Tempting the Devil

by Potter, Patricia;

  He didn’t want to show the woman the photo. He didn’t know where Robin had received it, and he couldn’t be sure that her source wasn’t in it. He sure didn’t want to get someone killed because of carelessness. Instead, he planned to ask Amy Boatright details surrounding her husband’s death, his moods prior to the attack and activities around that time. He wanted to throw in the fishing trip as an aside. Something unimportant.

  His gut was telling him there were entirely too many accidents around the Meredith County sheriff’s department.

  He asked the neighbor a few more questions. How long had Boatright lived in this home? What had she thought of him?

  The woman looked at him shrewdly. “Does this have anything to do with those murders?”

  “I can’t really say, ma’am.”

  “I hope you find whoever did it. Mark was a good man. A real good man. Helped everyone. Took care of all the single women in the neighborhood. Fixed their plumbing. Repaired roofs. Mowed their lawns. His death broke Amy’s heart. Sheriff’s department gave her a good settlement, though. That was a godsend.”

  “But she works at the school?”

  “Mainly because she wants to keep near Mark Junior. MJ is the image of his father and I think she’s terrified of losing him too.”

  “What about her daughter?”

  “Merry? Bright and sunny. A real joy to be around. Both are good kids.”

  “A good marriage then?”

  “I wish mine had been one-tenth as good. I wouldn’t be keeping other people’s children to support my own.”

  “Was he from Meredith County?”

  “Sure was. Grew up not far from here.”

  “Ex-military?”

  “Yeah. Think so. How did you know?”

  “Lot of cops come from the military.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Allen.”

  “I hope you find his killer, but general opinion is he’s long gone from here.”

  “General opinion could be right,” Ben acknowledged. “Thank you, ma’am.” Ben handed her his card. “If you think of anything that might help, call anytime. That’s my cell number.”

  Mrs. Allen walked to the door with him. As he reached it, he asked for directions to the school where Amy Boatright worked. She gave them to him.

  He hesitated, then said, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this visit.”

  She looked surprised but nodded her agreement. “Anything that will help catch the killer. It would ease Amy.”

  Once in Brunswick, Robin rented a room in an inexpensive motel on the outskirts, this time paying with the recently purchased credit card. She tried not to take offense at the leering look of the proprietor.

  Then another shopping expedition. She’d decided during the trip from Savannah to Brunswick that she couldn’t just wander around asking questions without attracting attention.

  But if she was a freelance writer researching a story on the Georgia coast, she would have reason to be snapping photos and asking questions, especially if she was researching a story for a yachting magazine.

  She went to the local library and found a phone book from Chicago. She turned to the middle, to Murphy, found a phone number and address. Then she made a trip to a small printing company where she ordered business cards that should be ready in an hour.

  While waiting, she bought a camera and notebooks, then matched the locations of local marinas to a map of the area. She hoped she would be lucky enough to spot the boat. If not, she would start asking questions.

  Start with the small ones. If the owners were trying to escape notice they would dock in the smaller marinas. At least that was one theory. Another could be to hide in plain sight in the largest ones.

  Time was at a premium.

  Flip a coin. Heads.

  Smaller ones first.

  Ben decided against going to the school. He was only too aware of what happened to those who might be conceived as a danger to Hydra, or whoever was involved in the killings of the deputies. He didn’t want to put Amy Boatright in danger.

  Instead, he and Mahoney grabbed some lunch, then discussed what Mrs. Allen had told Ben.

  They compared the records of deputies. There were very few women in the department, and those were dispatchers and support personnel. Nearly all the deputies were lifelong residents of the county. Some were second-and third-generation members of the department. That wouldn’t be odd in a smaller department. But this one was large enough that it rang some major bells. There had also been an unusual number of fatalities, most of them automobile accidents. One a hunting accident.

  Ben looked again at the photo. How many more fishermen had been in the original photo? Probably another five.

  Camaraderie was obvious. Several of them had arms slung around shoulders. Big grins on faces.

  Robin Stuart had found something in that photo. What in the hell was it? And was one of the men her source?

  He tried to call her cell phone. Received another “out of service” message. He left another message, even knowing—or at least suspecting—she would ignore that one as well.

  “We should tell Holland about this photograph.”

  “Robin Stuart changed toward me in the past day or two. I think she met with the source Sunday night, and he told her something that made her stop trusting us.”

  Mahoney’s brows drew together. “You think he told her someone with our office is involved?”

  “Or implied it.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “It happened in Boston. I can’t see any of the people in our office being involved, but … hell, I guess you never know.”

  “We can’t keep vital evidence quiet,” Mahoney objected. “Holland will want to know where we’ve been.”

  “Just checking out recent deaths in the sheriff’s department.”

  “You know what you’re asking me to do? Withholding information from my boss?”

