Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘Yes,’ said Rayna, now sitting up straight, her eyes wide, her face animated. ‘The bracelet was gone, but her ankle was all red, where it should have been. I remember because when we lifted her onto the cruiser the girls took her upper body and I grabbed her feet – her ankles. She may have even been bleeding a little. But I’m not sure.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said David getting to his feet. ‘That day I was with the Jordans, Ewan mentioned something about the fishing nets right near where you were anchored. He said it used to be a major fishing haven but the area around Essex Bay had been largely fished out. He also said there were still some old nets in place, and that sometimes boats would get caught in them.’

  ‘What are you saying? Do you think that—?’

  ‘The tide was low, right? In fact according to Sam and Con’s report it was at its lowest at late morning – not long before Christina swam out to the cruiser. Maybe her foot caught and maybe she tried to pull loose and, if she couldn’t then, maybe that’s how she drowned.’

  Rayna looked up at David who was already out of his chair and packing his bag. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Back to the office to check the autopsy report.’

  ‘Of course, they would have noted the ankle injury.’

  ‘Yes, and if they did, we missed it.’

  23

  ‘You have made the right decision, Elizabeth,’ said Caroline Croft, coiffed and coutiered from head to toe. Watermelon pink Anne Klein suit, white blouse, stockinged legs and conservative shoes. ‘You have been silent for long enough. You are Christina’s mother and if anyone deserves to have their say, it is you.’

  With this last comment she reached over and covered Elizabeth’s hand in her own, giving it a little pat. Elizabeth noticed her nail polish was red, far too red for the pastel in her suit, but this was an unimportant matter and she had more pressing things to focus on today.

  Caroline had been phoning Elizabeth daily since their afternoon tea a fortnight ago. She had planted the idea during that Thursday gathering. Not that you could call it a ‘gathering’, she thought, considering there were only three of them in attendance, the rest of the fickle mob having cancelled out at the last minute.

  As soon as Sophia had gone to the powder room (to correct the bleeding dark terracotta liner on her upper lip), Caroline had suggested that Elizabeth could use her television program, the Friday night ratings winner, Newsline, as a means of expressing her point of view. She could talk of her grief, her rights as a mother to speak freely and her determination to see that justice was done.

  At first Elizabeth completely disregarded the idea. For starters Rudolph would be furious she had not cancelled the afternoon tea, and God only knows what he would do if she went public with her feelings. It simply wasn’t done, not now, not ever.

  A fortnight ago she had ached for her husband’s attention – watching him work in his study, hour after hour and felt so horribly useless, so stupid, a complete and utter nuisance. Two weeks ago the discovery in Christina’s room would have sent her over the edge. But that was then, before her welcome burst of strength, and her redefined purpose.

  Now, she felt empowered and, in the past twenty-four hours, fuelled by a new dose of determination in the form of that horrible Mr Rigotti’s piece in the Tribune. So, she had decided then and there. It was time to make her move.

  As soon as Rudolph had left for the office late yesterday morning, she placed a call to her friend who promised to have a crew available by three.

  ‘No, not today,’ she had said, wanting time to prepare. ‘Tomorrow morning – say ten?’

  She set about organising a set of tasks for Agnes, all of which would involve long errands into the city for most of the day. She knew she had to be careful. She had important information to relay and spent the rest of Thursday rehearsing her ‘performance’ over and over in front of her bedroom mirror. She improved with every run-through. Topher would have been proud.

  If she was right, and she had a feeling she was, she held the power to destroy the Martin woman and everything she represented. She just had to keep her nerve and let this thing play out one word at a time. Perhaps she was not so stupid after all.

  So here she sat, all coiffed and coutiered herself in a pale blue Chanel with appropriate flesh coloured nail polish, situated directly in front of her prize pale cerise roses, sipping mineral water with a twist of lemon. She looked at her new discovery sitting innocently, powerfully on the table beside her and then took a few long, deep breaths to calm herself before the cameras started to roll.

