by Morgan Brice
“Not only that, but the blond guy? He’s Anthony Benton, son of the main partner, great-grandson of the founder,” Ross went on like he’d just seen a celebrity. “And the old man? Drayton Conrad. Ring a bell?”
Vic felt gobsmacked. Drayton Conrad represented big-shot celebrities who got on the wrong side of the law, politicians whose improprieties caught up with them, and CEOs who ran afoul of the rules. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”
“I’m guessing their hourly fee is more than my car payment. Hell, more than my mortgage,” Ross said. “So how does a guy who runs a ghost tour store afford that kind of representation, let alone have two of the best lawyers in the state hotfoot it over here when he whistles?”
“I have no idea,” Vic replied, mystified.
“Well, I don’t think you’ve got to worry about your boyfriend taking the fall for this,” Ross said quietly. “Because they’ll shred the circumstantial evidence and burn our case to the ground if we even tried to take this to court.”
That was good, Vic thought. With that kind of representation, Simon wouldn’t get railroaded by an ambitious district attorney. But that didn’t mean he was safe from the Slitter. And it didn’t change a thing about the damage done by Vic’s absence and perceived betrayal.
“I think I know what we need to do next,” Vic said, in a voice he barely recognized as his own. “Come on. We’ve got work to do. We both think the Slitter is out there. Let’s find him.”
17
Simon
The day had started off so well, only to go straight to hell.
After their late-night movie binge, Simon had set his alarm for six, giving him just four hours of sleep but assuring he would wake up in time to get Tracey off to work. Although Tracey ran Mizzenmast Coffee, she wasn’t a natural morning person, to say the least.
By six-thirty, the coffee was ready, Simon had laid out muffins and butter, and Tracey was up, showered and reasonably coherent. He pushed her out the door after a hug and a quick breakfast, promising to stop by Le Miz later that day, and not to let so much time go by between movie nights.
Now that he was fully awake, Simon took his second cup of coffee to the table and pulled out his laptop. His night had been restless, despite several glasses of wine, and the Billy Bass clue had churned in his mind. What if it’s a symbol, not a real thing? Billy is Bill is William. And Bass?
He fired up his browser and pulled up a search engine, then looked for ‘last names starting with “F.” Scrolling down, Simon found plenty of sites and started taking notes. “Fish, Fishback, Fishbaugh, Fishbeck, Fishbein, Fishburn, Fisher, Fisherman, Fishman,” he muttered, noting that all those could also be spelled with an “sch” as well. “Oh, and let’s not forget Marlin, Pike, Cod, and Shad,” he said.
Next, he put the first name “William” in front of each surname and searched for hits in South Carolina. That eliminated quite a few options, leaving him with ten names. Glancing down the search results, he eliminated three more people, since the information showed them to be over seventy years old.
Simon had thought about this all night as he tossed and turned. He remembered some of the other store owners talking about how they ran potential new hires through an online background check, looking for bad debts, criminal records, and other red flags. A search pulled up several options, and after a few minutes, Simon chose one with the features he needed, paid the fee for the first month’s subscription, and entered the seven remaining names.
Since it would take a while to get results, Simon turned his attention to the envelope he had found by the shop door last night. It had been pushed aside in the rush to get breakfast. Simon grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a box under the kitchen sink, and handled the envelope gingerly, spreading clean paper towels on the table to try to keep from contaminating the contents.
He worked open the flap, and four large photos slid out, gruesome close-ups of the Slitter’s victims. These weren’t police pictures, Simon knew by looking at them. These were the killer’s personal trophies. A sticky note attached to the top photo read “You’re next” in block print marker.
Simon shoved the photos back into the envelope and ran to the sink to throw up. He braced himself on the edge of the basin, shaky and lightheaded. He had barely glanced at the pictures, but beneath the blood, he had recognized Quinn, Katya, Cindy, and a dark-haired woman he thought might be Iryena from the ice cream cart. It was no accident that out of all the Slitter’s victims, he had chosen photos of people Simon knew for his vicious taunt.
