What is it about women and certain uniforms, Quinn? Put somebody from our old army unit in that same bar and I guarantee you he’d be drinking alone, unless there were other soldiers present.
But Kurtz? I had to fight to get anywhere near him. Yet all I saw was some overtanned blowhard in a yacht captain’s uniform—complete with his white cap tilted to one side, like he was going to be performing with Toni Tennille later that evening.
He noticed me right away, though. At first I thought it was because he sensed I wasn’t like the other women looking for a little vacation fling.
“You, young lady, embarrassed the hell out of my crew,” he said. “I think we ran out of ice tending to their bumps and bruises.”
“Where were you, Mr. Kurtz?” I asked. “Kind of wish you’d been part of the action.”
“Belowdecks. I’m a lover, not a fighter. A seafarer, not a war-wager.”
Oh, boy. I decided to get to the point or we could be here all night.
“But are you a killer, Mr. Kurtz?”
The captain smiled. Genuine amusement lighting up his eyes. “Oh, I like you. I had no idea government agents could be so much fun. Come, let’s go somewhere a little more private.”
As Kurtz led me to a half-circle booth in the corner of the bar, I thought about the half-dozen ways I could incapacitate him if he tried anything. Kurtz offered me a drink. I got to the point.
“I’m here to give you a heads-up. Paige Ryerson’s body is only a few hours away from being discovered. If you want to jump off your boss’s sinking ship, now’s the time to do it.”
“But the yacht is completely fine, Miss…? Or is that Mrs.? I’ll be honest, it doesn’t matter to me either way. Marriage is just a piece of paper.”
“If that body comes up, and it has your forensics anywhere near it, it’ll be too late to help you.”
Kurtz smiled. “I can think of some ways you can help me, Kate. Some very creative ways.”
“So you know my name. Your boss called you.”
The flirtation drained from his face quickly, as if I was suddenly boring him. “Yeah, I know all about your supposed string-pulling on behalf of the kid’s old man. Junior may have believed you, but you can’t kid a world-class kidder, kiddo.”
As I slid closer to Kurtz in the booth he flinched slightly. He probably thought he covered it up quick enough, but I saw it. Perhaps he was worried I was about to dish out some of the same punishment his crew had received.
Instead, I touched Kurtz’s face lightly and looked up into his eyes. Taking a page right out of the Jana Rose playbook.
“How did it feel to dance with someone one minute,” I said softly, “then help bury her dead body the next?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kurtz said, refusing to break eye contact. “From what I heard around the island before we left, the girl is still alive.”
Chapter 14
OTTO (THE CON ARTIST)
The first thing Otto does when he lands at Providenciales International Airport is look for a place to eat.
The in-flight meal was garbage. So he stops at a place called Gilley’s Cafe and wolfs down a double order of conch fritters and a lobster salad sandwich, then washes all of that down with two bottles of Turk’s Head Amber.
The second thing Otto does is hop a free resort shuttle to the beach, even though he hasn’t booked a room at the resort painted on the side of the vehicle. Matthew Quinn gives all of his operatives a generous expense account, but old habits die hard. Back in his grifter days, Otto took special pride in never paying for transportation. Someone’s always looking to give you a lift. And just as often, a place to crash. Only suckers paid for cabs or Uber—and on top of that paid a tip. Are people crazy?
The third thing Otto does is get into character.
He stares at the photo of Paige Ryerson. No; not just Paige Ryerson. This is his little sister. Paige. Only eighteen years old. Sweetest girl in the world. Big Brother Otto would always look out for her. But that would change when she went off to private school in New Hampshire. Big Brother wasn’t around to protect her anymore. And now look what happened.
Otto stares at the photo for so long that he begins to believe Paige is his baby sister. He actually feels the grief as his eyes water and his cheeks burn with rage.
I’m not leaving this island until I know what happened to her.
Only then does he consider himself ready to mix among the locals, photo in hand.
“Have you seen my sister? Her name is Paige Ryerson, and she’s gone missing. Please help me find my sister!”
Otto focuses his efforts on the areas Paige visited during her short time here last week. Her hotel, the site of the beach party, the marina. Some people blow him off without looking at his face or the photo in his trembling hand. That’s fine; they’re not potential witnesses anyway. By now everybody on these islands has surely heard or read about the Case of the Missing American Girl. Those who don’t give the photo or name a second glance are either self-absorbed or new arrivals.
“Please help me find my sister!”
The ones who do pause fall into two groups. The vast majority are people who have heard about the case and see the tearful anguish in Otto’s eyes but truly know nothing beyond what they’ve seen on TV or read online. Some try to chat him up a little for some inside dirt.
“No, I haven’t seen her…but is it true that she didn’t drink at all before coming here to the island?”
“I’m sorry, I have no idea where she might be. How are your poor parents dealing with this nightmare?”
At which point Otto takes his grief into overdrive and suddenly becomes too choked up to possibly continue this conversation.
But a small group—a very small group—claim to have seen the girl the day of her disappearance. For these individuals, Otto gives his complete and rapt attention, gently pressing them for more details. A few are clearly lying, reciting details they saw in the media. Others, however, sound like they’re telling the truth.