  24

  ‘Come on, Joseph,’ he yelled. ‘You can do it, buddy. That’s it. Eye on the ball.’

  He did not know it then, but she was watching him from the top of the hill.

  Whack.

  Joseph Mannix Junior hit it to the left, over the head of the kid on third base, sending a scramble of little fielders chasing the ball before all three runners made it home.

  ‘Good swing, Joseph. Come on buddy, bring it home.’

  ‘He’s good.’

  Joe Mannix turned to see Loretta Scaturro standing behind him. At first he didn’t recognise her, in blue track pants and a white windcheater with a Boston Red Sox baseball cap securing her thick, dark hair in a short ponytail out the back.

  ‘Better than his old man ever was. But don’t tell him that.’

  Joe smiled at the DA, not sure what to make of this meeting – chance, coincidence, whatever it was.

  They both turned back to the game to see Joseph slide over the home plate and then drown in a sea of yellow and red uniforms as his fellow team mates crowded around to congratulate their star player on a home run, which pretty much stitched up the game for the home team.

  ‘You follow the Sox?’ said Joe, trying to fill the awkward silence.

  ‘A little. My dad used to take me to Fenway every weekend when I was a kid. Just don’t seem to have the time anymore.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Ms Scaturro . . .’

  ‘Loretta. It is Saturday after all, Joe.’

  ‘Loretta, you know someone playing here today?’

  ‘No, this is no coincidence. I rang your home and your wife told me you’d be here.’

  ‘Okay, well . . . here I am.’

  Joe was now more than just a little uncomfortable. It’s not that the DA’s office and the police had ever been enemies, it’s just that a meeting such as this was highly unusual. Their relationship was a professional one and Mannix respected Scaturro’s ability as an attorney, but there was still some tension. Four years ago Scaturro had made a very vocal electoral promise to ‘fight police brutality’ which had pretty much rubbed everyone in uniform, including Joe and his homicide team, up the wrong way.

  Joe also knew that Scaturro’s office had been guilty of ‘using’ the police as scapegoats when a trial turned against them. Nothing new in that, and it was more often than not ADA Katz who was guilty of suggesting police incompetence every time he managed to lose a case. But Scaturro was the boss and she could have at least attempted to pull in the reins on her ambitious deputy.

  Scaturro nodded towards a bench next to the mound and Joe followed her to sit.

  ‘I respect you, Joe. I trust you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Joe always limited his responses to one or two words when he wanted the other party to provide as much information as possible. It never failed.

  ‘I’m worried about the Haynes case.’

  A pause – with no response from Mannix.

  ‘I am concerned it may spiral out of control.’

  ‘Isn’t it the DA’s job to control a case at trial?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it is, that’s why I am so worried. I fear that this one – the press, the public interest, the issues between my deputy and the opposing counsel.’ She paused again, but Joe was giving her nothing. ‘And, the people involved – th
e family of the victim.’ She turned to look at him, taking off her sunglasses. ‘Look Joe, you and I have always been straight with each other. This isn’t easy for me, believe it or not I don’t often frequent Saturday Little League.’

  Joe smiled, ‘I guessed as much. What is it Loretta?’

  ‘You read Rigotti’s piece?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw it.’

  ‘Then you can imagine the past few days have been . . . difficult.’

  Another pause.

  ‘I’m nervous, Joe. I fear this one is going to claim more victims than just Christina Haynes.’

  ‘Some would say Rayna Martin has already been played as a victim,’ he said.

  ‘True, but a girl is dead and Rayna Martin was responsible for her . . . but that’s not my point.’ She turned towards him. ‘I need your help Joe. I may have to ask a favour or two as we get closer to trial. I may need you to make some discreet investigations for me, off the record if you like.’

  ‘Loretta, I can’t . . .’

  ‘They won’t influence the facts of the case, I give you my word on that. If anything it could mean making sure no one else can unduly interfere with the judicial process. I just may need some . . . protec . . . collateral.’

