GHOST_4_Kindle_V2

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “I didn’t know that,” Spector said. He folded his hands on the table and waited. They sat without speaking for some time. His eyes never left her, and she studied him.

  In the “Smiling Jack” photos, the killer had revealed only the bottom of his face: chin, jaw, most of his nose. Rez saw some similarities, especially the cleft in the chin. But the width of Spector’s jaw seemed wider and the general shape was more square.

  “Agent Rezvani,” said Ghost. “The FBI has already wasted years on this case. Seems to me, you might not want to waste any more time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think I’m the killer.”

  “I never accused—”

  “You’re an honest person,” said Ghost. “I can tell. So don’t try to deny it. You didn’t fly all the way down here to look at the same pictures I already sent you. You didn’t break into my room to surprise me with flowers. And you’re packing enough heat to take down a rhino. Shoulder and small of the back, right?”

  Rez laughed in spite of herself. “I didn’t think they showed.”

  “So Agent Rezvani, I want to save you the trouble. Don’t waste your time or resources on me.”

  “You think you’ve got me figured out?”

  “I’ve been around awhile,” he said. “I know a lot. But I will never claim to have figured out a woman.”

  She laughed. “Touché.”

  “There is one thing I don’t understand. For a murder case this dangerous, I’m wondering why you came alone.”

  “Don’t leave Destin, Mr. Spector,” Dee said. She stood and walked slowly toward motel’s exit. “I may have further questions.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer my question?” Spector called after her. “Hey, that’s not fair.”

  Agent Rezvani paused, looked over her shoulder, and said, “I’m a Special Agent in the FBI. I don’t need to be fair.”

  Chapter 10

  Spinnaker Sales, I thought. Cute name for a dealership.

  They were open until 8. Due to my unexpected meeting with Special Agent Rezvani, I got there at 7:45. The showroom was massive, the ceiling five stories up—everything glass and lights. Everywhere I looked, sleek water craft and brilliantly colored sails. Just standing in the showroom made me feel richer.

  The manager stood at a computer behind a tall metallic blue counter. I could tell he was glad to see me when he looked up…and snarled.

  “Do you carry Sun Odyssey?” I asked, leaning on the counter like a regular.

  “This is Spinnaker Sales,” he said, licking the tip of a finger and slicking one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “We carry all the finest boats. Please don’t lean on the counter.”

  I ignored him. At least he was telling the truth so far. On the way in, I’d seen Sun Odyssey, Hunter Marine, Oyster—they did carry it all. Probably ten million worth of sail craft in this one showroom. “What about the 42DS?”

  “The 42 is one of our bestsellers,” he said. He stroked his goatee, cut immaculately to the quick. He looked like a suit model from Jos. A. Bank. Silk shirt, woven royal purple tie, gold Rolex. His hands were perfectly manicured, but he’d bitten some of the nails down. Nervous habit, probably. “You realize it’s ten minutes to closing.”

  “I’m interested in the 42DS,” I said, nonchalantly placing my silver case on the counter. “What do they run? 225K? 240?”

  He regarded me a little differently now, stood a little straighter. “We can talk price later,” he said, holding out his hand. We shook. He walked around the counter. “I’m G. Alonzo Vasquez, but my friends call me G. Would you like to see the 42?”

  “Yes, I would,” I said. “I knew I’d come to the right place.”

  “Of course you did. Spinnaker Sales is the number one dealer on the Gulf. Right this way, Mister…?”

  I sighed. Forget Willoughby. “Spector…John Spector.”

  We strolled through a dizzying array of over-lit, sparkling yachts and came at last to the Sun Odyssey 42DS. It had a single mast that reached almost to the vaulted ceiling. Its twin sails formed a white isosceles triangle that looked like it could catch—and hold—hurricane force winds. The hull was held in some kind of bracket rigging that kept the fin-like rudder and keel off the ground.

  “Would you like to go aboard, Mr. Spector?” G asked.

  “Are you sure you have the time?”

