by Les Abend
“You can look out for your big sister by climbing down below and finding a few lines to tie up this beast, thank you very much!” Kim pointed at the bow and then the stern. “Attach the lines to the port-side cleats, please.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Ashley said with a twinge of sarcasm. She climbed down the teak steps that led to the lower deck.
Almost the entire south side of their neighborhood canal was dotted with people. Uniforms. Suits. Ties. Skirts. Cameras. Megaphones. Guns. Badges. A small swath of concrete that defined the Townsends’ dock had been cleared. The girls’ mom stood, with one arm tucked underneath the opposite elbow, wiping tears from her eyes with the other hand. A big, round man stood next to her.
Fortunately for Kim, the wind and the tide cooperated with limited resistance. She docked the boat with only the slightest of bumps, kissing the wooden pilings with a satisfying squeak. Uniformed cops reached for the lines and began to tie up the Tiara. With only a moment to bask in the glory, Kim surveyed the crowd of faces. She turned the ignition keys off with two assertive clicks. The diesel engines ceased their throaty rumble.
As Kim climbed down from the fly bridge, she could hear the clattering of applause. She grinned and locked eyes with her sister. She took a few steps toward Ashley, and they embraced. A flood poured from the girls’ eyes as they began to weep, and laugh, and sob. The sisters dropped slowly to their knees, still locked in a hug. Shutters clicked. Pinpoints of white light flashed. It was a moment that was captured and rebroadcast by every TV network across the county.
Not wasting a second, Robin Townsend rushed past the uniforms scattered around the perimeter of the dock and leapt onto the aft end of the Tiara. With outstretched arms, she knelt down and grabbed her daughters around the shoulders and squeezed. They laughed uncontrollably. They wept uncontrollably. No words were spoken.
10:05 EDT
He turned into the driveway and rolled the truck to a stop behind Cathy’s car. One of the doors of the old Volvo was open. Hart turned the ignition off and stepped out of his truck. Two reusable cloth sacks stuffed with groceries sat on the back seat of the Volvo. The cloth bags made him smile. While he wouldn’t think twice about accepting plastic bags for his purchases, Cathy was a recycling fanatic. He reached in and grabbed the bags. As Hart backed out of the car, he turned to find Cathy behind him, staring at his truck.
Startled, Hart said, “Yikes, you snuck up on me! I haven’t taken my pills today.”
Cathy was staring at the driver’s side of Hart’s truck. Her eyes scanned the paintball mess, assessing the damage. Without looking away, she said, “That’s too much of a contrast. I would have gone for a lighter color.”
“Sorry, I’ll consult with you for the next time,” Hart said with a feeble smile.
“When did you take up paintball?” Cathy asked, her expression impassive.
“It wasn’t my idea.”
“Hmmm…” Cathy turned, took a step toward Hart, and gave him a peck on the lips. “Exactly what aren’t you telling me this time?”
Exhaling, Hart said, “It’s probably something we should discuss over a bottle of wine.” He shifted the grocery bags in his arms and gestured at the house. “Can we talk inside?”
Nodding, Cathy walked toward the front door.
Once inside, Hart deposited the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. He took a few steps toward the metal wine rack at the other end of the counter and pulled out a bottle. In the elegant style of a waiter at a white tablecloth restaurant, he displayed the bottle.
“Might I recommend this vintage of pinot noir? The grapes were stomped just last week by a group of local monks that have taken a lifetime vow of nonbathing.”
Shuffling items on the shelves of the open refrigerator, Cathy said, “It doesn’t sound as delectable as last month’s convenience store wine, but I suppose. And it is Sunday morning.”
Smiling, Hart pulled a corkscrew opener from a drawer and plopped out the cork. He reached into an open cupboard and set two glasses down on the center island of the kitchen. He poured. The dark, red liquid swirled into the glass. Hart handed a drink to Cathy. They clinked glasses, looked into each other’s eyes, and took a sip.