It took a few minutes for Simon to collect his wits. He put on fresh gloves, wrapped the envelope in paper towels, and put it in a folder he got from his home office. He added the list of fish-related names, and printed out the pictures from his phone of the niding horse and the bloody puddle at the shop’s front door, and added those to the folder as well.
Simon grabbed a tablet and started to jot down a timeline, from the first reading he had done for Vic, through the other dreams, visions, and ghostly appearances, noting the dates and times. He added the date and phone number of the threatening call, as well as the other attacks, and finally, the death omen dream and the call from Marcus. Then he set the tablet inside the folder as well and finished his coffee, debating his next move.
He looked at the folder and considered calling Vic. But Vic had seemed distant lately, wrapped up in the case, and Simon knew that what he had collected were mere odds and ends, nothing that might turn the tide of the investigation. Vic would worry about the envelope’s threat, but there were no markings to identify the sender, and although he had been careful handling the paper, he doubted the Slitter would be careless enough to leave a fingerprint or DNA evidence.
Simon wasn’t even sure where he stood with Vic right now. More than a one night stand, but less than a boyfriend. Simon would willingly give the relationship time to grow if Vic seemed inclined to deepen their connection. But Simon’s psychic ability was the big ghostly elephant in the room, the thing they didn’t want to talk about and couldn’t evade. No, he thought with a sigh. He couldn’t take the jumble of information he’d collected to Vic. Not yet. Not until he had something that would stand up to police scrutiny, something that could be proven.
He had one lead he hadn’t followed up on. The vision of the graffiti-tagged pool at the old Moonlight Bay Hotel had been a strong one. He checked the time and saw that it wasn’t yet eight a.m. If he hurried, he could stop by the abandoned site on his way to work. If he found something useful, he’d take photos, and maybe then Vic would believe him. Since the background check would take a little while to run, and Simon needed to get to the shop, it seemed like the best option to stay one step ahead of a killer.
The boardwalk was quiet when Simon arrived. Most tourists didn’t wake this early, the shops weren’t open yet, and early-bird walkers tended to prefer the beach. A chain-link fence surrounded Moonlight Bay, but it had been bent and breached numerous times by thrill-seekers and urban explorers, so getting through a gap posed little problem.
In its day, Moonlight Bay might have been charming, with its white walls and blue balconies just a stone’s throw from the beach. Now, rust streaked the white paint, and the balconies looked likely to collapse. Draperies sagged in the windows, and vandals had broken out some of the glass on the first floor.
Simon headed right for what had once been an indoor-outdoor pool. In bad weather, large Plexiglas panes could be slipped into place, keeping the pool warm while protecting against the chill. During temperate seasons, the pool was open air with the glass removed, and back in the day would have had a clear line of sight right to the ocean.
Graffiti artists had “decorated” the walls in overlapping colors with designs, gang signs, and funky murals that vied for attention. Very little of the original beach-themed painting showed through the layers of spray paint. As Simon reached the pool deck, he realized that the motel hadn’t truly been abandoned, merely co-opted, given the amount of garbage, used condoms,
and drug paraphernalia left in the corners. He walked carefully, sniffing the air. The hotel smelled of water damage and mildew, and another scent that grew stronger as he neared the long-empty pool.
Simon reached the edge of the pool at the same instant he recognized the smell of blood and decay. A body lay on the cracked tile at the bottom, surrounded by a large enough circle of dark liquid Simon had no doubt the person was dead. From this angle, he could recognize the face. Marcus.
He stumbled back, sickened and horrified. Simon’s first impulse was to leave and call in the murder from a pay phone. Then again, that hadn’t shielded his identity before, and someone was likely to see him fleeing the scene of a crime, which would only make things worse. Calling Vic would be a mistake because it would compromise him even more than he already was by his connection to Simon.
Still in shock, Simon pulled out his phone and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a murder.”
