THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  "Yes'm, I s'po­se so."

  Tug­ging the fol­ded pho­to from her wa­is­t­band, Cleo pas­sed it in­to a hand le­opard-spot­ted by sun and age.

  "We're lo­oking for this wo­man. She may ha­ve co­me out to Sand Cre­ek Park so­me­ti­me in the past few we­eks to col­lect shells."

  "We get a lot shell-hun­ters out he­re," the fis­her­man mu­sed, squ­in­ting down at the pho­to with rhe­umy eyes. '"Spe­ci­al­ly af­ter a storm. The shells pi­le up li­ke old bo­nes then. So­met­hing abo­ut the ti­dal cur­rents whe­re the cre­ek em­p­ti­es in­to the bay." He tip­ped his lawn cha­ir, pe­ering at the two wo­men from un­der the brim of his hat. "Why are you lo­oking for this one? She in tro­ub­le?"

  "Pos­sibly," Cleo rep­li­ed. "She's go­ne mis­sing, and her fri­ends and fa­mily are wor­ri­ed abo­ut her."

  "Hmmm."

  His nar­row-eyed squ­int when he pe­ru­sed the pho­to aga­in kil­led any ho­pe he might pro­vi­de a le­ad. With tho­se clo­uded cor­ne­as, Cleo do­ub­ted he co­uld see to the end of the pi­er. So she didn't im­me­di­ately le­ap for joy when he bob­bed his he­ad.

  "I've se­en her."

  "Are you su­re?"

  "Yes'm."

  "When?"

  "Mo­re'n on­ce. She's a re­gu­lar. Co­mes out every so of­ten, splas­hes along the sho­re, puts her bits and pi­eces in a pink plas­tic buc­ket."

  Cleo's pul­se skit­te­red and jum­ped. She'd spot­ted that toy buc­ket in Trish's cup­bo­ards.

  "What abo­ut this man?" She pas­sed him the sur­ve­il­lan­ce pho­to. "Did you ever see this guy with her?"

  "Well…"

  She held her bre­ath whi­le he frow­ned over the copy.

  "I'm not sa­ying for cer­ta­in, you un­der­s­tand, but this fel­la lo­oks li­ke the one she was hol­din' hands with the we­ekend be­fo­re last."

  Cleo co­uld ha­ve kis­sed him. She might ha­ve do­ne just that if one of his fis­hing po­les hadn't bent al­most in half at that in­s­tant. Thrus­ting the pho­to­copy in­to her hands, he di­ved for the rod.

  He lost the bat­tle with wha­te­ver was on the ot­her end of his li­ne. Sin­ce he co­uldn't supply any ad­di­ti­onal in­for­ma­ti­on, the two wo­men left him grum­b­ling to him­self whi­le he re­ba­ited his ho­ok. As they ret­ra­ced the­ir steps along the pi­er, that tin­g­le of ex­ci­te­ment that ca­me when a ca­se to­ok unex­pec­ted twists and turns craw­led up Cleo's spi­ne.

  The link bet­we­en Frank Helms and Trish was te­nu­o­us, but it was the­re. Cleo had the pho­ne call from the doc­tor's of­fi­ce and now a re­la­ti­vely po­si­ti­ve ID pla­cing him with Trish at Sand Cre­ek. She al­so had a link bet­we­en Helms and a ta­ver­na in Mal­ta that was on the CIA watch list. What she didn't ha­ve was Trish Jac­k­son.

  She'd find her. The cer­ta­inty was gro­wing in Cleo's gut. So was the cer­ta­inty that she wo­uldn't find her ali­ve.

  "Do you ha­ve a chart that shows the ti­dal cur­rents for this area?" she as­ked Ali­cia as they got re­ady to climb back down the wo­oden lad­der.

  "You ca­ught that com­ment abo­ut shells pi­ling up aro­und he­re li­ke old bo­nes, did you?"

  "I did. I'm thin­king we may want to check out that shell gra­ve­yard af­ter we talk to the cam­pers set up on sho­re."

  No­ne of the cam­pers re­cog­ni­zed Trish or Frank Helms from the­ir pic­tu­res. Nor did Cleo and Ali­cia find an­y­t­hing si­nis­ter po­king thro­ugh the shells pi­led up at the mo­uth of the cre­ek.