  He smiled like I’d just asked if sailboats float. “At Spinnaker Sales,” he said, flashing a million dollar smile, “we always have time for our customers.”

  A moment ago he looked at me like he’d just eaten a roach sandwich. Now it’s all grins, I thought. People are funny that way.

  G moved the rope chain for me, and I climbed aboard the yacht. He was noticeably nonplussed when I ignored the impeccably designed deck and went straight below. But I couldn’t care less about the mast, the multiple benches, or the massive captain’s wheel. I needed to see if anything from the Sun Odyssey’s interior reminded me of the setting in Smiling Jack’s photos.

  Ducking below the top of the hatch, I descended a few steps and found myself a little disoriented. Granted, I hadn’t walked the perimeter of the craft, but it didn’t seem possible that so much space could exist within its sleek hull. While G prattled on about things like berth, keel, and hull displacement, I absorbed the cabin. A kitchen fit snug on my right, a small bathroom on my left. Behind me, through a door, were a pair of beds—each with two pillows as if four people could sleep there. I thought maybe I’d fit if I slept horizontally across both of them.

  Scanning fore, I noted a beautiful entertainment area with two C-shaped couches and a collapsible table between them. Beyond that was a door leading to another small bathroom and another bed. “Amazing interior space,” I said, interrupting a grand speech about lightweight polymer materials used in the couch cushions.

  “Every inch has been maximized for comfort.”

  “If I didn’t already know better, I would swear that this is more than forty-two feet. It feels like more.”

  “Genius of design. You know this is a Lombard-Garroni design?”

  I didn’t reply. I was thinking about Smiling Jack. The 42 was certainly a similar confined space with the concave walls and the compact furniture—just like in the photos. But there wasn’t a narrow hallway, not really. Just a doorway to the master suite. And the windows were different from the 42 I’d seen out of the Gulf the morning I found the camera. “How much of the interior can be customized?”

  G turned on me like I’d just suggested that his mother worked the local red light district.

  “One does not customize a Lombard-Garroni design,” he said, coming dangerously close to a hiss. “Each one is a custom design.”

  “The cat’s eye windows,” I said, pointing. “They’re a little too…nontraditional for me. I was thinking of a series of porthole type windows. Could that be done?”

  G scowled like I’d just suggested that the rest of his family worked the local red light district too.

  “Portholes? Really, Mr. Spector? No, the Sun Odyssey will not be equipped with portholes.”

  I trilled my fingers on my silver case and said, “That’s too bad, really. It’s what I had in mind, G. And when I get something on my mind, I just can’t rest until I take care of it.” I turned abruptly and climbed the stairs to the deck.

  I was back on the showroom floor before G caught up with me. “Of course, of course…once you have the boat in your possession, I’m sure you could find a craftsman willing to do the job.” G motioned for me to follow. I did.

  “I might have a card,” he said, back behind his counter. “There are…rare…occasions when a customer needs to add a feature that is to his liking. Ah, here, Cecil Wright.” G handed me the business card. “Mr. Wright does good work by all accounts. But he’s very expensive.”

  I pocketed the card. “Money’s not really a problem,” I said. And that was true. I had precisely $934 left to spend, and no intention of purchasi
ng a boat or customizing it. No problem.

  “Now, before we get down to business,” said G, flipping through a sheaf of forms, “I am curious. Most people positively adore the cat’s eye windows. Why portholes?”

  “I was out at Grayton Beach the other day, and I happened to see a Sun Odyssey out on the gulf. It had portholes. I liked the look.” I put the silver case up on the counter and scratched my chin. “I wonder…Spinnaker Sales being the number one dealer on the Gulf, I wonder if perhaps you sold the Sun Odyssey I saw the other day. I wonder if you might be able to tell me who the customer was? I could then contact the customer and find out who did his portholes. Do you think you could do that for me, G?”

  “That is a strict violation of customer privacy,” G said.

  I tapped the silver case. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  G licked his finger and did both his eyebrows. “Well, in the interest of new customer satisfaction, I suppose I could at least check if we sold the boat you saw. Of course, if you contact the owner, you could never mention where you obtained his information.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “The registration number is FL 6606 KR.”