  Joe noted her slip.

  ‘I’m not a PI, Loretta, and my team aren’t for hire.’

  ‘Of course not. But you are a decent man.’ She put her sunglasses on again as if preparing to leave. ‘Bottom line – I’m scared, Joe.’

  He looked at her and saw she was telling the truth. Maybe even understating it a little.

  ‘So will you?’ she began.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ll listen to you if and when the time comes.’

  ‘All right, that’s fair enough,’ she said, her shoulders relaxing with at least some sense of relief.

  ‘He is good,’ she said signalling towards Joseph Jnr who was now on the bench waving over at his dad.

  ‘Yeah. Maybe one day, he’ll be a big baseball star so the whole family can retire and live like royalty.’

  ‘Now wouldn’t that be nice.’

  It was late afternoon on the first day of summer, and the weather was perfect.

  Now, as the sun started its inland decent, the holiday makers at Cape Ann looked satisfied and refreshed as they languished in vacation mode: licking gelatos, strolling the waterside galleries and sipping iced coffees under colourful umbrellas outside colourful cafés.

  In any other universe, thought David who was himself downing a cold coke as he waited for Sara at The Madfish Grille, a popular dockside café at Rocky Neck across from Gloucester Harbour. The Madfish was on Art Gallery Way, a picturesque strip littered with multihued weatherboard huts, each selling original art and craft work, antiques, gifts and other pretty knick-knacks.

  Here I am, sitting in one of the most scenic vacation spots in the country, sipping a cold coke on a hot day and waiting for a very beautiful girl . . .

  It had been a good week. First there was Teesha’s recollection of possible witnesses, followed by Rigotti’s editorial, and then Rayna’s memory of Christina’s missing anklet and his subsequent ‘theory’ that the anklet may have caught on some of the old trawler nets.

  He had been right. The autopsy report had noted ‘evidence of significant subcutaneous bleeding on the lower right leg with grazes on the ankle forming several circular impressions around the upper foot’. It also suggested an ‘exterior constrictor contributed to the numerous small abrasions’. There was even a photo of the ankle injury to match.

  David blamed himself. He and Sara had read the report that morning at Myrtle’s, but they had only focused on the details relating to the drowning, and the fact that the coroner could not find any other probable cause of death. And maybe he had been too distracted by his partner to . . .

  Despite the fact he was angry at himself for missing such a detail, he could not help but think that this trip to Gloucester was key to their making a break in the case. With any luck the next two days would not only see them find evidence of the Asian couple’s identity and whereabouts, but also give them some indication of Christina’s cause of death. Both were long shots but in the very least they felt like they were physically ‘doing’ something. And ‘doing’ felt good – especially after the setbacks and delays of the past weeks.

  ‘Hi,’ Sara said, collapsing into the blue canvas chair opposite him.

  She reached across the table, grabbed his half drunk tall glass of ice filled coke and downed it in a matter of seconds. Then she bent down and took off her shoes. David saw the name Manolo Blahnik on the inside label and assumed this was yet another European genius who made big money by torturing the feet of beautiful, shoe-obsessed women.

  ‘Better,’ she said, wiping some brown bubbles from her top lip and smiling.

  In any other universe, he thought again.

  ‘You first,’ she said, plonking her bag on the table with various tour brochures spilling from its mouth.

  ‘Okay, I visited forty-five businesses and was offered everything from top class cruiser hire to a five dollar foot massage from the wife of a very dodgy operator known as Discount Dick.

  ‘Twenty-five of the forty-five only open for business in mid-May. The remaining twenty-seven offer structured cruises where the tourists stay on board all day – which, obviously, rules them out.

  ‘That leaves thirteen – five of which only operate in the immediate Cape area and do not travel as far west as Crane Beach where Teesha saw her witnesses. The remaining eight do operate in early May, do offer tours to Essex Bay and did allow me to look at their booking sheets, none of which showed any reservations for anyone with an Asian name.’