  They de­ci­ded to split up at the cre­ek. Cleo wal­ked the sho­re for so­me dis­tan­ce to the so­uth. Ali­cia he­aded north. Man­g­ro­ve and li­ve oak grew right down to the wa­ter's ed­ge, the­ir ro­ots sna­king to­get­her li­ke Me­du­sa's locks. Gulls whir­led and squ­aw­ked over­he­ad. With the sand suc­king at her bo­ot so­les, Cleo scan­ned the tan­g­led un­der­g­rowth.

  She wasn't su­re what she was lo­oking for. Even when she spot­ted the we­at­he­red shack ho­using the camp's wa­ter pump, she didn't at­tach any par­ti­cu­lar sig­ni­fi­can­ce to it. The pump ho­use sat back from the be­ach, al­most hid­den among the pal­met­tos and scrub oak. A ne­atly let­te­red sign on the si­de fa­cing the be­ach war­ned that the bu­il­ding was sta­te pro­perty and off li­mits to cam­pers.

  When Cleo wan­de­red in for a clo­ser lo­ok, the first thing she no­ted was the pad­lock on the pump-ho­use do­or. It was shiny and new, much ne­wer than the rusty hasp it se­cu­red. She stu­di­ed that lock for long mo­ments be­fo­re ma­king a slow cir­cu­it of the bu­il­ding.

  The­re was only one win­dow, small and high and co­ated with salt spray. Cleo had to stretch up on her to­es to pe­er in­si­de. At first all she saw was a small ge­ne­ra­tor and an eig­ht-inch pi­pe that hum­ped up, then down to di­sap­pe­ar be­ne­ath the flo­or­bo­ards of the shack. The bo­ards them­sel­ves we­re co­ated with a thin la­yer of sand that had li­kely se­eped or blown in un­der the do­or.

  Cleo drop­ped on­to her he­els, got the kink out of her left arch and went back up on her to­es aga­in. She squ­in­ted thro­ugh the salt spray, stud­ying the patch of flo­oring at the ne­ar si­de of the pump ho­use. So­me­one or so­met­hing had dis­tur­bed the sand pat­tern. It su­re lo­oked to her as tho­ugh that sa­me so­me­one or so­met­hing had pri­ed up at le­ast two of the flo­or­bo­ards.

  Re­tur­ning to the front of the bu­il­ding, Cleo eyed the lock and hasp aga­in. One go­od kick wo­uld se­pa­ra­te the rusty hasp from the jamb. If she hadn't spent tho­se ye­ars as an air for­ce in­ves­ti­ga­tor, she might ha­ve put her bo­ot to the do­or. In­s­te­ad, she to­ok the sandy path back to the be­ach and sho­uted for Ali­cia Thor­n­ton. If they fo­und what Cleo's gut was tel­ling her they might find un­der tho­se flo­or­bo­ards, they'd ne­ed at le­ast two pa­irs of eyes to re­cord the de­ta­ils of the sce­ne.

  It to­ok Ali­cia fif­te­en mi­nu­tes to work her way by pho­ne thro­ugh se­ve­ral le­vels of the sta­te parks and rec­re­ati­on de­par­t­ment's bu­re­a­uc­racy. Who­ever she tal­ked to on the third call ga­ve her per­mis­si­on to pry open the pump-ho­use do­or.

  When the do­or swung open, the stench ex­p­lo­ded in­to the hot air. Ali­cia jum­ped back, her hand over her mo­uth and no­se.

  "J­esus!"

  Cleo's sto­mach to­ok a di­ve. She re­cog­ni­zed the stink of rot­ting flesh. Drag­ging up a shir­t­ta­il, she bre­at­hed thro­ugh its salty tang.

  "See tho­se two bo­ards the­re, right be­hind the pump. Lo­oks to me as if they've be­en pri­ed up re­cently."

  Nod­ding grimly, Ali­cia ti­ed a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef aro­und the lo­wer half of her fa­ce and pul­led on her glo­ves. Luc­kily, she'd bro­ught a long-han­d­led to­ol with her from the bo­at. It was de­sig­ned for tig­h­te­ning cle­ats and re­pa­iring en­gi­ne ring snaps, but wor­ked fi­ne on the une­ven flo­or­bo­ards.

  The first bo­ard ca­me up with a gro­an. The se­cond re­sis­ted un­til Cleo loc­ked her fin­gers un­der the ed­ge and ad­ded her we­ight to the ef­fort. The bo­ard pop­ped up, sen­ding her back a step or two.

