Sunset Beach

by Mary Kay Andrews

His footsteps shook the weathered deck boards. When he grew closer, she saw he was holding a roll of some kind of tape.

  “This is K-tape,” he said. “Kinesiology tape. We use it in the clinic to stabilize joints. I’ve always got rolls of it in my car and at the condo. Tools of the trade. I thought, if you want, I could show you how to tape your knee. The knee brace would be better, but I get that it’s hot and unwieldy.”

  “Oh yeah,” Drue said, gesturing for him to come into the house. “I’ve used K-tape before, when I banged up my shoulder.” She slapped her forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “If you’d gone to a therapist, they would have suggested it,” Corey said. He pointed to the kitchen chair she’d just vacated. “Want to sit down and I’ll show you how it’s done?”

  He knelt on the floor before her. His fingers were long and tapered and cool on her skin as he smoothed the tape in strips around her ruined knee. She wondered if this was his way of coming on to her. And what she would do if he actually was coming on to her.

  But the moment passed. He stood and smiled. “And that’s how it’s done.” He produced a business card from the pocket of his navy shorts. “Here. I put my cell phone number on it. Seriously now, call me if you want to take me up on my offer for a bike ride or to go swimming. You need to start working that knee right away.”

  She picked up the roll of tape and walked him out onto the dunes, watching him disappear in the moonlight.

  16

  After an uneventful Monday, on Tuesday Drue rushed into the bullpen at exactly 9:55 A.M. She donned her sweater and headset and sat at her desk for a minute, trying to catch her breath.

  Her phone dinged. An incoming text from Ben, whose cubicle was right next to hers.

  Car trouble again?

  She looked over the divider. He was on the phone, listening but not typing, and looked up at her.

  She nodded, sat back down and replied.

  Literally driving me crazy. Every other day, OJ refuses to start. I had to LYFT to work.

  “Hey.” Ben stood looking over the divider, his headset around his neck. “Want me to take a look? I’m pretty good with cars.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really? I took it to a mechanic last week, but he says I need a new starter, and I just don’t have the money for something like that.”

  “Replacing a starter’s a piece of cake. I can pick one up at a wrecking yard.”

  “Not to rush you or anything, but when can you do it?” Drue asked.

  “I just need to get to the wrecking yard and pull one, then it’s like an hour or so. I could probably get it done on Saturday.”

  “And I will owe you big-time,” Drue said. The phone on her desk lit up, so she sat down and went back to work bringing justice to the people.

  17

  Brice’s office door was ajar. Drue knocked lightly then pushed it open the rest of the way.

  Her father was leaning back in his desk chair, chatting with the firm’s in-house investigator, Jimmy Zilowicz.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were busy,” she said, starting to back out.

  “Come on in,” Brice said expansively. “Zee and I were just shooting the shit.” He gestured at his guest. “You two have met, right?”

  Zee lumbered to his feet. “Have we met? I was at the hospital the night this kid was born.” He took the hand Drue extended, drawing her closer for a hug.

  “You remember your uncle Zee, don’t ya?” he asked, releasing her.

  “Hell, Zee, she was just a little kid when her mom and I split up and they moved away. You’re not all that memorable,” Brice joked.

  “I remember you and my dad taking me for doughnuts, and letting me ride in the front seat of your police cruiser, and letting me turn on the lights and sirens,” Drue said haltingly. “And I remember you making me promise not to tell my mom.”

  “Yeah, seems like I was always on Sherri’s shit list,” Zee said. “For good cause, of course. Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m sorry about your mom. We all had a lot of good times together, back in the day.” He brightened a moment. “But I’m tickled you’ve joined the firm.”

  “Thank you,” Drue said.

  “I’ll let you two get down to business,” Zee said. He hitched up his black trousers and nodded at his former partner before leaving.

  Brice stood up too. “I’m glad you came by. Wendy’s got her book club tonight, so I’m batching it. How about you let me buy you dinner? There’s a little place over on Central Avenue I like, we can get a pizza and split it, if that’s okay with you,” Brice said. “Parking’s tight over there, but it’s only a couple blocks.”

