1929 Book 4 - Drifter

by ML Gardner

  “I’m looking for Aryl Sullivan.”

  His mug slipped out of his hand and crashed onto the floor. By the look on his face, that was about the last name he expected to hear.

  Alice came running in with a cloth and Sheriff Vincent stood while she cleaned up the coffee and shards of glass. He waited until she left, closing the door behind her before he said anything.

  “I take it you know the name.”

  “Oh, I do alright. About the saddest thing to happen to Rockport in I don’t know how long.”

  “What do you mean by saddest?”

  “Well, Aryl was loved around here. Great addition to the community. Left behind a widow who’s expecting. Craziest accident I ever saw. His boat blew up—”

  “I read the article in the paper and I am sorry for the town’s loss. But did you ever find a body?”

  “A body? No. He was lost at sea. We searched for three days.”

  “I see. Who was the last person to see him alive?”

  “That’d be his friend, Caleb.”

  “And when was that?”

  “When the boat blew up. They went out that morning together. Caleb was the only one to come home.”

  “I see. The article wasn’t clear on that. I have two names here, Jonathan Garrett and Caleb Jenkins. Do you think I could talk to them?”

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea, Sloan. It’s still fresh and Caleb’s been torn up about it ever since it happened. I just got Jon settled down. He’s been downright consumed with trying to prove this wasn’t an accident.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

  “Why would he think that?”

  The Sheriff sipped his coffee, smacked his lips and sighed. “Couldn’t deal with the loss, I guess. Can’t say that I haven’t seen this before. When folks lose someone and they can’t accept a loss, they look for something, anything, to blame it on. Last few boating accidents have ended up with one family pitted against another for reasons too ridiculous to understand. Sabotage and curses and strange things like that.”

  “What does Mr. Garrett think happened?”

  “He doesn’t even know, Sloan. He doesn’t even know.” He sighed heavily. “He just can’t deal with it.”

  “I’d really love to talk to Mr. Garrett. I think it might help my investigation greatly.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from doing that. He’s got his hands full right now, his wife’s expecting and he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders trying to piece together this business without Aryl.”

  “I understand it’s a difficult time. But—”

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Because we have done what we could to put Aryl to rest and move on. The last thing those families need is someone coming around dredging it up again.”

  “It has to do with a murder investigation. Serial murders, actually.”

  “I’m just a simple small town Sheriff and you’re going to have to elaborate for me how this might have to do with Aryl.”

  “Someone came in to the station last summer. He had a wallet with him. The wallet had the identification of one Aryl Sullivan.”

  The Sheriff’s face went white.

  “It was waterlogged. Nearly everything inside was destroyed. But I managed to make out the name.”

  Sheriff Vincent bent his head down with a sigh. “Must’ve washed up on shore. Did they say where they found it?”

  “No. Only that it belonged to a man who was waiting outside. When I went out to question him, he was gone.”

  “You think someone’s using his identity?” Vincent asked.

  I cocked my head to the side and raised my eyebrows without admission or denial.

  “Do you have the wallet?”

  “It’s back in Boston. Evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t elaborate any further than that. It’s just very important I find whoever had that wallet.”

  “I wish I could help you more, Detective.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “If Aryl comes around—”

  Vincent’s face went hard. “Aryl is dead.”

  “Well, in Boston, until we have a body—”

  “You’re not in Boston, Sloan. You might do well to remember that. Now, Aryl’s loss is still fresh on the hearts and minds of this town. If someone is using his identity and committing crimes, that sounds like a problem for Boston. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll move on to New York. But the last thing his friends and widow need is someone coming around, opening that wound with news like this.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Sheriff.”

  He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got to run across town and take care of some business.”

  He extended his hand. I shook it.

  “I thank you for your time, Sheriff.”

  I left with the feeling that he did believe that Aryl was dead. He was angry at me the same as I got angry at the papers for making assumptions about missings that affected the families, and sometimes the outcome of my cases. He was protective of his town and his people. I could respect that. His request to leave Aryl’s friends and widow alone would be respected as well. But he never said anything, and neither did I, about his parents.

  ***

  I stopped in at a small café and ordered a cup of coffee. The waitress didn’t greet me, just stood across the bar staring at me with her hands on her hips. I got the feeling they didn’t like outsiders here.

  I sipped my coffee and decided the best way to sidestep the Sheriff and avoid burning that bridge was to approach the senior Mrs. Sullivan as if I were an old friend of Aryl’s who just heard the news.

  Finding her however, proved to be slightly more difficult than I expected. I had a hell of a time sparking up conversation with anyone and they all watched me out of the corner of their eye. This was a cold closed off community and I was happy to get moving. I tossed a dollar on the counter next to my half-finished coffee and smiled at the waitress.

  “Nice town you got here.”

  She stared at me like I had three heads.

  I started walking down Main Street. I could smell the salt air and hear the ocean in the distance. I’d have to take a walk along the beach before I left.

