I bit my lip to keep from screaming in frustration. “Okay, maybe there’s more to it. But will you please talk to Sofia before something happens to her?”
“Definitely. We’ll drop in, see if we can turn up hard evidence to tie the workers to Kain. Do you know how to find the barracks?”
“No, but nuns run a migrant outreach program not far from Gedduh Place. Word about the place would definitely reach the sisters.”
The deputy’s acquiescence encouraged me to go for broke. “We ought to confront Gator tonight. Bea’s funeral is tomorrow. We could drop in during visitation and ask a few questions. Maybe catch him off guard.”
Braden held up one hand. “Whoa. I’m not bracing a widower while his wife’s casket sits ten feet away—especially with reporters spying and the sheriff stopping by to offer condolences.”
He paused. “In fact, we should cancel this Hilton Head trip—it was a bad idea from the get-go. We’ve got enough trouble north of the Broad River.”
I shook my head. “No way. Kain will be at April’s club tonight. I’m going with or without you. I don’t have to worry about police protocol.”
Braden groaned. “You think Kain will confess…that you can trick him into providing some clue?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not exactly. But this guy has a huge ego. I’ll bet he’s real pleased with himself. Maybe he’ll drink to celebrate. Maybe he’ll be itching to brag and throw out hints he thinks some stupid rent-a-cop doesn’t have the smarts to pick up on. What do we have to lose?”
A few phone calls provided directions to the worker barracks, located at the end of a dusty road christened “Harry” during a push to ID every crossroad for 911 calls. “Harry” had been the best-known inhabitant of the muddy track that circled behind acres of tomato fields.
At four-thirty, Janie rang the bell, right on time for our outing. Braden mumbled a hello. As we walked to her car, she nodded her head toward the deputy. “Seems kind of scratchy. Sure was a short honeymoon.”
True, he was irritated but I appreciated his willingness—though coerced—to compromise. As we drove to catch the last ferry, I repeated Sofia’s story for my neighbor.
“Surely the girl’s confused.” Janie frowned. “I write weekly checks to Help-Lease. It’s an employment agency headquartered in Washington, D.C. Provides foreign workers who don’t complain when they’re asked to do manual labor. We pay the agency a lump sum. In exchange, it delivers the crew, houses the workers, and takes care of workmen’s comp, FICA withholding—the whole nine yards. Nothing illegal. It’s a legit temp agency.”
“Could Kain own Help-Lease?” I asked.
Janie shook her head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Marley. Hugh went on a cruise ship staffed by Help-Lease and told Gator about the agency. My boss followed up, eager to glom onto a source for cheap, docile employees. If a worker turns out to be a dud, he’s gone. No lawsuit threats, no grievance cases.”
I didn’t argue the ethics with Janie. I did wonder about Help -Lease scale of operation. What happened to guest workers after they fulfilled their labor contracts—if that’s what they were? Were they dumped unceremoniously back in their homelands? Did they have any shot at happy-ever-after?
After an uneventful ferry crossing, we piled into Braden’s waiting car and headed toward Sands Island. The barracks proved easy to find. Once painted a dazzling blue, which, in Gullah mythology, wards off evil spirits or hants, the dilapidated shacks had faded to a bluish-gray.
We walked inside. The paint job had failed to thwart evil. Cockroaches didn’t bother to scurry; they sauntered, knowing they owned the filthy landscape. Single cots lined the walls; the thickest mattress skinnier than a slice of Wonder bread. Most chilling was the absence of people. A few stray articles of clothing—mostly worn socks—said the occupants vacated in a hurry.
“Jesus Christ,” Janie muttered. “I can’t believe folks lived like this and didn’t gripe.”
My fingers itched with the urge to strangle someone. “To people living in worse hellholes, this looks like Nirvana. No one’s lobbing grenades. There’s food. Their sponsor knows where to look.”
Braden shook his head. “Doubt we’ll ever find Sofia. By nightfall she’ll be billeted in some other backwater shack or maybe on a cruise ship. Who’s going to run to the police to protest?”
Janie looked downright ill. “I feel like crap. I never questioned anything. You guys still want to go to Hilton Head?”