  “Okay,” Drue said. They met at the lobby door a few minutes later, and she followed him out onto the street.

  He glanced over at his daughter. “Will your knee be okay? If we walk?”

  “Should be. I met a physical therapist on the beach this weekend. He taped up my knee for stabilization, and it already feels better.” She had to quicken her step to catch up with him. One thing she had to say for Brice, he in no way seemed like a man in his late sixties. His belly was flat, his face relatively unlined and he had an enviable level of energy. She wondered if he and Wendy did couples Botox sessions.

  The place was called D’Italia, and Brice was treated as a minor celebrity. A server brought two martinis as soon as they were seated. “The usual, right?” asked the server, a trim Hispanic kid with a soul patch and nose ring.

  Drue pushed her martini across the table to her father. “Could I have a glass of chardonnay, please?” she asked.

  “Oh sure, whatever,” the waiter said, nodding.

  “What’s the usual?”

  “Pizza Bianca D’Italia,” Brice said. “You’ll love it. They do a great one here.”

  She would have liked to order from a menu, but before she could request one, their server was headed back toward the kitchen.

  “So,” Brice said, “Wendy tells me you’re, uh, struggling on the phones.”

  “Let’s not talk about it, okay?” Drue said.

  “If you’re not happy in your job, that’s something I need to know about,” Brice said.

  “I’m fine. Really. It’s a steep learning curve, but I’ll get it.”

  “You’re a bright girl. I’ve always said that.” Brice gave her an indulgent smile. “My brains and your mom’s temperament.”

  When the pizza arrived, steaming and fragrant, Brice took the pizza wheel, lifted a gooey slice and plopped it onto her plate. She looked down at it, sniffed and pointed. “Are those anchovies? Tell me they’re not anchovies.”

  “Of course they’re anchovies,” Brice said. “What kind of pizza bianca comes without anchovies?”

  “The only kind I’ll eat,” Drue said pointedly.

  Brice’s face fell. “I wish you’d told me that before I ordered.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance,” she said.

  Brice rolled his eyes and summoned the server again. “Bring this lady a menu, please,” he said.

  Drue held up her empty glass. “And another one of these.”

  * * *

  “How are things coming along at the cottage?” Brice asked, as dinner was winding down.

  “The cottage is good,” Drue said, trying to force herself to relax. She didn’t understand her constant need to challenge or confront her father. “Thanks for giving me all that furniture from your storage unit.”

  “I hope you took a lot of that old stuff that was originally your grandparents’. I was holding on to it for Sherri, but I think she probably forgot it was here.”

  “Yeah, Mom wasn’t much into interior design,” Drue agreed. “Most of the pieces I took I remembered from when Nonni and Papi were alive. I got a bunch of boxes of kitchen stuff too, which will really come in handy.”

  “I’m glad,” Brice said. “I should just donate the rest of that crap in the unit to charity for a tax deduction. No way Wendy’s ever gonna let any of it back in
the house.”

  Drue allowed herself a wicked smile. “Can’t say I blame her. That was some seriously bat-cave-looking furniture you had going there.”

  “From my BW days,” Brice agreed. “‘Before Wendy.’”

  “Hey Dad,” Drue said suddenly. “Who was Colleen Boardman Hicks?”

  “Who?” Brice took a gulp of his martini.

  “Colleen Boardman Hicks. I found some old newspaper clippings Mom had apparently saved about her disappearance from way back in 1976.”

  For some reason, she deliberately avoided mention of the case binder she’d also discovered.

  Brice repeated the name aloud, slowly. “Wow, I haven’t thought about her in a long, long time.”

  “Why would Mom have saved those old newspaper stories?” Drue asked. “Was she a friend of hers? Did you guys know her?”

  Her father helped himself to another slice of pizza. “I knew Colleen from high school, but I don’t think your mother ever met her.”

