Dead Days of Summer

by Carolyn Hart

  Lights for various lines flickered like fireflies on his desk phone. Billy ignored them. He turned his chair, leaned back wearily, and stared out the window at the harbor. The onshore breeze was unusually stiff, fluttering the flags along the walk, bristling the pea green water with whitecaps. The ferry was pulling out on its run to the mainland. Two motorboats whopped over the waves. Far out in the Sound a catamaran tilted, slicing through the water on a slant like a carnival ride. Only a few hundred feet up in the air, a Piper Cub turned and headed back over the island. Vince Ellis had called and told Billy he was taking his plane up to survey the island. If enough of it were visible, a red Jag might be spotted. But there were miles of dense forest and deep lagoons where a car, no matter how bright its paint, would remain unseen.

  Billy rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes were bloodshot and achy. He’d slept for a few hours, then hurried to the office to join Lou. He’d swung by the Franklin house on his way to the station, checked the doors, found the house inaccessible. He’d given a shout or two, but any hope that Max might be there withered in the hot early-morning silence. So far, he’d had no response from the message he’d left for the real estate agent whose name was scrawled on the circular Annie had found. It didn’t seem a promising lead, but at this point he was ready to grasp at any possibility. He made call after call. The sum total of all his effort was, as Lou liked to say, nada. No one matching Max’s description had been injured or arrested on the mainland. Moreover, ferry owner and captain Ben Parotti was sure that Max’s red Jag had not been on any ferry leaving the island after six P.M. Max and Annie’s speedboat was in its slip at the marina. No boats had been reported stolen. Billy lifted his arms, stretched, trying to relieve the tight muscles in his shoulders. Short of water wings or a helicopter, Max Darling was on the island. Hyla Harrison was in a patrol car, cruising the back roads. She’d alerted Billy to the citizen search parties dispatched by Henny Brawley. Billy wished he had an officer to coordinate the search. It was too bad Frank Saulter, the retired chief, was out of town and not due back for another week. Billy might have to deputize some volunteers. He had a feeling of events spinning out of control. He glanced at the bright orange flyer Mavis had brought in a while ago. Under Max’s picture, a headline blared:

  $10,000 for Information Leading to Whereabouts of Max Darling

  Billy had scanned Max’s description, clear and distinct in twelve-point type. Maybe it would help, but ever since he’d sent out the missing person alert early that morning, he’d felt beleaguered. Calls were coming in so fast, Mavis could scarcely answer, many of them media demands for information.

  Billy knew the pressure was going to get worse. There would be a demand, especially by the mayor, to break this case open. What case? Billy didn’t have enough information to spit on. Disregarding the fact that he knew Max and Annie, these were the facts:

  Subject calls wife, indicates business appointment, tells her he’ll call if the job runs him late.

  Wife insists subject would notify her if delayed.

  Wife goes to subject’s office, glimpses intruder.

  No evidence of break-in at office, indicating intruder gained access with a key.

  Disarray in office result of wife’s search.

  Billy swung his chair back toward his desk. Actually, there hadn’t been sufficient evidence to justify sending out the missing-persons call at two A.M. but he’d done it anyway. Protocol required a twenty-four-hour period for a disappearance. Billy folded his lips in a tight line. Yeah. There was protocol, which the mayor liked to talk about, and then there was instinct. Okay, add knowledge to instinct. After all, he was a small-town cop and he knew his people. Sure, there could be something going on between Annie and Max that he didn’t know about. Barring that, the fact that Max hadn’t been heard from since he talked to Annie late yesterday afternoon spelled trouble. As far as Billy had been able to discover, Max had disappeared without a trace after his call to Annie. Well, not quite. There was one sighting after she spoke with him. Billy pawed through the slew of papers on his desktop. Here it was:

  Statement of Jiggs Holt, twenty-four, green card from Brisbane, Australia, senior lifeguard at Blackbeard Beach:

  “We keep a little telly on the table tuned to Fox News. I saw a flash about the gent who disappeared right here on the island. I thought to myself, coo, that’s the fellow who was here last night, about six o’clock. Tall blond guy. Late twenties, maybe. Looked like he could handle himself. He was on the boardwalk but he wasn’t dressed for the beach, dark blue polo, tan khakis, loafers. No hat. No sunglasses. I noticed him because he had the gimlet eye on the volleyball. Rough game. He was giving those dudes the once-over like he was looking for somebody. Maybe he and some guy were on the outs over a dame. You never know, so I kept him in sight. See, I’m in charge and I pay attention to anything out of the way. I head off a lot of trouble that way. But I decided he was okay. He didn’t look mad or crazy, just like there was somebody he wanted to find. About five minutes later he turned and walked away.”

