by J. A. Kerley
“Where’s Sandhill, Ryder?” Squill snarled.
“I don’t know.”
“He knows,” Duckworth said. “Whatever game Sandhill’s running, Ryder’s in on it.”
Ryder spun to Duckworth. “There’s no fucking game, asshole. There’s three girls missing. Sandhill’s trying to find who took them.”
“The brothers took the girls. Find Roosevelt Desmond, we solve the case.”
Ryder shook his head. “It’s not that easy. The Desmonds were brokering the girls. Something went haywire, or maybe the buyer’s simply removing witnesses, and that means the Desmonds. The buyer tortured Truman and left him to die. He’s done the same to Roosevelt or is trying to. If Rose Desmond is alive, he’s holed up somewhere. The girl or girls might not be with him.”
Squill leaned close, his shirt wrinkled, tie flapping outside his jacket. Ryder smelled hatred pouring from the man, a bitter odor.
“Sandhill knows more, doesn’t he, Ryder? Tell the sonofabitch to come in. Tell us everything he knows. It’s the only way he’ll stay out of jail.”
“He won’t do it,” Ryder said.
Duckworth stepped up. “We’ll get Sandhill, Chief. And soon. But I’ve got to check on the roadblocks and see if the techs are uncovering anything. I’ll call soon as I know something.”
Duckworth jogged toward his vehicle, dialing his phone. He paused and shot a look at the scene; bathed in the blue-and-white lights of the official vehicles, the barely controlled confusion of too many people with too little to do. For a split second, Ryder thought he saw Duckworth grin, but wrote it off to the lights and shadows.
Ryder walked from the house to the yard. He slapped a mosquito from his cheek and stared into the black woods beside Desmond’s house, spitting to remove Desmond’s taste from his mouth, futile. He again ran the horrific scene through his head: Desmond burned, the stink of meat in the air, Desmond splayed out like a sacrifice, knotted to the bed …
The knots.
Beautiful, symmetrical knots tied where a couple half-hitches would do. Tied by hands with knots ingrained in them, like a mariner, perhaps? And the accelerants: Fuel oil and kerosene. Ships ran on fuel oil, kerosene was used to cut grease.
Ryder shot a look over his back and slipped his phone from his pocket.
The roar of Sandhill’s engine poured through the open windows. The moon was high and climbing, torn clouds tumbling across its face. He slid on to I-10, thinking Moon. River. Tune. To be.
“Or not to be?” he mumbled. Shakespeare, Hamlet? Didn’t make sense. “Moon River” was an old song by Harold Arlen. No, Johnny Mercer. River made some sense. But which river? There was the Mobile, the Tensaw, the Dog, the Fish, the Magnolia and several smaller watercourses bridging the larger ones in the delta. Coastal Alabama was a webwork of rivers. He saw the lights of the eastern shore as he shifted lanes in the light traffic, wondering where to aim the truck.
Think!
Moon. River. Tune. To be. River. Be to. Be to, his mind repeated. Alphanumeric? What would it mean if it’s 2-B or B-2?
His phone rang and he fumbled it from his pocket: Ryder again.
“What’s up, Ryder?”
“Where are you? No, don’t tell me. What’d you think about the knots holding Truman to the bed?”
“I missed Boy Scouts, Ryder. Knots are knots.”
“Not these. I think they were tied by a seaman. And Desmond was burned by substances essential to a ship. Add it to the mix, Sandhill. Maybe the river Desmond was talking about is one with freighter access. That cuts it down to … oh shit.”
“What?”
Sandhill heard a montage of loud voices, the phone fumbled, probably dropped, picked up. Ryder yelled something and another voice screamed back. Heavy breathing rasped on the other end of the connection.
“Ryder?” Sandhill whispered, his heart pounding. “Is that you?”
Squill’s voice came from the phone, barely contained fury. “Your life is over, you meddling bastard. If you’d left it to us—”
“To you? You’ve been as effective as a cheesecloth condom.”
“Where you at, Sandhill? Make your life easier and come in right—”
Sandhill switched the phone off. He swept on to the off ramp, his apartment a few blocks distant. Squill disappeared from his head, replaced by the words River. To be or 2-B. Moon. Tune.
