Inside, they found the United Airlines ticket counter and approached a tall uniformed customer service woman at the entrance to the Premier Access lane. She directed them to a service door to the right of the ticket counter. Leonard knocked and an older, haggard looking man appeared.
“Can I help you folks?”
Leonard pulled out his badge and a business card. “Leonard Little with the Wabanaki, Maine Police Department. I wonder if we could talk to you for a few moments about an open murder case?”
“Wabanaki? What’s that?”
“Wabanaki, Maine. It’s a city on the southeast coast. I’m investigating the murder of a woman who flew on United earlier the same day she was murdered in Maine. She started here in Miami that morning. We’d like to try to figure out who bought her ticket.”
“Come in,” the man said, holding the door open for them to enter the dingy back office. “Excuse the mess back here. This space serves many functions. MIA doesn’t give us nearly as much room as we need to run our operation.” He led them to a cubical in a back corner and pulled up two chairs to his desk. “Have a seat, Miss?”
“Skyler Moore,” she said, extending her hand.
“Are you with the Wabanaki Police Department, too?”
“I am not. I’m just assisting Officer Little.”
“I am sure he is quite happy to have your assistance,” the man said, eyeing her breasts for a moment. “What can I do to help?”
“We wondered if there are cameras at your ticket counters,” Leonard said. “If I give you the date and time, can we see if we can spot this man who purchased the one-way ticket?”
“There are cameras, yes indeed,” the man said. “And the hard drive stores video going back for 30 days. All high definition and in color. But no sound, I’m afraid.”
“Do we need a court order to see this video?”
“Heck, I don’t need all that. Why go through the red tape? I’ll help y’all out.”
Skyler smiled. “You just made our day much easier, Mr?”
“John Davidson,” the man said. “Obviously I’m not the game show host. There’s a lot of John Davidsons in the world, huh?”
“I guess so, Mr. Davidson,” Leonard said. “So, about those tapes.”
“Ahhh,” Mr. Davidson said, jumping up. “Come with me.”
They followed him into an adjacent room where a dusty flat screen television sat on top of a black box. He used a mouse to wake up the system and suddenly they were looking at a dozen boxes on the screen, each feed coming from cameras trained on both the passengers and ticket agents out in the terminal.
“Date?” he asked.
“July 3.”
“Time?”
“The ticket was processed at 7:54am for an 8:46am flight to Portland.”
“She cut it close,” Skyler said.
The man worked his magic and moments later the screens came alive with recorded images from Saturday morning. Leonard and Skyler scanned the various images for a sign of Patty; John Davidson had no idea what he was looking for, but he watched, too.
“There she is,” Skyler said, pointing to Camera #3. “Can you make it bigger?”
Mr. Davidson flicked the mouse and Camera #3’s feed filled the entire screen.
“That’s her,” Leonard said. “She looks unhappy.”
“And there is the man. He’s got a hold of her elbow. Do you recognize him?”
“Me? No, I don’t know him,” Mr. Davidson said.
“I meant Officer Little,” Skyler said. “Leonard?”
“Of course not. I don’t know a single person in Florida except for Jeb Bush.”
“You know Jeb Bush?” Davidson asked.
Skyler was becoming annoyed. “No, he does not know Jeb Bush. Mr. Davidson, is there any way we can get a copy of this footage? I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“It’s not a lot to ask, it’s actually quite easy to take a portion out. We do it all the time for the police and TSA and even the FBI on occasion. But the video files are too large to email. You’d need a USB thumb drive and I don’t have any left. We used to have ones with United’s logo on it, but budget cuts, you know.”
“There has got to be an electronics store here at the airport,” Skyler said. “I’ll go see what I can find.” And Skyler was gone.
“And I want to talk to that woman,” Leonard said, pointing at the ticket agent on the screen. “Is she here today?”
Davidson squinted at the screen. “That’s Marla Jones. And, as luck would have it, she’s on maternity leave. See how big she is? She gave birth the very next evening.”
“Super,” Leonard said. “Then I guess we wait for Skyler to return.”
“So, this woman died last Saturday? A murder?”
“Yes. And that woman was my wife.”
“I’m confused.”
“It’s a very long story. You’ll have to buy the book.”
After Skyler returned with a thumb drive, and they successfully transferred the security footage to it, the duo thanked Mr. Davidson and headed out of the terminal. They grabbed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Pinecrest, just south of the city. They first stopped at a UPS Store and had a couple color prints made from the best stills they could find of Patty and the unidentified man. Then they continued south about a mile then pulled up in front of a bungalow.
Marla Jones—a striking woman in her early- to mid-30’s, without a stitch of makeup on—was expecting them. She stood at the front door with her newborn baby in her arms. “Good morning, Officers.”
“Good morning,” Leonard said, displaying his badge. “May we come in?”
Inside the tastefully decorated home, they sat at a dining room table almost covered in shipping boxes. “I apologize for the mess,” Marla said. “We’ve been inundated with baby gifts.”
Skyler looked at the baby Marla was cradling against her chest. “He’s lovely,” she said.