  “Weird. She disappeared while you were still on the police force, right? Was that a case you worked on?”

  “Me? No. I was never a detective. Just a lowly street cop.”

  “Whatever happened with the case? Did she ever turn up?”

  “Not that I know of,” Brice said.

  He checked his watch. “You want another glass of wine? If not, I should probably be getting home to look after Princess.”

  “I’m done,” she said, then hesitated. “Speaking of cold cases, Jazmin Mayes?”

  Brice’s expansive mood darkened. “Christ! That again. If you’re going to get emotionally attached to every hard-luck story that comes down the pike, maybe you better cut your losses now and find another line of work.”

  “Emotionally attached? Is it wrong to feel empathy for somebody who’s obviously been injured—or killed—through no fault of their own?”

  “You can feel empathy without wasting their time, and ours,” her father said. “I told you before, Zee spent way more time looking at that case than he should have. I feel badly for the grandmother, and the child, which is why I cut my fee. But it comes down to the fact that we just didn’t have a case. That one was a money loser. And I can’t afford to lose money if I’m going to stay in business. I’ve got a staff to pay—including you—overhead, benefits and a pension to fund. If you stay with the firm, and I hope you will, you’ll learn that every day cases are coming across the transom. Some are winners and some are losers. Jazmin Mayes, unfortunately, was a loser.”

  He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “I know you don’t believe me, but we did all we could for Yvonne and Aliyah.”

  Drue sipped her wine. “What if I could prove Jazmin wasn’t on the clock at Gulf Vista when she was killed? Would you take another look at the case?”

  “That girl was savagely murdered—strangled and beaten,” Brice said sharply. “Her killer is still at large. You’re not a trained investigator. So you stay the hell away from Gulf Vista. You hear me?”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll be a good little cube rat and answer the phone and do what I’m told,” Drue said. “Because you’re the one who signs my paycheck.”

  “Let’s go,” Brice said abruptly. He was looking around for the waiter and their check.

  “Where are you parked?” he asked.

  “At the cottage.” She dreaded asking, but also dreaded the long bus ride back out to the beach. “Think you could give me a ride home? OJ’s still on the fritz.”

  “On one condition,” he said. “No more shoptalk.”

  18

  December 1975

  The green and white patrol car pulled into the Dreamland motel on Thirty-fourth Street North at 10:45 P.M.

  The Dreamland was one of the thousands of motels, built during the post–World War II tourist boom in Florida, that had seen better days. Half the letters on the neon sign out front were burned out, and the colorful neon pixie who’d once sprinkled dream dust among stars and a crescent moon was barely recognizable due to peeling paint and broken tubing. The palm trees lining the curb were dead or dying.

  Officer Brice Campbell parked his car outside Unit 12 and waited. The dispatch code had come in first as a noise complaint, and then as a “family disturbance.” Two minutes later another patrol car pulled alongside Campbell’s. The officer, Jimmy Zilowicz, was Brice’s beat partner. He opened the passenger door and slid inside.

  “What have we got?” Zee asked.

  “Some kind of argument going on. Glass breaking. A woman crying. The folks in the room next door called the front office to complain. The manager knocked on the door to tell them to quiet down and a male inside told him to get lost.”

  Zee was older than Brice Campbell, in his mid-thirties. He wore his dark hair as long as department code would allow, and his compact, stocky frame was a testament to the time he spent in the weight room.

  “Which is where we come in,” Brice added. He looked around at the single-story stretch of rooms. “You been here before?”

  “You mean on business?” Zee asked, his grin sly.

  “You keep that shit up, Frannie is going to leave your ass,” Brice said. “Yeah, I mean business. I’ve had two calls over here in the last six months. One domestic, one auto breaking and entering.”

  “Place is kind of sad, but it’s not as bad as some of these other fleabags I’ve been to,” Zee said. “You ready?”

  The officers got out of the car, jamming their nightsticks into their belt loops, each letting their fingertips graze the handles of their holstered Smith & Wessons.

