by Donna Ball
Case skimmed it quickly, but didn't find anything he didn't already know. He dialed the detective in charge of the case and found him at his desk.
“Listen,” he said, after introducing himself and explaining his interest in the case, “what I want to know is if anyone you talked to ever mentioned this girl wearing a necklace, real unusual, a leather thong with a pewter figurine of a girl with her hands tied behind her back and a blindfold over her eyes.”
The detective sounded puzzled, and asked him to repeat the description. A little impatiently, Case did.
“No,” allowed the detective slowly, “I can't say I recall anything like that. You've got a description of what she was wearing there in the file. But if you want, I'll check with the parents.”
“And her friends,” suggested Case. “It's the kind of thing she might show off to her friends but not her parents. It's real important.”
“I'll do what I can.”
“Will it take long?”
“Sheriff Case, those parents haven't let a day go by that they haven't been on the phone to me three or four times. I don't think they'll put off returning my call if they don't happen to be in.”
“All right, thanks. I'll wait to hear.” He hung up the phone, frustrated that he couldn't do more.
“Where the hell have you been?” demanded a voice at his door and when he looked up, Fred Lindy, the district attorney for St. Theresa County was standing there scowling at him.
“Investigating a case. Last I heard that was my job.”
Generally, Case liked Lindy. He was sometimes a little too political for the sheriff's taste—the seersucker suits and straw hats, for example, looked better in a newspaper photo than they did in real life—but for the most part the two men thought alike and worked well together. The past couple of days and the promise of a sensational case had brought out the worst in Lindy, however, and he was beginning to get on the sheriff's nerves.
“Well, let somebody know where you're going next time. I've been buzzing your office for the past two hours.”
“I don't work for you, Lindy.”
“You're right about that.” Lindy dropped his attitude and came inside, closing the door behind him. “We both work for the people of this county, which is something we might not do much longer if we blow this one, but I guess you know that. How sure are you that this pervert Saddler murdered those two girls?”
A treacherous little voice muttered in his head: Less sure than I was four hours ago. But out loud he answered brusquely, “You know what I've got, Lindy, and you know what I don't have. You can either go with it or not.”
Lindy hooked his toe around a hard chair in front of the desk, pulling it out, and he sat down. This time of year he abandoned seersucker in favor of blue chambray shirts and narrow red suspenders, every inch the country lawyer. He wore round steel-frame glasses and beneath them, the expression on his face was a mixture of anxiety and satisfaction. It was a look Case knew well, and it meant good news, because Lindy only worried when things were going his way.
He said, “I used the time while you were gone to talk to our prisoner a little bit.”
Lindy was a hell of an interrogator. He had a flat, dry voice and unwavering gaze that had been known to put the fear of God into men stronger than Saddler. When he spoke, you listened. What he said, you believed for a fact. Case could threaten and manipulate and fire off two-sided questions, but when Fred Lindy said, “We're going to trial,” and walked out of a room, the accused started to quake. He had that way about him.
“He doesn't like me, for some reason,” Lindy went on. “He's ready to talk, but he won't talk to anybody but you. He's scared, Case. We've got him now.”
Case pushed up from the desk and started down the corridor with the D.A. keeping in step. “He wants his lawyer there. I figure he's going to try to make some kind of deal. No deals, you got that?”
Case gestured for the deputy to open the door.
“Case, did you hear me? You are not authorized to make any deals!”
The door closed on his voice and Saddler and Soffit got up from the table at which they had been conferring. “I've tried to explain to Mr. Saddler,” said Soffit, “that it does no good for me to be here unless the prosecutor is, too. If you'd just ask Mr. Lindy to step in—”
“I'm here,” Case said, glaring at Saddler. “Talk.”
Saddler licked his lips nervously and sat down again. “Look, I ain't taking no murder rap. What happened on that boat—it was an accident and you know it. You were there, goddamn it. You saw. The other son of a bitch, he's crazy, man. He's trying to pin these girls on me, and this goddamn state is so screwed up, he might just get away with it. What chance has an ex-con got, I ask you that? I ain't taking the rap for something I didn't do. I'm not going to be your goddamn scapegoat!”
Case turned toward the door.
“Wait! Listen, you said something about a deal. You still interested?”
Case turned. “What kind of deal?”
Soffit said. “I really must advise you, Mr. Saddler not to say anything further until I can—”
Saddler turned on him. “Shut up, you little prick! They're trying to turn me into a goddamn serial killer and I ain't copping to that, do you hear me?”
He turned back to Case. “Look, I messed with Dennison's head a little, made a few phone calls, no harm done. And so maybe I watched his wife sometimes from the beach, but hey, she leaves her curtains open, what does she expect?”
Case said, “And did you call her up, pretending to be her daughter? Or did you have somebody else do it?”
Saddler shook his head impatiently. “Man, that's what I'm trying to tell you, I ain't never called that woman in my life and I don't fucking know anybody I could get to do it, either. What's the big goddamn deal, anyway?”
Once again Case turned for the door.