“Not bad for smelly monks,” Cathy said, twisting the glass while examining the wine. She set the glass back down on the island and rotated the stem. She looked at Hart. “Talk to me, Captain Lindy.”
“Where do you want me to start?”
Tilting her head toward the driveway, Cathy replied, “How about your new paintball hobby?”
With a sigh, Hart said, “Apparently there is an element that does not want this event in Bermuda to be investigated.“An element?” Cathy’s expression was scornful. “Seriously, Hart? Is this conversation going to be another exercise in pulling teeth?” Cathy’s tone turned sour. “I’m already aware of that element. I met the jerk. Remember? Or did you forget because you were too busy with the investigation in your room when I called late last night.”
“Okay, okay.” Hart held up a hand in traffic cop style. “I’ve received threatening phone calls. And on my drive to the airport, some psychopaths in a black Mercedes fired a paintball gun at the truck. It was another warning.” He cleared his throat. “And just before a meeting in the flight office, a maniac attempted…or pretended an attempt…to run me down in the Dolphin parking garage.”
“That’s it? Or are you giving me the Reader’s Digest version?” Cathy took another sip of wine and placed her hands on her hips.
“It’s slightly abbreviated. But the details aren’t going to add much to the whole picture.”
“How about the details regarding the creepy guy that followed me around for part of the day?”
“I’m almost certain that your creepy guy is the same as my creepy guy. To be honest, Rod Moretti’s cop friend and golf buddy was supposed to keep an eye on you while I was gone. Based on his reassurances, I felt reasonably confident that your safety was not in jeopardy before I left for Bermuda. Sorry about your experience. I’m really pissed.”
Cathy took a deep breath and then had another sip of wine. She replied, “I’m okay. What’s going on with this investigation?”
“I don’t like where it could be going. Suffice it to say, this is not a typical accident. It seems likely that the airplane was sabotaged. But why? And by whom? While the NTSB continues their forensic research with the FBI, I have to do a little investigation of my own.”
Squinting her eyes in an inquisitive expression, Cathy asked, “What does that mean?”
“I need to take a visit into Manhattan tomorrow. I’m sorry, hon, but it’s better that I don’t get into the specifics.”
“You’re not going to give me the, ‘If I told you I’d have to kill you’ line are you?”
“No, but it is for your protection.”
“The creepy guy?”
“Maybe. But actually, I’m more concerned with the FBI. If you don’t have knowledge of the investigation, then you don’t have anything to hide.”
Wrapping her arms across her chest, Cathy’s gaze grew intense. She asked, “Do you have anything to hide?”
For a brief moment, Hart glanced down at his glass of wine. He looked back up into the radiant sparkle of Cathy’s dark, brown eyes. He sighed. She always knew. Hart said nothing.
Moisture began to fill the corner of Cathy’s eyes. With a whisper, she said, “I thought so.” She picked up her glass and walked out of the kitchen and into the master bedroom. She closed the door with a quiet clack.
Grimacing, Hart looked down at the Mexican tile floor. He shook his head in resignation. Following Cathy into the bedroom at this moment would be futile. He had screwed up again…maybe for the last time.
10:15 EDT
As Alvarez drove away from the scene at the Townsend home, a deep heaviness began to settle in his chest. No matter how many times Alvarez had performed the solemn task of informing families that a loved one had died tragically, he had always found the grim
responsibility awkward and uncomfortable. He had stopped using the words, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The phrase seemed mechanical and ritualistic. Certainly someone’s passing deserved a remark of greater meaning. Lately, he had found it more respectful to just remain silent after the announcement. He had done just that with the Townsend family.
As he had watched their eyes widen and lips begin to quiver, Alvarez felt a fond admiration for the stoic resolve of Robin Townsend. She had not reached for the support of the nearest piece of furniture nor crumpled to her knees. She had simply nodded in anguish even as her daughters broke down into inconsolable sobbing. Perhaps the woman had already accepted her husband’s fate before it became official. Perhaps the discovery of her husband’s secret life had become a form of death anyhow.