  One glan­ce at the shal­low ho­le be­ne­ath the bo­ards told her they'd fo­und Trish Jac­k­son. Cleo re­cog­ni­zed that short, pi­xie ha­ir­cut from the pho­tog­raph. That was all she re­cog­ni­zed, tho­ugh. Trish was lying fa­ce­down, half bu­ri­ed in the soft, sandy so­il. The sand crabs had al­re­ady be­gun to fe­ast on her flesh. What lit­tle Cleo co­uld see of her had be­en eaten down to the bo­ne.

  Pity kni­fed thro­ugh Cleo, fol­lo­wed swiftly by ra­ge. Such a yo­ung, vib­rant wo­man, preg­nant, in lo­ve. Mur­de­red and left he­re to rot. The vi­ci­o­us was­te pi­er­ced the pro­fes­si­onal de­tac­h­ment all tra­ined in­ves­ti­ga­tors had to use as a shi­eld.

  The Cri­me-Sce­ne Unit
res­pon­ded first.

  Gi­ving the CSU ro­om to work, Cleo wa­ited out­si­de the pump ho­use whi­le they pho­tog­rap­hed and anal­y­zed the sce­ne. They held off bag­ging the re­ma­ins un­til De­ve­re­a­ux ar­ri­ved, ac­com­pa­ni­ed by the ho­mi­ci­de de­tec­ti­ve who'd just in­he­ri­ted the ca­se.

  "Is it Jac­k­son?" La­fa­yet­te as­ked Cleo.

  "What's left of her. You'll ne­ed so­met­hing to co­ver yo­ur no­se. It's pretty grim in­si­de."

  Cleo used her shir­t­ta­il aga­in and wed­ged back in­si­de the small pump ho­use with the two de­tec­ti­ves. Hun­ke­ring down on his ha­un­c­hes, the ho­mi­ci­de cop stu­di­ed the re­ma­ins.

  "Any gu­ess on the ca­use of de­ath?" he as­ked the se­ni­or CSU in­ves­ti­ga­tor.

  "My gu­ess is drow­ning. We didn't find any wo­unds, li­ga­tu­re marks or vi­sib­le signs of tra­uma. The­se lo­ok in­te­res­ting, tho­ugh."

  Using a glo­ved fin­ger, he lif­ted the short ha­ir to ex­po­se the vic­tim's na­pe. The flesh was pasty whi­te whe­re the crabs hadn't got­ten to it. Gul­ping, Cleo le­aned for­ward to squ­int at the fa­int blu­ish marks.

  "Co­uld be bru­ises," the in­ves­ti­ga­tor mut­te­red, "ma­de by the fin­gers of one hand. The ot­her si­de of her neck is pretty much eaten away, so the­re's no cor­res­pon­ding thum­b­p­rint."

  "Ma­de by a hand, huh? You think so­me­one held her un­der­wa­ter?"

  "That's my gu­ess. We won't know for su­re un­til the M.E. gets her on the tab­le. Oh, we fo­und so­met­hing el­se, too."

  He sor­ted thro­ugh a small as­sor­t­ment of plas­tic evi­den­ce bags fil­led with the sam­p­les they'd col­lec­ted from the sce­ne.

  "This was in her mo­uth. So far down she must ha­ve cho­ked on the dam­ned thing."

  Cleo's sto­mach did a qu­ick roll. The sa­me sa­dis­tic bas­tard who'd held a preg­nant wo­man's he­ad un­der­wa­ter had al­so stuf­fed a per­fect, fi­ve-po­int star­fish down her thro­at.

  13

  A cold fury had set­tled in Cleo's chest by the ti­me she re­tur­ned to the ma­ri­na. Than­king Ali­cia for fer­rying her aro­und the har­bor, she clim­bed be­hind the whe­el of the Es­ca­la­de and he­aded dow­n­town. The po­li­ce might ne­ed to wa­it for the me­di­cal exa­mi­ner to do his thing be­fo­re ma­king the of­fi­ci­al ID. She didn't.

  Until now, the twists and turns in this ca­se had ro­used her pro­fes­si­onal in­te­rest. That star­fish had ma­de it per­so­nal. The­re was so­met­hing so vi­ci­o­us, so ob­s­ce­ne abo­ut that. It was as if Trish's mur­de­rer had wan­ted to drown her joy and her dre­ams along with her.