  Billy remembered the earnest expression of the big redheaded lifeguard. Despite splotches of zinc oxide on his pink face, Holt had been serious and believable. Once again Billy went with instinct. News flashes brought all kinds of tips, some silly, some honestly mistaken, some rock solid. Unless Max had a twin—Billy flipped to another sheet, yeah, Annie said Max was wearing a navy polo, khakis, loafers—then Max had been at Blackbeard Beach around six P.M.

  That was the last time anyone had seen him.

  Blackbeard Beach.

  Billy leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, stared unseeingly at the ceiling. Was Max meeting a client there? Doing surveillance on a case? But Annie hadn’t found any trace of a file for a new client, only that house circular.

  He moved forward, grabbed his cell, punched a number.

  “Officer Harrison.” Hyla Harrison’s voice was pleasant, precise, and remote. She always reminded Billy of his high school chemistry teacher. The kids thought she was a nerd until the day she ran back into a burning building to save a child.

  “Hyla, got a tip that Max was seen at Blackbeard Beach at six o’clock last night. Take his mug shot and…”

  Annie heard the chatter on cell phones in the terrace room. She looked up from her place on the sofa in the den and watched as Emma marked search information on the gridded map of the island spread out on the Ping-Pong table. Outside, the muted rumble of car engines and an occasional honk of a horn indicated the continued presence of the media.

  Annie put down the sheaf of papers organized by Emma. She’d read every last word as she finished the lunch fixed by Pamela. Everything had been done and nothing had been learned. Max hadn’t been seen here and there and everywhere. He hadn’t left on the ferry. He wasn’t in the hospital or in jail. And Billy hadn’t returned her call asking for the name on the real estate circular.

  Annie forced herself to remain on the sofa. She wanted to jump to her feet and plunge out to her car and force her way through the gauntlet of reporters. She wanted to do something, anything to find Max. She didn’t have to look at the clock. She knew how many hours and how many minutes since she had heard Max’s hurried words. With every minute that passed, she felt older and sicker. Despair curled within her, waiting to envelop her, destroy her.

  Her cell phone rang. She stopped breathing. She clutched it in a shaking hand, pressed the button, couldn’t manage an answer.

  “Dear child.”

  Not Max. Annie slumped against the cushions, faintly heard Laurel’s husky voice. “Is there any word?”

  “No.” The word was as hollow as her heart.

  A faint breath. “Henny and I have taken the flyers all over the island, passed them out, posted them. Do you want me to come there?”

  A horn blared outside. A car door slammed. Annie thought about reporters with their cameras and shouted questions and poking microphones. “No. I’ll call when…” Annie couldn’t finish.
<
br />   “…when he comes home.” Laurel’s voice was wobbly, but certain. “Annie, he will come home.”

  The intercom on Billy’s desk crackled. Mavis’s voice was excited. “Billy, Line 2. This may be the break.”

  “Roger.” Billy clicked on the speaker phone, punched Line 2. “Chief Cameron.”

  “Yeah. Hey, Chief, what’s the deal on the reward?” The whispery voice was hopeful, smarmy, and wary.

  Billy glanced at the orange flyer. “The reward is being offered by the family. If you have information that finds him, you qualify. Where is he?”

  “I don’t have an address.” The tone was sarcastic. “I can tell you where he was last night and who he was with. If that information gets you to him, I should get the reward, right? But the thing is, I don’t want to get crossways with a tough hombre. Here’s the deal, I’ll give you my name on the condition you keep quiet about me. Just say you had a tip when you go to out to Doo—uh, go where I tell you. But if this leads you to him, I expect you to put in a good word for me with the family, okay?”

  “Sure. Where did you see him?” Billy hunched forward.

  “Let’s get it in writing.” The caller was determined. “I called you at three forty-five. You got that written down?”

