by Claire Booth
“Good evening,” Hank said very slowly. “I was wondering”—he made a concerted effort to unclench his fists, and his jaw—“what exactly you are doing here, violating my order?”
Gallagher straightened his spine and then took a moment to smooth the sleeves of his suit jacket. His nice wool overcoat was draped over the room’s one chair.
“I had … I had just stopped by to check on his health. There was no guard anymore, so I assumed … naturally … that there would be no problem anymore. I certainly did not intend to stay.”
Hank looked pointedly at the coat on the chair and then back at Gallagher, who returned his gaze with a carefully constructed look of mild bemusement. Or maybe it was amusement. Either way, it made Hank even angrier. Which, of course, is exactly what Gallagher wants, Hank thought. He forced a smile.
“I will see you Wednesday at ten A.M. at my substation on the expressway,” he said. “We need to go over a few more things about your boat … and your business.”
Gallagher pasted on his own fake smile. “Of course.” He picked up his coat and moved toward the door. He paused and gave one quick—almost involuntary—glance back toward the figure in the bed before disappearing down the hallway.
Hank let out a long, slow breath. Good gravy. It was a miracle he’d kept his temper. He was in the middle of drawing in a deep breath when Duane appeared in the doorway. More patience, please.
“What happened, Duane?”
Duane looked like a kid who had just had someone run over his new puppy, or a deputy who had just seen his career similarly flattened.
“I had to pee—er, use the restroom. They’d shut off this one—” He pointed toward the door across the room half hidden by one of those curtains-on-wheels. “Something about plumbing pressure. I don’t know. They said I’d have to go down the hall to the main one. I waited as long as I could. Really, I did.” The last words came out almost in a wail.
Hank frowned. “How long ago did they tell you about this plumbing problem?”
Duane thought for a minute. “It musta been right after lunch. I remember thinking I should not have just had that big ol’ cup of coffee with my sandwich.”
Well, Hank could certainly relate to that. He sighed. So Gallagher had either gotten extremely lucky and walked in during the two-minute window when Duane was gone, or he had known the plumbing would be shut off and deliberately waited until nature called Duane away. He had a feeling Gallagher was a man who made his own luck.
He looked at Duane. If he were just the guy’s colleague, he’d slap him on the back and crack a joke about bad bladder timing. But he was the boss. This was really the first instance since he’d taken the job when discipline was necessary. The guy had left his post, and hadn’t asked the nurse to monitor things while he was gone. Enough said. But … he had admitted his mistake and called Hank in as soon as he discovered it. And what kind of matchup was it—a twenty-one-year-old kid on his second day of boring, solitary guard duty against the county’s leading businessman and his mom’s employer? Hank sighed again. Duane cringed.
“You’re the only one I’ve got right now, Duane,” Hank said. “Everyone else is working the storm or investigating the homicide. I need you to step up, okay? Can you do that?”
Duane nodded almost frantically. “Yes, sir.”
Hank sighed again and walked over to the bed. Albert the Moron appeared to still be asleep. He was still hooked up to an IV and several monitors. Hank squinted at them, but he only knew enough to tell that, yep, the guy’s heart was beating. Helpful. He stared down at the thin figure, perfectly still under the grayish hospital sheet. All sorts of priceless information was lying there, locked up in that sedated brain.
Hank gave himself a shake. He could stand there all day staring at the equivalent of a locked safe, or he could get moving and try to find a key. He turned, gave Duane a rundown of exactly what was expected of him, and left. He turned toward the stairwell but stopped and looked the other way, toward the nurses’ station. One nurse sat behind the counter.
As he got closer, he realized it was Nurse Grumpy from the night before. He put on his best church smile.
“Ma’am. Hello there.”
She looked up and glowered at him. “Are you planning on making noise again?”
“No, ma’am,” he said cheerfully. “I was just wondering…” He casually leaned against the counter and put his hand in his jeans pocket, pulling his coat back in the process and revealing his badge. He smiled again. “I was just wondering if you had any problems today. You know, any people bothering you up here that I might be able to help you with.”
