“You’re sure? Where? How?”
“I don’t know. Neither do Sally or Gator. Kain simply ordered my illustrious bosses to keep their traps shut or they’d join him. That sick Pole even reminded Gator that his nickname suggested intriguing options for an epitaph.”
Janie shivered. “This guy plays the godfather role to the hilt. A horse’s head here, a carrot there. You know those notes left with the bodies? ‘Stewed’… ‘To Bea or Not to Be.’ Gator said Kain uses them to confuse the cops and scare the crap out of anyone he’s got by the short hairs. Who’s going to cross a guy with a mind that works like that?”
“That’s it? Everything you heard?”
“No. I didn’t track all of the conversation. They said something about laundry, and Sally was pissed that Kain refused to write off the two million he fronted to buy Hogsback.”
My head pounded. Kain’s illegal businesses—undoubtedly legion—generated cash that needed laundering. I got that. And it didn’t take much of a mental leap to assume that two million of his money had wound up as a down payment for the purchase of Hogsback Island a.k.a. Emerald Cay. But I couldn’t help but share Sally’s wonder at Kain’s chutzpah. I’d personally promised the guy the authorities would examine every Emerald Cay document. How did he think he could pull off an extended land flip?
When I shared my train of thought, Janie chewed on her lip. “Kain plans to bury all the fraud mess with Woody. He told my bosses Nickel could still be the fall guy—just like they planned from the get-go. He signed all the phony documents. Now that he’s dead, Kain said they could play innocent, develop Emerald Cay for real.”
My brain was stuck on double-dealing overload. How many crooks were involved?
What happened to honor among thieves?
I stopped Janie’s monologue with a question. “Wait a minute, weren’t Gator and Woody fraternity brothers? Are you saying Gator set him up from the beginning?”
“Guess so.” She shrugged. “Kain ordered Gator to bring in a sales manager who couldn’t refuse a bribe. His old school buddy fit the bill. Then one of Kain’s pals bribed Woody to let him handle all the Dear Island appraisals. Once Gator could prove the bribe, Dear’s new sales manager had no choice. He had to play along with the land flip. Of course, the slime bucket might have agreed anyway.”
“So how does Hugh fit into this mess?”
“Best I could tell from Gator’s string of obscenities your Polish mystery man met Hugh and Grace on a cruise ship. Hugh gambled while Grace drank. When our island gigolo lost a pile of money, he turned to Kain, who canceled his gambling debts in exchange for enough insider information to blackmail Gator and Sally.”
My mind teemed with questions. What kind of blackmail did Hugh offer on Sally and Gator? Would Janie’s testimony be enough to put these scumbags away? No.
We reached the chapel and Janie—ever the optimist—made a slow circuit of the packed parking lot. Not a single opening.
“Cripes, I’m gonna ruin these shoes, traipsing through the outback,” she complained as she whipped her Caddy onto the grass median a hundred yards down the road.
I retrieved my brownies from the backseat before Janie locked the car. “You know where we’re headed as soon as this service is over, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Janie replied. “I figured you’d tell me it was time to have a long chat with the chief or one of the deputies. Now un-knit those brows or you’ll have wrinkles the size of plow ruts by sundown. Not the way to impress your new boy toy.”
At the nondenominational chapel, well-dressed islanders shuffled forward in meandering queues. The crowd at today’s memorial service was the largest I’d seen. Memorial services for Dear departed are a traditional rite of island passage. Often the official funeral services are held in distant cities—Akron, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Albany—the places where retirees once worked, raised children and bought cemetery plots.
Local memorials gave islanders a venue to reminisce and grieve. After the services, the Condolence Committee provided refreshments in an adjacent community center. The whole shebang had the feel of a wake. Though alcohol was officially banned, the Irish and their kissing kin frequently snuck in flasks to baptize their coffee.
By the time the line of mourners snaked inside the chapel, all the pews were full. Round rumps were wedged into place like stuffed decorator pillows on an overloaded settee. We’d stand for the entire service. I was glad I’d worn comfortable shoes.
