by Layton Green
Dear Officer Kirby,
I hope this email finds you well. I’m an agent with BMD Media in Hollywood, and I have a director client interested in speaking with you about your work on the Literary Killer case. More specifically, potentially advising on a script based on your knowledge of these tragic events. A literary tie-in is also a possibility. If you could spare fifteen minutes, perhaps we could touch base? I’m in town for a few days and would be happy to meet.
Best,
Crawford Lyons
An involuntary laugh, a cackle of disbelieving excitement, bubbled out of Kirby. He stifled it, then glanced nervously behind him.
He knew what this was about. The case was national news, and Crawford Lyons was in town to lock down the inside scoop. Secure the rights. Kirby was surprised Hollywood had waited this long. Those vultures had no shame.
His stomach lurching with possibilities, he realized Crawford Lyons had probably contacted Preach as well. If Kirby hurried, maybe he could stipulate that his point of view was the one that got told. Or that he at least got equal credit. Preach was lead detective, after all. And the guy deserved a break.
Feeling giddy, he emailed back that he would love to meet.
The old state highway stretched before Preach like a worn-out conveyor belt. Driving to the ocean with the sun beaming down felt surreal, as if he were in a daydream and about to wake at his desk with drool on his chin.
He pushed it to eighty-five, ninety. Huge squares of farmland indented the endless forest. He had told the chief alone where he was going, convinced the station had eyes and ears.
He considered the fact that Kirby might be dirty, and again discarded it. Preach knew how much Kirby’s reputation and his family meant to him. There were some things men would do, and some things they wouldn’t. He had left Kirby behind because he might have to break some rules, and he wanted the junior officer to have plausible deniability.
Preach had arranged for Officer Haskins to escort Ari home from the bookstore, and watch her apartment until Preach returned. He needed Kirby to keep following leads, and Terry had a forthright nature—almost a naiveté—that made Preach trust him.
The forest finally broke, and the salt marshes began, a haunting, primeval landscape of brackish water, vultures perched on driftwood, and cypress trees twisting out of the swamp. Preach crossed the Croatan Sound and another long bridge at Manteo to reach the Outer Banks, one of the longest chain of barrier islands in the world. On the map, they resembled a series of green beans strung off the coast.
Preach was twitchy with anticipation. Now he understood why the mayor had been stonewalling the chief’s request for help, and it was impossible not to speculate on what Farley’s key might unlock. Was it a manila folder with photos of Rebecca Worthington and Elliott Fenton in flagrante? Hard evidence of the mayor taking a bribe from Mac?
The campaign fund and the debt payments might be the tip of the iceberg. What else had Mac done for the mayor, in exchange for debt payment and turning a blind eye to his activities?
The address was a weather-beaten, clapboard house on stilts, squatting right on the ocean. Scrub and wild grass comprised the front yard. The gray paint was flaking, the roof warped by the sun, but the crashing surf and sea oats waving in the breeze provided a surfeit of charm.
No sign of activity, no cars in the drive. Preach approached the front door under a shimmery blue sky. Earlier in the day, Farley’s sister, who now controlled the property, had agreed to a search. Chief Higgins had also procured a warrant for whatever container the key might unlock.
Preach found the spare house key under a flowerpot, just as Farley’s sister had said. The front door opened onto a kitchen that spilled into a shotgun-style dining area and living room. Sliding doors in the rear of the house led to a screen porch with wooden floorboards and a pair of hammocks. A sandy path cut through a line of waist-high dunes to the beach.
Preach did a thorough walk-through. Doors off the living room led to three bedrooms and a single bath. The décor was rustic and alligator-themed. He drew a breath when he found an old key safe in a bedroom closet, but it was the wrong fit.
Damn.
After searching the interior, he stepped outside and probed the ground beneath the stilts on hands and knees. He found nothing but cold sand, old beams, and slugs.
He walked down to the beach, viewing the house from the rear. There was no shed or garage. No place left to look.
Ghost crabs scurried underfoot as the heavy surf crashed at his back. The wind carried the salty tang of the ocean. Twenty yards away, a heron was poised in the shallows, so still it looked petrified.
Maybe the beach house was too obvious. After all, Elliott and Damian were childhood friends of Farley, and they surely knew about it. On the other hand, it was hours outside of Creekville, and if Mac and the mayor had already found what they were looking for, why had the murders continued?
Thoughts of Atlanta came unbidden. Flashes of a decorated career, of closed cases and a drawer full of medals. Of a moonlit night in the woods that had stripped him bare and flayed him alive, left him with a greasy residue no shower could remove.
He had thought he could do this job again, yet here he was, standing helplessly on a beach in the middle of nowhere, days before his removal from the case.
Three murders and one misguided arrest. He was being outwitted. The chief was right. This wasn’t just about him. He should have let her remove him.
He went back inside and searched the house again, leaving no inch undisturbed, no floorboard unchecked. It was time to admit defeat. Just before he left, he emptied the quarter-full kitchen trash into the yard and picked through it. An old trick, and a final desperate act.