  Cleo in­ten­ded to stay on the ca­se, eit­her on re­ta­iner or off. She al­so in­ten­ded to fol­low the one re­al le­ad they now had. It was lo­oking mo­re and mo­re li­ke the last per­son to see Trish Jac­k­son ali­ve I was a man who'd de­par­ted Char­les­ton for Mal­ta shortly be­fo­re she was re­por­ted mis­sing.

  She bro­ke the news to Marc and his exe­cu­ti­ve as­sis­tant in his of­fi­ce.

  He went ri­gid with the kind of hel­p­less ra­ge most men of ac­ti­on ex­pe­ri­en­ce when con­f­ron­ted with so­met­hing they can't con­t­rol. Di­ane Wal­ker sank on­to the le­at­her so­fa. As­hen-fa­ced, the blon­de put a hand to her mo­uth and sta­red in shoc­ked dis­may at the sce­ne out­si­de the win­dows.

  "I want to go af­ter him," Cleo sa­id in­to the stun­ned si­len­ce. "To Mal­ta."

  Marc nod­ded, his eyes as flat and hard as po­lis­hed ste­el. "I'm go­ing with you."

  "That's not ne­ces­sary at this po­int. Or par­ti­cu­larly smart. I can go in­to Mal­ta as a to­urist, with not­hing con­nec­ting me to Trish or Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering. You can't."

  He lo­oked as tho­ugh he in­ten­ded to ar­gue the mat­ter. Cleo cut him off with a pro­mi­se to pro­vi­de re­gu­lar prog­ress re­ports and to call in the ca­valry if and when she de­emed ne­ces­sary. He ac­ce­ded with so­met­hing less than his usu­al smo­oth charm.

  "When do you in­tend to le­ave?"

  "Not un­til to­mor­row. I'll ha­ve to get my of­fi­ce to over­night my pas­sport."

  And a few ot­her es­sen­ti­als, Cleo tho­ught grimly. The­re was no way she co­uld ob­ta­in the ne­ces­sary cle­aran­ces to bring her Glock in­to the co­untry on such short no­ti­ce, but she wasn't go­ing in unar­med.

  Di­ane sho­ok her­self out of her whi­te-fa­ced tran­ce. "I can ha­ve yo­ur pas­sport and wha­te­ver el­se you ne­ed co­uri­ered in from Dal­las wit­hin a few ho­urs."

  "That'll work," Cleo sa­id, com­po­sing a qu­ick men­tal list. "I'll call my of­fi­ce and ha­ve them get a few things to­get­her for me."

  "Tell them a co­uri­er will con­tact them for pic­kup wit­hin the next thirty mi­nu­tes. In the me­an­ti­me, I'll check on flights to Mal­ta. Sin­ce you don't want to dis­p­lay any overt con­nec­ti­on to Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering, I as­su­me you won't want to use the cor­po­ra­te jet."

  With a twin­ge of re­al reg­ret, Cleo dec­li­ned the use of all that le­at­her-and-bur­led-wo­od lu­xury.

  Di­ane sur­ged to her fe­et. She lo­oked re­li­eved to ha­ve so­met­hing to do. "I'll get to work on air­li­ne and ho­tel re­ser­va­ti­ons."

  With a new ap­pre­ci­ati­on for the wo­man's ef­fi­ci­ency, Cleo di­aled her of­fi­ce. Fo­ur rings and a for­war­ding click la­ter, her part-ti­me of­fi­ce ma­na­ger an­s­we­red.

  "North, In­cor­po­ra­ted."

  "Mae, it's me."

  "Hush!"

  Cleo as­su­med the stern com­mand was di­rec­ted at the yap­ping schna­uzer she he­ard in the bac­k­g­ro­und.

  "I ne­ed you to pack a few items for me," she sa­id when Baby sub­si­ded. "A spe­ci­al co­uri­er will co­me by to pick them up wit­hin the next half ho­ur."

  "As long as it's not la­ter than that. I ha­ve an ap­po­in­t­ment at the gym."

  "What gym?"

  "The sa­me one you use. I've re­qu­es­ted pri­va­te in­s­t­ruc­ti­on in self-de­fen­se."

  An ugly sus­pi­ci­on wor­med its way in­to Cleo's he­ad. "Is yo­ur ap­po­in­t­ment with Go­ose, by any chan­ce?"

  "It is. He do­esn't know that, of co­ur­se. He'd be he­aded back to Me­xi­co if he did."

