“This is going to suck.”
“Don’t flake out on me now, Brooke.”
“I’m not! I just don’t want to see her again.”
“Will you shut up? I don’t want the driver hearing any of this.”
“Hannah, that guy can barely speak English. Did you look at him? Um, Neanderthal much?”
Otto smiles. Over his Bluetooth earpiece, he hears Jana’s laugh.
“I’m sorry, Otto, but Brooke Clee has said what we’ve all been thinking.”
“Nah, she’s just playing. I’ll bet she thinks Neanderthals are foxy.”
“Keep sharp. We’re approaching the beach.”
“Neanderthal out.”
After their late-morning swim, the Stingrays had returned to the suite to discover that Quinn had left them all simple instructions. Otto and Jana’s list read:
1. FOLLOW THE TWINS
2. RECORD THE TWINS
3. LISTEN TO THE TWINS
Their collective afternoon was busy with an insane amount of detail work—which happened to be the kind of work they did best. Otto, however, was eager to finish this whole thing so they could maybe kick back and relax over a proper meal.
His reverie is interrupted by the static pop of the intercom. “Turn left here, driver. Then follow my directions.”
“Yes, miss, my pleasure,” Otto says, adding a little more of an islander accent to his speech this time around. If nothing else, he wanted to live up to Brooke’s expectations.
After a series of turns, he is told to park the limo about a block from a deserted stretch of beach.
“This isn’t where we found the other body,” Jana whispers.
“No, it’s not,” Otto replies.
Another loud static pop. “Wait here, driver. We’ll be right back. You stay in the car. Do you understand?”
Like he’s a moron. “Yes, miss, I understand.”
But the moment the girls make it a safe distance away, Otto springs into action, gathering his mobile recording gear and swiftly tightening the distance between himself and the Clee girls. Jana joins him a few moments later with her own recording devices. There’s no time for chatter now; they nod at each other, then slip into the cover of darkness and follow the twins.
Hannah and Brooke are on the beach, gingerly stepping around a patch of sand a few yards away from a crumbling lifeguard station.
“This is it,” Hannah says.
“Is it?”
“You know it is. You put the bottle there.”
“I was making sure.”
“No, you’re not. You just don’t want to dig.”
“Neither do you!”
“Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Jana is able to capture their conversations with a long-distance microphone; Otto, meanwhile, records the visuals, focusing in with his digital camera. The Clee girls drop to their knees as if they’ve suddenly decided to build a sandcastle here on this dark, sinister strip of beach.
They push the sand away with their hands, slowly at first, as if sifting dirt for flecks of gold. But then they grow impatient and begin grabbing great handfuls and flinging them off to the side. The wind catches some of the sand and blows it back into their faces. They pout with annoyance.
But then one of the girls—Jana has to really listen to determine the difference in their voices—shrieks loudly.
“Oh, God,” she says.
Even with those two syllables, Jana knows it’s Brooke speaking.
“It’s her.”
Chapter 33
KATE AND THEO
“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Theo asks.
“Dude,” Kate says, “I’ve driven a Humvee through two hundred heavily armed Taliban guerrillas in Quam. Pretty sure I can follow a huge black limo through the streets of a resort town.”
“Yeah, but he’s a cop. Pretty sure he’ll know if he’s being tailed.”
They’re in a Honda Whatever, some generic import that’s guaranteed not to raise eyebrows because so many tourists rent them here. They waited outside police headquarters on Old Airport Road until Nigel James finally stormed out, looking irritated. Then the cop climbed into an unmarked car and sped away. At that point, Kate took off in pursuit.