Predicting the reaction he would cause by announcing Mike Townsend’s demise, Alvarez had strategically interviewed the daughters beforehand. He felt horrible, but he needed to build his case. After all, Alvarez had to connect the dots with the two abductions, and now…six related homicides. He visualized the names and faces in his head. The school security guard. The two hot bod girls. A monster of a bald guy. A gay pilot. And a gay pilot’s boyfriend. Shit!
Somehow this killing spree had something to do with Mike Townsend. The daughters had been held hostage as an insurance policy, or some form of extortion. And the pilot was at the center of the mess. The airplane incident in Bermuda was certainly related. Crap! What the hell did a dumb-ass detective know about airplanes? Was this about drugs? Or was this about money? Or both?
The traffic on U.S.-1 was beginning to compress like a Slinky. A line of cars was funneling into the flippers of a giant pinball machine as they diverted around a road construction site dotted with fluorescent orange cones. Alvarez released a quiet groan, a frustrated resignation to the scene ahead of him. His mind wandered into thought fragments.
He had heard that the FBI was involved with the investigation in Bermuda. It was probably time to consult with them, perhaps a little quid pro quo?
For the moment, the most concrete form of evidence that the detective had was an ID on the big, bald guy. Chris DeFazio was a war vet. Actually he was a war hero. He was awarded a Silver Star for pulling two of his platoon buddies out of a burning Humvee after it had exploded from an IED while they were taking on automatic weapons fire from all sides on an Iraqi street. Apparently Chris had single-handedly neutralized the enemy enough to allow for additional ground troops to overtake the area. He was a modern-day Rambo.
But when he returned home from the desert, Chris must have begun to unravel. He had accumulated an arrest record of minor assaults, mostly bar fights. Except for a brief stint at his brother’s insurance office, he had changed employers like some people changed clothes. Somehow he had become associated with the mystery guy who owned the yacht. Bodyguard, maybe?
Alvarez was still working on the identity of the yacht owner. So far it seemed that the guy was some type of high-powered lawyer. He was a partner in a Manhattan law firm. For the moment, the guy was nowhere to be found. Alvarez had the NYPD researching his background. In the meantime, the guy’s house was under surveillance.
Feeling a vibration in the pocket of his khaki pants, Alvarez reached for his cell phone. He pulled the phone out and slapped it to his ear without looking at the caller ID.
“Alvarez here.”
“Hey, Detective, it’s Captain Gordon at the Fort Lauderdale Coast Guard station.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Think we have something you’d be interested in. We just got done transferring two floaters off a charter boat from one of our local dive shops.” The captain coughed and cleared his throat. “A newlywed couple rented two of those Seabob diving scooter devices and got more than they bargained for.”
“What exactly do you mean, Captain?”
“The newlywed couple were operating their scooters along the reef, looking for the standard array of fish, and literally bumped into two deceased white females within close proximity to each other. After calming his clients, the dive master recovered the bodies to the boat’s swim platform. He called us on Channel 16.”
“Lovely,” Alvarez said.
“Not so much, Detective. But the females fit the description you indicated.”
“Are you certain, Captain?”
“I’ll let you folks complete your own forensic homework, but the dive master recognized the deceased. He frequents the hot bod contests. The women were regular contestants.”
“How are the newlyweds doing?”
“Can’t answer that question, sir. But I’m sure they have a honeymoon memory they would like to forget.”
“True statement.” Alvarez sighed. “Forensic homework aside, did you ID them with your data base?”
“Yessir. You have one Anita Cohen, aka Amber. And one Sarah Sorenson, aka Serena.” A keyboard clicked in the background. “Ms. Cohen dropped out of pre-law at FSU to pursue a modeling career. Her dad is a district judge. Ms. Cohen’s priors were an assault and a DUI. Interestingly enough, she listed her occupation as law clerk. The employer’s address appears to be a residence on Bayview Drive in Fort Lauderdale.”