To which he added, mariner and ship.
Sandhill blew through a red light, suddenly needing to check some things at his place before Squill sent a team over. Or showed up himself. If it was already being reconnoitered, Squill wouldn’t have called.
Sandhill passed the darkened restaurant and saw nothing resembling a stakeout. There was an unfamiliar car on the shadowed corner, but it was a white Acura, not a car the department used in surveillance.
He parked in the alley behind a dry cleaner’s and sprinted to his quarters. He slammed drawers until he found his navigational charts of Mobile Bay. There were several places the big ships docked. He saw no 2-B’s on Dog River or in the shipyard. He moved up the bay to the Mobile River.
There! A quarter-mile or so north of the bay, a series of piers, one to five A, two to four B, and so forth.
Two-B.
Sandhill phoned Information, dialed the number he was given.
“Mobile Bay Harbor Master’s office,” an older man’s voice said, crisp and alert. “This is Driscoll speaking.”
“This is Detective Conner Sandhill, Mobile Police, Mr Driscoll. I need info on who’s berthed at Pier 2-B about a half-mile upriver.”
A rustling of papers and Driscoll returned. “That’s the Petite Angel. Docked at five twenty last night. South African registry. Container cargo, dropping some, taking some.”
“Ownership?”
“MML. That’s Mattoon Maritime Limited.”
“Ma-tune?” Moon-tune … muhntune … Matune.
Driscoll spelled the name. “It’s a medium-sized shipping line, but growing. Container ships, primarily. A few bulk carriers.”
“That’s all you know? Who’s this Mattoon?”
“South African, originally. Mid-forties, maybe going on fifty. Building the line, getting into the terminal side, too, I heard. Sharp businessman, word has it. Maybe a little, uh, odd.”
“Odd how, Mr Driscoll?”
Sandhill heard the metallic click of a Zippo-type lighter followed by a pipe drawing. Driscoll said, “This is a heavy-scuttlebutt business, officer; seamen love to talk. You would too, cooped aboard a ship for weeks at a time. Of course, a man learns to take the yap with a grain or two of salt …”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Driscoll took another tug at the pipe. “Rumors suggest Mattoon lives aboard one of his ships, maybe this Petite Angel. Hardly ever comes off. He supposedly hires lowlifes—thieves, contrabanders and worse—but pays top dollar and then some. I used to work with a guy who skippered South American routes. Said he’d heard Mattoon was investigated in Montevideo some years back, something to do with young girls …” Sandhill heard Driscoll’s teeth champ on the pipe stem. “I’m not talking college age here, Detective.”
Sandhill’s hand went tight on the phone. He took a deep breath and made himself focus on gathering facts.
“Crew size?”
“Ten to twelve normally.”
“That’s all?”
“How many people run a train? All a freighter needs is a captain to aim it, a few mechanical and electrical types to keep it healthy, and someone to cook the chow.”
“Your info say when it’s leaving?”
“Scheduled to disembark in two hours.”
Sandhill thanked the man and hung up. He made sure the gun at his ankle was secure, then checked the street from the window: nothing resembling surveillance, yet. He’d put a couple miles under his tires, then phone Ryder, tell him about the call to Driscoll. He jogged to the door and opened it without thinking.
His world exploded into blue sparks and bal
l lightning.
Chapter 49
The electrical storm drifted from Sandhill’s head, leaving copper in his mouth and lead in his muscles. He shook wisps from his brain and found himself face down on his Oriental carpet, a field of violent color. He felt his wrists handcuffed behind him. He figured he’d been blasted with one of the new-generation stun guns. Knock an ox over, at least for a few seconds.
Sandhill heard the floor creak, someone standing above him. He’d pretty much figured who he’d see.
“That you, Terrence? Have you finally gone around the bend?”
Laughter. Not Squill’s. Followed by a pleasant, casual voice.
“Nice to know even the great Conner Sandhill can get it wrong once in a while.”
Sandhill struggled to roll on to his back. It took several seconds for the image to make sense in his brain.
“Tommy Clay?”
The mayor’s assistant smiled down at Sandhill. He held a black device loosely at his side, the stun gun. Clay surveyed his surroundings. “Nice place, Mr Sandhill. Very organized, despite the image you project.”