A dozen people took turns at the altar, remembering Stew’s kindnesses and virtues. Shifting from foot to foot, I wondered if anyone would eulogize Bea. Finally one woman came forward. Her bland comments seemed more a matter of courtesy than conviction. The contrast made me wonder: Will anyone give a flip when I’m gone?
As the visiting minister revved up for the benediction, my beeper vibrated. Uh-oh. In these circumstances, the chief only rang in an emergency. I whispered in Janie’s ear and edged toward the exit. Then I noticed others in sneak-out mode. A dozen reporters who’d come to scribble notes for human-interest follow-ups skulked toward the exit. Somehow these mainlanders had tapped into the island tom-toms.
Once outside, I moseyed to a remote corner of the deck that surrounded the chapel. The chief’s message was terse. “Ninety-nine,” he said. “Check point BW1.”
To thwart eavesdroppers in our murderous new era, the chief had developed a code to communicate what and where. “Ninety-nine” was his code for homicide. “BW1” told me to hightail it to the Beach West entrance—the first street in this section of the island.
As people streamed from the chapel, Janie fought her way to my side.
“There’s been another murder,” I whispered as I holstered my radio. “Will you drive me home? I need my car.”
“Nope. But I’ll drive you to the body. Has to be Woody. Come on.”
We made a beeline to the Caddy. Since she’d looped the parking lot before settling, we were pointed in the right direction. I feared reporters might notice our retreat and follow. Couldn’t be helped. You can’t lose a tail on a five-mile island.
“It’s Beach West again,” I said. “Head to the entrance.”
Three security cars bracketed the scene, and yellow tape circled an entrance fountain that shot water like a bi-polar geyser, twenty feet with one pulse, two inches with the next. The fountain and its reflecting pool were designed for ambiance, an aesthetic billboard for coming attractions. There were no footpaths in this undeveloped section, and the fountain was two hundred feet from the road. That made it unlikely passersby would spot a foreign object floating in the reflecting pool. Even a big one, like Woody. Perhaps a maintenance worker found him.
Janie parked, and we walked together to meet Chief Dixon. He wouldn’t complain about Janie’s presence just as a city cop wouldn’t think twice about the mayor’s top aide showing up if a crime promised to be a political hot potato. On Dear Island, Janie wore the equivalent mayoral mantle.
“It’s that Nickel fella,” Dixon said. “I’m no coroner, but he looks like he’s been floating a spell. Several hours at least.”
The chief gave my gray pantsuit, pink silk blouse and skimpy leather flats a disgruntled once over. “Since you’re not dressed for duty, take my car and play chauffeur. Go pick up the coroner and sheriff at Dear Island’s helipad. They should land in ten minutes. Deputy Mann’s on the chopper, too. He was leaving the sheriff’s office when I called in a new body.”
Janie stared at the corpse, all hint of wry amusement gone. “I’m leaving,” she said abruptly.
The comment prompted Dixon to deputize my friend. “Hey, Janie, I don’t want to go on the airwaves. How’s ’bout you find Sally and break the news? Gator, too, if he’s back on the island. I don’t want ’em to hear this secondhand. The guy was some buddy of Gator’s, right?”
“Yeah,” she answered. “Some buddy.”
Janie seemed mesmerized by the corpse. Electrical probes had caught Woody in the throat, leaving
vampire-like aftereffects. He appeared to have suffered Stew’s fate—stunned, bound and drowned. However, while Stew bobbed face down in a steamy cauldron with assorted veggies, Woody floated on his back in the shallow pool. He was fully dressed in chinos, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and Gucci loafers, no socks. Silver dollars covered his eyes and mouth. The coins, glinting in the bright April sunshine, were secured by see-through packing tape wound tightly around his head.
“Did our killer leave a calling card?”
“Afraid so. He spray-painted the retaining wall. This bastard is one sick mother.”
Janie and I walked the perimeter until the Day-Glo paint came into view: “3 COINS IN A FOUNTIN.”
Kain must not have checked this hit man’s spelling acumen. Still the message was clear: the man orchestrating the killings was a monster.
As Janie fought a gag reflex, I whispered urgently in her ear. “Listen to me, Janie. I want you to talk to the chief this minute. Tell him everything. When you climbed in the car, I had some news of my own. Your story sidetracked me. This morning Hugh sent a note suggesting that Kain kill you. It appears that Sally and Gator know you’ve been snooping. Do not go looking for either of them. Stay here with the chief until I get back.”