  “Hang on,” Zee said. He fetched the heavy Maglite flash he’d stowed under the seat of his cruiser.

  As they approached the door of Unit 12 they heard the sound of a woman’s hysterical sobs.

  They stood to the side of the door and Brice knocked. “Police!” he called loudly.

  Nothing.

  Zee banged at the door with the Maglite. “Come on in there, open up.”

  The door opened an inch, the chain lock engaged. A man, early-thirties with thinning brown hair and a pink flushed face, glared out at them. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. “What do you want?”

  “Somebody called in about a disturbance coming from this room,” Brice said.

  “We didn’t call the cops. Must be a mistake.”

  “Sir?” Brice said, trying to sound firm. “We just heard a woman crying when we arrived here. Your neighbors in the next room seem to think there’s been some kind of a fight.”

  “They need to mind their own fuckin’ business,” the man said, shouting now, as he looked toward the right and the left. “We don’t need the cops. There’s no disturbance. So leave us alone.”

  “We need to come into this room and talk to that woman,” Zee said. “Now.”

  The man turned away from the door. “Tell these cops you’re fine.”

  The woman continued to sob.

  “Goddamnit, Colleen, cut it out.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman cried. “I’m okay. You can go.”

  “She’s upset, that’s all,” the man assured the officers. “We had an argument. She’s fine. End of story.”

  Brice stared at the man. “You need to let us into this room. Now step aside and unchain this door or things are gonna get real ugly real fast. Is that what you want?”

  The man unchained the lock and swung the door inward. “Fine, asshole. Come on in.”

  The room had been wrecked. A wooden chair was broken and splintered, a framed picture had been smashed into pieces, clothes littered the floor. A nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker stood on the dresser. The woman was crouched on the left side of the bed, which was unmade. Her back was pressed against the headboard, her knees curled beneath her, with the bedsheet pulled up to her bare chest. Her hands covered the side of her face.

  Her companion stood at the foot of the bed, his fists balled, chin jutting out. He wore light blue boxer shorts and black socks.

  “Pu
t your pants on, dipshit,” Zee said.

  Brice approached the woman. He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Ma’am? Could you look at me, ma’am?”

  The woman turned a tearful face.

  “Son of a bitch,” Brice whispered, staring.

  He hadn’t seen her since when? Colleen Boardman ran with the popular crowd at Boca Ciega High School. Her parents had a waterfront house, she drove a cute blue VW Bug. Back then she was brunette and freckle-faced, with a pert, upturned nose and great tits. She’d been a cheerleader and class officer. Brice’s parents hadn’t been poor, and he wasn’t dumb, but he’d run with the greaser crowd back in the day. Skipped school at every opportunity, drank and smoked dope and generally raised hell. Half the guys he hung around with in high school had been drafted and sent to Vietnam. Brice had gone too, and made it back home, but too many others hadn’t.

  Colleen Boardman’s lip was split and bloody.

  Her eyes widened with recognition. “Brice Carter?”

  “Campbell.”

  He jerked his head in the direction of the dipshit, who was scowling at his partner as Zee searched his pants pockets for a weapon.

  “Did he do this to you?”

  Her gray-blue eyes welled with tears. She started to say something.

  “Shut up, Colleen,” the man snapped. “You don’t have to talk to them.”

  Zee shoved the guy backward onto an armchair. “Not another word outta you.”

  Brice lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “Did he hit you?”

  She nodded.

  “Ask the bitch what she did to deserve it,” the man called.

  Zee threw the pants in the guy’s face. “That’s it. Get dressed. You’re going to jail.”

  “For what? We had an argument. Maybe I had a little too much to drink. Things got a little out of hand. Didn’t you and your wife ever get in a fight?”

  Brice got up and walked over to the chair, staring down at the guy’s bald spot. “I never hit my wife. Did you ever hit your wife, Zee?”

  “Nah,” the other cop said. “I’d never hit my wife. In fact, only pussies hit women.”