Quinn’s list of instructions to Theo and Kate were as simple as Jana and Otto’s:
1. FOLLOW THE COP
2. RECORD THE COP
3. DETAIN THE COP (IF NECESSARY)
Kate is following the cop like a pro. But there isn’t much mystery as to where he’s going. About three minutes ago, Theo intercepted a text transmission from a burner phone to James’s personal cell, asking him to meet at a certain location on the southeast end of the island. At the same exact moment, Otto Hazard observed Hannah Clee holding a cell phone and thumbing an urgent message that said:
UR GONNA HELP US FIX THIS
All transmissions are documented and uploaded to the Stingrays’ servers.
After a frenzied five minutes, James arrives at the given location. The white limo is kind of a dead giveaway; the cop must be fuming at the girls for being so utterly and completely indiscreet.
“Look at him,” Theo says. “That man is not happy.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kate replies. “Come on, let’s get our gear.”
Nigel James smooths out his clothing, checks his personal weapon (a Glock, Kate notes), stuffs it into a jacket pocket, and then shuffles up the beach toward the twins.
As soon as he’s in range, Hannah Clee points at the unmarked grave in the sand, barking orders.
“You need to get this out of the ground right now and dispose of it properly!”
“Take it easy, Ms. Clee,” James says. “I didn’t expect you back here so soon. You know, what you’re doing is not very wise.”
“Oh, really? You want to know what I didn’t expect? A phone call telling me that somebody pulled the body of a girl out of the sand. And that it could be you-know-who.”
James shakes his head. “There have been some private investigators causing trouble on the island. I told you both: you have nothing to worry about. You are under my personal protection. And by extension, that of the entire police force.”
“No,” Hannah says. “That’s not good enough. We need this…thing up out of the ground and, like, shoved into a wood chipper or something. I don’t want any trace of her left behind!”
“You have to be patient. The evidence was planted elsewhere, which will satisfy local investigators, and eventually everyone else.”
“You don’t get it. I’m not satisfied! It should be me you’re worried about!”
James can’t help but chuckle, which unnerves the twins. They look at each other, wondering if they’ve made a deal with a lunatic.
“Ms. Clee…you don’t understand your position.” James removes the Glock from his jacket pocket. “In about five seconds I could be a hero and the two of you could be dead, next to the corpse of your friend. Murder solved. Everyone’s happy.”
“What?!” Brooke exclaims, the first word she’s uttered since the cop arrived. Life has always been a bunch of laughs for her—until this moment. “But we didn’t kill her! It was just an accident. She was crazy drunk and running too fast and then she tripped and fell and hit her head on a rock.”
James smiles. “Oh, is that the story your sister told you?”
There is a look of growing horror on Brooke’s face as she begins to put it together. Oh, no. Her sister murdered Paige.
“Brooke, don’t say another word,” Hannah snaps. “I did what I had to do. To protect you.”
“But…I d-didn’t ask you to do that!” Brooke stammers, still trying to process everything. “This is bad, Hannah. Dad’s going to be so angry!”
“Ladies, ladies…I don’t care who did what. What happens on the island can stay on the island…if we can successfully renegotiate our deal.”
“What do you mean, renegotiate?” Hannah says.
�
��The heat on this case has intensified. I’m sure you understand, it’s going to take a lot more money to keep this under wraps. I know you both have stellar credit lines, so it’ll only be a matter of discussing payment.”
“We’re not paying you more money,” Hannah says. “That’s unfair!”
James sighs, then points the Glock at Brooke with a two-hand grip, elbows bent, feet shoulder-width apart, just as he was taught in the police academy. This is called the Weaver stance, and it allows you to fire repeatedly and accurately at multiple targets without the muzzle flying all over the place.
“Guess I’m going to be a hero, then.”
Chapter 34
THE STINGRAYS
They were all expecting the gun to make an appearance, mostly as a way to frighten the twins.
But none of them really expected him to actually use it.
The four of them, however, scramble from the surveillance locations the moment James pulls the weapon from his jacket pocket. A few seconds later, his body language is practically screaming, I’m pulling the trigger.