“More than ever. I can’t wait for Kain to see I’m alive and ready to stick a red hot poker up his ass.”
Braden opened the car door. “You’re delusional. This guy won’t talk to you—or anyone—about anything.”
“Want to bet?” I challenged.
He muttered something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like “freakin’ Yankee women.” I knew he meant me—and possibly his ex-wife. Not the most promising pairing.
NINETEEN
We spoke little during the first half of our ride to Hilton Head. As we traveled Beaufort’s perimeter, a military convoy slowed our progress to a tortoise pace. The young men occupying jump seats in the truck ahead looked more like Boy Scouts than warriors. My perception was a defect of age. Everyone under thirty looked like a kid these days. When the soldiers exited at Parris Island, I mentally wished them well. At least they’d complete basic training before summer’s stifling blanket of humidity settled over the Lowcountry.
Crossing the Broad River provided enough emotional distance from the desolate worker camp for us to talk again. Janie broke the silence. “Maybe this labor crap is connected to the murders. Stew’s job took him to Sands Island. Bet he saw the camp and threatened to report Help-Lease. Could be they killed him before he could blab.”
Riding shotgun, I turned and fixed Janie with a look designed to wither.
“Your theory doesn’t explain Bea’s death. She wasn’t exactly a champion of workers’ rights. Something more lucrative than imported labor is behind this mess. In these parts, that means drugs or real estate.”
I verbally twisted my neighbor’s arm, a nudge to tell all to Braden.
Janie sighed. “Okay, I give. Braden, my friend wants me to tell you about some fishy goings on in our real estate office. This goes against my better judgment and I’m asking you to be a gentleman. If it’s unrelated to the murders, it’s out of your jurisdiction, right? Personally I think Marley’s nuts. Gator and Sally aren’t killers.”
“What the hell are you two babbling about?” Braden asked with heat. “Sounds like my island liaison has been holding back. Somebody fill me in now.”
“Okay, chill out,” Janie said and launched into a recital of suspected hanky-panky from Woody’s unauthorized use of her notary stamp to Gator’s and Sally’s mysterious funding of Hogsback Island.
When she finished, I added background on the mechanics of land flip scams courtesy of Aunt May. I also listed the co-conspirator suspects gleaned from Beaufort gossip. I was now convinced the shady and profitable appraiser, the foreign mortgage broker, and the down-on-his-luck lawyer were pawns in the puzzle.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” Braden said. “You’re convinced a real estate scam is underway and that Kain, the central villain, somehow cajoled or coerced Gator and Sally to dance to his tune.”
He looked my way. I nodded without speaking.
“Doesn’t wash. Why would Gator and Sally go along? Every land flip has a foreseeable end, inevitable discovery, right? To profit, the crooks have to skip before mortgages start to default. It would take one hell of a big payday to make it worthwhile for Sally to disappear when she has a kid, family. And, once Bea was killed, why would Gator keep his trap shut?”
I didn’t respond immediately, figuring a few moments of silence might dial down the emotional temperature. Keeping my mouth shut for so long about a potential subplot clearly pissed Braden off.
“Maybe Gator and Sally got sucked in gradually—like tar babies, one greedy
hand at a time. By the time Bea was killed, the message was clear. If they talked, they were next.”
Braden glowered. Though angry, he’d calmed. “Okay, it’s a theory. But we don’t have a shred of evidence that Gator or Sally ever met Kain, let alone got into bed with him.”
Janie chuckled. “Good metaphor, or is it a simile? If nothing else, maybe we’ll find out tonight what type of bedmate Kain prefers. What do we have to lose?”
***
Perhaps we’d all begun to think about our losses. Whatever the reason, a funk—and silence—descended. My own thoughts migrated from Kain to Braden. Did we have a future? Did I want one? I speculated on his “Yankee women” barb. Did he see me as too willful? If so, I gave our relationship the longevity of a fruit fly—despite the amazing sex.
At seven o’clock we crossed the soaring bridge over Skull Creek and touched down on Hilton Head during the prime feedlot hour. But luck was with us as we claimed seats at one of the island’s popular eateries.