“Hey, wait, now listen to me! Look, okay, I was in her house that night, but I don't know nothing about any phone calls to her, you got that? And when Dennison walked in on me, I might've beaned him with the poker, but no permanent damage done, so what are we talking here? B&E, three years, six months served? I can deal with that.”
Case looked at him coldly. “What about Laura Capstone? Did you lure her to the beach and try to strangle her to death?”
“Who the hell is she? What are you doing, trying to charge me with every crime that's been committed in this crappy little county since I got out? Jesus Christ!”
For the first time he shot a nervous glance at his lawyer, but saw no help forthcoming from that quarter. He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, addressing Case with all the sincerity he could muster. “That bomb, man, you know I didn't mean to hurt no one. That boat was empty, man!”
“You're not telling me anything I don't already know. I'm real busy here so if that's all—”
“That necklace,” Saddler said quickly. “You seemed mighty interested in it. You think it's got something to do with that Dennison girl and you'd be right.”
Case said carefully, “Go on.”
“Mr. Saddler, as your attorney—”
“When I first got here, I spent some time casing the Dennison place. Them houses down on the beach, they're so easy to get into, a three-year-old could do it. So sometimes I'd just go into one and have myself a look around. Never stole nothing, never did no harm. But I saw some mighty interesting things.”
Case said, “I'm getting bored.”
“Like one of them houses, great big fancy place right down the beach in front of the Dennisons'. In a drawer in the upstairs bedroom, all kinds of shit, child porn shit, weird stuff, man. And that necklace, that's where I saw it. There were a bunch of them all hung on hooks in a row, like neckties or something. And photos. Snapshots of real live girls, stripped down and trussed up just like the girl on that necklace. Some of them looked pretty bad, man.”
Case heard his voice from a very great distance. “Can you tell me exactly where this
house was?”
“They've all got names on little plaques at the end of the boardwalk, and I remember this one real well. Hell, man, I can give you the address.”
***
His private phone was ringing when Case walked back to his office with Lindy dogging his heels demanding to know what Saddler had said. Case ignored him and snatched up the receiver, speaking into it brusquely.
“Yeah, Sheriff, this is Detective Rickman over in Gulf County. I talked to the Conroy girl's kid sister, and she recognized that necklace you described. Said she got it from a boyfriend a few days before she disappeared. Only I don't think it was a regular boyfriend, if you know what I mean. This guy sounded older, and Melissa was going to an awful lot of trouble to keep him secret from her folks. We always thought he had something to do with her disappearance, but we never could track him down—or even be sure he existed. Is any of this helping?”
“Yes,” Case said hoarsely, “it is.”
“If any of it pans out, you'll send it on over, won't you?”
“Yes. Thanks, Detective.”
He hung up the phone and Lindy demanded, “What? What's going on?”
It was a moment before Case could trust himself to pick up the phone, another to trust that his voice would work. He had to consciously steady his breathing as he spoke into the mouthpiece. “Get me Judge Wagner,” he said. “And do it quick.”
Then he turned around, and told Lindy what was going on.
~
Chapter Forty-three
“How're you holding up, sweet thing?” Walt Marshall spoke around a mouthful of unlit cigar, squinting into the sun as Carol came down the pier toward him.
“Holding up, Walt,” she answered with a tired smile and embraced him. “Thank you for what you did the other night,” she told him sincerely as she stepped away.
He shook his head sadly. “Not enough, baby doll, not enough. This whole mess, it's shook me up real bad, I don't mind telling you.”
Carol replied, “It's shaken a lot of us, Walt.”
She had parked on the side of the marina that was opposite that on which the larger boats were docked so that she would not have to pass the charred rubble with its police-tape barrier that was all that remained of Guy's boat. Now she could not even look in that direction.
And Walt, trying to lighten her mood, said, “Well, hell, baby, I guess it ain't every day a man gets to be a bigshot, anyway. How'd you like that picture of me in the paper?”
Carol smiled. “It didn't show off your best side.”
He chuckled. “I didn't know I had one, sweetheart. But I got to speak my piece for two television stations and I reckon that's about as much fame as I ever want to see. What are they getting out of that son of a bitch, anyway? Anything helpful?”
Carol hesitated. “Not really. Not yet.”
He nodded, understanding, and did not question further.
Carol said, glancing around. “I'm supposed to meet a client here. Ken Carlton, do you know him?”
Walt nodded. “Sure, he's got that hot-looking Donzi over there.” He nodded toward the gleaming blue-and-white speedboat bobbing between two smaller recreational boats at the end of the pier. “Takes it out just about every day, rain, shine, or small craft advisory. That is some mean vehicle. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was running drugs in that thing, as much time as he spends on it.”
Carol managed a laugh. “I think we can eliminate that possibility, Walt.”
“Yeah, I guess. Not too many drug runners dock their yachts in a little place like St. T. every year, and he has got one gorgeous-looking sleeper for serious travel.”
“The advantages of being independently wealthy, Walt,” Carol replied, and then saw Ken come up from below decks of the Donzi. Ken spotted her and lifted an arm in greeting. She waved back.
Walt said, scanning the horizon, “Ya'll aren't thinking of taking her out today, are you? Looks to be blowing up a squall.”