She raised a very thin eyebrow and pursed her lips. After what seemed like five minutes of studying him, she nodded slightly. He must have passed inspection.
“There was a man lurking around earlier. Refused to tell me what he wanted. I told him he needed to be downstairs if he was waiting for someone. He told me he knew what he needed and I should just go about my duties.” The sour look on her face showed exactly what she’d thought of that directive. “Just because you’re wearing an expensive suit doesn’t mean you’re better than anybody else. No, sir. I’m just as good in the eyes of the Lord as he is.”
“How long exactly was he up here … bothering you?”
“Oh, at least half an hour, if not longer. I went to check on Mrs. Trask in room four—she’d pushed her call button—and when I came back, he was gone.” She sniffed. “Good riddance.”
Hank wished he could be as easily dismissive of the loiterer, but that would not be a wise idea at this point.
“Ma’am, I can’t thank you enough for your time. And if there’s ever anything you need help with, you just let me know. My name’s Hank.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “You’re the new sheriff, then. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And your wife, she’s Dr. McCleary. Down in the ER?”
Hank nodded.
“Well, good. She’s a fine thing, you know. Good doctor. Good to everyone, even the nurses.”
“Yes, she is,” he agreed and turned toward the elevator. Nurse Not-So-Grumpy stood and stuck out her hand.
“Good to have met you, Mr. McCleary,” she said, shaking his hand briskly.
Hank headed for the elevator chuckling. Maybe “Mr. McCleary” would take a detour and stop in downstairs. Say hello to his fine thing.
* * *
Hank steered the car toward home, a Country Mart bag with milk and marshmallows on the seat next to him. He had stopped in at the ER to see Maggie. She’d dashed out for the cocoa supplies earlier and planned to take them home in time for dinner, but now had an ice-slipping broken leg to set and a snow-shoveling heart attack on the way in. So he’d gotten nothing but a quick kiss and a bag of groceries shoved at him. That was fine. He couldn’t complain—his job was just as bad. Unexpected late nights, missed dinners, preoccupied thoughts. It was just as good, though, too. Adrenaline rushes, new problems to solve every day, challenges that made him feel alive. He pulled into the driveway. At least today he would not have to add another missed dinner to the list.
The kids threw themselves at him before he even had his coat off. They’d had cocoa, watched two whole movies, played Candy Land until Grandpop said no more, eaten grilled cheese for lunch, and gotten to jump on the bed.
“What?” Hank stopped their chattering. “You got to what?”
Dunc came out of the kitchen. “It was either let ’em do that, or throw ’em out in a snowbank. Maggie specifically told me before she left this morning that I couldn’t do that, so the bed was the only thing I could think of to burn off some energy.”
He grabbed the bag out of Hank’s hand and disappeared back into the kitchen. Hank leaned down and whispered to Maribel, “You jumped on Grandpop’s bed, right?”
She giggled. “No. Yours and Mommy’s. It’s way bigger.”
Hank scowled, which just sent both kids into fits of laughter. They clung to hi
m as he walked into the kitchen, which smelled of warm bread and some kind of meat.
“I’m trying meatloaf. Marian’s recipe. I’m not sure I got it right,” Duncan said as he served it up.
Hank took his slice and dug in. Dunc had most definitely not gotten it right. It wasn’t inedible, but it was certainly not the meatloaf his mother-in-law used to make. He looked across the table at Dunc, who was taking his own first bite. He made a face and slowly lowered his fork back onto his plate. His eyes filled, and he swallowed hard. Hank looked down quickly and tried to concentrate on his own plate. Both men choked it down in silence until Maribel piped up.
“Benny’s playing with his food.” She pointed at her brother, who had built an impressive meat mountain studded with green-bean trees. He was so delighted with himself, Hank couldn’t get mad.
Duncan guffawed. “That’s about what it’s good for, kiddo,” he said. He turned to Hank. “If I’m going to keep trying to learn to cook, we’d better think about getting a dog. Nobody’s going to finish this.”
