Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  Chapter 42

  Sinclair made his way through an outdoor beach bar into a hotel café and to the front lobby. A sign on the front desk announced he was at the Holiday Inn Beach House Resort. “Hi, can you tell me if a Sheila Harris is staying here?”

  “Sorry, but we can’t give out guest information,” the woman behind the counter said.

  “What if someone called and asked to be connected to her room?” Sinclair asked.

  “Then you’d be connected.”

  “Or told that she’s not staying here,” Sinclair said.

  “Right,” she said. “Sorry, but I’m just following the rules.”

  Sinclair stepped outside the front door, searched for the hotel on his phone, and called the number. “Beach House Resort, how may I help you?” replied a female voice.

  “Can you connect me to the room of Sheila Harris, please?”

  A moment later, the voice said, “I’m sorry, but we have no guest by that name.”

  Sinclair went out the back door to the outdoor bar known as the Tiki Hut and climbed onto a barstool. Twenty or thirty people sat around the bar and at nearby tables. There was a day when Sinclair could’ve vacationed for a week in a place like this, having his first drink after breakfast and his last one before returning to his room to sleep at night. But now, he’d take home more memories and see more sights than the inside of bars. The bartender was bald and in his late forties. “What can I get you?”

  “You got ice tea?”

  The bartender filled a plastic cup with ice and poured tea from a pitcher on the bar. Sinclair said, “Guess this place gets pretty lively at night.”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “We have a band every night. A lot of partying.”

  Sinclair chugged the drink and slid the cup back toward him. The bartender filled it again. “I’m looking for a friend who’s supposed to be down here, but her phone isn’t working.”

  “Visitors are always frying their phones in the sun or drowning them in the surf.”

  “Her name’s Sheila Harris,” Sinclair said.

  “I don’t know visitors by name. They come and go too often.”

  Sinclair slid the headshot of Sheila across the bar. “Does she look familiar?”

  “I never forget a pretty face. Frozen daiquiri drinker. She’s been coming here for years. I just saw her a few nights ago.”

  “Any idea where she’s staying?”

  “There’s gotta be a thousand hotel rooms and villas within walking distance. Could be anywhere.”

  “What’s a villa?”

  The bartender laughed. “A fancy name for a condo unit. Most are individually owned and rented out by one of the rental companies or on VRBO—that’s vacation rental by owner, a website.”

  “Was she with someone?”

  “It was busy, but I think she was sitting at a table with a couple of other cute chicks about her age. Stayed for a few drinks, then left.”

  “Where else would cute chicks like her go?”

  “Man, the island is one big party spot. Grab one of the magazines and you’ll see places all over with music and alcohol.”

  “If you see her again, can you call me?”

  “We’re pretty busy here, guy.”

  Sinclair pushed a fifty across the bar. “The rest of this is your tip.”

  “Gimme your number.”

  Sinclair wrote his number on a page from his pocket notebook, handed it to the bartender, and headed back to the beach. The next complex was Ocean One Villas. Sinclair spoke to a couple as they were exiting the building. They said all units were rented by individual owners, so there’d be no master list of guests. After passing four or five additional condominium complexes, he came to a Marriott resort. He didn’t even try going to the desk but called the number he found on the website. The operator who answered the phone said they had no Sheila Harris registered there. He talked to the bartender at the pool bar, but he didn’t recognize her photograph.

  Sinclair walked back down the beach, the sun high overhead beating down on him. The beach had been mostly vacant until he got closer to Coligny Park. He eyed the women as he walked by, hoping Sheila would be one of them. But no such luck. As he walked by the showers, he wished he was in a swimsuit so he could wash the sweat from his body but instead opted for rinsing off his feet before he slipped his sneakers back on. As he continued, he stopped in a flatbread restaurant and a few other places to show Sheila’s photograph. He then crossed the street to the plaza, where he went from shop to shop showing her photo and leaving his number with anyone who would take it.

  By four o’clock he felt hot, tired, and hopeless. He got his laptop from his car and entered a casual café that had air conditioning and Wi-Fi. He plugged his phone into his computer to charge it while he worked and ordered a Diet Coke. He searched for the nearest hotels and began calling them. Four had told him Sheila wasn’t registered there when his phone buzzed, showing Braddock in caller ID.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Fine. How’s it going with you?” she said in a singsong tone that said something was wrong.

  He ignored it and asked, “Any luck locating Sheila?”

  She hesitated for a few beats and then said, “I went to her apartment, but there was no answer. The manager wasn’t much help. Said she moved in with a roommate who was the one that completed the rental application. The roommate moved out two years ago, and the manager never had Sheila fill out any paperwork, so he knows nothing about her other than her name and cell phone number, which, by the way, is now disconnected. I canvassed the building, but it’s a working-class place, and everyone’s gone during the day. I took a chance and called the number we had for her parents. Spoke to Charlotte, who is her stepmother. She said Sheila lives her own life and talks to her husband—Sheila’s father—about once a month. She doesn’t even know anything about where she works other than it’s somewhere in Oakland and it has something to do with the business undergrad degree she received at Cal.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Charlotte wondered why other people were looking for her daughter. She got a call a few days ago from Sheila’s work wondering if she was all right. Before you ask, no, she didn’t get a name or even the name of the company. Then yesterday, she got a call from someone named Matt Roberts. Coincidentally, this man has the same cell phone number as you.”

