor.

  “How can I help you?” The man took his key from his ear and examined the end of it.

  I leaned on the counter, trying to turn on my charm, and glanced at his name tag. “Hi, Terry. I’m looking for someone. A few someones, for that matter.”

  “Like who?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t know much about them. Three guys in their late teens, early twenties. They look like troublemakers. You know the type, right? Not to stereotype, but—”

  “Yeah, I know the type.” He straightened, as if he was above doing business with that type of customer.

  I highly doubted it.

  “Anyway, there were three of them,” I continued. “They were all wearing the same black jacket with a gold patch of some sort on the back.”

  He nodded slowly, flicking something off the glass counter in front of him. “Oh yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

  I straightened, hoping this might actually be something. And also hoping that whatever he flicked hadn’t come from his ear, because it had been aimed right at my jeans. “What do you know about them? I’m looking for any information I can find.”

  He paused, a John Wayne expression on his face as he lowered his voice. “Are they up to no good?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, what do you need to know? I haven’t actually seen them myself.”

  My hope sank.

  He snapped his fingers. “I know who has. Go talk to Hal at Hal’s World RV Park in Kitty Hawk. He was having some trouble with them. They were staying there in a camper, if I understand correctly. He was talking about them at breakfast the other morning.”

  I glanced at Zane. Answers. Could I finally get some? I had no idea, but a girl could hope.

  Chapter Nine

  We pulled up to Hal’s World, and I immediately recognized that this wasn’t one of the nicer RV parks in the area. There would be no glamping (glamorous camping, in case you were not in the know) taking place here like that occurring at some of the other nicer campgrounds in the area. Some of them were located oceanside and contained recreational vehicles that cost more than many houses did. They had playgrounds and mini golf courses and other amenities people enjoyed.

  Hal’s World, on the other hand, featured campers that were on the back of truck beds. And not nice trucks. Run-down, rusted trucks. A few tents popped up in the midst of them. The RV park was located far from the ocean, back in a part of the area that I didn’t even know existed, near another little Outer Banks town called Colington.

  A resort, this was not.

  I parked on the side of a gravel road and stepped out. The place smelled like a junkyard. Trash drifted with the wind. Empty bottles and old tires had been discarded in ditches, and a ratty couch sat at the curb.

  A little shed had been erected in the center of it all. A little window had been cut out in the middle of one side, and a piece of flimsy pressed wood hung down beneath it, water damage swelling the edges.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered to Zane.

  A man was inside, and he looked like someone who’d hang out with Flaky White from the secondhand store. He had a toothpick in his mouth, stains on his white T-shirt, and hair that was a little too greasy.

  “Hal?”

  He nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Terry from down the street said we could find you here,” I started.

  Hal counted some dollar bills and placed them in a money drawer, barely looking at us. “That right?”

  “We’re looking for three guys who might be staying here,” I said.

  “You’re going to have to give me more information than that.”

  I pulled out my wallet and flashed my driver’s license. “Josephine Schermerhorn. I’m with . . . a government agency.”

  The man went pale. He closed his money box and slid it under the counter, suddenly giving me his full attention. “Okay.”

  I leaned closer, knowing that I needed to both tap into my acting abilities and come up with a quick cover story. In other words, I needed to think of a movie where two agents went in search of bad guys. There was only one that came to mind, and I hoped it would work.

  “We believe we’ve uncovered a deadly plot by them to assassinate two ambassadors from opposing . . . Middle East countries. We believe they’re currently living in this area and that they’re extremely dangerous.”

  Zane glanced and me, and I shrugged. Men in Black, Outer Banks version. What could I say? If all else fails, tap into your overwhelming database of movie knowledge.

  Hal’s eyes widened. “What do these assassins look like?”

  “They wear black jackets with a gold logo on the back,” Zane added.

  “Oh, them troublemakers. Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

  “Are the aliens here now?” I asked.

  “Aliens?”

  I snapped back to reality. “I meant illegal aliens. Not the intergalactic sort. Of course.”

  Hal shrugged, unfazed by my rambling. “Nope, they sure aren’t. They were here for about a week, I guess.”

  “Can you tell us which camper was theirs?” I asked.

  “Nope, it’s gone now.”

  “They took it?” Zane asked.

  “Nope, they didn’t take it. Someone else did.”

  Irritation clawed at me. “Who took it?”

  “The police,” Hal said. “They beat you to it. Sounds like you need to work on interagency communication.”

  I did a Jackson and scowled. “Just tell us what happened. Please.”

&nb
sp; “Those three were apparently breaking into rentals around here. You know most of the places are abandoned and won’t be opened up again until the spring. It’s the perfect time for thieves to hit. And they do.”

  “Of course I know that. I do work for the government.” Don’t forget your cover, Joey!

  “Anyway, that’s what they were in town doing. They came here just long enough to break into a handful of homes and a couple of condos. Of course I didn’t know any of that until the police arrested them the other day. They hadn’t counted on one of the homes having security cameras. Not very smart for international assassins.”

  “I never said they were smart.”

  They’d been arrested. That meant that Jackson had known all of this. If that was the case, it made my blood even hotter than before. Not that I expected him to share information. But still.

  “That’s right,” Hal continued. “Happened right here at the campground. The detective had a warrant and all.”

  “Do you know any more details?” Zane asked. “We’ll talk to the police to confirm all of this. Of course.”

  “I know they hit some of those condos over in Nags Head. I overheard the police saying that when they arrested them.”

  Condos over in Nags Head? Did that mean those guys weren’t associated with Douglas Murray’s death at all? Did they just happen to be ripping off the very condo where the man had been staying?

  I took a mental tally.

  Bad luck: two

  Joey: zero

  At the rate I was going, I was never going to get to the bottom of this.

  I’d nearly forgotten I promised Dizzy I’d come for cake at her place this evening. I showed up with a bag of pretzel M&Ms—it was better than being empty handed, right?—and met three of her friends. Apparently, this was a weekly ritual.

  It was my first time going to Dizzy’s place, even though she’d invited me before. She lived in a little bungalow tucked away from the main highway that cut through the island. Even though the island was only three miles wide at its thickest point, this neighborhood almost seemed normal, absent of stilt-ridden beach houses, tourists, and souvenir shops. I would imagine that this was where the area’s teachers and police officers and firemen lived.