  “That photo could possibly point to Ms. Stuart’s source. I don’t want to be responsible for his death if we don’t get to him before the perps do. And if someone in our office leaks it …”

  Mahoney didn’t give him a promise, and Ben wondered if he should have told his partner about the photo. But he needed Mahoney’s help. Time was too important right now, and he needed another mind to reason. He didn’t want to think he was too involved with Robin Stuart to make sound decisions but neither could he preclude it.

  He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly two. Let’s go back to the Boatright house.”

  They were parked in front of her house when she drove up. She looked at them curiously as she drove into the driveway, and a boy jumped out and ran inside. The woman took more time in getting out.

  He and Mahoney walked up to her and introduced themselves.

  She was a pretty woman with tired eyes. Her smile was more automatic than real.

  She invited them inside when they said they were reviewing the circumstances of her husband’s death. She asked if they would like a soft drink, and both said yes.

  She introduced them to her son, then told him to go into his room and do his homework. He looked rebellious for a moment, then took one look at his mother’s face and reluctantly went down the hall. When the door closed behind him, she turned back to them.

  “Why now?” she asked.

  Ben didn’t pretend not to understand. “There’s too many deaths in the sheriff’s department. Your husband’s as well as a number of accidents. Could be a coincidence, but we wanted to find out why.”

  “Six,” she said. “Six in two years. I’ve been to the funerals.”

  “That’s high for a rural sheriff’s department,” Mahoney said.

  She didn’t respond.

  “How long did your husband work for the department?” Ben asked.

  “Ten years.”

  “And he was happy with the job?”

  “I don’t think happy describes it. He’d
always wanted to be a law officer. He liked helping people.”

  “He enjoyed working with the sheriff’s department then?”

  “Up until a few months before his … death.”

  “And then?” Ben asked.

  Amy Boatright’s hands clasped together tightly. Her gaze went to the door, then back to him. “In the last months before his death, he was angry about something. Retreated into himself.”

  “Did he usually patrol alone?”

  She nodded. “We don’t have two-officer cars. Not enough violent crime. Most of the stuff was traffic stops and domestic violence. Mark hated those most of all. He couldn’t understand how a man could hit a woman.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Boatright. But this is important.”

  “You think someone in the sheriff’s department is responsible for those deaths, don’t you?” she replied.

  “I think it’s a possibility.” He paused, then added, “I understand that some of the deputies took fishing trips together.”

  She looked surprised, then nodded. “Usually two a year. Mark always looked forward to them. He liked most of the guys.”

  “Did you ever go?”

  “Boys only,” she said dryly. “I wasn’t that happy about it, but Mark said it didn’t count against his days off. And he did bring back enough fish to feed us for a month.”

  “Do you remember where they went?”

  She nodded. “Mark liked it so much he took me and the kids down there several months later. Jekyll Island.”

  “You said he was upset before his death. Did he tell you why?”

  “No, but he started having bad dreams. I thought it might have something to do with Gary’s suicide.”

  Ben dredged up names in his memory. Gary Sutler. He’d shot himself three months before Mark Boatright died.

  “A friend of his?”

  “Got him into the department. Last man in the world you’d think of killing himself. It shook Mark terribly.”

  “Can you do something for us?” Ben asked.

  “I’ll try anything to get his killer caught,” Amy Boatright said.

  “Draw us a time line. When he joined the department, when Gary died, when your husband started to get angry. Anything he might have said, no matter how insignificant you might have thought it was.”

  Her gaze was steady. “You think all this might be connected?”

  “All what?” Ben asked innocently.

  “The recent murders of the police officers. Maybe Gary. Maybe even Mark.” Ben noticed the odd lack of surprise in her voice.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Boatright. We’re only asking questions.”

  “If he was killed by his own …”

  “We don’t know that.” Ben got up. “Mrs. Boatright, I’m asking that you don’t mention this conversation to anyone. Anyone at all. Not to your family. Not your closest friends.”

  Her face paled, but she nodded.

  He handed her his card. “I’ll check with you in a few days on the time line. Call me or Agent Mahoney if you think of anything you haven’t told us.”

  They left.

  “What now?” Mahoney asked. “Jekyll Island? We’ll have to talk to Holland about that.”

  “No,” Ben said. “I’m going to take a few days’ leave.”

  Mahoney got that despairing look back in place. “Never happen. Not with the investigation ongoing.”

  “Never a better time. A week before the next grand jury session. We’re still not officially on the case. Not much we can do before then. Besides, Holland’s been pressing me about taking vacation time.”

  “What do I tell Ames? He wanted to see you, remember?”

  “You told me. It’s my problem now.”

  “You really do want to end your career.”

  Ben shrugged. “If I find Robin Stuart, he’ll be happy.”

  “Finding her won’t be easy.”

  “If that’s where she’s gone, she’ll be checking out marinas. That will take time.”