  I stopped in at a small hardware store. The little bell rang when I opened the door and three old men stopped their conversation and stared at me. A short portly man with neat white hair stood up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I sure hope so, old timer. My car broke down just outside town. I was hoping you’d have a screw driver.”

  He pointed to a wall where five or six hung on display.

  I walked over and pretended to study them.

  “What kind you need?” he asked while the other two stared.

  “Ah…small one. For a radiator hose.”

  He waddled over, pulled one off the wall and handed it to me.

  “Thanks.”

  He didn’t have a cash register, but recorded his sales in a logbook.

  “Say, I was on my way to see someone when my car broke down. Maybe you could help me.”

  “Automobile repair is down the road a stretch.”

  “No, I can fix it. But I’m looking for Mrs. Sullivan. Senior, that is. Aryl was a friend of mine—”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You knew Aryl?”

  “Yes,” I lied. Damn small town folk could see through a lie better than a seasoned detective.

  “Then you should know where his mother lives.” He shoved the screwdriver and my change across the counter with a ‘now get the hell out’ look.

  Maybe I’d skip the beach walk. If the marine life was anything like the people of this town, the jellyfish were liable to run up on shore just to sting me.

  “Thanks,” I said with a hat tip.

  Strike two. I wandered around with the screwdriver I didn’t need and thought about stopping i
n at the small paper. I doubted the clerk would let me see any of the archives without a damn good reason.

  I began to regret my decision to not let Cap know what I was chasing. With his clout and a phone call to Vincent, I could have had my information hours ago.

  I had just about run out of options when luck tapped me on the shoulder. It must have been the fabric of my suit jacket adjusting, but it sure as hell felt like a tap to me.

  I turned, half expecting to get punched in the face by the Rockport Welcoming Committee when I saw something that just might work.

  ‘Potions, Fortunes and Spells’, the painted window read. The last year had been financial hell for millions and the upper east coast was no exception. Even when a body couldn’t afford to put a round meal on the table, they’d pay for a glimpse of hope.

  While a few of the cold case detectives used psychics on the side to help with leads back home, I didn’t believe in all that hocus pocus. But this person would be as good as the local priest when it came to knowing the ins and outs of this town, without the clause of confidentiality.

  I walked inside. A woman sat behind a desk full of candles, charts, crystal skulls and a large crystal ball. Strong incense burned my nose. She might be part Indian, but her dress and the decoration of the place told me she couldn’t decide if she was Indian or gypsy. I didn’t care if she was part Hoboken midget, so long as she could tell me where Mrs. Sullivan lived.

  “A fortune, Sir?”

  “I’m in need of pain relief,” I said with a grimace, throwing in an eye and shoulder twitch. She smiled and pulled out a box from her lower drawer, placing it on the desk in front of her. Opening it, she revealed enough heroin to easily classify her as one of the town’s major dealers.

  “I’m looking for information, actually.” I sat down and flashed my badge. “And I won’t mention what I just saw, if you tell me everything you know about Aryl Sullivan.”

  Her face went white. Now that I had something on her, I proceeded to get my information.

  She sat down slowly, keeping her eyes on me. “Aryl died in a boating accident last June.”

  “So I’ve heard. But tell me, do you believe that?”

  “Yes. Why would I not?”

  “Could he have faked his death?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What if he did?” I pulled Aryl’s wallet out of my pocket and tossed it on her cluttered desk. “I am certain that either he faked his death or someone is using his identity. This wallet didn’t walk up on the beach by itself.”

  She stared at it with an odd expression, almost as if she were afraid of it.

  “I don’t suppose any of his friends or family are clients of yours?”

  “His mother,” she said quietly, with eyes still on the wallet.

  “Why does she come?”

  “Why does anybody come? For a glimpse of hope. Some peace. I tell her what she wants to hear.”

  “You tell her that Aryl is alive?”

  She shrugged, seeming as if she was barely listening to me.

  “His mother…can you tell me where she lives?”

  “712 Picket Drive.”

  “Alright.” I swiped the wallet off the desk and put it back in my pocket. She kept her eyes glued to it until it disappeared.

  “Does this wallet mean something to you?” I asked her. “You look shaken.”

  She regained composure and her eyes rolled up to meet mine. “Would you believe me if I told you that the dead talk, Detective?”

  “Yes. Yes I would.”

  “I have dreamed of that wallet,” she said, letting her eyes fall to where it sat nestled in my pocket. “It haunts me. It’s why I tell his mother that he is still alive.”

  “You’ve dreamed of this?” I asked, pulling it back out, holding it up.

  “Yes. It won’t come as any shock to you that I have no special gift outside putting on a grand show that gives people hope and a reason to go on. My fortunes have no better accuracy than a flip of a coin. But after Aryl died, I started dreaming of that wallet.

  “At first I decided to tell his mother the truth. That he was dead and just get on with grieving. But I dreamt the wallet was chasing me.”

  She put a delicate hand over her eyes, embarrassed.

