New Jersey Noir--Cape May

by William Baer

  Always.

  “If you do what you say you want to do, Jack, they’ll be coming for you.”

  Which was the reason why I wasn’t off in some AC hospital with contusions, cuts, and broken bones.

  Because the old man had prepared me for the worst.

  But, tonight, the worst was yet to come.

  I saw the orange glow.

  Off in the distance.

  Then the flames.

  I had no doubt that it was the rented Explorer, and I rushed across the mostly empty parking lot. The entire front of the Ford was engulfed in red metastasizing flames, as if someone had poured gasoline all over the front of the car, then ignited it.

  I couldn’t see Rikki. I was unable to see anything inside the car. Given the intensity of the flames, I knew that the side doors would be useless. I pulled out the key fob and hit the liftgate button.

  Nothing happened.

  When I got to the back of car, the flames had almost engulfed the entire vehicle. Through the darkness of the back window, through the smoke and the fire, I thought I could see Rikki trying to crawl towards the liftgate, away from the flames at the front of the car.

  I kicked beneath the rear bumper under the license plate. Nothing happened, but it was the only hope I had, so I kicked it again and again. Four times. Finally, the liftgate released and slowly opened. I reached into the heat and the smoke of the furnace, grabbed her by the shoulders, and yanked her out of the vehicle, doing my best to ease her fall down to the ground. Then I picked her up and quickly carried her away, about two hundred feet away, waiting for the tank to explode, waiting for the bullets in my Python to start flying in all directions.

  “How bad is it?”

  She looked herself over. She was definitely scared, but she was also an ETM, and she did her best to switch into professional mode.

  “Not bad.”

  I could see some burns, some red, some black, and I dialed 911.

  Suddenly, the tank lit up the Borgata parking lot like a Hollywood special effect.

  I was thinking to myself, what if she was still inside?

  I assumed that she was thinking the exact same thing, but I was wrong.

  “Guess what I got?” she said.

  With a smile.

  I looked down and saw my weapon in her right hand. The Python my uncle gave me when I was twelve years old.

  “I felt it when I was crawling across the back seat. I thought you might like it.”

  She seemed very pleased with herself.

  34

  AtlantiCare

  Saturday, March 28th

  34°

  What kind?”

  I was standing in the emergency room at AtlantiCare Regional. Rikki was sitting on a gurney, with an extra-large bandage on her right forearm and a smaller one on her right temple.

  The doctor knew what I meant.

  “First degree.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  I know a lot about burns. Too much. Somehow Rikki had escaped with just a couple of first degree burns.

  The young doctor turned to Rikki, unaware that she was a nurse, a paramedic, an EMT.

  “You probably won’t blister much, but it’ll definitely hurt. Maybe five to ten days.”

  Rikki nodded.

  “I’m a lucky girl.”

  “From what I’ve heard, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  Rikki pointed at me.

  “The big goof yanked me out of the fire. I’m surprised he didn’t dislocate my shoulders.”

  The doctor smiled.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  I was trying not to be impatient. But I was. Whoever had just tried to kill her would know that we were now at the hospital, and I wanted to get her out of here.

  Immediately.

  I looked at Rikki.

  “We’re leaving.”

  The doctor was cautious.

  “I’d like to keep an eye on her for an hour or two.”

  “Not tonight, doc.”

  I took Rikki’s cellphone and handed it to the young doctor.

  “Put this in your lost-and-found. We’ll come back for it in a day or two.”

  It made him nervous.

  “Somebody’s trying to kill this girl,” I assured him.

  He got the message, and he looked at Rikki.

  “The lost-and-found is located on the first floor. Check at the reception desk.”

  I looked at Rikki, she stood up immediately, and we left. Out in the parking lot, I broke into a random Lexus, disabled its GPS, and hot-wired the engine.

  Rikki watched in silence.

  Until I was done.

  “I’ve never been an accessory before.”

  I opened the passenger door.

  “Let’s go for a ride, wiseass.”

  Forty-six minutes later, I put her to bed in the Beach Haven guest room.

  “Sleep,” I said.

  “Yes, sire,” she said. But she was ready and willing. I’d propped her arm nicely, and she was asleep as soon as she hit the pillow.

  But I was certain that I’d never sleep tonight. I put on my sweats, double-checked the locks, and went out the back of the house to the beach.

  The beach cottage on Long Beach Island was my uncle’s “safe house,” which no one knew about, except Roxs.

  Not even Luca. Not even Nonna.

  Many times over the years, it had come in handy, and I knew that Rikki, for the moment, was perfectly safe.

  I sat down in the pre-dawn chill and stared at the blackness of the ocean. I’d been doing a lot of that lately.

  I remember that one of the Cousteau’s, maybe the grandson, once pointed out that more is known about the surface of the moon than about the oceans, only five percent of which has actually been mapped. He also pointed out that twelve human beings have bounced around the moon, but only two human beings have visited the Mariana Trench.