  Billy marked the time on his tablet. “Yeah. So who are you?”

  “Harry Stafford. One-six-five Pigeon Roost Lane. Got that?” He was insistent.

  “Yeah. Where did you see him?” Billy listened, face creased in a frown, big hand flying over the tablet. At the bottom of the page, he scrawled DOOLEY’S MINE in capital letters.

  3

  Emma rattled the knob to make sure the door was locked. She flicked the blinds down, turned off the lights, making the den dusky as a cave. “Now we can have some peace and quiet. All right, take a deep breath. Close your eyes.” Emma’s usually brusque tone was muted.

  Annie blinked at her. It was on the order of a rhinoceros attempting a lullaby.

  The author frowned, her square face impatient. “Close your eyes.” This was a bark, gentleness forgotten. She loomed over Annie, iron gray hair spiky as a porcupine, blue eyes compelling. Emma was as commanding as a field-grade officer despite the candy stripes of her summery caftan. Only the smudges beneath her eyes hinted at fatigue, though Annie knew she’d snatched only a few hours sleep on the sofa in the terrace room.

  Annie squeezed her eyes shut, but tangles of thought burgeoned in her mind, undisciplined as weeds in an overgrown lawn.

  “Relax. Pretend you are standing in the doorway to Confidential Commissions.” Emma’s gravelly voice was encouraging. “You are there. It is dark. You hear a sound. Relaaaax…” No stage hypnotist could have been more soporific. “What do you see?”

  The image was there. A quick—oh so quick—light. A tiny narrow beam that flashed illumination thin as a laser, there for an instant, then gone. Annie held to that glimpse, tried to recall. She’d seen a portion of the floor. The beam must have been turned down. Then nothing. Whoever held the flashlight turned past Barb’s desk and the light clicked off. She had no picture of the fleeing figure. It might have been a man. It could have been a woman. “I didn’t see him. Or her. God, I don’t know. It could have been anyone.” Hot tears seeped beneath her closed lids.

  Kleenex was thrust into her hand. “You were there. That’s what matters. If you hadn’t gone to the office, we wouldn’t know someone had been there.”

  Annie opened her eyes, swiped at her face. “What difference does it make if I can’t give a description?”

  “It’s proof someone knows where Max is.” Emma’s voice was bleak. “Proof…” She broke off, her face heavy, her gaze somber.

  Annie’s head throbbed. Emma always made sense, but not this time. “Proof of what?”

  Emma walked to the mantel, picked up a framed snapshot of Annie and Max deep-sea fishing. Her back was to Annie. She didn’t answer directly. “You didn’t get a look at the person. But you know it wasn’t Max.”

  “Of course.” Annie sat up straight, eyes flashing. “There was something dreadful there in the dark.”

  “I believe you. You sensed danger, evil. Someone was there and it wasn’t Max.” Emma replaced the picture, put it precisely between two other snapshots. “There had to be a purpose in that visit. When we know the reason, we may know everything. For now we can be sure of this: Someone used a key to get into Confidential Commissions. It is clear to me”—she slowly turned, faced Annie, her face sad—“that someone has Max’s keys.”

  Annie looked deep into Emma’s primrose blue eyes and wished she hadn’t. Unwillingly, she understood. Emma believed someone had Max’s keys. There was no good way those keys could have been taken.

  Billy heard quiet ease over the long room like fog rolling to shore. He stood in the foyer of Dooley’s Mine, his face at its most stolid. He smelled beer on tap, old sweat, must and mold as he surveyed the booths turned into caves by the papier-mâché boulders and the red lanterns that cast a sickly glow. He liked a beer as well as any man, but he wanted a beer and a hot dog at a ball game or a cold can of Bud while he watched his lure bob in the water or a frosted glass at Parotti’s while Kevin played the jukebox and Mavis offered bits of apple to Lily as they waited for their burgers and fries. Out of cop’s habit, he scanned the faces, knew them without having ever seen them before. He knew the stories of the lost and lonely or the stridently convivial who drink beer or whisky in a dimly lit bar on an August afternoon. Some of them, the ones watching him carefully, their voices falling silent, didn’t want any truck with a cop. Now or ever.

