“Looks like a real madhouse,” Amara said. She moved closer to him. “What do you think happened?”
“One way to find out.” Jake headed toward the main landing, where most of the action was. Pausing in mid-stride, he turned back to Amara. “Not a word of our discovery.” He patted his bag for emphasis. “Not until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not saying anything to anyone.”
Jake nodded and began to stride along the narrow dock, his boots thudding atop the weather-beaten boards as he passed one moored vessel after another.
Up ahead, he spotted Chris Meyers standing behind a line of police barricade tape. He was arguing with a particularly pushy news reporter, who continued to shove her microphone in his face. He turned toward Jake and his expression changed from anguish to relief. Moving away from the newswoman, he asked a pair of uniformed officers to protect the flimsy barricade and began jogging in Jake’s direction.
“Thank God you’re here!” Chris said frantically. He was breathing hard and drenched with sweat. “They’re totally out of control! I can’t handle these people!”
Jake rested one hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, kid. From what I’ve seen, you’re doing a great job. Now fill me in. Exactly what caused all of this?”
Chris gaped at Amara. “Are you sure? I mean . . . in front of her?”
“Oh, sorry,” Jake said. “Chris Meyers, this is Dr. Amara Takagi from the Harbinger. She’s assisting with our investigation.”
Chris nodded. He looked about before he spoke. “It happened about an hour ago. The damn thing came out of nowhere. It was really moving, too!”
“What thing?”
Chris gestured at the taped-off section of landing. Behind the barrier, partially concealed by the two troopers, was a wrecked black and yellow Jet Ski. Its nose was embedded in the dock’s frame, with splintered boards scattered in every direction.
“It just slammed into the dock?” Jake asked as they moved toward the crash scene. He paused in mid-step, eyes widening. “That’s Brad Harcourt’s toy. Is that what this is all about? Was he hurt in the accident?”
“You don’t understand,” Chris emphasized. “We don’t know where he is. His Jet Ski came back riderless. It crashed into the dock all by itself. It’s a miracle it didn’t hit one of the docked boats and blow up!”
“You’re right, Chris. I don’t understand.” Jake paused outside the taped area. The two uniformed officers recognized him and nodded as they made way for the popular town sheriff. “Why all this excitement, if all the little shit did was forget his emergency cord and let his watercraft run off without him? Why all the media for a simple search and rescue?”
“That’s just it, chief,” Chris said. He blanched as he pointed at the damaged Kawasaki. “He was using his shutoff lanyard. Look.”
Following the frightened youngster’s gaze, Jake saw something that gave him pause. He scrunched his eyes tight to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Chris was right. The safety-lanyard was still plugged in. In fact, it was wrapped around its owner’s wrist. There was a hand gripping the rubberized handlebar, its safety strap cinched tightly in place.
The pallid body part had been amputated mid-forearm.
“Holy shit,” Jake muttered.
He signaled the two troopers to keep the reporters at bay, then ducked under the barricade, gesturing for Amara. He froze in place, a sickly feeling making its way into the pit of his stomach. The severed limb was sporting a gore-covered watch. He breathed through his mouth, reached into his back pocket for a pair of latex gloves, and grasped the watch. Turning it around, he scratched away the dried blood that caked its diamond-studded face with his thumbnail. His face darkened.
Shaking his head, Jake dropped down on one knee, positioning himself so anyone behind him couldn’t see. He shifted the shoulder bag he carried until it was hanging in front of him.
“Chris, help keep those vultures out of here,” he said over his shoulder.
Continuing to use his deputy and the troopers as a blind, Jake extricated the cloth-wrapped tooth. He checked to make sure no one saw, then held it next to the sundered forearm.
“Well, what do you think?”
Amara drew shoulder to shoulder with him, her trained eyes focused. She took the tooth fragment and compared it to the limb. She gave a low whistle and nodded.
The curved body of the tooth fit the gouged out end of the forearm like a cookie fit its cutter. It was undeniable. Whatever creature assaulted the Sayonara and its crew was responsible for the attack on the Jet Ski – and its rider.