“He’s a she. Katie. But I dress her in blue to screw with people.” Marla laughed heartily and placed the baby in a bassinette that sat next to the table. “Coffee?”
“No,” Leonard said, pulling out a chair. “We just need a minute of your time. I know you’ve been through quite a week, but we’d like to know if you remember anything about last Saturday morning, and if you remember helping this couple purchase a one-way ticket to Portland, Maine. The man paid cash for the woman’s travel.”
She looked at the photograph that Leonard slid across the table. “I remember that morning, yes sir. It wasn’t long after I started my shift that my water broke. Right there behind the counter. And I remember the couple, too, because she was so upset.”
“How upset?” Skyler asked.
“She was crying, but not overly so. I remember that when they approached the counter, she told him that she didn’t want to go.”
“He was forcing her,” Leonard said, matter of factly.
“I guess,” Marla said. “Like you mentioned, they paid cash, and that’s something I remember because it’s so rare. Heck, it’s rare that I even sell tickets at the counter. Most people buy their tickets online, so I’m just dealing with seat assignments and checked bags. It only really gets crazy when there’s weather delays or a cancelled flight and then all hell breaks loose. But Saturday was clear and everything was on time and that man paid for her one-way ticket with a handful of hundred dollar bills.”
“You remember that?”
“Well, sure,” she said. “He pulled out a big bundle of cash out of his pocket. Real mob boss-like. Kind of like you see drug dealers do on television and in the movies. Who carries around that much cash these days? And in their front pocket.”
“But there would be no record of this man’s name? No reason to take that information down?” Leonard asked.
“No. If he’d used a credit card, we’d have
it. United would have her name in their records. And I checked her ID, I’m sure.”
“Well,” Skyler said, “we know who she is.”
“Right. Well, I don’t think I can tell you much more.”
Leonard pulled back the printouts and folded them in half. “I don’t assume you noticed what happened after they left the ticket counter?”
“No, Officer,” Marla said. “I’m sure I got busy with the next customer. But I will tell you—and I remember this clearly—I flagged the ticket for extra screening. It happens automatically with one-way, cash purchases, but we have the option to make sure that a passenger is checked up and down and two ways to Sunday. We can’t be too careful these days.”
“And if she seemed to be in distress of some kind, as she clearly was,” Skyler began, “it wouldn’t have been something that the airline would follow up on? To make sure she was okay?”
The baby stirred and began to fuss. Marla leaned into the bassinet and lifted her up. “Listen, we encounter all kinds at the airport and we see people crying all the time. Especially in Miami. Do you know how many international flights we have? People are leaving loved ones that they only get to see every few years, if they’re lucky. People cry when they have to go home. It’s normal.”
“I guess you have a point.”
“It’s just true,” Marla said. “Is there any other way I can help, because I really need to feed Katie.”
“No, ma’am. We appreciate your time,” Leonard said, rising. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Outside, at the end of the driveway, Leonard turned to Skyler. “I’m not sure why I said that inside—just seemed like the appropriate thing to end on. Was she helpful?”
“She remembered that she was crying and that he had a huge wad of cash.”
“But we have no idea who he is. And there are millions of people in Miami.”
“Well,” Skyler said, scanning her iPhone as she looked for her Uber app. “We have a photo. Let’s see if the Miami police can do anything with that.”
A young woman driving a late model Ford Explorer arrived in minutes and they were off to the Miami-Dade Police Department’s headquarters complex in Doral.
NINETEEN
Brenda’s commercial flight touched down at Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport and as the Boeing 767 taxied to the gate—for what seemed like several miles—she looked out the window at scores of small jets parked on the east side of the airport. It stung a little; she’d much rather fly private, and for half a minute considered chartering a flight home. But she reminded herself that she was becoming a spoiled brat and brushed the monumentally expensive impulse aside.
“Miss Braxton?” A woman behind her touched her shoulder just as they all stood up to retrieve their belongings from the overhead bins. “I am one of your biggest fans.”
Brenda let out a little sigh, summoned up her best smile, and turned to look into the face of Carissa Lamb, arguably one of the most famous entertainers in the world. “Well, thank you. And I am one of yours. I’m so flattered that you even know who I am.” She’d met and worked with her share of celebrities, but never someone of Carissa’s caliber, and certainly not one of her favorite musicians of all time. It was a bit overwhelming and surreal for the chef.
“Are you kidding me?” Carissa said, “I watch your show all the time and try very hard to follow your recipes to the tee. And I’m a headliner at the Golden Cactus Resort, so of course I eat at Brenda’s Kitchen all the time. I mean, all the time. It’s amazing I’m not as big as a house.” Immediately realized her faux pas, the singer’s face crinkled in embarrassment.
“Oh please, Carissa,” Brenda said, taking ahold of the singer’s arm as they walked out of the plane and up the jet bridge, “I’m as big as a house and I know it. And it’s from eating all my own food. But you must work out, something I have never done in my life.”
“I have a trainer on staff. He works me silly.” Carissa handed her handbag to a young man who was trailing the pair; Brenda assumed he was part of the superstar’s entourage. “Listen, I’d love it if you’d come be my special guest at the show tonight. Please tell me that you will. It’s at 9 o’clock.”