  “I know how silly it sounds. But in the dream I was terrified. It chased me like a bat and after I locked myself in the bathroom it threw itself against the door for what seemed like hours. It was angry.

  “When I woke I decided that I would give her hope and beyond reason I would tell her that he was alive. From then on when I dreamed of it, it was always in the distance, almost…watching me. Reminding me. I realize how ridiculous this sounds.”

  I watched her for a moment. “Not at all. I think I know exactly what you mean. When is the last time you dreamed of it?”

  “Last night. It was far off in the distance, farther than it’s ever been.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the last you’ve seen of it.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  I stood, making to leave. “Thank you for Mrs. Sullivan’s address.”

  She moved her head in acknowledgement without looking up. “And we did not see each other, correct?”

  “No. We didn’t see each other.”

  ***

  After closing the door behind me I gazed up each side of the street with a furrowed brow, wondering which way to go. I should have asked directions but I had been so startled that she had dreamt of the wallet…or was that a show she put on? I stopped to think. No, I was damn good at reading people and she wasn’t faking it. She’d dreamed of it and it had disturbed her.

  I decided that the best thing to do was simply wander. I couldn’t risk talking to anyone and it getting back to the Sheriff that I was still poking around.

  ***

  I found myself at the marina. The sun was low on the horizon and it glistened off the water, reflecting it in bright streaks that hurt my eyes. I was squinting until something, or someone rather, caught my eye. It was a woman dressed in black. She had pale skin and blond hair. She was very pregnant and walked slowly down the pier until she stopped at one boat. With one hand on her stomach, the other reached out and touched the bow of a boat named the Lisa Lynn.

  I didn’t go to the senior Mrs. Sullivan’s house. Maybe I should have. But knowing that the gypsy woman was telling her nothing but lies and seeing the sadness radiating from the woman by the boat, I just didn’t see the point.

  “That’s my boat,” Aryl said.

  “Which is what I’d found out in my poking around. It’s how I figured it was her. She was pregnant. Did you know?”

  Aryl smiled at Sloan’s cleverly disguised question. What he really meant was, is it yours.

  “She told me right before the accident. I suppose she’s had it by now.”

  Sloan looked relieved to know Aryl was prepared to come home not only to a wife but a new child as well.

  “I only saw her briefly from across the way. She was at the marina and she was alone.”

  “How did you get ahold of my wallet?”

  “An old man brought it to me in Boston.”

  “Then why were you there?” He looked at Sloan again, his face a knot of frustration. “In Rockport?”

  “I was looking to get some information about you.”

  “Did you ever talk to my friends and family?”

  “I didn’t. I was following what I liked to call a ‘dead lead’. It was a lead that wouldn’t go anywhere and even though I knew it, it wouldn’t leave me alone. That fortune teller wasn’t the only one who had dreams about that wallet. It bothered me, too.

  “So I went and poked around for a few days, thinking it would lead to something else. But I was advised by Sheriff Vincent not to speak to anyone. He was very protective of his people. Didn’t want me disturbing anyone with my questions when they were all trying to get on with life.”

  “You told Sheriff Vincent that an older man just wandered into your office
with my wallet with no explanation?”

  “For that, my friend, I’ll need to go get another drink. Because it is a long story indeed.”

  “Give me the condensed version,” Aryl said. He took a bite of roast, now cold and sat back, staring at Sloan waiting expectantly.

  Sloan smiled, swirling the last of his drink. “How he got ahold of your wallet, I don’t know. As for how I came to be on this boat, bringing you home, I was given a nudge in the right direction. It didn’t mean much at the time. I was drowning in other cases. But it all started with that wallet.”

  Chapter Three

  A Minor Detail

  I was just settling at my desk trying to dream up menial tasks when Helen called me. Shrieked is more like it. Helen was one hell of a secretary, but she could be as rough as concrete. Born and raised in Boston, she bellowed, “Hey, Sloan! Someone here to talk to ya!”

  Grateful for something to do, I straightened my shirt and headed out.

  A nervous man in his late fifties stood at the counter, wringing something brown in his hands.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I got a missing person.”

  “Relative or friend?” I asked, pulling out a notepad from the breast pocket of my suit.

  “No. I have him here.”

  “Wait, you have him here? If you have him here, how is he missing?”

  “He’s lost. He’s right outside.”

  “Look, Mister, I don’t have time for games.”

  “I got a guy…I found him. He don’t know who he is. She told me to bring him here.”

  “Who told you to bring him here?”

  “Cecile.”

  This guy was a piece of work and simple was an understatement. He looked like a six foot tall ten year old. He bit his lip and looked scared. “She said don’t make a big deal. She said just tell you and drop him off.”

  I stared at him. I’d seen plenty of loonies in my time and this guy was off his nut. Looked too clean to be drugs and I didn’t smell alcohol, but I couldn’t be sure. What I was sure of is that I’d hit my quota in dealing with the dregs for today.

  “What’s your name?”