  He used his cell phone to check on flights to Brunswick, the closest city to Jekyll Island. As he waited for a reservations agent, he thought about the city. He knew it well. He’d spent a few months there a while back as part of another joint task force that was investigating a drug ring.

  The agent came on the line. There was a flight to Brunswick in two hours.

  It would take at least ninety minutes to reach the airport but once there he could use his credentials to get through security quickly. It was worth a try. He could be in Brunswick in three hours. He made the reservation.

  “What about Holland?” Mahoney asked. “What if he says no to a few days off?”

  “I’ll figure that out later. Just get me to the airport. Fast.”

  chapter twenty-five

  Lou Belize didn’t even try to keep his voice calm as he talked to the obviously nervous accountant. “You said you were making progress. Mr. Kelley doesn’t tolerate liars.”

  “I was making progress,” Michael Caldwell responded. “The fire scared her off. You didn’t warn me about that.”

  “It should have sent her into your arms.”

  “I need more time. I told you that. I couldn’t force myself on her.”

  “You must have some idea where she’s going.”

  “We were to get together tonight … The fire …”

  “Talk to her friends. Talk to the old lady. Find out where she went. Get what I want, or your services will terminated.”

  “She’s not going to say anything. She’s made that clear.” Fear was in Caldwell’s voice. And desperation. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do.”

  “Not everything. Someone knows where she is. Find that person.”

  “Her sisters …”

  “They are none of your business.” Belize slammed the phone down. He wasn’t going to admit to Caldwell that he’d lost the sisters as well. He hadn’t thought they could move that fast, not with one sister caught in a court battle, and the other near delivery time. An error on his part. He didn’t like errors.

  He particularly didn’t like a damn reporter getting the best of him. Mr. Kelley would like it even less.

  He should have stopped her days ago. He’d thought the attack in Meredith would get him the name Mr. Kelley needed. Then a quick disposal. When the two bumblers came along, he’d hoped threats would prevail.

  Not that he was adverse to violence, but her informer would still be out there, a ticking time bomb.

  And if she went to jail she would tell the grand jury everything she knew. The feds would find her source and make him talk. Which could be very bad for Belize, as well as his boss.

  Another failure, Belize knew, and he would have his own explanations to make.

  Or he would have to leave town hastily. That idea did not sit well. He and Kelley had spent years setting up this network, and the protection they needed to survive. No bitch was going to ruin it for him.

  He picked up the cell phone and made another call. He would make as many calls as necessary. He wanted Robin Stuart’s sisters found. He wanted the woman herself found. And he was going to get the name of the rat who’d talked to her.

  Robin picked up her business cards and decided to junk her first thought of visiting the smallest ones first. Instead, she would check the closest marinas first and move outward. She wanted to see as many as possible before their offices closed.

  She found the first on her list and wandered down the docks looking for a luxury fishing boat similar to the one in the photo.

  The first marina she visited was small and obviously catered to small pleasure boats. The office was closed, as were the gas pumps. A quick glance told her there were no boats that resembled the one in the photo.

  The second was a larger marina. A young man—a college student wearing a University of Florida T-shirt—tried to be helpful but said he didn’t recognize the boat. He suggested it might run out of one of the two largest marinas, both o
f which advertised fishing charters.

  It was nearing dusk when she stopped at the third on her list. The marina advertised showers, a restaurant, and fishing gear. She went into the office, grateful for her newly minted business cards. Strange the way everyone accepted them as they would accept, say, a badge.

  She asked for the manager, and an older, bronze-faced man came from another room. She handed him a business card. “Mary Murphy,” she said. “I really hope you can help me.”

  Deep-set green eyes twinkled. “Well, I hope so, too, miss. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m doing a story on marinas in Georgia,” she said.

  “For who?”

  “I’m a freelancer. Yachting World is interested.”

  New interest came into the manager’s face. “In our part of the world?”

  “It’s a look at yachting on the Southeast coast. Off-the-beaten-track destinations. Number of slips, amenities, area attractions,” she said. “Who sails here now. Vignettes on people who come here on a regular basis and why.”

  “We get business from all over the world,” he said. “Our fishing’s some of the best.”

  She took the notebook from her purse. “So you get foreign-registered boats as well as U.S. ones?”

  “Not a lot. Maybe ten percent. We would like more. Maybe your article will help.”

  “How do they hear about you?”

  “Word of mouth, mostly.”

  “Any of those have permanent leases?”

  He shook his head. “Most belong to local residents.”

  “What about charter boats? Do any of them lease slips from you?”

  He shook his head.

  Was the boat in the photograph a charter boat someone rented for those trips? If so, she probably wasn’t going to discover much. Someone could use a foreign corporation to pay the lease costs.

  She took the photo from her purse. “This is what got me interested,” she said. “One of the men on this trip raved about it. Said the boat was the best he’d sailed. He fell in love with Brunswick and the Golden Isles.”