Mermaid

by Tom Lowe

  “All right. What happened?”

  “He basically captured and then hauled the poor bastard deep into the glades, to one of the few places in the world where big crocodiles and gators live in the same area. Sean waded into a brackish lagoon, dragging the guy by his neck. He tied him to some partially submerged prop roots from mangroves trees, cut the guy so he’d bleed—like chumming for sharks, and waited for the crocs and gators to make the big splashes and swim in for a live meal. The fella was now screaming and in tears. Needless to say, in a somewhat unorthodox way, Sean extracted the confession and the information leading to the arrest of billionaire Timothy Spencer.”

  “I suppose, when you don’t have to play by the book, you can pull that off, in spite of possibly violating all kinds of human rights laws and police protocol.”

  “It got results—a plea bargain for the middle-man and the billionaire doing serious time.”

  “What happened to the hitman?”

  “Sean killed him in a parking lot next to the Port of Miami before the guy could hop a boat to Argentina. Self-defense—he said the perp pulled first. We found the dead man with a broken arm and a single nine-millimeter hole between the eyes. No surveillance cameras in the parking lot. But there was evidence of firings from the perp’s gun. After Wynona got out of IU and the hospital, Sean took her to his isolated cabin on the St. Johns River to recuperate and heal from horrible injuries.”

  Grant said nothing for a few seconds, stopping at a traffic light. “That’s a sad story. I feel bad for O’Brien and certainly, Wynona. She’s sharp and seems to be a caring person.”

  “She is.”

  “They’re prepping to take a sailboat down to the islands. Looks like maybe they’re not completely done with the healing process.”

  “They’ve earned some time in the islands.” Hamilton stood from his chair, reaching for his sports coat. “When is the film production crew returning?”

  “Next Monday. I have their schedule. They are supposed to be shooting near St. Augustine in a replica of a medieval castle. After that, it’s down to the Florida Keys, the coast of West Africa, and then filming some scenes in the Greek Isles.”

  “Let’s hope you get lucky. And let’s hope we don’t have to extradite the suspect back from Greece or some country in Africa. What a nightmare that’d be.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Three days later, most of the two-hundred or so members of the film crew, including the actors, were back on land for a week of shooting before moving to the Florida Keys. Grant thought about that as he and a half-dozen CSI techs met in the gravel and broken oyster shell parking lot of the next film-set location, a massive medieval castle on fifty acres of land close to St. Augustine.

  The stone fortress was a replica of castles built in sixteenth century Scotland. It had the steely gray antiquity of dinosaur bone, three towers shaped into turrets with places in the high walls to position iron canons. The arched windows looked shaded, more like veiled eyes. Dark green ivy sprouted from one wall as if the pitted stone was growing a long, scraggly beard.

  Grant got out of his car, feeling small in the presence of the castle one hundred yards in front of him. He watched dozens of film crew members preparing for the day’s shoot on the expansive verdant green lawn, much of which was covered in dark shadows under the canopies of old live oaks with mossy beards that matched the color of the castle’s gray stone.

  The trees, many bent and crooked, looked like they had been a silent witness to the passing of centuries. They’d survived the winds of the seasons and the ground wars fought in the shadow of America’s oldest city, and they had witnessed the madness of human struggles. Grant took a deep breath, thinking about the task at hand, the scent of damp stone and honeysuckles in the air. He watched the crew, wondering if he was looking at a killer among them. He would do everything he could to prevent the suspect from slipping through the police dragnet and leave the country.

  A CSI tech, a woman in a ponytail, approached him. She was followed by five of her co-workers, each one carrying DNA testing kits that resembled black fishing tackle boxes. She narrowed her eyes, a single shaft of golden, morning light through the trees cutting across her face. “Good morning, Detective. Looks like a lot of people. You want them all tested?”

  “Everyone working here who lives in Florida, as well as the people who work in the wardrobe department, art department, and the person who works on dialogue with the few extras who have speaking roles. Toss in the director, art director, casting director and other senior staff who’ve been here since the git-go. That ought to cover it.” He lifted a file folder. “I have a list of who’s who, local and elsewhere. I’ve chosen the tech who’ll specifically be working with the A-list actors as they’ll be less cooperative in voluntarily providing DNA samples. Your techs will have a detective assigned to them as they are very good about sharing the merits of providing a voluntary sample.”

  “Sound good.” The other forensic staff formed a semi-circle around Grant, listening to the plans.

  “Looks like the place is haunted,” said one tall tech, gesturing toward the castle.

  Grant nodded. “Ghosts don’t bother me. Killers do. From what I’ve been told, the studio leased this castle more than a month ago. They’ve hired a lot of carpenters to build custom sets with everyone working under the guidance of art director, Jonathan Lloyd. Let’s test him first.” He gestured, the techs following him onto the set. With the stone castle looming in the distance, Grant felt like he was going into battle.

  • • •

  The sun was setting, shadows long across the docks, the Tiki Bar’s red neon light reflecting across the marina waters. I walked with Wynona to my Jeep. Dave volunteered to watch Max for a couple of hours while we went to a Walmart for some supplies. During the drive, we talked about the sailing trip, the conversation eventually turning back to Savannah and Rex Nelson. Wynona asked, “Do you regret not taking Rex up on his offer to hire you? I’m sure, since you know police protocol so well, you wouldn’t get in the way of detectives Grant and Hamilton.”