“Shhh . . .” Jake whispered. He wiped the tooth clean, rewrapped it, and stashed it inside his bag. Rising to his feet, he turned a deaf ear to the fusillade the reporters threw at him and walked over to the troopers.
“Gentlemen, I appreciate your assistance. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to stick around and make sure no one touches anything – other than forensics and our coroner, of course.”
“No problem, Jake. Glad to be of assistance,” the heavier of the two said. “Forensics has already been here. As for the coroner, I think that’s him right now.”
Jake spotted Saul Rigby approaching. A small, creepy-looking man in his fifties with thin lips and shifty eyes, the little mortician was the type of person people went out of their way to avoid. And not just for professional reasons.
“Saul,” Jake said with forced pleasantry. He shook the smaller man’s hand. “It’s a pity we only run into each other during such unpleasant circumstances.”
“Comes with the job, youngster,” the older man quipped, his squinty eyes taking in the scene behind Jake. As he caught sight of Amara, his sour expression changed.
“And what have we here, Sheriff Braddock?” he asked, unabashedly eyeing the attractive scientist. “You haven’t introduced me to your lovely friend.”
Jake cast Amara a sympathetic look. “Saul Rigby, this is Dr. Takagi. Dr. Takagi, Mr. Rigby, our town coroner.”
“A pleasure, missy.” Saul grinned dementedly as he extended a gnarled hand. “My goodness, what a looker . . . and a doctor, too! You’ll have to forgive the pun, Doctor Takagi, but as we say in the business, it’s about time we got some fresh meat around here!”
Amara yanked her hand back as if she’d touched a live tarantula.
Accustomed to the reaction, Rigby shrugged and went about his work. “Well, I don’t think we’ll need a stretcher for this one.” He cackled as he donned gloves and bent to examine the remains. “Actually, come to think of it, this should fit nicely in my cooler. Good thing I packed lunch today!”
Reveling in the look of loathing Amara was giving him, Rigby continued. “Say, Jake . . .” He grunted loudly as he wrenched the stiffened limb off the Jet Ski’s handlebars. He held it up and waved it at them. “Can I give you a hand with anything else, or will this be it?”
“No, I think that’ll be quite enough from you,” Jake admonished. “Actually, come to think of it there is something. I’ll be needing fingerprints off that hand ASAP.”
“How soon?”
“Tonight, Saul.”
“Tonight? What’s the dang rush?”
“Well, Saul . . . the watercraft you’re standing next to belonged to your favorite Paradise Cove resident – Brad Harcourt. And a certain individual is going to want to know if that hand you’re so affectionately holding is his.”
The undertaker’s sudden inhalation was a frightened wheeze. He looked nervously around, then straightened up and made a great show of handling the piece of arm with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Placing it gingerly in a plastic bag, he kept his head down and continued his business as quiet as a church mouse.
Jake grinned at the realization he’d finally found a use for Dean Harcourt, then started guiding Chris and Amara through the crowd. The reporters were waiting.
“Sheriff Braddock,” the first one called out, “is it true that the son of Senator Dean Harcourt is
missing and presumed dead?”
“Sheriff, there’s word on the dock here that a local fishing boat was attacked by a rogue whale and that its crew is missing. Any comment on that?”
“Sheriff, it’s been said that-”
Bristling at the barrage of questions, Jake held up a hand.
“Look, people. I’m sure you’ve heard this a hundred times from other people, but now you can hear it from me. We have no comment at this time, period. Thank you. Let’s go,” he said to Amara, forcing his way through the frustrated news people. He stopped to look back at Chris. “Hey kid, I’d like you to stay with the troopers and help keep an eye on things.” He indicated the accident scene. “Dr. Takagi and I are going to check out the Sayonara.”
“Sure thing chief, I . . . oh shit!”
Jake’s head swiveled in the direction of the quavering teenager’s gaze. Dean Harcourt and another well-dressed man, as well as his omnipresent security detail, were bearing down on them. “Damn,” he fumed as the stocky politician drew closer. “Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse . . .”