  Neither did the stocky man moving soft-footed toward him, round face wary. Despite his bulk—Billy estimated he was just under six feet, maybe 250 pounds—he wasn’t fat. Muscles bunched beneath his red tee, bulked up legs in tight jeans. He stopped in front of Billy. “Ted Dooley. You looking for me?”

  Billy had done some checking before he arrived. Ted Dooley owned and ran Dooley’s Mine. He had been a person of interest in a couple of drug cases, nothing ever proved. He’d lived on the island for five years in a nearby cabin. No disturbance calls had ever been logged in from Dooley’s Mine. Billy looked into his pale green eyes and cement-slab face and wasn’t surprised. “Got some questions, Mr. Dooley, about one of your customers last night.”

  Dooley’s gaze dropped to Billy’s badge. He double-checked the ID beneath the plastic cover, then his eyes skated to the shoulder patch. The owner’s expression never changed. “I doubt I can help. I don’t keep tabs on people unless they get out of line.” He folded his arms. Purplish tattoos made the skin hard to see.

  “I expect you can help.” There was a warning in Billy’s voice. “I understand there was a problem. I have an eyewitness.” Even though the light was poor, Billy caught the narrowing of Dooley’s eyes.

  Dooley’s challenge was quick. “You already know about this guy, so what can I add?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.” Billy pulled a notebook from his pocket, flipped it open. “Now, if you’d rather come down to the station…”

  A humorless smile gashed the slab face. “No need, Chief. Let’s step outside.”

  When the door closed behind them, Dooley walked to the end of the porch, leaned against a post in shadow. The spot opposite him was in bright, full sunshine. Bill stepped into the blazing sun, squinting to see, heat ladling over him. Dooley waited.

  Billy brought out the picture of Max. “This man was here last night.”

  Dooley stared down at the photograph. His heavy face twisted in a glare. “Sorry bastard. I don’t know what kind of pills he was popping in his beer, but I want to make it damn clear we don’t serve drunks. If a man can’t handle his drinks, he’s out of here. Nobody will ever sue Dooley’s Mine saying we let some jerk get drunk and drive off. Hell of it is, I would have sworn he was sober when he got here. I should’ve known something was screwy. He came across the parking lot by himself and then his girlfriend—”

  Billy didn�
��t change expression. Here was confirmation of the informant’s story—“came racing after him. Seemed funny at the time. Why’d he come ahead of her? Anyway, he got a hug and a kiss from his hottie out in the parking lot. I was leaving and I got an eyeful. She ran up, grabbed him, looked like she wanted to climb all over him. He wasn’t having any. He looked irritated as hell, like he wanted to get the hell out. I’d say he was trying to break up with her. But he was sober. She hung onto him and insisted—”

  Billy held up a hand. “Can you describe her?”

  Dooley shrugged. “Mid-twenties. Black hair. Expensive clothes. Not the kind we have here usually.” Another lift of those heavy shoulders. “Except sometimes over spring break. College kids living it up.” The green eyes looked like pond scum.

  Billy made a mental note. Next spring break he’d have officers out here, checking IDs.

  “You ever seen either of them before?” Was this the first time Max had been here with a woman?

  Dooley jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Nope.” His head jerked toward the picture of Max. “I’d never seen him or the dame either. They came in as I was showing a guy out. Like I said, I don’t put up with any crap.” He gestured toward Max’s picture. “She was all over him but he looked mad. I kept an eye on them. I don’t like scenes. People come here to get happy. Anyway, she pulled on him and they came inside. After they ordered, he got up and moseyed around the room, like he was hunting for somebody—”

  Billy underlined hunting. It was an echo of the lifeguard’s report.

  “—then came back to the booth. I went by a couple of times, decided it was okay. He didn’t look happy but they’d settled in. Maybe fifteen minutes later Roxanne, their waitress, came and got me, said the gal was trying to get him up and he was swaying on his feet. I went over there. He was woozy, blinking. His words were slurred. I couldn’t make them out. Anyway, she said sometimes he drank too much and she’d take him home. I told her nobody walked out of my bar and drove a car in that condition. She said she’d drive. She shoved her hand into his pants pocket, got the keys. He struggled at that. I got on one side and she was on the other. He was ambulatory. We got him to the car. A red Jag. I put him in the passenger seat. He kind of pawed at the air, kept trying to talk. She went around, got in the driver’s seat. She drove out of here.”