Ten minutes later, when the police arrived, Simon hadn’t moved from where he had backed away from the horrific view of Marcus’s dead body, to stand against the wall. He knew enough not to touch anything, and so he waited, hands clasped in front of him, for the officers to swarm in, wondering if Vic and his partner would be among them.
A tall, blond man with a football player’s build headed right for Simon. “Simon Kincaide?” The man gave him the once-over. Simon nodded in assent. “You called 911?” Again, Simon nodded, as the reality of the situation overwhelmed him. He’d gone from being the target of a serial killer to being a murder suspect.
At least if I’m in jail, maybe the Slitter can’t get me.
“Have you touched anything? Handled the body in any way?”
That startled Simon out of his shock. “No. Of course not. I saw the body from the edge of the pool and backed away. Then I called you. I didn’t touch anything.”
“I’m Detective Hamilton, Myrtle Beach Homicide. I need you to wait right here, and then you’ll need to come down to the station and give your statement.”
Simon nodded, feeling like he had been suddenly transported into one of the crime dramas he occasionally watched on TV. He recognized the man’s name. Ross Hamilton was Vic’s partner. So why the hell was he teamed up with a different man now? Simon could see Hamilton was heatedly debating something with another cop on the other side of the pool.
Vic wasn’t coming. Had Simon’s involvement somehow gotten Vic in trouble, maybe even taken off the case? Simon’s heart sank. A man he knew lay dead in a garbage-strewn hotel. The Slitter had his sights on Simon for his next victim. The cops were going to have a field day with this new twist, making Simon a suspect. And Vic? If he had any sense of self-preservation, for his reputation and his career, he had probably turned over everything Simon had confided and washed his hands of his troublesome lover. Just like Jacen had.
A uniformed officer walked over to Simon, his face grim. “We need you to come down to the station and give your statement,” he said, pulling out a set of handcuffs.
“Am I under arrest?” Simon blurted, eyes wide.
“Just questions right now,” the cop said. He held out the cuffs. “Standard procedure.” Simon’s heart sank as he felt the cold metal click around his wrists.
Across the pool deck, Simon could see Detective Hamilton on his phone, scowling. He ended the call, pocketed the device, and strode over to the two uniforms who had come to wait with Simon.
“Let’s go,” Hamilton said, not giving Simon a second look as he led the way out of Moonlight Bay.
Hours later, after he had survived Hamilton’s interrogation, spent time in a jail cell, and finally been rescued by lawyers he had never met before, Simon was back home again. The lawyers had warned him to stay away from anyone involved in the case, to lie low, and to not yet hand the photos over to the police. His cousin, Cassidy, had come through big-time by sending the lawyers. Simon had called Jay and asked him to put a sign on the door to Grand Strand Ghost Tours saying that the shop was closed for a death in the family. That was near enough to the truth and the kind of excuse that might temper a customer’s ire.
Throughout his ordeal, Simon wondered where Vic was. But he hadn’t spotted him in the police department as he’d been walked in and out, and Vic didn’t join Hamilton for the interrogation. Maybe he had been behind the mirrored glass window, but he hadn’t been anywhere to offer even silent support.
What did you expect? Did you think he was going to sweep you up in his arms and protect you? A noxious voice in his mind taunted. No matter how Vic felt about him, Simon knew the man couldn’t afford to show that kind of support, not in the middle of a murder investigation when his lover had just become a prime suspect. Unfortunately, that didn’t soothe the ache of abandonment in Simon’s heart or the bitter sense of déjà vu. Vic might well cut ties to save his badge, but it didn’t change how Simon felt about him. Tracey said Vic needed to decide what he wanted. It was clear he had made his choice.
“Picked a helluva time to fall in love, Kincaide,” he muttered to himself.
His phone rang, and Simon hated himself for wishing, just for an instant, that the caller would be Vic. Instead, he took a deep breath and answered. “Cassidy?”
“Simon! Are you all right? My god, what happened?”
Simon had used his one phone call to let Cassidy know he was sitting in jail on suspicion of murder after Hamilton had detained him following the interrogation. “I’m home,” Simon said. “And it’s a mess, but I didn’t do anything, Cassidy.”