Little hiccup noises escaped Janie’s mouth. “I feel awful. Woody’s death wasn’t real to me. Not until I saw his body. I can’t believe I was cracking wise. I wanted Woody off the island…behind bars…out of my face. But this is awful. He’s someone’s son. He has a five-year-old kid in Florida. I’m ashamed.”
My friend spun and raced toward her Caddy. “Come back,” I yelled as I sprinted after her “Talk to the chief.”
She turned as she opened her car door. “Not yet. Marley, please, I need two hours. Then I’ll do whatever you ask. I think I’ve figured a way to nail Gator, Sally and Kain. I’m going to the office. As soon as I leave, I’ll come talk to you and Braden. Then I’ll do whatever you ask.”
A second later, Janie was gone, her Caddy’s wheels flinging gravel.
Dammit. Goddammit.
TWENTY-THREE
Time passed in a blur after I picked up my charges at the helipad. The first moment I had Braden alone, I shared Janie’s story. The glint in his eye said he welcomed a break in the case, though Janie clearly vexed him.
“That woman’s certifiable. What makes her think she can swim unmolested in Dear’s cesspool?”
“Should we head over to the office and pick her up?” I asked.
Braden tossed me his cell. “Call and order her to stay put while I let the sheriff in on the latest developments. Tell her we’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”
The receptionist recognized my voice and launched into a breathless rundown. “Janie’s in a big powwow with Gator, Sally, and all the agents. You heard about Mr. Nickel, right?” she asked in a stage whisper. “They’re talking a moratorium on sales and an official mourning period.”
The woman took a breath. “Do you know how he was killed?”
I politely sidestepped her invitation to gossip and put in a request for Janie to call as soon as the meeting ended. I covered the receiver and asked Braden for his cell phone number.
“Please, make sure Janie phones the absolute second she’s free.” I pushed the cell’s End button.
“She’s in a meeting with all the agents, so no immediate danger. Want to head over and park outside her door?”
Braden massaged the bridge of his nose. “Since she’s safe for the time being, I’d like a few more minutes with our bosses.”
While Braden huddled with the sheriff and my chief, I helped corral the horde of reporters jostling for photo ops and shooed away the tourist rubberneckers buzzing about in golf carts. Ten minutes ticked by. I caught Braden’s eye, tapped my watch. He mimed listening to a phone and shook his head. Janie hadn’t called. He held up his hand, his fingers spread wide, a promise we’d leave in five minutes.
Dark clouds scuttled in from the sea, bringing with them a premature dusk. The crowd thinned as darkness heightened anxieties about the identity of the next victim.
Braden touched my arm and held up a set of keys. “Your chief said to take his car and bring Janie to his office—in handcuffs, if necessary.”
“Suits me,” I said. “I bet Nickel’s killer is still on the prowl. Are the twins okay? Did Grace show up at her lawyer’s?”
“Yeah, she actually turned up without her boyfriend. When she couldn’t find Hugh, Grace tagged a neighbor to drive her to the courthouse.”
We approached the real estate building. I looked for Janie’s Caddy. It wasn’t parked in its reserved slot. The entire lot sat empty. “Uh-oh, where did everyone go?”
We parked and ran up the steps. The building was locked. I inserted my security master key beneath the door’s solemn black wreath. Inside, I called Janie’s name. My voice echoed in the tomblike quiet. We checked every room. Not a sound, not a soul.
Braden handed me his cell phone. “Call her.” After a couple of rings, Janie’s chirpy recorded message announced she was out having fun and would return the call soon—if she didn’t get a better offer. The leave-a-message beep cut her off mid-laugh.
“Janie, call me. Right away. This is serious.” Once again I provided Braden’s cell number.
I returned his phone. “Now what?”
“We search.” He notified our respective bosses Janie was missing and told them we’d begin a search.