  “Because I know them, I don’t want to interfere with their investigation.”

  “But you also know Rex and Savannah very well, too. Since you’re a private investigator, I just hope that Rex doesn’t feel slighted or that you, in any way, aren’t giving him as much consideration as you would any other client. And I want to make sure my presence isn’t part of that.”

  “I told you, it’s not. If Savannah was missing and Rex came to me, that would be an entirely different scenario. But she’s not missing. None of the parents of the three murdered girls have tried to hire me, so it’s a moot point. I’ll let Grant and Hamilton, who are good detectives, do what they do unless or until something changes.”

  Wynona said nothing as I turned into the Walmart parking lot. It was more than two-thirds filled with cars. She sighed and said, “Sean, I don’t want to come across as bothering you. I just want to make sure that the decision you made is the decision you really wanted to make. And I ask this because you’ve seemed distant lately. I just want to do everything I can to keep you present, and I know how much is on your mind. Is there something you’re not telling me? Or let me rephrase that … is there something I should know, and you’ve decided that I shouldn’t?”

  “I do have a lot on my mind, and your health and well-being, by far, tops the list. Anything I think you should know I will share. The other stuff, the clutter, I’ll toss out. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Because of the volume of cars, we had to park in the rear portion of the lot. We got out, and I locked the Jeep. After an hour in Walmart, after buying marine and household goods, we pushed three shopping carts back through the lot to the Jeep. As I unlocked the doors, assisting Wynona with a cart, under the light from a security streetlamp, I saw a shadow move.

  Saw the man’s reflection in the Jeep’s side window.

  I pushed Wynona aside and turned to face him. He stopped hi
s fast approach. Eyes wide. A nervous tic under one eye, dark skin. He was dressed in a black, long-sleeved shirt, jeans and a black wool knit cap. An eight-inch knife in one hand.

  Before he could raise his knife hand, I’d pulled the Glock from my belt and leveled it at his forehead. “Don’t kill me!” he shouted.

  “That knife in your hand gives me a reason to do just that.”

  “I wasn’t gonna cut you. I was just gonna ask you a favor—”

  “What—to sharpen your knife for you? Drop the blade.” He did as I ordered. I put the Glock back under my belt. “Get out of here while you can walk.”

  He jumped down, picking up the long knife. “Gimme your wallet!”

  I kicked his right wrist hard. The knife went flying across the lot. Instantly, I hit him in the lower jaw. He fell to his knees, then keeled over, lying in the fetal position. Eyes closed.

  Wynona said, “I hope you didn’t kill him. He can’t be out of his teens.”

  “Doesn’t give him an excuse to try to mug someone with a deadly weapon.”

  “Thank God you saw him coming.”

  “I’ll call 9-1-1 and tell them where they can find sleeping beauty. I’ll drag him to the closest light pole. He shouldn’t get runover there. I don’t mind knocking him out. I just don’t want to be responsible for his death if a car were to run over him lying in the lot.”

  “I didn’t hear or see a thing until you pushed me out of the way. Your back was turned. How did you see him?”

  “I saw his reflection in the Jeep’s window.”

  “It was as if you were on high alert, like you were expecting to be attacked.”

  I said nothing as I picked up the man under his shoulders, dragging him to the relative safety on a concrete block under the tall light post. I checked his pulse. It was strong. His lower jaw was swelling. “Sleep tight. Maybe in some way tonight you learned a lesson. But I doubt it.” I wanted to call Ron Hamilton—to ask him if the prison informant had worn the wire yet. Had they caught Timothy Spencer on tape soliciting murder—my murder? I wanted to tell Wynona that they’d caught him, and Spencer wouldn’t see the outside of a prison for many more years.

  But he, with all his money, shared something in common with the drug-addicted, penniless mugger sleeping in the parking lot. They don’t learn lessons because they choose not to. Once they become bottom feeders, it’s hard to rise out of the dark slime and swim to the top.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Dan Grant hoped that in one of the DNA samples, the genetic makeup of a killer was there. It was approaching nine p.m. as Grant and his team were finishing. They had taken DNA saliva swabs from 137 people. Grant had combed through the movie set, casually observing every member of the crew, actors, producers, and all the upper echelon staff, from the director down to production assistants. No one was missing part of a finger on the left hand. The production company was preparing to shoot a night scene at the castle.

  As his CSI techs wrapped up and started heading for their van, Grant spoke with Ronda Adams, the senior CSI member. They stood on the front lawn of the castle, under a flickering streetlamp, moths circling the light. Grant said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s hope there’s a DNA sample in the bunch that will match the skin cells we scraped from under the fingernails of the last victim.”

  She nodded. “And let’s hope she’s the last and final victim.” Adams, late thirties, probing hazel eyes, looked at the production crew moving about the exterior of the castle and then back at Grant. She took a deep breath. “This one is keeping you up at nights, right?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Dan, I’ve known you a long time. I can see the weight on your shoulders. You’ll get him. He’ll mess up, and you’ll be there.”

