Sunset Beach

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “You’re not listening,” Brice said. “No judge is going to grant her a restraining order. And even if one did, Hicks would come after her anyway. He dislocated her shoulder last month. On her birthday.”

  Their refills arrived. Brice stared moodily down into the glass, his red-rimmed eyes unfocused.

  “You’re not the one who’s screwed,” Zee pointed out. “I mean, it’s okay to want to help her out, but in the end, she’s the one who married the asshole, and she’s the one who decided to stay with him. Not your problem, brother.”

  “It kinda is,” Brice said, looking sheepish. “I’ve been seeing her. Like a lot.”

  “What does Sherri think about that?”

  “She knows I’m taking night classes, but I told her I’m meeting with a study group on Thursday nights.”

  Zee chuckled. “But instead you’re studying Colleen Hicks?”

  “I feel like I’m losing my mind. And she’s definitely lost hers. I had no idea just how crazy that girl is. Now she’s saying the only way she can leave her husband is if she just disappears.”

  “Like, poof, she’s in the wind?”

  “That’s her plan. And she wants me to help. They’ve been saving up to buy a house. Her plan is to empty the savings account and hop a Greyhound to Atlanta. She’ll assume a new identity and start a new life.”

  “Where do you fit into this crazy-ass scheme?”

  “She wants me to help her disappear, get her a fake ID. She really wants me to go with her too.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Hell no,” Brice said. “Leave Sherri? My job? Give up my plans? If I help her, go with her, I’m a fugitive. What’s that do to my plan to go to law school?”

  “You think Sherri knows what’s going on? She’s not stupid.”

  “I think maybe she suspects. She kicked me out of the house the week before Christmas—that first night I was with Colleen. She only took me back, Christmas morning, after I swore I was through cheating. Now she watches me like a hawk.”

  Brice shook another cigarette out of the pack of Salems with shaking hands. “I think I’m just gonna do it. Get the fake ID. It’s not that hard. Every teenager in town has one.”

  “I don’t like it.” Zee shook his head vehemently. “What if her disappearing act blows up? And it comes back on you? The department would can you in a minute. I say you let this chick do what she’s gonna do. She can’t make you help her.”

  “Colleen already admitted she went and saw Sherri, at the real estate office. Pretending she wanted to rent a house. And I’ve seen her drive past the house at night a couple times.”

  Zee didn’t say anything. Just shook his head.

  “I’m worried that if I don’t help her, she’ll go to Sherri. Tell her we’ve been hitting the sheets at the Dreamland every Thursday night…”

  “The Dreamland? That dump? Are you shitting me?”

  “What can I tell you? She gets off on the place.”

  “Let me get this straight. She’s stalking you, stalking Sherri. Making threats?”

  Brice leaned back in the booth, avoiding his friend’s direct gaze. “Yeah, I know. I feel like I’m living a nightmare I can’t wake up from.”

  “Let me talk to her,” Zee said. “Make her see that she just needs to walk away and not look back. Forget she ever met you. No reason to ruin both your lives.”

  “No. I’m already in over my head. I don’t want to get you involved.”

  “I’m already involved. I was with you the night we broke up that fight at the motel. I went along with not filing a report, remember?”

  Brice knocked back the rest of his scotch.

  “When are you supposed to see her again?”

  “This Thursday night. At the Dreamland. Nine o’clock, after my class gets out.”

  “How do you usually work it?” Zee asked.

  “I know the guy at the desk. He gives me the room, you know, ’cause he likes the idea of a police cruiser on the property. In case there’s any trouble.”

  “Great.” Zee rolled his eyes. “Accepting gifts from a citizen in return for protection. You really have lost your mind.”

  “I know,” Brice moaned. “But I can’t exactly put it on a credit card. Sherri pays the bills. And I don’t have the extra cash.”

  “Okay, forget it. Is it the same room every time?”

  “Yeah. Room eight. The owner’s name is Harold. Just go to the desk and tell him I sent you. He’s cool.”