  G nudged the mouse to wake his computer, clicked a few links to get to the right page, and then dutifully typed in the code. “Ah, I am sorry, Mr. Spector, but that number isn’t correct—not a craft we sold anyway.”

  I leaned in and looked at the monitor. “You put a one in there, but it’s not 6616; it’s 6606.”

  “Did I? Well, let’s try it again and see.” A quick glide of the mouse. The click of four digit keys. Then, the whole world changed.

  G’s ubiquitous smile faltered…just a little. “Again, no luck,” he said, gesturing dramatically with his right hand. “It would seem that some other lesser sail craft dealer sold that boat. That is, if you yourself got the number correct.”

  “I’m very good with numbers,” I said.

  “Of course, of course.” G’s smile returned to full vigor. He straightened a stack of papers. “Now, then shall we discuss terms and payment for the Sun Odyssey? Spinnaker Sales offers a tremendous financing package.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  G’s eyes darted toward my silver case. “You wish to pay in cash then? Mr. Spector, I—”

  “I wish to think about it,” I said, noisily sliding the silver case off the counter. “A man in my position can’t make such a purchase on a whim.”

  I watched the dollar signs drain out of his eye sockets. He blinked, the smile returned as warm as ever. “Just so, Mr. Spector…just so. Nonetheless, Spinnaker Sales appreciates your confidence in us.” He held out a hand. The gold Rolex dangled a bit on his wrist. We shook, and then he asked, “Do you have a business card, Mr. Spector?”

  “All out.”

  “What about a contact number?” G tilted his head. “I will make a few calls, see if I can find out which dealer sold your porthole yacht.”

  “Thank you, G,” I said. “I appreciate that. You can reach me at my hotel in Destin.” I gave him the number. Then I left.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The testosterone years.

  Deanna Rezvani smirked, remembering the phrase she used to describe her first three years in the Bureau. She’d met a dizzying array of men during that time. She looked away from her laptop’s screen and laughed. A few of them were more memorable than others.

  There was enigmatic Rolf Cursade, the genius criminologist who’d cracked the “bloodletting code” of a ritualistic killer who called himself the Serpent. Rolf was nearly as much a predator as the killers he chased, and he wanted everyone to know it, especially the ladies. He wore a choker necklace adorned with sharks’ teeth and carried a knife big enough to shame Crocodile Dundee.

  Rolf could flip a switch and get inside a killer’s mind. And while in “whack-mode,” as his somewhat creeped out colleagues called it, Rolf could often plot the killer’s next move well in advance. Some thought Rolf was crazy, but everyone thought he was brilliant. But Rolf wanted trophies, Dee remembered, not girlfriends.

  Dee’s study partner in the academy, Nathaniel Petrikin, was another memorable man. When he was just five, Nathaniel had promised his beloved Momma he would join the Bureau because he knew an Eff-bee-yie man had rescued his grandfather from a bunch of clansmen intent on a lynching. Nathaniel had been true to his word. First in his class at the academy, he’d breezed into the Bureau. But at every turn, even with all the Bureau talent spotters trying to recruit him for leadership roles, Nathaniel stayed in the field. He wanted to fight crime at ground level where things can get dirty. His mother’s rosary in one pocket, a tiny Gideon Bible in the other, Nathaniel was a good man. A good man who got married halfway through his first year on the job.

  Special Agent Gerard Stephen Harris was another sort of man. Granite jaw, glinting blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Agent Harris was stunningly handsome. The man had a way of shaping himself to get what he wanted, a chameleon with an approach for every person and every situation. He cowed other field agents and bulled through jurisdiction disputes. He talked training with Deputy Director Barnes and spoke politics with Director Peluso. And even though Rez thought of him as slimy, she had to admit, Agent Harris was smooth around women. Charismatic, statuesque, and bold, he could walk into a room full of beautiful women and take his pick with no more effort than selecting a peach in the produce aisle. Cursade, Petrikin, Harris—they were remarkable men.