“She looked like she was having so much fun. I still can’t believe what happened!”
“I was on that boat, too. There was a lot of heavy drinking going on. I was so hungover the next day, it’s not even funny.…”
“I saw her and that cop making out. My first thought was, uh, totally gross. But later I started to think about it, and wonder if he had something to do with it. What am I supposed to do, though? Report a cop to the cops? No way.”
And then come three eyewitness reports that rock Otto to his core. (And he’s about as jaded as they come.) Otto can write off the first instance as a case of mistaken identity. Maybe even the second, because false sightings happen all the time. But a third?
“I’m telling you, man, those reporters have been going down the wrong path. Your sister is still alive! I saw her yesterday! I was over in this little town about twenty minutes away, and I swear, it was her. I even called the cops, but they didn’t believe me.”
Could it be possible? Matthew Quinn is a genius and all—probably the most impressive mind Otto has ever encountered. But maybe Quinn had it wrong. Maybe the girl wasn’t buried in the sand somewhere.
Maybe she was hiding.
Chapter 15
THEO (THE TRADER)
With Paolo stuck on the island (since he lost his getaway dough), I turn my attention to the next creep on the list: Nigel James, the islander cop.
Now, you have to understand something about me: I love messing with police. I consider it a form of karmic payback. The uniforms who arrested me all those years back took a little too much pleasure in snapping the metal cuffs around my wrists and slamming me into the nearest wall.
I was arrested on suspicion of insider trading, for Pete’s sake (not that I’m admitting any wrongdoing). It’s not like I was the Zodiac Killer. The violence and condescension were uncalled for.
So, yeah, I admit…I’ve been looking for excuses to return the favor ever since.
“Detective James! I
’ve been looking all over for you.”
Nigel James looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Who are you?”
“Ted Selznick, special investigator with the New Hampshire State Police. While I’m sad to be down here, given the circumstances, I’ve gotta say it’s nice to be away from all that snow for a while.”
But Detective James does not want to take part in a conversation about the lousy weather in New Hampshire, or beautiful sun down here on the islands. He’s all business in his lightweight suitcoat, jeans, white Oxford, loafers, and very expensive tie. Hard to believe he’s here alone. The man is a dark-skinned god, impossibly handsome, and has the muscles of a man who spends more time in a gym than he does sleeping.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Selznick?”
“That’s Trooper Specialist Selznick, technically, but let’s not get bogged down over titles. Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?”
Mind you, James and I were standing on a fairly empty stretch of beach. Before I approached him, he was sitting on a wicker lounge chair, staring at the ocean, eating seafood salad out of a plastic container. We had all the privacy you could want. But I wanted to see if James was spending his lunch hour here for a specific reason.
“We can talk here. May I see some identification, Special Trooper Selznick?”
Eh, close enough. But I have the feeling James is mangling it on purpose. He seems like the type who pays close attention to the details.
I flip open the leather badge holder with the state ID. I’m sure James has been interviewed by more than a few federal agents over the past few days. I want to present myself as someone from an agency he wouldn’t be familiar with.
“I understand you were the last person to see Paige Ryerson alive.”
“As I’ve told countless others, Trooper Selznick, I don’t know if that’s true. I did meet Ms. Ryerson late Friday evening, but when we parted she was headed back to the party to join her friends. I offered to escort her, but she refused my assistance.”
“And you’re not the type to force yourself on a lady,” I say.
James just stares up at me. I was throwing a left jab, and he took it like a pro. No reaction whatsoever.
So I pull up another wicker lounge chair and sit down. I’m facing the ocean, just like James, and pretending to admire the view.
“Damn, this is pretty spectacular,” I say. “I can understand why you’d want to take your lunch breaks here.”
“And I’m afraid I must return to duty,” he says, then licks his fork clean.
“Hold on, Detective. I need to clear up a few minor details, and I was hoping you could help me.”
James snaps the lid shut over his half-eaten salad. “Go on.”
I look around, pretending like I’m a tourist getting his bearings. “Okay, so the infamous yacht party was over that way,” I say, pointing to the right.
James nods. “Our marina is in that direction, correct.”
“And,” I say, turning my head back and forth, “if I’m not mistaken, the girls were at a beach party over there.” I point to the left.
“Correct.”
“So…when Paige left your company, she must have wandered down this very same stretch of beach, am I right? And if someone were to have murdered her, this would have been a very convenient place to bury her body.”
James stares at me with eyes that have transformed into red-hot daggers. “Good afternoon, Mr. Selznick,” he says, standing up.
Ooh, we’re back to mister now. I have upset the poor detective.
“I think I know what happened, Detective. And I don’t blame you. She was drunk and things got out of hand. You were just trying to calm her down, but the more you tried, the more she freaked out, and…well, you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t know his own strength.”
Now James was walking away. But upon hearing that last bit, he turns around to face me. I get the distinct feeling he’d like to bury me in the sand.
“We are both policemen, Mr. Selznick, trained in the same techniques. Do you really think your wild conjectures will spark some sort of reaction out of me?”