  “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You go right home after your class. And I mean right home. Tell Sherri study group was canceled. I’ll have a chat with Colleen. Let her know you can’t help her anymore. And she should stop calling you and stop riding by your house.”

  “You don’t know her,” Brice said. “She’s not gonna give up that easy.”

  “Colleen don’t know Zee. But Zee knows lots of crazy girls like Colleen,” Zee said. “Don’t worry about it, bro. It’s handled.”

  35

  When she left Coquina Cottage to go to work Wednesday morning, Drue found a plain white business envelope containing a plastic flash drive on OJ’s passenger seat. There was no note, but she was sure it was the video from the security cameras at Gulf Vista, taken the night of Jazmin’s murder. “Thanks, Detective Hernandez,” she whispered.

  But there was no opportunity to watch the video on her computer at work. Another new ad campaign had launched over the weekend, this one aimed at motorists who’d been involved in accidents with long-haul truckers.

  The file box of medical receipts had disappeared from her cubicle, and there were no ominous sticky notes, so she gladly donned her headset again.

  As she made notes, and between calls, she toyed with the flash drive, turning it over and over between her fingertips, anxious to view its contents.

  Drue finally made a dash to the break room just after noon, with the flash drive stowed in the pocket of her work sweater for safekeeping. She found Jonah at the coffee machine, dressed in his typical pressed khakis, dress shirt and tie, staring morosely down into his blue and orange University of Florida mug with the Gator handle.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This isn’t mine,” he said.

  “Who else would buy a coffee mug that ugly?”

  “No. I mean, it’s my mug, but this isn’t my Keurig pod. I had a whole stash hidden in my desk drawer, but somebody apparently raided it last night and yoinked all my pods. This is the office sludge.”

  “Is nothing sacred?” Drue said, her tone mocking. “Shall I call the cops?”

  “I don’t like the idea of somebody rifling through my stuff, okay? I mean, if you want my coffee, just ask. Don’t go stealing.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Drue said. “I drink whatever’s free and available.”

  He shook his head, still annoyed. “Are your calls as nutty as mine this morning?”

  “Oh yeah. I just had a guy call and claim he was rear-ended by the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.”

  “Okay, that could be lucrative,” Jonah said. “Or just plain lewd.”

  “Except that there were no witnesses, he didn’t file an accident report and, oh yeah, the guy admits he had his driver’s license lifted two years ago for multiple DUIs.”

  Jonah sighed and dumped the remains of his coffee into the sink. “It must be the full moon. I had a lady who wants to hire Brice to sue FedEx because one of their trucks cut her off in traffic and when she slammed on the brakes her dog got whiplash.”

  Drue giggled despite herself. “Seriously? What kind of dog?”

  “German short-haired pointer. She claims he would have been a best-in-show contender in the Westminster Kennel Club, but since the accident, he refuses to point. Now she says she’s missing out on thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of stud fees.”

  Jonah glanced up at the clock on the break room wall. “Okay, I gotta get back in there.” He started toward the door, but then turned and came back.

&
nbsp; “Hey, um, are we good?”

  “I guess. Even though you apparently found a way to resurrect that slip-and-fall case that should have been mine.”

  His face flushed. “I told Wendy she should send the client back to you. It was just dumb luck that when she called the second time the call was routed to me.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Drue said lightly. “The way it worked out, Zee asked my dad if I could help interview a witness to that accident. It was a pretty cool experience.”

  “I’m glad. You know, I hate the way things started out with us. That first night at Sharky’s? I swear, Drue, that’s not who I am. I know you think I’m your typical horndog, but I’m not.” He lowered his voice. “I wish you’d give me a do-over.”

  “Do-over?”

  “Let me take you out. We start from scratch.” He stuck out his hand. “‘Hi, I’m Jonah. Actually not the random asshole you met at a bar who was trying way too hard to prove to the boss’s daughter that he was way cool.’”