  Mae had that right. She ter­ri­fi­ed the hul­king, ex-Spe­ci­al For­ces tra­iner. She was al­so de­ter­mi­ned to get him in­to the sack. Shud­de­ring, Cleo for­ced that ima­ge from her mind.

  "What do you ne­ed, de­ar?"

  "My pas­sport. It's in the stron­g­box. You know the com­bi­na­ti­on, don't you?"

  "I do. An­y­t­hing el­se?"

  "The T-26, my to­ol kit, a do­zen of the mil spec sen­sors, and my ebu."

  The Af­ri­can ebu was car­ved from a sin­g­le pi­ece of iron­wo­od, one of the har­dest na­tu­ral sub­s­tan­ces on earth. The wo­oden bla­de had be­en ho­ned to sti­let­to shar­p­ness. The grip was al­so of wo­od and con­ta­ined no ma­te­ri­al de­tec­tab­le by X ray or che­mi­cal agents.

  "Pas­sport, T-26, to­ol kit, sen­sors, ebu," Mae re­eled off. "I'll ha­ve them re­ady for the co­uri­er. Whe­re are you go­ing, if I might ask?"

  "Mal­ta, to start with."

  After that, whe­re­ver the ca­se to­ok her.

  Her next call was to Do­no­van, but all she got was his vo­ice ma­il. He was pro­bably still bri­efing the com­man­der of the air-lo­gis­tics cen­ter.

  Cleo left a ter­se mes­sa­ge ad­vi­sing him that they'd lo­ca­ted the body of Slo­an's mis­sing em­p­lo­yee. She al­so in­for­med him she was fol­lo­wing the tra­il of the last per­son known to ha­ve se­en Trish Jac­k­son ali­ve.

  After Cleo left for New York to catch a tran­sat­lan­tic flight, Di­ane lin­ge­red at the of­fi­ce. The staff was go­ne fo
r the day. The outer of­fi­ce was de­ser­ted. All that re­ma­ined was for her to empty Trish's desk of her per­so­nal pos­ses­si­ons and hold them for the po­li­ce.

  Her hand sha­king, Di­ane de­po­si­ted an empty box on the desk. One by one, Di­ane em­p­ti­ed the desk dra­wers. The sec­ret stash of candy tuc­ked away at the back of the bot­tom left dra­wer ma­de her bi­te her lip. But it was the shel­lac­ked star­fish sit­ting on the blot­ter that had her fig­h­ting a wa­ve of gri­ef and gu­ilt.

  Ne­it­her she nor Marc had men­ti­oned the obj­ect fo­und in Trish's mo­uth to her co-wor­kers or her pa­ren­ts-Marc be­ca­use he didn't think her pa­rents ne­eded to de­al with that right now, Di­ane be­ca­use she co­uldn't. The tho­ught that so­me­one wo­uld do so­met­hing so vi­ci­o­us ma­de her fe­el sick.

  "Are you okay?"

  She glan­ced up and saw that Marc had co­me in­to the re­cep­ti­on area.

  "I was un­til I fo­und this."

  Her hand sha­king, Di­ane lif­ted Trish's star­s­ha­ped so­uve­nir. Marc mut­te­red a cur­se and cros­sed the ro­om. Whi­te li­nes brac­ke­ted his mo­uth as he to­ok Trish's pri­zed pa­per­we­ight and tur­ned it over and over in his palm.

  "So­me­one's go­ing to pay," he sa­id softly, al­most to him­self. "So­me­one will most de­fi­ni­tely pay."

  Wat­c­hing him, Di­ane felt her sto­mach lurch aga­in. The me­di­cal exa­mi­ner wo­uld autopsy Trish's body. He'd run the DNA on her baby, too. If Marc was the fat­her, if he'd…

  No!

  Fu­ri­o­us at her­self for do­ub­ting him aga­in, she sur­ged to her fe­et. She might ha­ve pri­va­te re­ser­va­ti­ons abo­ut Marc's abi­lity to re­ma­in fa­it­h­ful to one wo­man, but she knew with every fi­ber of her be­ing he wo­uldn't ha­ve com­mit­ted that gro­tes­que de­sec­ra­ti­on of her body.

  She al­so knew she'd was­ted half her li­fe wa­iting for the man to work his way thro­ugh his string of wi­ves and mis­t­res­ses. If not­hing el­se, Trish's de­ath had bro­ught ho­me the ab­sur­dity of was­ting anot­her ho­ur. Re­ac­hing up, Di­ane cup­ped a hand over his che­ek.