Alvarez said, “She was probably not making Daddy happy.” The detective watched a white BMW race through a red light as he released his foot off the brake at an intersection. He was glad his days as a patrol cop were gone. “And that address makes sense.”
The captain continued, “Ms. Sorenson was also an FSU grad. Liberal arts degree. She listed her current occupation as executive secretary with the same employer address as Ms. Cohen. No priors. Her mother is a local charter boat captain; I’ve personally seen her skipper on the Lady Windridge.”
“That explains her daughter’s boating skills according to the abducted Townsend sisters.”
“Both women had extensive training at a local martial arts studio. And they both had concealed carry permits.”
“Very nice. I would have bought Girl Scout cookies from them.”
“Unofficially, for Ms. Cohen, it appears that the cause of death would be a gunshot wound to the chest. And for Ms. Sorenson, cause of death most likely was a penetration of her abdomen via some type of improvised projectile device.”
“Perhaps our pilot retained some combat skills from the military. Sounds like he made an escape attempt of his own.” Alvarez glanced at the traffic ahead. Cars were creeping past the intersection at a snail’s pace. As always, the red light was decidedly longer than the green. “At the end of the day, Mike Townsend’s rescue mission was successful.”
“Agreed, Detective. But tragic nonetheless.”
“Very unfortunate. Your assistance is much appreciated. I assume the coroner is en route along with a CSI team?”
“Yessir, that’s my understanding.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Alvarez slid the phone from his ear and pressed the End button. “This could get more interesting,” he said to the empty car seat to his right. He felt a sinking in his gut, a hollowness. Alvarez missed the banter with his partner. Abrasively funny, his partner would have talked through the situation, presenting the facts in perspective. But this time, Alvarez would have to work it all out on his own.
With the traffic finally beginning to flow, he looked at his speedometer: forty-five mph. His adrenalin applied more pressure to the gas pedal. Alvarez’s increasing anxiety began to match his increasing speed. He needed to have a very serious conversation with Tracey Abbott.
Chapter Eighteen
Sunday
10:30 EDT
The ringing of his cell phone jolted him like an electrical charge. After his drooped-shoulder departure from Cathy’s house, Hart’s trance hadn’t been disturbed despite the wait at the Hillsboro Inlet drawbridge. He glanced at the caller ID. Diane Yellen. Seriously?
Diane was Hart’s seventy-something next-door neighbor. Their first encounter shortly after Hart moved into the community became immediately adversarial. Before he had grunted the last bo
x out of the U-Haul truck, a dispute erupted over a coconut palm tree that had been unceremoniously dumping its wares on Diane’s property.
Not quite understanding that the issue was merely an awkward attempt at garnering attention and filling the hole in her life that Diane’s deceased husband had left, Hart went on the defensive. It was not the neighborhood welcome he had envisioned.
The relationship remained contentious. But as almost fifteen years passed, and a handful of peace offerings in the form of Cathy and her famous chocolate chip cookies, time healed most of the wounds. Now Hart could maintain a conversation with his neighbor beyond a discussion of the week’s weather. He realized that Diane was an intelligent woman with more on her mind than just displeasure at errant coconuts.
Even though Hart had given her his cell phone number in the event that she needed his assistance, she never called. Why now? His mood certainly wasn’t conducive to a friendly chat.
Hart pressed the Talk button. “Uh…Hi, Diane. Are you okay?”
Diane’s gravelly but articulate voice was edgy and tense. “I thought that maybe they had called you. But you don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what, Diane?”
“Oh my…” The elderly woman gasped. “I called the minute I saw the black smoke. I knew you weren’t home.”
“Diane…”
“Your house. It’s on fire, Hart! They’re here now! Fire trucks! Hoses everywhere! They’re spraying! It’s awful.”
As Hart held the phone to his ear, the giant metal leaf of the drawbridge was descending. He stared into the distance, trying to process the information being conveyed by his neighbor. It was barely making sense. His thoughts were an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, pieces missing.
Hart managed to ask, “Is anybody hurt? How bad is the damage?”