  He left his hand extended. “This is where you go, ‘Hi, I’m Drue. Nice to meet you, Jonah. And yes, I’d love to go out with you for sushi. Or steak. But not shots. Never, ever shots again.’”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Helloooo? Drue?”

  “Don’t rush me,” she said. “I’m thinking about it.”

  The break room door opened and Ben strolled in, clutching his coffee mug. He looked from Drue to Jonah. “What’s going on? Am I missing something?”

  The mood was broken.

  “As a matter of fact, we were just discussing a very serious crime wave,” Drue said. “Thinking about getting Zee involved and asking him to launch an in-house investigation.”

  “Really?” Ben said, pushing his glasses off the end of his nose.

  “It’s the Keurig heist,” she said, gesturing at Jonah’s empty mug.

  “Thinking it’s an inside job,” Jonah said. He nodded toward Drue. “Let me know your thoughts, okay?”

  Ben watched his coworker exit. “Thoughts on what?”

  “Um, nothing, really. We were just comparing notes on all the crazy calls we’ve gotten this morning. I had a Wienermobile incident, he had a dog whiplash call. How’s it going with you?”

  “About the same,” Ben said. “I fielded about a hundred calls, but nothing that bizarre. How goes it with your investigator training? When do you do another ride-along with Zee?”

  “Not sure,” Drue said. “Listen, I gotta get back to work before Wendy decides to find some new and different way to torture me.”

  36

  The St. Pete Beach Public Library was quiet. Most of the winter resident snowbirds had fled back north with the coming of warmer weather.

  Drue waited at the information desk while a heavy-set librarian with a blue Mohawk and polka-dot bow tie checked out a thick stack of picture books for a harried mom with two preschoolers.

  “How can I help?” he asked, approaching Drue.

  She held up the flash drive. “I’d like to use a computer to watch this video.”

  He nodded. “Do you have a library card?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you have your driver’s license, I can get you fixed up with a card and then you’ll be free to use materials at any library on the beach.”

  Drue handed over her license with her old Fort Lauderdale address.

  “Oh.” He frowned and handed it back. “Actually, you need to be a Pinellas County resident.”

  “I am,” she explained. “But I just moved here a month ago.”

  He smiled. “When you come back, bring in a piece of mail that shows your current address and we’ll get you fixed up.”

  “I can’t get fixed up today?”

  “I wish. Sorry, I don’t make the rules. What I can do is give you a temporary three-month library card. It’ll cost twenty-five dollars.”

  She sighed, but dug her billfold from her backpack and slid the money across the counter.

  * * *

  With her new library card stashed away, Drue sat down at a computer terminal, logged in with her library card number and plugged the flash drive into the monitor.

  She leaned forward, staring intently at the somewhat blurry black-and-white images on the screen.

  The first sequence on the video, time-stamped 11:05 P.M., showed a wide angle of the hotel hallway. A petite, slender woman appeared, pushing a cart just like the one Drue had seen in the Gulf Vista laundry room. The housekeeper wore a short-sleeved button-front uniform smock, jeans and tennis shoes, and a baseball cap whose bill partially obscured her face.

  The housekeeper paused in front of a doorway and used a key card hanging from a lanyard around her neck to unlock the door.

  The door opened and the housekeeper pushed through with the laundry cart. Nearly two and a half hours later, according to the time stamp, the same hotel room door opened and the same housekeeper emerged, pushing the cart.

  Drue watched while the woman waited in front of a service elevator. A video camera mounted in the elevator then showed the housekeeper in the elevator, staring down at the cart. The elevator doors opened, and the video went fuzzy. In the next clip, the woman was shown pushing the cart down a walkway that Drue recognized as the service entrance to the Gulf Vista’s laundry room. The lighting was much dimmer, but she recognized the laundry room, with its door ajar. The housekeeper pushed the cart through, then closed the door. The computer screen went black.

  Drue watched the video clip half a dozen more times, trying to gain some kind of insight into the night of Jazmin’s murder.