  “Cathy, I can explain.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Matt? You’re on admin leave. If you’re caught working this case, you can kiss your job good-bye.”

  “I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”

  “A few hours ago, Uppy called. He asked if I knew where you were and what you were doing. At that time, I was able to tell him honestly that I thought you were taking it easy at your house. He seemed worried that you were about to extend yourself so far out on a limb, there’d be no way down.”

  “I’m just trying to track down Sheila before your deadline.”

  “Oh, make me out to be the bad guy because I won’t cover up police corruption.”

  “I’m not saying that. We both want the truth. Either Phil was a good cop, or he went bad at some point. Even if he was dirty, if he wasn’t killed over whatever he was involved in, he still deserves a police funeral, and we don’t need to ruin his reputation.”

  “It’s all black and white to you,” she said. “Last December, when we finally determined Councilmember Yates had nothing to do with Dawn’s murder, you still wanted to publicly shame him for hiring an escort and getting her pregnant. But you’ll give Phil a pass.”

  “That’s different.” He searched his fatigued mind for the rationale. “Phil’s dead. If he was still alive and taking graft, I’d report him in a heartbeat. You know I won’t tolerate crooked cops. But he’s dead. What would be gained from dragging his name through the mud?”

  “If we conceal this and it turns out to have something to do with his murder, we’ll have tainted the investigation
so badly, they’ll never be able to prosecute the killer.”

  Braddock knew which buttons to push. There was nothing more important to him than bringing a murderer to justice. “I wish I never told you about the cigar box in his locker.”

  “Why, so you could decide how to handle this based on Matt Sinclair’s rules of right and wrong?”

  “No, so I could’ve avoided dragging you into this. You know my opinion, but this is your case now, so the decisions are yours. Just be aware of the consequences of whatever choice you make.”

  “Are you going to tell me where you are and what you’re doing?” she asked.

  “It’s probably best you don’t know. That way you won’t have something else you need to hide.”

  He didn’t blame Braddock. Deciding whether or not to reveal Phil’s activity was tough for anyone. It shouldn’t have to be made by police sergeants. If the department had a chief with the courage to make the right decision, he’d have no problem pushing it up the chain of command. But Brown made decisions based on what was best for himself. He’d always take the safe way out. And the safe decision meant telling the city administrator and mayor, both of whom would do whatever best ensured their political survival. They’d cancel Phil’s funeral and release the information to the press so they could tout how transparent they were on police misconduct and corruption.

  Chapter 43

  Sinclair took several gulps of his Coke and returned to his computer. After searching for Hilton Head rentals and coming up with hundreds of options ranging from one-bedroom condos for a thousand dollars a week to an eight-bedroom house on the beach for twenty-eight thousand, Sinclair remembered Dr. Lowenstein telling him that Melvin Harris had been coming to Hilton Head since the sixties. If Sinclair planned to vacation at the same place year after year, he’d consider buying a timeshare or even a condo that he could rent out the rest of the year.

  It took Sinclair a few minutes to figure out how to navigate the Beaufort County assessor’s website and enter a search for property tax records in the name of Melvin Harris. One entry popped up: a two-bedroom, two-bath villa owned by Melvin Harris, trustee, with a mailing address for the property tax bill in Birmingham, Michigan. Sinclair entered the address in Google Maps. A six-minute walk away. He slid his laptop into his backpack and rushed out the door, through the parking lot, and down Forest Beach Drive. He jogged through the parking lot and followed signs directing him to the unit. An elevator with glass sides provided a view of lush lagoons and tennis courts as it took him to the third floor. He followed an open concrete landing to 315 and knocked.

  A white man in his late forties wearing knee-length swimming trunks and a baggy tank top advertising the Crab Shack Restaurant opened the door.

  “I’m looking for Sheila or Melvin Harris,” Sinclair said.

  “You must have the wrong villa. We’re the Hodges.”

  “Who’s there?” a woman yelled from inside.

  “No one,” he yelled back. “A man’s got the wrong unit.”

  “Who’s he looking for?” she yelled.

  “Sheila or Melvin Harris,” Sinclair said loud enough for her to hear.

  A few seconds later, a full-figured woman wearing a long cover-up over a swimsuit appeared in the doorway. “Excuse my husband,” she said. “He’s an idiot.” She turned to her husband. “How long we been coming here? The Harrises are the owners of this villa. The black family.” She turned back to Sinclair. “They’re usually here this week and we rent another unit, but for some reason it was available, so we got it. When you come the same week year after year, you get to know other people in the building because people stick with the same weeks.”

  “Do you know Sheila?”

  “Sure. Mr. Harris’s granddaughter. She used to always come with her grandfather and usually her parents or an aunt and uncle.”

  “When did you last see her?” Sinclair asked.

  “She left when we moved in on Saturday. She’s staying with some friends in another villa until we leave. Unless it’s rented at the last minute, she’ll move back in.”

  “What unit is she staying in?”