The sun poked through dark-blue-lined clouds in brilliant intermittent spikes, and the darkening water line in the distance did suggest rough seas. Carol found herself half-hoping a storm would force them to turn back, and then she thought with sudden intensity, This is stupid. I should be with my husband at a time like this. I should be with Guy.
Ken waved to her again, and sensibility reasserted itself. A couple of hours and her obligation would be fulfilled. There were twelve other realtors on this island who would have fought her for the chance to take a ride in Ken Carlton's Donzi and she owed it to Laura—and herself—to see it through.
She said, “We're just taking a quick run over to Little Horse. We'll be back before the rain falls.”
Walt nodded. “Well, I wouldn't take her any further than that. You watch out for snakes now.”
Carol grinned and waved at him as she started down the pier.
“I was beginning to think you might not make it,” Ken greeted her when she came within speaking distance. “It looks like we'll be heading into a little chop.”
“As long as the rain holds off.” Carol extended her hand and he helped her onboard. “Beautiful boat. I can see why you'd want to bring it down for the summer.”
“It was a necessity as much time as I've been spending over at Little Horse,” Ken admitted. “Not to mention the fact that I'm never really comfortable unless I know I've got access to the water. Of course, I was beginning to think I'd picked the wrong marina when that boat blew up the other night. Did you hear about that?”
Carol had that strange feeling of having walked into another world—a world where other people actually walked and talked and lived their lives, where the center of the universe was not Carol Dennison and her struggles and adversities.
She said, “That was my husband's boat.”
He looked stunned. “My God. I guess I should have known that, but I haven't listened to any local news the past couple of days. I only knew about the boat because I asked about the damage to the pier. Was anyone hurt?”
Carol wondered vaguely how anyone, even a tourist, could have failed to hear what had been going on here the past few days. And yet, in a way, the innocence of ignorance was restorative, and she did not want to drag up too many details.
She swallowed hard and said, “A deputy sheriff was killed, actually. My husband wasn't on board at the time.”
He said, “Thank God for that.” She saw the question in his eyes, but was grateful that he did not push for more information. He said, “I'm sorry for all your troubles. I have a feeling I'm imposing on you at a bad time. Has there been any word on your daughter?”
Carol shook her head, mustering a grateful smile. “Thank you for your concern. But please, don't think of yourself as imposing. Actually, the one thing I needed most was to get away for a little while.”
“Then maybe this afternoon will work out to the benefit of both of us,” he said, and started the engine.
***
Laura looked up when Guy came in. “You just missed her,” she said. Then noticing the distracted look in his eyes, she added anxiously, “Is there news?”
“Laura,” he said abruptly, “how sure are you about the color of your attacker's hair?”
“Well, it was dark, and the stocking over his head, and I wasn't taking notes ... under the circumstances, as sure as anyone could be I guess. Has something happened?”
“So it was definitely brown?”
“Brownish, as far as I could tell.”
“Like mine?”
“Maybe not that dark.”
“So it could have been blond.”
“No, not blond. Why, what's happening?”
“Saddler's hair is blond,” Guy said.
Laura stared at him. “Kind of dirty blond? Brownish blond?”
“White blond, going gray. Noticeably blond, Laura.”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe he dyed it.”
“You're that sure? You couldn't have been mistaken about the color?”
“It w
as too dark to tell the difference between brown and red and black, maybe, but between blond and brown—I think I would have noticed, Guy. I think I would have remembered. He must have dyed it.”
Her intercom buzzed. When she picked it up, Tammy said, “Sheriff Case is on line one.”
“Is he looking for Mr. Dennison?”
Guy stepped forward curiously.
“No. He asked for either you or Carol.”
“Thanks, Tammy.” She pushed the button. “This is Laura Capstone, Sheriff.”
She could feel Guy listening attentively.
The sheriff said abruptly, “I have your office on my emergency contact list for the address 'Sea Dunes' in Gulf View Acres. Are you the owners or just the managers?”
“We own it, but it’s rented now. What—”
“Who to?”
“Um, Sheriff, I'm not sure I'm supposed to—”
“Who's living there now, Miss Capstone, and how long has he been there?”
“It's rented to a man from Tallahassee by the name of Ken Carlton. He moved in at the first of the month, but I happen to know he's not at home now. Could you please tell me—”
“I'm on my way over there with a search warrant. If you want to meet me there with a key, it would save some trouble.”
“I—yes, all right. I'm five minutes away.”
She hung up the phone and looked at Guy in stunned disbelief. “A search warrant,” she said. “This place just gets crazier and crazier.”
“Ken Carlton,” Guy said. “Why does that name sound familiar to me?”
“Because that's Carol's client—the one she's showing property to today. And now the police want to search his house.”
Guy said, “I'm following you over there.”
~
Chapter Forty-four
Carol let herself be hypnotized by the flash of sun and shadow on her face, the rhythmic bounce and slap of the waves, the roar of engines that precluded conversation and even thought. It was not until they had left the channel cut and started to circle around the back side of Lighthouse Island that she realized they were headed in the wrong direction.