It was mostly wadded up paper, dusty refuse from a vacuum cleaner, and a few bits of rotting food. Given the season, he guessed no one had been to the house in weeks. He stubbornly unwadded each piece of paper, finding receipts and a few bills. One of the receipts made him pause, a two hundred dollar charge from a marina.
What did one buy for two hundred dollars at a marina? The date was right, but there was no way to tell if the receipt was Farley’s.
Preach grew excited at the thought of a boat. Boats had locked compartments. Cabins that could hide a safe.
He searched for the marina on his phone. It was only a few miles away, so he locked up and sped over.
Easily spotted by the thicket of white, needle-like masts poking skyward, the marina was set beneath a bridge spanning the Intracoastal Waterway. Preach walked up to the deeply tanned man working the front desk. He looked to be in his fifties and was wearing a beige polo shirt.
Preach didn’t bother with an explanation. He could tell by the man’s wide eyes that the guy recognized him from the news. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know if anyone by the surnames of Darden or Robertson docks a boat at this marina?”
The man hacked a smoker’s cough and took a sip of Fanta. “Gus never owned a boat. He cast off the pier.”
Gus was Farley’s father, Preach knew. “What about anyone else in the family?”
“Nope.”
Preach deflated. Lips compressed, his eyes swept the marina and noticed a tiki bar, a screened-in shack where a group of fisherman were cleaning their catch, and a concrete walkway leading to the boats.
“Is there something else I can help you with, Detective?”
Just before Preach turned back to the attendant, he noticed a flash of metal across the canal where the boats were docked.
“What’s over there?” Preach asked. “By the sign for the restroom?”
“Boat lockers.”
His chest tightened. “You knew Farley Robertson?”
He gave a somber nod. “Since he was a boy. Terrible what happened.”
“Did he have a locker here?”
“Not that I know about. I can check, though.”
“Please do.”
It seemed as if the man took three hours to get on his computer an
d pull up the records for locker rentals. Preach’s nerves were strung as tight as a violin.
“Well, I’ll be. Must have been someone else signed him up.” He looked up, respectful but uncertain. “I’m not sure I should—”
“I have a key. And a warrant.” Preach produced them both, working hard to stay calm.
The attendant shrugged. “Number thirty-seven. It’s paid up for half the year.”
Preach put his palms on the counter. “Have you had any burglaries in the last three weeks?”
The man looked confused, and then he got it. “I—oh. No, no we haven’t.”
Preach strode to the wall of lockers, his heartbeat fast against his chest. Brackish water lapped against the boats, and the greasy odor of gasoline undercut the fresh air.
He found the correct row. Locker number thirty-seven loomed in the middle like the mouth of a canyon. He sucked in a breath and tried the key.
It fit.
45
Officer Terry Haskins entered the Wandering Muse at closing time and told Ari he was there to escort her home.
“Where’s Detective Everson?” she asked.
“Out on assignment. He asked me to keep an eye on you until he returns.”
“Where on assignment?”
“I . . . I’m not sure, ma’am.”
Ari gave him a frigid smile. Anyone could impersonate a cop, and this guy looked more like an accountant than someone trained to protect and serve.
On the other hand, he didn’t look very dangerous.
The last customer had just left the store, making her nervous. She sent a text to Preach to verify Offer Haskins’s identity. The detective sent a return text within seconds, confirming the story.
Ari locked up and let the officer drive her home, a soft rain drumming the windshield. She shivered and asked him to turn up the heat.
Back at her apartment, she locked her doors and windows, wolfed down a bowl of Ramen noodles, and then curled on the couch with her wine. The stack of law books in front of her caused a sinking feeling in her stomach. Finals were imminent, but all she could think about was where Preach had gone and whether he was in danger. She picked up the phone to call him and then let it drop, not wanting to disturb him. He had made it clear he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure.
She understood the exigencies of the job and didn’t blame him, though his reticence made her question his true intentions.
Two hours later, restless and sick of forcing herself to study, she rose to glance out the window. Officer Haskins’s car was still parked near the road, with a clear view of her front door.
She forced herself to grind through her notes on Trusts and Estates. Revocable and irrevocable trusts, intestacy, restrictions on the right to devise, the abominable rule against perpetuities. She decided she would rather have her eyes pecked out by crows than churn out wills for rich people for the rest of her life.
Near midnight, the legal concepts blurring together, she heard a faint scratching at the door. It sounded like a dog or a cat, asking to be let in.
It was probably nothing. A stray or a noise from someone else’s door. The apartment complex was a refurbished roach motel, the walls pizza box–thin.
Just to be safe, she rose and checked the window again. Officer Haskins’s car was still outside.
Another scratching sound. It made her nervous. She grabbed her phone and padded toward the door, leaning in to check the peephole. At first she thought something was blocking her view, but then the darkness shifted and she got an eyeful of lank brown hair spilling out from a ski mask.
She heard a loud click at the same time the man outside the door straightened, providing a glimpse of a cleft lip scar and latex-covered hands.
The doorknob started to twist.
Ari turned and fled.
Kirby fingered Crawford Lyons’s business card as he knocked on the door of the penthouse suite. He had checked out BMD Media before the meeting. It was legit, one of those über-exclusive agencies whose Internet presence was designed to convey an aura of rarified mystery. Website spare as winter, built with clean lines and generic links. You didn’t contact them; they contacted you.