“I know you didn’t,” his cousin replied.
“The cops don’t like psychics or mediums,” Simon said miserably. He gave her the key information, including his ill-fated affair with Vic, but left out some of the details. The last thing he wanted was for Cassidy and her friends to have their own abilities come to the Slitter’s attention.
“I don’t know how to thank you for sending the lawyers,” Simon said. “And honestly, I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to repay you. BHC is a big deal.”
“Anthony Benton is Teag’s Anthony,” Cassidy said, reminding him about her best friend’s long-time romantic relationship. “He’s one of those Bentons. And Sorren said he’ll pay the bill for your defense if it comes to that. Says we owe you far more for all the lore you’ve looked into for us over the years.” Her business partner was a very wealthy man, from an old European family. If Simon weren’t so completely freaked out, he would have been less comfortable about accepting help. As it was, all he could do was accept with an overwhelming sense of relief.
“Thank you,” Simon said. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“You’re welcome. It’s what family does,” Cassidy assured him. “Do you need anything?”
“I’ve warded the house,” Simon replied. “I’m safe for now.”
“Stay that way,” she ordered. “And when all of this is over, come down and take some time off.”
“I promise,” Simon said. “And, thanks.” He ended the call and stared out the window.
His budding romance had gone down in flames. A serial killer was hunting him and had just killed another of Simon’s acquaintances. Simon was too shaken to go down to the shop today, and god knows who from the stores along the boardwalk had seen him led out to a police car in handcuffs. On the bright side, there hadn’t been any news crews to splash his face all over TV. It wasn’t much of a win, but Simon would take what he could get.
Simon made a fresh pot of coffee and turned his attention to his computer. He logged into the background search site and pulled up the results of his query. Out of the seven names he had supplied, five of them had no prior arrests, no run-ins with the law worse than parking tickets or speeding violations, and no other red flag indicators like bad debts or old restraining orders.
Two of the names, however, caught Simon’s attention. William Fishbein had a long record of theft, had done time in the South Carolina state penitentiary, and had recently been arrested for check fraud. One
look at his picture told Simon this wasn’t the man he’d glimpsed in the cap and sunglasses.
William Fischer, on the other hand, had been picked up a couple of times on drunk and disorderly charges and had a DUI on his record. Those were several years old, and not in Myrtle Beach. For the past two years, he’d been working construction with one of the companies Simon recognized as being a leading builder for the local hospitality industry. He’d also been laid off, six months ago.
Simon looked at the man in the photograph. Fischer was in his early thirties, with short blond hair and cold eyes. The face structure fit the man Simon had glimpsed on more than one occasion, the one he believed to be the Slitter. Interestingly enough, the site showed an address for Fischer only up through five months prior. Now, the report read “address unknown.”
Simon printed the report and added it to his folder. He pulled up his browser and searched on the name of the builder that had employed Fischer. Simon frowned as he read the results. As it turned out, Bolton Construction had run into financial difficulty lately, according to several news sites. Recent storms, price hikes in building materials, and clients who went bankrupt or were bought out had forced the company into crisis. As a result, they had stopped work on some of their more ambitious projects and laid off much of their workforce.
The list of Bolton’s construction projects was fairly long, but Simon’s heart thudded as he focused on the shorter list of buildings whose progress was put on indefinite hold due to the company’s hardship. As he skimmed the names, his breath caught at one in particular.
Three Triton Place was a twenty-story hotel with shops and restaurants on its lower floors, not far from the boardwalk. It wasn’t a new building, but rather an ambitious remodeling and repurposing of an older tower. Simon had watched it be gutted and made over during the past year or two and then noticed when activity stopped short of completion. All the windows were in place, and at a glance, the structure looked ready for business, but none of the inside finish work had been done beyond basic wiring and plumbing. Simon remembered hearing gossip at Le Miz about local subcontractors complaining that they were stuck holding onto shipments of carpet, wallpaper, fixtures, and furnishings because the project had stalled.