Since there were no lights on in Janie’s house and her car wasn’t in the garage, we made a two-minute pit stop at my house. I stripped off my mud-splattered Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and slipped on a uniform with sensible shoes. Since neither of us had eaten since breakfast, Braden threw together ham and cheese sandwiches to wolf down in the car. As we headed out, I grabbed two Cokes and a family size bag of potato chips. He smiled at my additions.
“What? I munch when I’m nervous.”
I took a second peek in Janie’s garage. Her golf cart was stabled, but no Cadillac. We tried the doorbell once more. Silence. No signs of life.
“Any ideas where to look next?” Braden asked.
I knew where, but wasn’t anxious to say so. “Her Caddy isn’t an easy car to hide. Let’s take a quick ride through Beach West, then check her house again.”
On our drive, we speculated why Hugh had used a boat to haul an ice chest full of cash to the island.
“Someone probably delivered the money by car until the bridge went out,” Braden said
“And I think I know when the money laundering started,” I added.
Braden looked at me in surprise.
“Until two months ago, any charge at a Dear facility—golf course, restaurants, tennis shop—had to be put on a club charge account. You couldn’t pay cash for anything. Sally wanted to make sure the folks using Dear amenities were bonafide, dues-paying members. Then overnight she made a one-hundred and eighty-degree policy reversal. Cash was hunky-dory.”
Braden nodded. “Sounds right. To deposit Kain’s cash, they simply needed to phony up cash receipts and mix them in with legit ones.”
The next part of the transaction was a bit hazier for me. “I’m guessing the new Dear largesse was invested in Emerald Cay LLC. Assuming Kain was a principal, he’d have easy access to his money.”
As we bumped along Beach West’s logging roads, I sucked in my breath at every turn, fearing our headlights would bounce off a pink Caddy. I slumped in relief when we exited the untamed wilderness without spotting any sign of evening trespassers.
“God, I wish Janie would call,” I grumbled.
At seven o’clock, we passed her house for the third time. I was beyond worry. Her windows were black holes that swallowed all light and energy.
“Let’s stop. I want to check the garage again. See if Janie’s Caddy is back,” I said.
I’d taken only two steps when Pussy Galore streaked past me, headed for the woods. The overweight Persian was still light on her feet. Too quick to catch. I s
pun around and motioned Braden to lower his window.
“Get out and bring your gun.” Fear roughened my voice. “Something’s wrong. Janie never lets her cat outside. Too many alligators.”
Braden radioed the gatehouse we were leaving our car. We tiptoed to the garage window. The Cadillac now sat beside her golf cart. When had she come home? If she was inside, why was her house blacker than soot?
“Let’s not advertise our arrival,” I whispered. “No knock, no doorbell. If we scare the bejesus out of Janie, I’ll apologize later.”
“Agreed.” Braden thumbed the front latch. Locked. He raised a boot to kick in the door.
“Wait.” I scurried down the stairs, upended a fake rock in the flowerbed, and retrieved Janie’s spare key. Half the island knew where she kept it—including Gator and Sally. That realization raised icy prickles on my scalp.
As we rushed in, Braden’s penlight splayed across the floor and walls. My pulse tap-danced as we cleared the living room with guns drawn. In the kitchen, I heard a faint sound. A keening noise. I broke into a run. I barely heard Braden’s hissed, “Wait.”
Anemic moonlight filtered through the skylight. My friend was naked. Scarves bound her writhing form to the four corners of her poster bed. Her head tossed furiously. Braden’s light swept over her face. Dilated pupils crowded out all but a slender rim of blue iris. I could tell Janie didn’t recognize me.
Gibberish outbursts intercut her moans. “Golf course…oh God, no blue…gurg…uniform.”
I untied one of her wrists. Before I could undo a second knot, she beat at me with her freed fist. The stream of verbal gobbledygook continued nonstop. “Blue uniform…blue death.”
“Janie, please, I’m trying to help. It’s me. Marley.”
Braden flicked on the bedroom light.
She shrieked in agony. “No, no.…Lasers. Burning eyes. On fire.”
The light increased her torment. Janie quit hitting me to cover her eyes. Her squirming made it even harder to loosen the knots crimped in the slippery silk. I recognized the scarf I was untying—swirls of purple, green and pink. My flamboyant present for Janie’s last birthday.
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 23