Crawford Lyons had a few executive producer credits to his name, nothing major, just a few slasher flicks. Kirby didn’t care. The man made movies.
He knew the whole thing might never go anywhere. But he believed most people never rose above their circumstances because they failed to recognize those rare moments the universe threw at you. They came once or twice per lifetime, and you had to be ready.
And if this was his shot, then Scotty the Body was going to pour every ounce of white-toothed, smooth-skinned charm he had into this meeting.
A large man in a black suit opened the door. He had a fluffy hipster beard, as did everyone these days. Silver studs in each ear, slicked back hair, a nose that had been broken a few times.
“Mr. Lyons will be right in,” the man said, moving aside to let Kirby in. “He’s on the phone.”
Kirby spread his hands and smiled. “Sure.”
Late-night meeting. A personal-attendant-slash-bodyguard. The penthouse suite.
How very Hollywood.
Kirby surveyed the room. The posh hotel was in downtown Chapel Hill and overlooked the arboreal hush of campus. He bit down on his cheek to calm his jitters. He had no idea where Preach had gone all day, but it had worked out for the best, since Kirby wouldn’t have to explain where he was. For all he knew, the meeting with Lyons would involve bottles of champagne and contracts signed in blood and an after party that would last all night.
Kirby rocked slowly on the balls of his feet, trying to look as if he belonged. The bearded attendant stood near the wet bar with his arms folded. Maybe he was nervous about offering a cop a drink. A few minutes later, the door to the bedroom flew open, and Kirby prepared to greet a suave film agent with a Rolex and a Hollywood tan.
Instead, he got a barrel-chested brute in motorcycle leathers, black beard creasing as his nicotine-stained teeth broke into a grin. Mac’s eyes stabbed through Kirby like needles, reflecting none of the light of his smile.
Kirby opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was lost in a wilderness of shame, anger, and disappointment.
“Cat got your tongue, Officer?” Mac shook his head as he laughed, his beard waving like a black bear stomping through the forest. “You’re a gullible fellow, ain’t you? Literary tie-in from a traffic cop. My white ass!” He jerked his head toward the bodyguard. “Bring us a couple of brews. Hollywood and me, we got some business to discuss.”
“The hell we do,” Kirby said, turning to leave. His face felt bright red.
Mac’s voice turned low and menacing. “Stick around, Officer. I got something you might want to hear.”
Kirby stopped with his hand on the doorknob.
“A filly name of Monica ring a bell? Happens to be on the national news now and again?”
Kirby wanted nothing more than to open the door and run out of that hotel and pretend as if that night, the entire last month, had never happened.
“Your partner’s much better at watching out for tails than you are. It’s a skill you might want to improve upon as a police officer, especially when you’re selling state secrets.” Kirby could feel the crime boss smirking behind his back. “Now turn on around and take your medicine.”
The floor felt viscous, thick and unsteady, as he turned and saw Mac holding up a photograph of Kirby and Monica entering a local hotel.
The bodyguard took out a small CD player and set it down beside the two beers. He touched the screen and Kirby heard his own voice coming through, conversing with Monica about the details of the case.
“That hotel your girl likes?” Mac said. “The manager happens to be a client of mine. Can you believe that?” He shook his head and stroked a handful of beard. “So now, do we have some business to discuss?”
“You bastard.”
“If you knew my daddy, you’d know that w
as a compliment.”
Kirby desperately wanted to do the right thing. Walk out the door and drive down to the station and turn himself in. Take his medicine and end this.
But he could only think of Jalene and Kayla and Jared, of their lack of options if he lost his job. What would happen to them if he went to jail.
“I ain’t gonna wait all night. Your choice, Hollywood. Deal with the devil or bear the cross.”
Kirby felt shivery, like a cold front had swept through. The ape in the black suit was smirking. Mac was drinking his beer and looking at Kirby like he owned him.
Feeling as if the hourglass marking the passage of his life had just cracked, Kirby walked slowly to the window and stared outside. His voice was hollow when he asked Mac what he wanted him to do.
The door of the marina locker concealed a narrow, rectangular space. At first Preach thought there was nothing inside, but then he saw the legal envelope stuck into the cubby at the top.
His eyes swept the marina.
No one was watching.
Inside the envelope was a stack of 5 x 7 photos. He knelt as he went through them, his chest tight with anticipation.
The first few photos depicted Damian and Elliott having sex with different women, often two or three at a time and in different positions. The photos had been taken in Damian’s basement. After that came the incriminating snapshots of Elliott and Rebecca Worthington he had expected to find, confirming the blackmail theory. There were also photos of the mayor and Elliott in a ménage a trois with another woman, and sometimes with another man. One was a close-up of the mayor having sex with Tram Vu.
The positions and equipment got more complicated as the photos progressed. Toward the end of the stack he came across a woman he thought looked familiar. A light-skinned black woman, lithe and beautiful, with an oval face and a mischievous mouth. She possessed an innocence that the other participants had lost, and though she was smiling in the photo, the smile was forced, and Preach detected a well of sadness behind her almond-shaped eyes.