  “Three-oh-nine, down the hall. Tiffany and Rob are the couple who’re renting there. Tiffany’s sister stays with them. Those two have been hanging out down here together since they were teenagers.”

  Sinclair thanked them, went down the hall, and knocked on 309. An athletic man about Sinclair’s age answered the door. A baseball game was on a TV inside. “Is Sheila here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Matt, a friend of Sheila’s from California.”

  The man eyed Sinclair up and down. “Girl’s night out. She went with my wife and her sister for drinks and maybe dancing.”

  “Where at?” Sinclair was losing patience, but if he pushed too hard and too fast, he’d get nothing.

  “They said they were starting at the Boathouse, something about happy hour from four to seven.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Maybe half hour ago. But it’s supposed to be just the girls—my wife is obviously married, her sister’s engaged, and Sheila—well, Sheila’s sworn off men for a while.”

  “No problem,” Sinclair said. “We’re just friends.”

  Sinclair strolled down the hallway. When he heard the door shut, he began running. He bypassed the elevator and bounded down the staircase two steps at a time. He sprinted through the parking lot and turned onto the sidewalk, breaking into an easy run that covered the distance rapidly without attracting undo attention. He started the car, searched for the Boathouse on his GPS, and took off while it calculated the route.

  He had noted the Boathouse Restaurant when he studied the map earlier. Along with the Charthouse and Hudson’s, it was one of three restaurants on Skull Creek, which was not a creek at all but actually part of the Intracoastal Waterway. Past the Boathouse lay Hilton Head Plantation, a huge gated community that encompassed the northern corner of the island.

  At a sign for the Boathouse, he turned down a long driveway with parking stalls on both sides. A gigantic metal building fifty feet high stretched the length of a football field on his right. Inside, boats of all shapes and sizes were stacked on racks to the ceiling, to be removed and placed in the water with a special forklift when the boat owners called. He parked near the street and jogged down the driveway.

  Past the boat storage building, the driveway ended and the restaurant was to his immediate left. A line of people waited to give their names to a woman standing outside at a hostess podium. Avoiding the crowd around the restaurant, Sinclair walked to the right of the pier where a sign read, Beer Garden. Wood chips covered the ground under huge live oak trees, and a young woman was setting up speakers and running cables on a raised bandstand in front of a bunch of large picnic tables. He scanned the faces of the people sitting at the tables and standing in line for a beer but didn’t see anyone looking like Sheila.

  Sinclair skirted past the hostess stand and waded through an outdoor seating area filled with diners surrounding huge plates of fish and crab and smaller plates of hamburgers and salads. The aroma of fried fish filled the air. He weaved through the tables toward a covered rectangular bar surrounded by people laughing and talking. Three bartenders scurried back and forth with drinks and bottles of beer. Large fans above made the thick, muggy air almost bearable.

  Sinclair scanned the crowd around the bar. Thirty people on barstools and twice that many at small tables around the bar and sitting on chairs facing the water. Many were in their twenties and thirties and dressed for the weather, with men in shorts and T-shirts, polo shirts, or Hawaiian-style shirts, and women in sundresses or shorts and tank tops.

  Around the far end of the bar, Sinclair spotted the back of a tall, slender woman with long jet-black hair talking to two attractive blondes dressed in loose, sheer tops over bright-colored sports bras. He made his way through the crowd to the other side of the bar.

  He maneuvered where he could finally see her fac
e. She glanced at him, smiled, and looked away, probably used to men’s eyes looking and lingering too long. A second later, she caught his eye again. Her face showed a flash of fear followed by surprise or confusion. He pushed through the crowd toward her.

  “Hi, Sheila, my name’s Matt Sinclair.”

  Her face relaxed. “Hi, Matt.” She smiled. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Chapter 44

  Sinclair bought two cans of Diet Coke from the beer garden bar and sat on a picnic table across from Sheila. Except for the band setting up and a few people at other tables, they had the area to themselves.

  “You look like—what’s that cowboy saying?—you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet,” Sheila said as she poured her soda into the cup of ice.

  Sinclair removed his baseball cap, noticed a white salt ring around its rim, and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He’d been on the go for the last twenty-four hours with one objective in mind. He wished he could bask in the glory of mission accomplishment for a while and take a long shower, drink a gallon of water, and lie down for twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. But how he handled the next hour or so would determine whether it was worth the effort or not. He had so many questions that he didn’t know where to start. Sinclair preferred conducting police interviews from a position of advantage, where his knowledge of the facts and his authority left the interviewee uncomfortable, even a bit intimidated. Instead, he felt physically and mentally exhausted—beat up by the past few days, while Sheila looked rested, composed, and comfortable in his presence.

  “How do you like Hilton Head?” She took a sip of her drink and waited for a response, as if they were on a first date and getting to know each other through small talk.

  “Hot.” He popped the top of his soda and poured it over the ice.

  “You get used to it.”

  The ease with which Sheila carried a conversation reminded him of Dawn. He imagined that skill was even more important for an escort than her abilities in the bedroom. “You can probably imagine I’ve been through a lot to find you.” Turning the conversation to her, he asked, “But how are you, Sheila? How are you doing?”