Hank pointed to his almost empty plate. “All I’ve had today is a bag of stale chips … and a couple of marshmallows on the way home. At this point, dinner could be dog food, and I’d still eat it.”
Benny chose that moment to flatten his mountain. Green beans went flying, and all four of them burst out laughing.
After Hank had cleaned that up, he wrestled his still-way-too-energetic kids into their pajamas and tucked them into bed. He came out after stories to find Duncan stoking the fire.
“Guess you’re heading out again?” he said.
Hank looked longingly at the easy chair by the hearth and the Dick Francis novel on the end table. His father-in-law was settling in for the night.
“Maggie told me you’ve got a murder. First time that’s happened around here in ages. Well, first time where it wasn’t some druggie meth heads killing each other outside of town.”
Hank wished it was a meth case. Nasty business, but it was always pretty easy to figure out what had gone down. No big-time businessmen, comatose key witnesses, or unidentified stalkers to muddy the waters. He stared at the fire. Dunc settled back in the chair to the left and took a slow sip from his mug. He said nothing, just let Hank stand there and think. Hank turned away. The fire was not helping. Maybe the water would. He gave Dunc a slap on the shoulder as he moved toward the door.
CHAPTER
12
The boat sat motionless in the frigid lake, with nothing more than the long, rickety, temporary gangplank to connect it to the dock like some kind of dubious umbilical cord. There was no creaking of rope or lapping of water. No sound at all. The heavy smell of pine and diesel fuel made the air more stagnant than it should have been, so far out in the pristine Ozarks. And the moonlight—the clouds had finally blown through and the sky was clear—slid along the smooth surface of the lake until it got to the Beauty. Then it seemed to not want to go any farther. Only small bits of light penetrated the darkness around the boat, casting haphazard shadows in every direction. The white paint looked dull and gray, and the black smokestacks were almost invisible as they towered over Hank.
A brief spark caught Hank’s eye. He turned as a shadow separated itself from the blackness of the forest and moved forward. “You better have a reason to be out here, boy,” it said.
Hank turned on his flashlight but kept it pointed at the ground. The light bounced up and weakly illuminated both their faces.
“Well, do you?” the man asked, a cigarette clamped between his lips. “Got a reason? Who are you?”
Well, now, that was irritating. Granted, he’d only been the sheriff for six months, but he felt that was plenty long enough for his deputies, all of whom he’d met personally—there weren’t that many—to recognize him.
“I’m the sheriff,” he said. “Thought I’d come have a look at my crime scene.”
In the darkness, he could feel more than see the other man stiffen. He resisted the urge to shine the light full in his face. That wouldn’t make things any better. Gerald Tucker didn’t much care for him, anyway. Hank hadn’t liked the vibe off the man—he seemed to have been a favorite of Gibbons, somebody used to getting the best assignments even if he didn’t have the right skills. Instead of choosing him as his second-in-command, Hank had gone with Sheila. He had a hunch Tucker had never lost out to a woman before. Especially a black one. Join the twenty-first century, pal. The best qualified wins. And he was pretty sure the best qualified had stuck Good Ol’ Boy with night dock duty on purpose. Good for her.
Hank smiled calmly and moved past his deputy toward the boat. He ducked under the crime-scene tape and walked up the gangplank and through the same gate where Tony Sampson had greeted him the first time he’d boarded the Beauty. It seemed like that had been years ago, but only thirty-six hours had passed. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, pointed his flashlight down the wide walkway, and headed toward the big showroom.
There was nothing out of the ordinary there, or in the backstage area. Costumes were neatly hung, props stacked, and makeup jars lined up neatly under the mirrors. It looked as though the actors had used their run-aground time wisely.
The kitchen had also been tidied, although the appliances—with their sharp corners and black boxy fronts—looked as if they had been there since the boat’s original launch in 1983.The only things from this millennium were the newish microwaves along the side wall. He went through everything. Nothing was out of place, and there was no .357 revolver anywhere.