Kate is the first one to make it within range. There’s a loud crack and pop and then Nigel James’s body jerks and twists like a marionette caught up in the wake of a jet engine. Kate holds the Taser steady until the Glock tumbles out of his hands and the cop collapses completely, by which point Otto is on top of him. Jana and Theo run onto the beach, Tasers in hand.
But then a voice surprises them: “You’re all dead.”
They all look over at Hannah, who has picked up the Glock in the momentary confusion. And she is pointing it at Otto.
“I remember you. You were that fake security guard back at school. And you!” Now she points the weapon at Jana. “You’re the fake FBI agent! You people have been after us this whole time.”
“Well, technically, only since this morning,” Theo offers.
“ALL OF YOU SHUT UP!” Brooke screams. She can’t handle it anymore.
“I don’t care who any of you are,” Hannah says with a creepy calm in her voice. “But I’m not going to let you ruin our lives.”
“Pretty sure you did that all by yourselves when you murdered Paige Ryerson and paid off a local cop to cover it up,” Theo says.
Hannah might be trying to smile, but instead it comes across like the leer of someone who’s just realized she’s lost her mind.
“You probably think I’m some silly schoolgirl who can’t do anything right without her daddy helping out. Well, you’re wrong. We grew up by ourselves, left to fend for ourselves. I’ve gotten us out of trouble before, and I’ll do it again.”
“How?” Theo asks. “By shooting us?”
“Yes. And then you can join Paige under the beach here,” Hannah says. “I’ve been to the shooting range plenty of times. My daddy used to take me, and he always told me I’m an excellent shot.”
“I don’t doubt that, sweetie,” Jana says, speaking in the soothing tones of a therapist. “But killing us wouldn’t help anything. We’ve recorded everything you’ve said since you stepped inside that limo.”
Hannah is momentarily gobsmacked by that piece of news, because it’s the worst possible thing she could hear. The whole world is going to know what we’ve done!
Brooke, however, doesn’t seem to get it. In the moments since she’s learned the truth, Brooke has done what she’s always done: taken Hannah’s side. After all, Hannah’s always known what’s best for them.
“Yeah, well, after we kill you,” Brooke says, “we’ll just find all of your phones and cameras and whatever and bury them, too.”
“Honey,” Jana says, “to cover this up you’d have to take down the whole internet.”
Hannah, meanwhile, knows it’s over. She allows the Glock to fall to her side. Weirdly, the first thing that pops into her head at this moment is the paper she’ll never write, never hand in. But what do papers matter now?
The message still hasn’t reached Brooke, however, because she snatches the weapon out of her sister’s hand and screams as she points it at Theo.
“Look who’s defending us now, Hannah! Look who’s cleaning up your mess!”
Now, Brooke Clee hasn’t spent any time at shooting ranges. But she’s confident she can squeeze the trigger and spray these annoying jerks with enough bullets to make them all just shut up.…
And maybe Brooke would have gotten in a lucky shot or two, if Kate and Otto hadn’t rushed in, Tasers in hand, and lit up both of the Clee girls like Roman candles.
They both shriek before tumbling down onto the cold sand. A full minute later you could still smell the ozone in the ocean breeze.
Otto secures the Glock, unloads it. Kate checks the killers’ vitals. They’ll be hurting later, but they’ll certainly live. Jana texts Quinn with the latest developments. Theo, however, simply stands there, enjoying the moment.
“Man, I hope we got all of that, because I’m totally binge-watching it later.”
Jana says, “First we need to get the room and the equipment ready. We’re not finished yet, and we don’t have a lot of time.”
Chapter 35
QUINN
This time, Matthew Quinn enters the offices of Paul Clee & Partners the way he is expected: through the lobby, up to reception, and with an appointment. All perfectly respectable and businesslike.
“You didn’t have to make a special trip,” Clee says as he shakes Quinn’s hand. “I presume there’s news?”
“There is, but perhaps not the kind you might be expecting,” Quinn says.