  ‘And none of them remembered meeting the couple?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid I’ve come up blank. What about you?’ said David signalling the brightly attired waiter that the two fresh cokes belonged to them.

  ‘Forty-three negatives, I’m afraid. But,’ she said, thanking the waiter, taking the cold fizzy drink and discarding the straw before swallowing half the glass in a matter of seconds. ‘I did meet with one guy who had some pretty interesting offers.’

  ‘Tell him you’re taken,’ said David, regretting it as soon as it came out. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she smiled. ‘Believe me, he was no competition.’ She shuffled the brochures in front of her.

  ‘His name was Tom Cruise – seriously, Tom Cruise.’

  David laughed, grateful for the comic relief.

  ‘Any resemblance?’

  ‘Only to his mother,’ she smiled again.

  ‘Anyway, he runs a small business out of Gloucester called The Top Gun which offers helicopter drops – you know, take a couple up, set them on a deserted beach with a hamper, leave them alone for the day, pick them up and charge a couple of hundred for the pleasure. He says the tours are particularly popular with Japanese visitors.’

  ‘Was he operating the first week of May?’

  ‘Legally no, illegally yes. He doesn’t actually have a licence.’

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘I told you he made me a few offers, I just delayed my polite refusals until we had finished our chat.’

  ‘Sara Davis!’

  ‘Don’t knock it, Mr forty-five operators with nothing to show.’

  ‘Point taken. Okay, so . . .’

  ‘So he admits he hires a bunch of renegade pilots, guys who may not have up-to-date licences themselves. Pays them cash, by the day, no questions asked.’

  ‘And on 4 May?’

  ‘On 4 May Mr Cruise sold a $250 romantic getaway package to Mr and Mrs Sato Kyoji, the pick up at Beverly Airport and the drop off at Crane Beach, which is illegal in itself given the beach is private. That would have put them right in front of where our teenagers went overboard and the timing could not be more perfect.’

  ‘Sara, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Wait, it gets better,’ she smiled.

  ‘Accor
ding to Mr Cruise, and I quote, “the missus had a bun in the oven”.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is,’ said Ewan Jordan as he stood to pour them another glass of Dutton Ranch Chardonnay. ‘You could have a cause of death.’

  It was just past eight and David and Sara were sitting at a foldaway dinner table on the front deck of Ewan’s Beneteau 321, now moored at Gloucester Marina. Ewan, who had offered to be their guide on this fact-finding mission, had just cooked some fresh mackerel, marinated in lemon juice and white wine, on the top deck grill, before serving it with a light green salad with vinaigrette and crisp, fresh bread rolls on the side.

  ‘That’s a good thing, right?’ said their host, taking a seat across from them.

  David and Sara looked at each other before turning back to Ewan.

  ‘Yes and no,’ answered Sara. ‘We’re surmising that the anklet got caught in the netting and pulled her under. She was a little drunk, so her senses were not one hundred per cent. She probably tugged at the netting and that’s why the anklet cut into her skin.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ewan, ready and willing to help play super sleuth.

  ‘But that doesn’t necessarily improve our case,’ Sara went on. ‘The prosecution will just say her foot got caught before Rayna saw her, which still leaves them to argue she was unconscious and could have been revived. We can claim her foot was caught after the conversation, but we can’t prove it. None of this wins us any brownie points with the jury.’

  And David knew she was right.

  ‘Hold on now,’ said Ewan, shifting his tall frame forward in the green canvas deck chair. ‘My experience is pretty much with creatures of the four-legged variety but it seems to me your advantage could be in the timing.’

  ‘How so?’ asked David.

  ‘Take an animal, say a dog or a rabbit caught in a trap. It’s a slow way to die, they tug at what holds them so long and so hard that often times they end up amputating themselves.’

  They all looked at him blankly.

  ‘That takes some doing – hours in fact,’ he said, only to see more blank stares.