Our table offered an impressive beach view. Though night had fallen, we could still see the white froth of the breakers and hear the rumbling surf. On the flat horizon, a shrimp boat with its arms locked upright looked like an angry bull, its metal horns ready to charge the sea. We could see only one of the boat’s running lights—a fierce Cyclops’s eye.
The waiter took our drink orders. I requested an O’Doul’s, and my tablemates seconded the motion. Though a belt of hard-core booze had definite appeal, nonalcoholic beer seemed wiser given the night’s mission. We needed our wits—or what passed for them. We voted unanimously for the house specialty, Frogmore Stew, and devoured the Lowcountry mélange of shrimp, spicy sausage, potatoes, onions and corn in no time.
We kept the conversation light until our plates were empty—edibles gone and shells and corncobs flung in a tin bucket sunk in the center of the table. Janie gabbed the most, telling amusing stories that poked fun without transforming Dear’s inhabitants into caricatures. Braden smiled in spite of himself. My neighbor was good company if you weren’t on her black list.
With time to spare after dinner, Braden ran Janie by her sister’s condo so she could drop her suitcase in the foyer. She’d already shared her intention to help April close up, freeing Braden and me to leave the club whenever we wanted. Next, Braden checked us into our hotel and schlepped our overnight bags to our room.
We reached April’s club a few minutes after eight o’clock. Braden entered ahead of Janie and me. Five minutes later, my neighbor and I staked out a two-person table six feet away from his seat at the long bar.
The night spot—Shore Leave—was a far cry from my expectation. Warm, pleasing lighting made it easy to read patrons’ expressions—mostly smiles. April must have spent a fortune on acoustics, too. If Kain did talk to me, he could whisper and I wouldn’t miss a word.
Large watercolors in spare wood frames decorated Shore Leave’s cream walls. The artwork celebrated the sea and human forms. The tributes were sensuous not graphic. Wax held thousands of tiny seashells prisoner in the candles topping the mahogany tables clustered around the performance stage. Flickering shadows danced merrily across the polished wood. The club was, well…classy.
Janie promised our trio wouldn’t stand out. She was right. April did not cater to a strictly male audience. The atmosphere was comfortably cordial, the clientele upscale. Like many South Carolina retail establishments, I noticed this one posted a leave-your-concealed-weapon-outside reminder at the door. I hoped Kain read English as well as he spoke it.
The deputy nursed a dark Samuel Adams beer as he chatted with a middle-aged man on the adjacent stool. I automatically frowned when Braden paused to flirt with the young, top-heavy barmaid.
Though small, Shore Leave had an open floor plan with no side rooms or confessional-style banquets for lap dances. It didn’t take long to scan every face and verify Kain’s absence. April sashayed over and greeted us with hasty cheek kisses. A few years older than Janie, she clearly shared her sister’s screw-you mindset.
“Hey, Sis. Marley. Welcome to Shore Leave. It’s a class joint, huh?” She flashed a smile my way. “What’d you expect, a condom dispenser at the front door? Wait’ll you get a load of our new belly dancer. Muscle control like that and I could seduce Prince Harry.”
Her laugh tinkled like a bell. “Your pigeon hasn’t arrived. Usually comes in alone a little after nine. You have a prime spot to watch the door.”
“Are any of his former dates here?” I asked.
She grinned conspiratorially. “Nope. But I’ll keep an eye out. If I see one, I’ll introduce her to your deputy. He’s cute. I’d be glad to tell him my sexual preferences.”
April glanced toward a group of arrivals. “Got to play hostess. Will check with you later. Drinks are on the house.”
At nine-twenty, Kain swaggered in. When our eyes met, he made a beeline for our table. My stuttering heart hammered my ribs.
“Marley, isn’t it? You do turn up in the most unusual places. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. And here I was thinking I’d need to engineer our next meeting.”
His smug smile hinted at an inside joke. That’s when an old Gullah proverb flashed through my mind: “Every grin teeth don’t mean laugh.”
TWENTY
“May I join you?” Kain bowed slightly.