“Seems you’re different than your image too, Clay.”
Clay shrugged and walked to the kitchen area. A bottle of Scotch was on the counter. “Mind if I partake of your hospitality, Mr Sandhill?”
“Go for it, Tommy. I could use a few aspirin, myself. Top drawer on the counter.”
“Of course.” Clay filled a tumbler with ice and made a drink. He brought several aspirin, dropped them into Sandhill’s mouth. Clay nodded to the couch. “Mind if I sit?”
“Mi casa es tu casa.”
Clay nodded politely and sat. “Thank you, Mr Sandhill. I hope the stun gun didn’t cause much pain. I wasn’t overly thrilled about having to deal with you. I’m basically nonviolent.”
Sandhill narrowed an eye at Clay. “But you were sent to handle me because my old friend Terrence is otherwise occupied, is that it? He’s busy looking important and issuing commands and you’re running his errands. You’re a natural-born gopher, Tommy. Subservience is in your blood.”
Clay stiffened. He closed his eyes and let out a breath.
“I was warned that you like to get under people’s skins, Mr Sandhill. Keep them off balance. It won’t work here, so you might as well make nice.”
“All right, then. I’ll be as docile as a kitten, with one request.”
“Which is?”
“I’d like to know what the hell is happening.”
Clay took a fastidious sip of Scotch, crossed his legs, and settled deep into the couch, a traveler fresh from abroad with wondrous stories to tell.
“A few months back the owner of a shipping line sent Mayor Philips an overview of plans to build commercial dockage facilities in Mobile Bay. Containerized shipping. Warehousing, railheads. First-phase expenditures between 180 and 200 million bucks, Mr Sandhill. Not a massive project, but for Mobile …”
Sandhill nodded. “For Mobile it’s a big, juicy plum.”
“New employment, good jobs, revitalization of the waterfront. And plenty of loose money floating around.”
“I take it you and Mayor Philips figured how to soak up some of those bucks.”
“Norma?” Clay laughed so hard he had to set his drink down.
Sandhill raised a perplexed eyebrow. “Didn’t I hear you right, Tommy? Didn’t you say the plans were communicated to Philips?”
Clay picked up his drink, his smile bright as a chandelier. “I open Norma’s mail, Mr Sandhill; hand her the wheat and shitcan the chaff. If I didn’t, her mail would sit there until doomsday.”
Sandhill stared at Clay until the light dawned.
“You never showed the letter to the mayor, Tommy. You responded on your own.”
Clay’s eyes glittered. “Sixteen years of toiling in the vineyards finally produced champagne. I contacted the sender and explained the situation: An iffy election, a mayor who’d stumbled into the position—”
“The mayor’s a straight arrow, I take it?”
Clay rolled his eyes. “The woman’s oblivious to practicalities. She’d have questioned the project … Is it right? What’s the environmental impact? What control would the city have? All that obstructionist thinking. Don’t get me wrong, Norma’d be a wonderful mayor in some dinky town in Oregon, hugging redwoods, scrubbing oil off birds … maybe even reinstating disgraced cops on the sly.”
“You know about that?”
“I dug up that ancient statute, Mr Sandhill. Showed it to Norma. I wasn’t sure she’d use it, but she’s a trusting soul, right? She hid the reinstatment letter away in her desk, but …” Clay winked.
“But like with the mail, you spend a lot of time in her desk, right? Keeping tabs.”
“It helps my cause to know what Norma’s thinking and planning. And it was a wonderful boost to my plans to know she’d taken the responsibility of surreptitiously putting you back on the force. That responsibility will soon explode in her face. She’ll never be electable anywhere.”
“Our wannabe mayor, Runion, know much of this?”
“I told Runion’s people of a major new industrial project planned for the region and said I might be able to delay its announcement a couple months …”
Sandhill filled in the thought. “Letting Runion deliver the news right before the election, like he had a role in the deal.”
Clay flicked lint from his cuff. “And, of course, there’s been all the recent unrest among our African-American citizenry.”
Sandhill smiled sadly. “Not bad. You’ve gift-wrapped the election twelve different ways and set it down in Runion’s lap. Little Tommy Clay finally squeezed his hand into the cookie jar.”