Clee sets his jaw and frowns, then shows Quinn to a chair on the other side of his massive desk. Other clients might place Quinn on the office couch and take a seat nearby, as if to imply, Hey, we’re in this thing together. But this seating arrangement says something different. I’m the boss, you’re my employee. Now impress me.
“Go on,” Clee says.
“None of the four major suspects you gave me did it. My team cleared them all.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Salese, Halsey, Kurtz, and James—none of them killed Paige Ryerson. That I can guarantee.”
“You guaranteed closure, Mr. Quinn,” says Clee. “I’m paying you people a lot of money to end this nightmare. For my girls’ sake, and for the poor Ryersons’ sake.”
“The Ryersons will have closure. Because we found the killer.”
“Well, who is it?”
Quinn gestures: May I? Since Clee has no idea what he means, Quinn walks around the other side of the desk and helps himself to Clee’s desktop computer, which has an absurdly huge display. A few clicks, and he’s bypassed Clee’s password and connected to the Stingrays’ servers. Clee is about to protest, but then digital footage begins to play.
It’s his daughter Hannah, who looks like she’s hungover. The ghosts of mascara lines run down her cheeks.
“Yes, I killed her.”
An unseen voice demands, “Who did you kill?”
“Paige Ryerson, our hallmate. But you have to understand…she was such a snitch! I swear, it was like she was keeping notes on Brooke. You should have heard her—that’s a violation of the St. Paul’s honor code, that’s a violation of the honor code, honor code, honor code, blah blah blah.”
Paul Clee’s jaw drops. Quinn watches him carefully—especially the man’s eyes. They reveal everything.
“She threatened to turn Brooke in?” asks the unseen interrogator, though Quinn, of course, knows this is Kate speaking.
“All the time! So we figured it was time for that honey and vinegar thing. You know, sweeten her up, get her to change her mind. So we invited her to the island. We showed her a really, really good time. And that little snitch had fun!”
“So why kill her?”
“Because around two in the morning I found her sitting on the beach, alone,” Hannah says onscreen. “She must have sobered up a little because she started saying all of this nasty stuff about the two of us, pointing her finger in my face, saying that we were bribing h
er and it would never work. That’s when I realized this little ungrateful bitch would never quit.”
“So you killed her.”
“No! I didn’t mean to. I pushed her down, to show her she couldn’t mess with me. But then she tried to push back, so I punched her in the face. And she hit me back and started screaming and I knew Brooke would be coming along any minute and I wanted the little bitch to stop so I grabbed a rock and I…”
Clee can’t stand any more of this. He lunges for his keyboard and fumbles for the key that will turn off the feed. Quinn calmly returns to his seat on the other side of the desk. After a few moments, Hannah’s voice is cut off. Both men sit in the office in silence.
“So the only people who know the truth are you and your team,” Clee finally says.
“That is correct. You hired us, we report directly to you.”
Clee nods. “I knew about this. Well, I didn’t know for sure that it was Hannah, though I should have guessed. She was always the more…rambunctious of the two.”
“Of course you knew,” Quinn says. “You also hired men to spread misinformation and offer bogus testimonies. And then you hired us to throw suspicion away from your daughters. You heard that we were the best, and that if you could convince the best that someone else killed Paige, your daughters would be safe.”
Clee puckers his lips a little as he considers this. “And you’re not going to keep this quiet, are you?”
Quinn smiles, then shakes his head. “Never try to sting a Stingray.”
Paul Clee shifts in his seat. “You know, Mr. Quinn, one of the advantages of having your own floor is that you can soundproof the walls to studio quality. Not a single noise will escape.”
Then he opens his drawer and removes a large silver revolver as if it’s nothing more than a tape dispenser or stapler. He points the gun at Quinn’s chest and shows his teeth, his expression somewhere between a sneer and a predator’s grin.
Chapter 36
QUINN (continued)
The Palm Beach Murders Page 23