  The sea was calm tonight and dark tonight. Black with bits of gray and silver. Hardly Homer’s “wine-dark sea,” which I’ve never actually seen, in either the day or the night.

  Maybe no one has.

  When I was a boy, I read the epics, quickly becoming an Iliad and Agamemnon enthusiast, but I naturally wondered about that “wine-dark” business. So I read up on it. A bunch of experts thought it was simply a poeticism of some kind. Others thought that the Greek soil was alkaline enough to shade their wines to blue. Another guy wondered about a possible “red tide” of red-colored algae. Another one claimed that red dust lurking in the atmosphere created red sunsets which affected the color of the water.

  Another one said, “Hey, look, the guy was blind, so what the hell would he know about the color of anything?”

  Of course, no one seems to really believe that the guy was blind.

  Who knows?

  Who knows why I was wondering about it.

  Maybe I was trying to push the fire from my mind.

  Maybe I was trying to push the girl from my mind.

  Maybe I was trying not to remember that the pretty young woman presently sleeping in my cottage was sleeping in the same bed that Roxs slept in.

  Several times, in fact.

  Maybe I was just tired and stupid.

  III

  New Jersey is a social experiment. Pack in as many humans as you can, as tight as you can, and see what happens.

  — Thomas C. Colt

  35

  Beach Haven

  Sunday, March 29th

  38°

  I was sitting on the couch.

  Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided to go over Pavese’s “suspect list,” as once amended by Edward Colt (aka Billy Kelly), for the thousandth time:

  Ronnie Miller – v
ictim’s best friend, age 18

  I doubt it.

  Isabella (Izzy) Borelli – victim’s friend, age 16

  I doubt that too.

  Rita Rockingham Sehorn – victim’s friend, age 15

  Who knows? Why not?

  Billy ?? – Johns Hopkins student, age 18?

  I doubt he killed his brand-new wife.

  “Sonny” ?? – University of Maryland student, age 18?

  I doubt it. He was probably already back in North Jersey.

  Judge Richard O’Brien – victim’s father, age 42

  I don’t see it.

  Rikki (Erica) O’Brien – victim’s twin sister, age 16

  No way.

  Tommy Garrison – victim’s boyfriend, age 17

  The guy still piques my interest. Despite what Izzy says, despite what all of them say.

  Kitty Walsh O’Brien – victim’s mother, age 34

  It’s not hard to list her as a definite POI, but if she really wanted her daughters dead, why’d she wait ten years to go after the second one?

  Mitchell Kain – witness on the beach, age 48

  As much as I’d love to bag this jerk, I’m not buying him for any of it.

  Like Edward, I’d also emended the list, adding:

  Deborah Rockingham – mother of Rita, age?

  Since Rita’s mother is dead, she couldn’t be chasing Rikki all around New Jersey. But that doesn’t mean that she didn’t kill Nikki ten years ago.

  Which raises the possibility of multiple killers.

  Which raises the possibility of colluding killers.

  Which got me thinking again about the age-old jealousy/envy problem. How people tend to conflate the two. Just for the hell of it, I texted an old lawyer buddy and asked for his brother’s phone number.

  It came back immediately, so I dialed.

  “Yes?”

  I recognized Bret’s voice because he sounded just like his brother, or the other way around. Bret Buchanan was a hot-shot literary guy from Wayne, who was up in Canada writing a novel. I didn’t know him that well, but he knew me.

  “It’s Jack Colt.”

  I sensed surprise in his non-response, and since there was no sense making small talk with a guy I hardly knew, I got right to the point.

  “Iago wasn’t ‘jealous,’ and neither was Othello. Othello was just an idiot who got duped into becoming a ‘green-eyed monster,’ and Iago was an envious little creep. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  I hung up.

  People confuse the two words and use them interchangeably. But envy’s the desire (or lust) for something you don’t have. Like covetousness. But jealousy is the desire to keep whatever one already has.

  Like a lover.

  Deborah Rockingham wasn’t “jealous” of Nikki O’Brien. She was envious. She wanted everything that Nikki had—that Rikki had—for her own daughter.

  Of course, that didn’t mean she killed anyone.

  Rikki came into the room, still a bit drowsy, having slept in her clothes, except for her shoes and socks. Looking perfectly lovely in her rumpledness.

  “Who took off my socks?” she smiled.

  “Who do you think?”

  “Did you think about taking off anything else?”

  “No.”

  Which was true, although I’m not sure why.

  Satisfied with her wake-up flirting, Rikki sat down on the couch like Cleopatra on her barge.

  “I like tea, but not coffee.”

  “Good for you, now get up and get it.”

  I nodded in the direction of the kitchen, and the pretty barefoot girl smiled again.

  “What’s on the agenda?”

  “Nothing for burn victims. You’re staying right here.”

  She wanted to pout, but she understood.