Clay’s eyes flared. “Screw you, Sandhill. I’ve been jerked around for sixteen years. Promised this, promised that. But always handed some shitpot position. I was parks director for three years, head of the police oversight board for six years, four in purchasing …” Clay twirled his finger in a circle. “Whoop-de-doodle.”
“You’re assistant to the mayor. That carries weight.”
“Wouldn’t you know? I finally get my foot in the door and Snow White’s running the castle.”
Sandhill said, “What you wangling for, Tommy? Runion to appoint you somewhere you can suck graft? Code enforcement? Zoning?”
Clay walked to the kitchen and freshened his drink. “I’m leaving city government. I’m becoming MML’s governmental liaison in Alabama.”
“A lobbyist.”
“This time the movers and shakers dance for me.” Clay winked and snapped his fingers. “Doing that soft-money doe-see-doe.”
Sandhill thought for a moment. “Where’s Turnbull in all this? He kept the black community simmering until it finally boiled. What’s Turnbull’s prize?”
“Turnbull?” Clay wrinkled his nose. “He got to piss and moan about injustice, his forte.”
Sandhill shook his head, uncomprehending.
Clay said, “I had a couple late-night meets with the Rev and suggested the investigation was getting short shrift because the victims were black. Turnbull bought his bullhorn the next day.”
“Turnbull booked from the mob scene when he could have stayed and chilled things out. Why, if he wasn’t clued into the plan?”
Clay mimed dialing a phone. “An anonymous call claiming one of the righteous Rev’s roachy tenements was ablaze. His choice was hang with his people or scurry to his property. He scurried. Turnbull’s nothing but hot air. I just maneuvered him so it blew to my advantage.”
“Good puppeteering, Tommy. We always wondered how Turnbull and the media made it to the scenes fast.”
Clay did a thumbs-up. “As soon as a potential abduction was reported, the mayor’s office was alerted. I’d make a few calls and presto: Instant demonstration.”
Sandhill nodded grudging admiration. He had a hundred more questions, but one stood a thousand miles above the rest.
“Listen, Tommy. Your buddy, the shipping magnate … I take it
you don’t know about the girls?”
Clay frowned as if Sandhill was making bird sounds. “Did you say girls? What are you babbling about?”
“The guy’s a pedophile, the one taking the girls, or at least one of them—Jacy Charlane.”
Clay shook his head with amusement. “Nice try, Mr Sandhill. Resourceful use of current events.”
“One of the kidnappers, Truman Desmond, got caught tonight. I was there. He fingered your man.”
Clay’s brow furrowed. “You don’t mean that. It’s not possible.”
“It’s more than possible, Tommy-boy. By the way, the guy’s name is Walter Mattoon. Am I right?”
Sandhill watched a bead of sweat appear on Clay’s forehead. His voice fell to a whisper.
“Details, Sandhill.”
“Desmond used school pictures to offer the girls. Over the web, I figure. He gave me Mattoon’s name as a buyer, told me the ship’s berth.”
More sweat appeared on Clay’s forehead. “Did you tell this to the cops?”
“Of course,” Sandhill lied. “Mattoon is fried meat. There goes the old lobbying doe-see-doe.”
Clay leapt from the couch and ran to the kitchen dialing his cellphone. “Call me as soon as you get a chance,” he spat into the receiver.
Clay closed the clamshell phone and paced the small kitchen space, his eyes alight with fear.
The phone rang before a minute had passed. Clay whispered into it, a frenzy of hushed words.
His eyes shot toward Sandhill. More confused whispering. Then Clay’s shoulders relaxed, as if an anvil had been lifted from them. He glared at Sandhill. Closed the phone.
“You lied, Sandhill. Whatever you know about Mr Mattoon, about anything … nothing’s been communicated to the police. Everything’s still safe.”
Sandhill shrugged. It had been worth a shot.
She and the Minute Hour had been eating cookies in the house on the farm. He had been telling her the men by the water were very nasty men that never, ever had anywhere pretty inside them, just something like poison. He said even if they had put her on the boat, he would have saved her. It made him start crying and walking in circles.