  “If there are two of them, maybe we have the accomplice’s DNA in one of the samples you guys took.”

  “What makes you think there might be two bad guys?”

  “Because I believe the perp, at least the one kidnapping the girls, is missing most of the ring finger on his left hand.”

  “I didn’t notice that with any of the people we were swabbing.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. If he’s not here today … why would that be?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Maybe some of the production staff changes from location to location.”

  “Bingo. Ronda, I’ll see you back at the fort.” Grant walked across the lawn, stepping over electrical cables running from generators to large lights mounted on stands and pointed at the exterior of the castle walls.

  He approached one of the executive producers, Marcia Steinberg, standing by an expensive motorhome. She made a reluctant attempt to look friendly as she watched Grant come closer, walking under portable lights lit by generators. “Detective, did you forget something?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Who’s not here in this new location who was there in the last location?”

  Steinberg crossed her arms, glancing at the motorhome as the lead actress came out the door, followed by a makeup artist and a personal assistant. “Our staff and crew change from time to time, and from location to location, depending upon the needs of the production and the director. Some of the people working with us on the scenes involving open water or underwater, are not needed here on dry land. And, conversely, we’ve hired support staff in locations like this that we wouldn’t need at sea.”

  “Can you tell me who, specifically, is not here?”

  “Detective, I don’t have time to do a head count for you. For the most part, those not here on this set are the people associated with production on the ocean and underwater. This would include specialty camera operators, some second unit stunt men and women, and coordinators. I’d estimate that’s at least two-dozen people. Many of them will rejoin us in a week down in the Keys.”

  Grant lifted the file folder he was carrying. “If you don’t mind, take a quick look at the list of your employees and freelancers I have here and check off the two dozen you mentioned are not here?”

  “I do mind. You can ask my assistant to help you. Her name’s Sharon Einhorn. She’s inside the second RV to the left.” Steinberg started to leave, turning back around. “Detective, you’re wasting your time and resources here. There’s no killer on this set and there is not a killer associated with this movie. Your continued presence, and that of your police staff, is creating unwarranted and negative news coverage of Atlantis. When you’re interviewed on television, please refrain from making tenuous comments about Atlantis. There’s a fine line between a police investigation and harassment and slander, potentially causing us to lose millions of dollars. Just saying.” Her lips were tight, nostrils flaring. She turned and walked toward the drawbridge leading to the open castle door, which in the subdued light, looked dark, like the entrance to another place in time.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The next day, I called Ron Hamilton and learned that the sting to catch Timothy Spencer hadn’t happened yet because the prison informant apparently came down with a stomach flu and was isolated from the pack. I walked back down L dock, entered Dragonfly’s salon and watched Wynona prepare the master cabin for our voyage. It would be our home away from home, and I was happy to see her adding personal touches to Dragonfly that made it more comfortable. More importantly, it made her feel contented and secure aboard the sailboat. She’d bought a dozen books she always wanted to read, but never found the time. She placed them neatly in a small bookshelf to the left of the bed, Max following her around the cabin like a new puppy.

  Wynona spent the last couple of days cleaning the interior of the sailboat, Dragonfly smelling like a rose. She placed fresh-cut flowers in a vase on the salon table. She’d bought a few nautical keepsakes for the trip—an antique brass barometer, and a small oil painting of the British clipper ship, Cutty Sark, at sail on the sea. “Come on, Maxine,” she said. “I think it’s time for lunch. What do you think?”

  Max barked twice and led Wynona from the cabin to the galley. “Sea
n, I didn’t know you were back from the marine store. I didn’t hear you come below or is it called down the hatch?”

  “Either will work fine.”

  “Max and I were about to make a sandwich. We’d love to have you join us?”

  “Sounds good.”

  She fixed tuna fish sandwiches and a salad tossed with oil and cider vinegar. We ate topside on the foldout table in the cockpit, the afternoon breeze light and warm, the brackish scent in the air of a rising tide. We talked about our upcoming sailing journey, Wynona unfolding a to-do list and going over it with me. She sipped some sweet tea and said, “Nick promises us fair weather. That will be a blessing.”

  “Let’s hold him to it.”

  “Are you okay? You seem slightly troubled?”

  “I talked with my old partner from Miami-Dade, Ron Hamilton.”

  “Oh, since he’s working with Detective Grant, I’m assuming Ron might be wanting to pick your brain a little as well.”

  “We talked some about the deaths of the girls in the mermaid costumes, but that wasn’t the reason we spoke—”

  “You don’t have good news, do you?” Wynona’s eyes instantly became unreadable. She looked over my shoulder, the Halifax River in the distance.

  “No. Ron said a jailhouse informant, a guy looking for a reduction in his sentence if he plays ball, says that Timothy Spencer is trying to hire a hitman to take me out.”

  Wynona said nothing, her gaze shifting back to me, a slight flare in her nostrils. “Does Ron know if Spencer hired someone yet?”

  “He doesn’t think so. The informant apparently is willing to wear a wire to work with authorities and prosecutors to get Spencer to talk about what he wants done, arranging for payment and so forth”