  “You can use the beach, but keep the sand off those bandages.”

  “Whatever you say, Dr. Colt.”

  “You look like Nicholson in Chinatown.”

  An obvious exaggeration.

  “Incorrect. Jack’s bandage was on his nose; mine’s on the side of my head.”

  “Close enough.”

  “You got a bathing suit?”

  “There’s no swimming with first-degree burns.”

  “Thanks again, John Colt, MD.”

  I decided to answer her question.

  “I think we’ve got one.”

  “Of course, you do. For all the girls you bring to your love shack. All your girlfriends.”

  She liked teasing me. Especially since she knew she could get away with it.

  “I don’t have girlfriends.”

  “I thought Jack Colt didn’t lie?”

  It was good to see her being so silly again, especially since, a few hours ago, some lunatic had tried to burn her to death.

  “I had a girlfriend once,” I admitted. “Now she’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “California. As far as possible.”

  “Is it her bathing suit?”

  “Yes. It’s in the closet on the back porch. There’s also some towels, but no flip-flops.”

  “I hate flip-flops.”

  I was impressed.

  “I hate them more,” I insisted.

  “I doubt that. They’re ugly, gross, and dangerous. Pumps for white trash. Trailer Park Stilettos.”

  “Don’t hold back.”

  She laughed.

  “I didn’t know beach girls could be so supercilious.”

  “Only regarding matters of the beach. Besides, I’m an EMT who’s spent a lot of time in the emergency room.”

  I waited for the coming dissertation.

  “Every year, there are thousands and thousands of flip-flop injuries. Tendonitis, cuts, bruises, sprains, strains, scrapes, broken bones, stubbed toes, and overpronation.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, did I mention they’re ugly?”

  36

  Pompton Lakes

  Sunday, March 29th

  40°

  I like breaking into houses.

  This one was a little brick with bright-yellow trim on a side street in Pompton Lakes, ten miles from Paterson.

  It was Rita Sehorn’s house, as neat and orderly and lawyerly as its owner. Comfortable, but somehow lacking both warmth and comfort.

  I busted in the back of the house and snooped through each and every room, finding nothing of interest except that I was finding nothing of interest.

  Even inside her baby blue bedroom.

  The other bedroom had clearly been her mother’s. On top of the bureau, there was a large framed picture of the two of them. Smiling. I had the feeling that nothing had been touched or moved since the mother had died five years ago.

  Like a shrine.

  A memorial.

  I sat down on the bed and read Nonna’s report:

  Rita Rockingham Sehorn (age 25, prosecutor):

  Maybe you know all this stuff by now.

  She was born in Cape May where her father (Andrew) was the postmaster and her mother (Deborah) was a nurse at Cape Regional. Apparently, Rita was good at everything except sports: straight A’s and lots of extracurriculars, like dance, cheerleading, and the Legal Club. She went to the same kindergarten, grammar school, and high school as the O’Brien twins, so I guess she knew them for most of her life. They seem to have been great friends—along with Ronnie and Izzy.

  The summer after the murder, she and her mother move to Pompton Lakes. I’m not sure why. Rita managed to complete her final two years of high school in a single year at Pompton High and ended up valedictorian, making a speech that was mostly a tribute to her friend Nikki.


  (I’ve got a copy if you want it.)

  After graduation, she matriculated, pre-law, at Drew University, eventually transferring to McGill in Montreal. I’m not sure why. In Montreal, she met Casey Sehorn, a criminal justice major from Edmonton, and they married a year later in Halifax, honeymooning on Prince Edward Island.

  A year later, they moved back to New Jersey, moving into the Pompton house with Rita’s mother. Rita soon matriculated at Rutgers Law in Newark. I guess she was commuting. As for Casey, I’m not sure what he was doing at the time. Eventually, for some reason, the marriage fell apart, and Casey left. Then, when Rita’s mother was visiting relatives in Washington State, she collapsed and died of a heart attack. She was buried in the family plot in Tacoma, Washington.

  In the aftermath, Rita finished up her law degree and interned with Judge Ralph Carlson at the Newton Courthouse. Last year she was fast-tracked into an Assistant Prosecutor position in Sussex County.

  She’s got no police trail of any kind, and she lives alone in the little brick house in Pompton Lakes. Apparently, she’s a hardworking and well-respected prosecutor.

  I’m still trying to locate Casey Sehorn.

  Be careful, knucklehead.

  Love, Nonna

  I dialed myself.

  “Colt’s badass detective agency.”

  I tried a conciliatory approach.

  “Is this the sweetest grandmother in the entire United States of America?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Despite the alacrity of her response, I could tell that she was a bit nonplussed, a word I don’t get to use that often.

  “I wonder if you could check a few things.”

  “I’ll see if I can fit it in.”

  I ignored her.

  “Call all the storage facilities in the area surrounding Pompton Lakes. Tell them you want to know when your contract runs out.”