  But Dee had never met anyone like Ghost.

  Putting her finger on exactly why proved a daunting task. He wasn’t strikingly handsome. Certainly not homely though, thought Dee. Aside of his imposing size and curiously pale skin, there really wasn’t anything unusual about his looks. But Ghost carried a powerful presence. It was as if the man had a kind of inner might that radiated from him, even when he was still and silent. And when he spoke, his words echoed stark white purity…innocence. He seemed without pretense, without guile, and utterly unafraid. Toward the end of their time sitting in the Motel 6 lobby, Dee had found herself trusting him, in spite of her initial suspicions.

  Dee shrugged, turned back to the laptop, and let her eyes linger for a moment on the horrid Smiling Jack photos. Blade. Blood. Ghastly smile.

  Work thoughts, Deanna. Think work thoughts.

  She’d already dusted the camera, inside and out, and sent digital renderings of the prints to the Bureau for matching. She’d just begun to upload the photos from the camera’s memory and clicked over to see the status bar. Taking longer than usual for a handful of pictures, she thought.

  She watched the status bar and listened absently to the muted ramblings from CNN on her room’s TV: something about conservative Senator Karch Ridgeway’s bid for the Presidency and for the upcoming Supreme Court decision on abortion. But CNN scarcely registered in her conscious mind.

  There was something else about Ghost, something that wouldn’t let Dee put aside her doubt completely. Maybe it’s my imagination, Dee thought. Something about the way he walked…or maybe the intensity in his green-eyed gaze, just shy of ferocity. He seemed coiled like a spring, or like a sleek panther ready to pounce. Dee had no doubt that this man could be dangerous. She had no doubt that he could kill if he had to. And she felt certain that he had killed before. Was this Ghost the killer they called Smiling Jack? She’d thought so before they’d met. He’d altered her opinion somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss the possibility.

  She blinked, brought back to focus by movement on her screen. The PhotoScan icon bounced in the sidebar dock. Rez clicked it to stop its bouncing. The photos had all uploaded. Rez scanned down the list of files…and then froze.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  I had a lot to think about on the bus. I had underestimated G. He was good. Good enough to fool most people. Just not good enough to fool me. When he typed in the correct registration number for the yacht I’d seen, his smile lost a little of its charm. For just a moment, there was a subtle c
hange in the tension in the corners of his mouth. There was a peculiar stillness in his eyes also. It reminded me eerily of the change in someone’s eyes when they die.

  But G had recovered swiftly, and his next move was genius. The flourish of his right hand almost distracted me enough to miss him turning his monitor with his left hand. It was like a cruise ship magician holding up a gold coin for the audience to see while slipping something from his coat pocket. I almost missed it. Someone had purchased that Sun Odyssey 42DS from Spinnaker Sales. But whoever it was, G didn’t want me to see his name.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “I don’t know,” said G into his cell phone. “He said his name was John Spector. But he asked about the boat.”

  G listened for a moment and then replied. “He’s staying at the friggin’ Motel 6 in Destin. I should have known he wasn’t buying. He didn’t look like the sailing type. White as a ghost, definitely a snowbird, but I couldn’t place his accent. Big guy too, looked like a bouncer.”

  Shouts erupted from the phone. G held it away from his ear until the yelling died down. “No, no way. I didn’t give him anything. He doesn’t know Jack! He’s not a local cop, that’s for sure. White as white—you should’a seen him. I don’t think he was FBI either. Didn’t try to scare me with a shield or anything. One weird thing, he had this silver case. Looked like something from the movies: a sniper case or nuclear detonator, some crap like that.”

  More shouts from the phone. G endured them and said, “He had the registration number, said he’d seen the 42 on the Gulf. Now that’s legit. He knew about the custom windows. He didn’t say any more. Uh, huh, Destin Motel 6. As far as I know, he’s alone. Hey, listen, you’re not angry at me, are you? You know I wouldn’t cross you. Okay, okay. Sure.” G pressed the red button on his cell and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt. It felt suddenly very tight.