Shore Leave’s muted lights flattered the handsome man. I guessed him to be ten years my junior, fairly close to the big 4-O divide. Blond highlights shimmered in his thick brown mane—a Clairol ad man’s dream. Yet his cruel mouth and haughty manner brought to mind the actors who played Nazi S.S. officers in vintage World War II flicks. His chiseled features projected no hint of humanity.
I hadn’t answered Kain’s request to join us. An under-the-table kick from Janie forced me to focus. My friend lifted an eyebrow in an unspoken question: What the hell should I do?
We hadn’t scripted this scenario. “I’d welcome the company.” I returned Kain’s smile. “Especially since my friend has to leave. Please, have a seat.”
Though I purposely made no introduction, Janie vacated her seat with a curt, “Nice to meet you.” I vowed not to tell the creep anything I didn’t want him to know.
Janie nervously fluffed her pageboy. “Be back in a few minutes.”
Kain leaned in so close his hot breath assaulted my ear. “I hear Janie Spark’s quite the strumpet. Did she have those inclinations before her hubby started screwing her little sister?” His tongue snaked over his lips. “Maybe we should convince her to stay. I do enjoy a spirited ménage à trois. Older women, if they’re as well preserved as you, my lieutenant colonel, are quite the treat. So keen to please. Especially widows who’ve tired of their dildos.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. Feeling simultaneously slimed and flabbergasted, I checked a strong impulse to smack the guy. I’d planned to surprise Kain, put him on the defensive. In seconds he’d turned the tables, letting me know he could pen unauthorized biographies of Janie and me, complete with sexual footnotes.
How and why had Kain checked us out?
I recalled his attempt to pump the Sea Watch maître d’ for my last name. The Dear Island sticker on Donna’s car could have given him a place to dig for dirt. Other inquiries—undoubtedly on Dear—bore fruit. He knew my name, rank and, for all I knew, serial number. My uncommon first name probably simplified his research.
That didn’t explain why he’d probed Janie’s past. She swore they’d never met.
To buy time, I countered his sexual innuendo even though the gambit made me want to gag. I decided to let him know I could be clairvoyant, too. “Well, Mr. Dzandrek, on behalf of older ladies, I should point out that we’re quite particular about our sexual partners.”
Kain smiled, though his eyes held all the warmth of a black hole. “Oh? And I’d heard you were screwing that deputy seated at the bar. Does the hotel room Deputy Mann booked for the two of you have twin beds? The cop seems very ordinary, no imagination.”
I sat stone-faced, unwilling to give this bully the satisfaction of revulsion or fear. I sensed these were the responses he prized. Kain’s forefinger lightly stroked my arm. While I could censor my words, my body’s response to his icy touch proved beyond my control. Goose bumps erupted along the route of his caress like welts rising from the lick of a whip.
Concentrate. I knew how and why I’d come to Kain’s attention, but why had he dug into my neighbor’s background? And how did he know about a hotel room Braden booked a few hours ago? Did he have us under surveillance?
Kain spoke. “A lot of turmoil has come into my life since our chance meeting. Your police have questioned me not once but twice. I’m a private man. I fear your insinuations and nosiness are to blame. I won’t tolerate meddling.”
He grabbed my wrist and squeezed for emphasis. “When I was a boy, I ate moldy bread, fought dogs for meat that had gone green. Now I’m wealthy. How do you suppose a Pole like me gets rich, eh? It’s not attending Northwestern.”
His allusion to my alma mater was more theatrical window dressing. He’d made his point. I chanced a furtive glance toward Braden. Had he seen our villain claim his seat?
“A pity.” I shrugged. “Northwestern is a good school.”
Kain released the grip on my wrist. “I believe in education, and I love to study language. Want to know how I mastered English? Word games. When I meet someone, I repeat the name, and connect it with a catch phrase. Since you’re a colonel, I might associate you with…oh, I know…Kentucky Fried Chicken. Get it? Colonel Sanders.”
His chilling nonchalance provoked the desired effect. My bowels turned to ice water. The freaking psycho just boasted he’d authored the leave-behind murder notes and the spray-painted epitaph intended for me. I doubted Kain had written those notes or killed Bea and Stew with his own hands. He’d merely dictated the messages and his surrogate killer’s MOs.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 20