Catching sight of Brad’s father and his entourage, the press corps converged on their position, dousing them with a blinding shower of flashbulbs.
“Good afternoon, sheriff,” Harcourt said. He stopped a few paces away, gesturing for silence from the expectant throng.
“Senator.”
“I believe you’ve already had the privilege of meeting my security detail.”
Jake nodded. “Gentlemen.”
“Braddock,” one of them growled.
“This is my campaign advisor, Darius Thayer,” Harcourt said, indicating the vindictive-looking man standing to his right. “Darius, I’d like you to meet Sheriff Jake Braddock.”
Jake stepped forward and extended his arm, taking the attorney’s hand and measure in turn. The reporters surrounding them interpreted the introduction as the signal to attack and began bombarding Harcourt with inquiries.
“Now, now, everyone,” the scarred politician raised thick hands that commanded silence. “I will have a formal statement in a moment. In consideration for my son’s disappearance, I would ask for your kind patience, so I can confer with our town constable about appropriate action.”
Momentarily mollified, the salivating press snapped photo after photo as Harcourt separated himself from his people and walked over to Jake.
“Now, Jake,” Harcourt wiped his chin with the back of one hand and whispered into his ear, “I need your help, so I’m going to bat for you. Even though you and I both know my boy is probably dead . . .” His jaw muscles quivered and his eyes gleamed from the flashbulbs. “I want your promise, though, that you will leave no stone unturned until you find the perpetrator responsible for this. Man or beast, I want your word you will bring my son’s killer in.”
“If your son’s killer can be found, senator, I’ll do just that,” Jake vowed, his thoughts on avenging Phil Starling and his nephew. He locked eyes with him. “And that you have my word on.”
Harcourt nodded and turned to the expectant crowd.
“My dear friends from the press . . .” He waited for the tumult to dissipate. “As much as it pains me to say, I fear my son Bradford may be lost to me. His Jet Ski crashed into the docks behind us a short time ago. Rumors of him being attacked by a whale or some other creature are, as far as I know, unfounded. I suspect he may have been the victim of a terrible boating accident, though Brad was always careful around boats.” Harcourt sighed heavily. He bowed his head, placing one hand over his heart. “Despite the obvious direness of the situation, I refuse to give up.” He looked up, ignoring a shouted question, and raised tear-filled eyes to the heavens. The artillery barrage of flashbulbs intensified. “I have the personal assurance of my good friend, Sheriff Jake Braddock, that every possible search and rescue vessel is being sent out, in the desperate hope that Brad may still be adrift somewhere, clinging to life.”
The senator reached over and extended his arm around Jake’s shoulders. “Jake Braddock is a true friend of the community and has my complete confidence and support. I will be waiting, hoping that I hear the news I am praying for, that my kind and gentle son will be returned to me.”
Turning sideways to the flashing cameras, Harcourt seized Jake’s hand, clasping it tightly. “God bless you, Jake,” he managed in a shaky voice. “Bring Brad home to me.”
Releasing his grip, the senator plunged into the crowd, followed by Darius Thayer. The latter turned back for a moment, his sights locking on Jake before he followed his employer.
Jake’s expression hardened as the larger of Harcourt’s oversized security guards approached him. It was Fields, the former pro wrestler from Texas.
“Here ya go, gunslinger,” Fields said. He whipped out a business card. “We’ll be waiting to hear from ya.”
His eyes never leaving the big bodyguard, Jake slipped the card into his shirt pocket.
“Oh, you’ll be hearing from me, alright. You can count on it.”
Hands clasped behind him, Darius Thayer walked contemplatively beside Dean Harcourt. The two men headed toward the senator’s waiting limousine. Like a play that just ended, the sounds of Harcourt Marina faded in the distance. A cryptic silence lay between them, disrupted only by the clicking of their shoes on the hard cobblestones and tarmac. It remained as they approached the limo, ending when their chauffeur closed the car’s soundproof doors behind them.