“No,” I say. “But I do think you’re nervous about the idea of men with shovels down on this beach, which is why you camp out here every chance you get. And let me tell you, as a fellow comrade in law enforcement—they’re coming. Somebody very important would like closure, and they’re willing to pay as much as it takes to get it.”
Chapter 16
THEO (continued)
“Are you formally accusing me of a crime, Mr. Selznick?” James asks.
“No, no, of course not,” I say, backing off like I’m a pipsqueak who’s just taken a cheap shot at the heavyweight champion of the world and needs to retreat to the safety of his own corner.
That seems to satisfy him. Until I follow up with a right hook.
“But, Detective, I know you were involved in Paige Ryerson’s murder. Either you did it yourself, or you covered up evidence to protect the real killer. And the evidence is going to surface very soon. You’re going to want to hire a top-drawer criminal defense lawyer or start running.”
Finally…finally…that cool, finely muscled exterior begins to crack. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for.
“I could have you arrested,” James snarls. “You’re out of line, and way out of your jurisdiction, Selznick.”
I hold out my wrists. “Oh, that would be great. Do it! I could use a vacation. Better a nice, warm jail cell than a cold and bitter trooper station, believe me.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“No! I want you to arrest me, Detective. Even better, should I try and resist? Would that make it more fun for you? Or do you only get your jollies when it’s a young girl struggling for her life?”
Now James’s thoughts are as clear as a two-story neon sign: I VERY MUCH WANT TO RIP OFF YOUR HEAD AND PLACEKICK IT INTO THE SEA.
And for a minute, I think he’s actually going to do it. I sit there mentally plotting some countermoves in case this cop decides to pounce on me. I would never forgive myself if the grand adventure that is my life were to come to a sudden end in a stupid wicker chair.
But James recovers his senses, takes a deep breath, and then turns his back on me. He walks away—away from the surf. I stay seated but turn around and watch him carefully. You’re going to do it, aren’t you? You’re not going to be able to resist. The weight of it is too much.
And then he does—he glances back one last time.
Not at me.
But at the sandy beach, where I’m now certain we’re going to find Paige Ryerson’s body very soon.
When James is gone, I call Quinn to update him on everything.
“Mark my words,” I say, “it’s the cop.”
“Just last night you were convinced it was the lifeguard,” Quinn replies.
“Well, now I’m telling you it’s Nigel the cop. Maybe the lifeguard was involved. Maybe they’re partnered up on it. But the cop is definitely guilty. Not only was he the last person to see Paige alive, but he was staring at the sand like he expected her to come crawling up out of her own grave to point an accusing finger at him. He’s gonna crack, Quinn. And I want to be there when he does.”
“I’m glad you’re so certain.”
I listen for a few more seconds, waiting for something. Anything. Praise? A complaint? Something I missed, maybe? Quinn likes to watch you weave a beautiful tapestry and then yank it out from under your feet with a single question.
But then I hear something weird. Like an echo. Crashing surf behind me, but also crashing surf coming from over the cell phone connection.
“Quinn…uh, where are you?”
Chapter 17
QUINN
As Matthew Quinn raises his hand, a waiter, clad in shorts, approaches. Quinn wordlessly gestures down to a pair of empty glasses with moisture beaded on the sides. Then he makes a peace sign. The waiter nods and whisks away the empties.
“I’ll see you this evening,
Theo,” Quinn says, then disconnects the call and turns to face Jana. “I presumed you wanted another cocktail?”
“As if you read my mind.”
“Good.”
“This is much better than New Hampshire,” she says with a slight purr in her voice. “Apology accepted.”
“I missed the part where I said I was sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Matthew, dear. It’s understood.”
They’re sprawled out on reclining chairs right on the beach, mere yards from the crashing surf. Quinn and Jana flew down to Turks and Caicos separately. They booked rooms in hotels a mile apart. They weren’t supposed to see each other, in fact, until this evening at six, when all of the Stingrays were gathering in person to discuss strategy.
But then Jana texted: Meet me for a quick drink?
Ordinarily, Quinn prefers to spend his time in a dimly lit climate-controlled room with white noise or classical music playing in the background as he considers the clues, eyewitness accounts, and narrative elements of the case at hand.
But then Quinn read those six words again and thought about Jana’s playful smile as she thumbed them into her cell. So he replied: Cocktails on the beach? Because why not combine some relaxed case meditation with a little daytime drinking?
Drinking for Jana, that is. Quinn never imbibes when he’s in the middle of a case. She doesn’t know that Quinn pulled the bartender aside when they first arrived at the beachfront cafe and instructed him to mix proper cocktails for the lady, virgins for himself. She was the type who could only relax when she thought everyone else around her was relaxing, too.
“Let’s go for a swim,” she says suddenly, gently nudging him in the ribs.
“But we have drinks on the way.”
“You mean you’d rather sit around and sip juice than jump waves with me? I know you never drink on a case. Which is why I asked the bartender to serve us both virgins.”
The Palm Beach Murders Page 19