  She pulled her cell phone from her backpack, but another, crew-cut librarian looked over at her from the front desk and pointed to a large ceiling-mounted sign: CELL PHONE USAGE PROHIBITED IN LIBRARY.

  Drue nodded, palmed the flash drive and walked outside the library. She got into the Bronco and called Rae Hernandez.

  The detective answered after two rings.

  “What? I thought I told you my son has a baseball tournament today. I’m busy.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry to bother you. Please tell your husband I said thanks for dropping off the flash drive.”

  “What flash drive?”

  “Oh. Right. I forgot. An anonymous tipster left an envelope on the front seat of my car this morning. There was a flash drive. It had video clips from the security cameras at the Gulf Vista the night Jazmin was killed.”

  “Okay, we’ve established that. Now, what’s your point?”

  “Is that all you have for the video? I mean, nothing from that hotel room Jazmin entered?”

  “Hotels don’t have video cameras in people’s private rooms. At least, not the legit ones. That’s illegal.”

  “Right. Forget I asked that. Isn’t there any other video from that day, something else that shows her?”

  “Sure. There’s like eight hours of video of her doing her job. There’s a video of her clocking in. And buying a Dr Pepper from a vending machine by the pool.”

  “The hotel has a parking lot reserved for employees, right?”

  “Yeah. On the lowest level of the hotel, same level as the loading dock.”

  “Was there a security camera down there?”

  Silence.

  “Rae? Detective Hernandez?”

  “I’m trying to remember. It’s been two years, you know. Lots of cases since then.”

  “But no other cases where a young single mom is beaten and strangled and tossed in with a load of dirty sheets and towels,” Drue said.

  “Okay, yeah. There was a security camera in the parking garage. We looked at all the footage. As far as I can remember, there was nothing remarkable, except for some busboys smoking what we assumed was reefer, and a male desk clerk and female housekeeper engaged in what could be called a mutually rewarding act of intimacy.”

  “They were having sex? Right there in the parking garage?”

  “Going at it like it was their job, in the backseat of a Subaru,” Hernandez confirmed. “So lo
ts of comings and goings. Literally.”

  “Ha-ha,” Drue said.

  “Is that it now?” Hernandez asked. “The Red Wings are at bat. I gotta go.”

  “Can you get me any more video from that night at the hotel?” Drue asked. “I don’t mind watching the boring stuff.”

  “Don’t push your luck, kid,” Hernandez said.

  Drue sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to decide on her next move. She was now only a few blocks from the Silver Sands motel, where Jazmin’s boyfriend worked. She called the motel and asked for Jorge Morales, but was told his shift didn’t start until 8:00 P.M.

  “Guess I’ll go home and wait,” Drue said, starting the Bronco and backing out of the library parking lot.

  37

  Drue sat in the living room at Coquina Cottage, examining her temporary library card. Had she really been back on the west coast for a month now? Had it been only a month since she’d held her mother’s hand and watched as she drifted into unconsciousness?

  The cottage was neat as a pin. The floors were swept clean, her refrigerator held neatly organized shelves of perishables, her bed was made and the office she’d set up in the guest bedroom held a desk she’d recently acquired from Craigslist. But the rooms seemed bare and lifeless.

  This was not the colorful, joyful home of her grandparents. The cottage lacked soul.

  She went into the office and pulled out a box she’d unearthed from the attic but had resisted unpacking until now.

  With a smile, she laid the paintings out on the desktop, and then on the floor. These were Papi’s masterpieces. A pair of framed paintings of flamingoes. Another pair of red macaws, their bills open, wings extended. There was a large painting of a majestic snowy egret and a pale pink cockatoo perched on a flowering dogwood branch, a blue heron depicted wading in shallow water, much like the heron Drue had stalked at sundown, and another pair of bird paintings, these of roseate spoonbills, returning to roost over a moss-draped swamp. There was even a paint-by-numbers of a dolorous-looking pelican sitting on a piling that reminded her of the pelicans at Merry Pier.