“I think I can manage that,” Brenda said. She looked around to see if she had an assistant of her own to hand her bags to—alas, no. “And might you be able to come have a late-night snack with me after the show? At the restaurant? I assume you don’t eat before.”
“You’re so right. And I will. I’m very excited. You have just made my day.” The singer held her hand out and the assistant placed a card in her palm. “Here is my private contact information. You’ll see there is no name on it. But please don’t lose it. I’ve already had to change my email and cell numbers three times this year.”
“I would never,” Brenda said, accepting the card and holding it close to her bosom. “I will guard it with my life.”
A small crowd had formed around them and Brenda noticed that people were taking photographs and there were a lot of hushed oohs and ahhs. Two uniformed airport security men arrived and started making a path for the singer and her assistant to follow.
Carissa turned around and shouted back at Brenda, “Until tonight!”
Brenda was left alone as the throng of passengers and airport employees followed Carissa towards the sky train that would take her and her team to the main terminal. An elderly, heavily made-up woman wearing what looked like a vintage 1970’s jumpsuit approached Brenda and tapped her on the arm.
“That was Carissa Lamb, right?” she asked.
“It was.”
“My heavens, I thought so,” the woman said. “We have tickets to see her show later this weekend. We’ve had them for months. So expensive.”
The two women started walking toward the train. “How expensive?” Brenda asked.
“Oh, darling, like $400 each. She’s no Celine, but she’s packing them in more than Britney ever could.”
“You apparently know your Las Vegas showgirls.”
“Well, I didn’t recognize her in that baseball cap at first. But, yes, my husband and I used to see all the shows. Wayne Newton, Rich Little, even Siegfried & Roy way back before the tiger incident. He died last year. My husband, that is. Although, I read that that tiger is dead now, too.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” the woman said gleefully, “I’m having the time of my life.”
Brenda wished she hadn’t let the conversation continue, but she was virtually trapped. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”
The woman stopped suddenly and stared at Brenda’s face. “For heaven’s sake, you’re Ina Garten!! The Barefoot Contessa right here in Las Vegas.”
“I fucking am not!” Brenda spit. She pulled away from the woman and boarded the train just as the automatic doors opened next to them. When the woman tried to join her in the car, Brenda held up her palm. “Sorry, lady. This car is full.” And the doors slid shut. Brenda watched as the shocked woman in the hideous 1970’s pantsuit faded from view.
* * *
Some 2,800 miles away, Porter let himself into Skyler’s cottage with the key left under the welcome mat at the front door; a dangerous place to leave a key in most any other part of the country except for Wabanaki, where folks never bothered to lock their doors in the first place. At least until recently.
Mulder and Scully came running to greet their visitor, nearly knocking Porter to the ground. He kissed and petted the dogs enthusiastically then guided them to the back door and let them into the yard. He topped off their food and water bowls, then set off to snoop around the house. He found Skyler’s check book in a desk drawer and tore out a check from the middle of the stack and put it in his wallet. He pocketed a few five dollar bills from the front hall table that Skyler apparently kept for tipping delivery people. And he wadded up a pair of Skyler’s dirty underwear—not f
ilthy by any means, but decidedly worn for a day, he discerned—and stuck it in his back pocket. In the guest room, he found nothing of interest after having rifled through Brenda’s travel trunks. He certainly wasn’t interested in extra-large Capri pants and enormous bras that looked like double parachutes, the same type his grandmother used to wear.
Satisfied that he’d found all that was worth finding, he sat down at the kitchen table with a bottle of Jack Daniels from the well-stocked bar and a juice glass from the dish rack next to the sink and poured himself a drink, neat. He downed the first one, then another, before letting the dogs back into the house. They seemed most interested in going back to sleep on the upstairs guest room bed, so he skipped the walk that Brenda had requested as a part of his dog sitting duties and instead poured a third drink and pleasured himself for a while to a porn site he pulled up on his smartphone, all while sniffing Skyler’s underwear. Satisfied for the time being, he let himself out of the cottage, locked the door, and returned to his own place next door.
Back in his own apartment, Porter took a quick shower and got himself dressed for his very last shift at The Lobster Shanty. He really had no idea what he was going to do with himself once he was free from the daily obligations of the business, but a new chapter was in order. He desperately wanted to reinvent himself, to get back to a version of himself—the version of the person he was poised to be before the accident—when he was successful, motivated, and good-looking. He’d turned himself into a borderline alcoholic, a budding kleptomaniac, and now an animal murderer, and it all troubled him deeply.
Before he left his apartment, he turned on the gas fireplace and threw Skyler’s blank check and underwear into the flames. Then, because he really did want to be guiltless, he pulled the five dollar bills out of his pocket and placed them by the front door so that he’d remember to put them back where he found them.
He was still slightly buzzed as he drove to work. He cried for the first half of the drive, then worked on collecting himself for the second. By the time he reached the Shanty, he felt better and after a quick check in the rearview mirror, decided that he looked as good as he was going to look. He headed inside with his chin up and his shoulders back.
The Maine Nemesis Page 14