The kitchen exit put Hank out on the walkway on the opposite side of the boat from the dock. In order to get to the stairs leading up to the second deck, he had to go around the stern, which took him past the gaping void where the paddle wheel had been. He leaned over the railing and looked down. His flashlight found holes where beams had been amputated. A mass of cables and wires dangled directly below him. The diesel smell was stronger back here.
He ran his light down and over the water. It refused to penetrate, bounced back and caught him in the eyes. He instinctively squeezed them shut and stepped back, hitting the wall behind him. The impact created a booming thud in the silence. He froze. Great. Now he’d have Tucker up here, demanding to know what was wrong. He waited. Nothing. His eyes adjusted again to the darkness. Still nothing. No Tucker. Hank frowned. He was relieved he didn’t have to look like an idiot in front of Good Ol’ Boy, yes, but come on. The guy should have at least yelled up to him to see if everything was okay. He was going to be a real pain in the neck.
Hank rounded the corner and stood in front of the door securing the stairway. There was another deck gate back here, where presumably the important passengers could use their own gangplank and avoid mixing with the tourists up front. The door was locked. He dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a key ring. Alice had given it to him after they were done processing the boat yesterday. He wondered which boat staff member she’d taken it from.
The fourth key he tried worked. He pulled open the door. It stayed locked on the outside, but pushed open easily from the inside. He climbed the stairs and stood at the end of the hallway. On the right was the wall of windows looking out over the dock. On the left was the dining room door and its windows, still with the shades tightly drawn. Then the door to the windowless kitchen, the elevator, and up at the front of the boat was the lounge, where the door and windows were all open to the view.
Hank went first to the elevator, which looked exactly as Leonard Dovecoat had described it to Sam. The doors had been pried open about a foot. He pushed them apart a bit more and stuck his head and flashlight in. The elevator was definitely hanging off balance in the shaft and not going anywhere. One more thing Gallagher would have to fix. Hank grinned.
The lounge looked the same as when the boat had been evacuated—somewhat messy with empty water bottles everywhere and chairs shoved in haphazard groups. There was nothing under the furniture, but there were a few loose coins in between the couch cushions. He left them alone and
headed for the little kitchen directly off the private dining room.
He stood in the middle of the small room and slowly turned in a circle, realizing he had not actually made it into this room on Sunday night. It had obviously been searched by his deputies—drawers weren’t closed all the way and two cupboard doors hung open. He turned again. It wasn’t even really a kitchen. It had two microwaves, some kind of weird drawer-type oven, and an ancient-looking refrigerator, but that was not enough to actually cook the full-course meal that VIP guests would expect. The food must have been prepared downstairs and then, what, brought up on the elevator? Hank decided he didn’t really care about the food service particulars and shifted his focus. He searched everything again, even looking on the underside of the little table against the wall where Mandy and the cook must have whiled away the time, judging from the playing cards still sitting there. He carefully bagged the deck. It wouldn’t hurt to confirm that waiter’s statement by making sure Mandy’s fingerprints were on the cards.
He ended up back in the middle of the room, no further along than when he’d started. That really is a hideous refrigerator, he thought. It had to be at least twenty-five years old. He pulled it open. It held a few bottles of ketchup and some fancy mustards, but that was it. He shut the door, and his gaze landed on the microwaves. He popped the first one open. Nothing. He hit the button on the second one, and the door swung open. A purse sat there, looking for all the world like it was ready to be cooked.
He whipped his phone out of his pocket and snapped several pictures before he reached in with his still-gloved hand and hooked a finger around the strap. He laid it carefully on the little table and stared at it. It was reasonably good sized and trendy looking, something he guessed a college girl would own. He unzipped it and pulled out the wallet. Yep. Amanda Grace Bryson. Born 2-27-93. 1522 Conifer Street, Branson, MO. Then her University of Oklahoma ID. A campus dining card and what had to be a key card into her dorm. Six dollars in cash. A bank debit card and only one credit card. A very well-worn Branson library card. He flipped it over. The single word “Mandy” was written on the signature line in trembly block letters. He pictured a little girl excitedly filling it in all those years ago, blinked hard, and put it back in the wallet.