“You know, Darius . . .” Harcourt grinned as he settled his thick frame into the leather seat. “Sometimes the Lord presents solutions to your problems without you having to look for them.”
Thayer stared at him. “What do you mean? You think Brad is still alive?”
“Oh, no . . . Not at all, old friend. Brad was a great swimmer, but no one could stay alive for longer than a few minutes with an injury like that. No, I’m afraid I have to accept that my boy is dead.”
“Well, I don’t know how else to say this, but you seem to be handling the news well,” Thayer said. He concealed how he felt by removing his glasses and cleaning them.
“That’s because the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, has just handed me Jake Braddock’s head on a silver platter.”
Harcourt studied the nonplussed expression on his counsel’s face. “I want you to look into his location for the last twelve hours.”
Thayer put his glasses back on. “Why?”
“Because, it’s just possible he may be the last person to see Brad alive.”
Thayer’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying you plan on framing Braddock for Brad’s death?”
“Frame him?” Harcourt sneered. “Humph. After their recent confrontation, our town sheriff is as good a suspect as anyone.”
“So, you want to use your own son’s demise as a weapon?”
“Why not? Wasn’t Abraham willing to sacrifice his son to prove his worthiness to the Lord? Should I do less?”
One of Harcourt’s eyes narrowed and he grinned, obviously amused by the mixture of disbelief and astonishment playing hopscotch across Thayer’s face. “Look at it this way,” he explained. “Besides helping turn the entire town against Braddock, we can use my loss as a sympathy card for the upcoming election. It’s only a few months down the road. Didn’t you say ‘a little sympathy goes a long way’?”
Thayer mulled over the situation. He saw the merit in Harcourt’s plan – assuming, of course, that the senator was cold-blooded enough to implement it.
“Okay, Dean.” Thayer leaned back, his thumb and index finger stroking his chin. “It’s workable. More than that, it’s genius. Evil genius, but still genius.”
“It is indeed, Darius,” Harcourt said smugly. He opened his suit jacket and reached for a Cuban, lighting a match by rasping it across the rough-edged scar on his jaw. The fiery glow from the match shone in his eyes. “Kind of makes me wonder what I pay you for. Lately it seems I’ve done most of the thinking.”
Thayer grinned, though inwardly he bristled. �
��I’ll get things started. And don’t worry about the details. My contacts will jump all over a story like this. Before the week is out, Jake Braddock will be finished.”
Following Dean Harcourt’s departure, the marina crowd began to dissipate. Jake remained where he was, his eyes focused on the path the senator had taken.
“Well, he seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole thing,” Amara said. “I’m surprised he’s taking it so well. You don’t think he believes his son is still alive, do you?”
“Not a chance,” Jake said. “He’s up to something. I’d bet my life on it.” He touched her lower back lightly. “C’mon, doc. Let’s go take a look at the Sayonara.”
They walked along the main landing, turning toward the spot where the old Bertram was tied off. Up close, the damage was even worse than he remembered. The omnipresent blood splatters were a dull brown now, but still layered everything.
“Jesus . . .” Amara faltered at the sight.
Jake spotted the Miami forensics team climbing wearily out of the boat. Their bags were piled up on the dock. One of them – a swarthy fellow with a well-trimmed goatee – recognized Jake as he and Amara approached and moved to greet him.
“Hey, Jake, good to see you again, brother,” the man said, clasping palms with the young sheriff. “I got the call and made sure to come myself. I’m real sorry about Phil.”
“Thanks, Paul,” Jake replied somberly. He looked at what was left of the old vessel and sighed heavily. “He’ll definitely be missed.”
“Jake, this is my assistant, Greg,” Paul introduced the young technician accompanying him. “Greg, this is Sheriff Jake Braddock, a good friend.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” The junior forensics examiner extended his hand, wincing from the grip he received.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Jake said. “Gentlemen, this is Dr. Amara Takagi from the Worldwide Cetacean Society. She’s an expert on cetaceans, as well as the commander of the oceanic research vessel Harbinger. She has generously offered to assist our investigation.”
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