Island of Bones

by P J Parrish

  He flipped on the AC and the ancient wall unit gave a cough and began to spit out a thin stream of air that did little to dissipate the heat.

  “So, what do you want me to investigate?” Louis asked, sitting in a chair across from her. Something about this woman told him to take it slow and easy.

  “I read —-” She paused. Then she reached in her tote bag and pulled out a newspaper. With a shaky hand she unfolded it and held out the section to Louis.

  Louis took the paper. It was yesterday’s Fort Myers News-Press, the front page still filled with storm cleanup news. Louis looked up at the woman expectantly.

  “The story on the bottom,” she said, nodding.

  Louis looked back at the newspaper. There was a story about the body they had pulled out of the mangroves on Monkey Island. She was still unidentified but there was a close-up photograph of the ring with a caption saying police were hoping someone would recognize it.

  “I think I might know something about her,” Diane

  Woods said softly.

  Louis waited, but when she said nothing, he leaned forward. “Do you know who she is?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know who killed her?”

  Diane Woods looked at her shoes. Louis held the newspaper out to her. “I think you should go to the police,” he said.

  She looked up quickly. “No.”

  “If you know something, you need to go to the police.”

  She was silent.

  “Why did you come to see me?” Louis asked.

  She didn’t answer. She was just sitting there, head bowed, tote bag clutched to her chest.

  Louis ran a hand over his sweaty face. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” he said. He started to rise.

  “No, please.” She looked up at him. “I found this same article in my father’s desk drawer yesterday. He had clipped it out.”

  “So what?”

  Diane Woods’s brown eyes were scanning his face, like she was looking for something there. He had seen it before in people looking to hire him —- hope that he could put something right, something that had gone horribly wrong in their lives.

  He sat back down. “Why are you here, Miss Woods?”

  She hesitated then reached into her tote bag again. She handed him a folded paper.

  He opened it. It was a Xerox of another newspaper article. The headline said NO CLUES IN MISSING GIRL CASE. There was a small photograph of a teenager with the name Emma Fielding under it. The girl was thin-faced, with limp blond hair and a curiously flat gaze —- and looked nothing like the young woman he had seen in the mangroves.

  Then he noticed the date on the article -- June 18, 1953.

  He looked up at Diane Woods.

  “Why are you showing me this?” he asked.

  “I found it in my father’s desk...with the new article. I think he killed her.”

  Louis’s eyes went from the copy to the current News-Press. “Which one?” he asked.

  “Both,” she said.

  Louis took a breath, sitting back in the chair. The articles were thirty-four years apart. “Do you know this girl?” he asked, holding out the 1953 article.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the connection?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is I found both these articles paper-clipped together and hidden in my father’s desk.”

  “Maybe he knew her. Maybe he’s got some fascination with missing people or homicides.”

  Diane shook her head slowly. “He doesn’t.”

  Louis stood up, turning his back to her. He glanced again at the old clipping then turned back to her. He was going to tell her he didn’t want the case, and that anything she knew, no matter how insignificant, needed to be told to the cops. But she spoke first.

  “He has a rifle,” Diane said. “The newspaper said the woman in the water was shot with a rifle. He has one.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s acting strangely. We always go out to dinner on Saturday. He’s missed dinners. And he seems...depressed.”

  Louis glanced back at the newspaper then shook his head. “That’s it? There’s nothing else?”

  “No,” Diane whispered. “Nothing else.”

  Louis let out a sigh.

  “Please,” she said quickly. “Just check into it. Just watch him and follow him. Let me know if he does anything strange. Can’t you do that?”

  Louis shook his head. “I have to go to the cops if I have a suspect.”

  Her eyes teared. “No, no. If you do that, he won’t have a chance. The newspapers, TV...they will say he did it even if he didn’t. His life will be ruined. He couldn’t take that, he just couldn’t take that.”

  “That’s not the way —-”

  “Yes, it is. You know it is. You know how they treat suspects. He’d lose his job, he’d be ruined. It would kill him, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Louis stared at her.

  “I just want you to watch him.” She wiped at her eyes. “Can’t you just do that?”

  Louis shook his head slowly.

  “Can’t you talk to him, maybe, without letting him know who you are? Can’t you just tell me if...”

  Her voice caught and she dropped her eyes to her lap.

  “What if I find out he did it?” Louis asked gently.

  Diane’s shoulders dropped and she let out a long sigh.

  “I would have to go the cops,” Louis said. “You understand that, right?”

  She nodded, her eyes still downcast.

  “You understand that you’re hiring me to investigate your father and that you might not like the result?”

  When she looked up at him her eyes still held that desperate look of hope. “I have to know,” she said.

  CHAPTER 6

  Louis stood at the magazine rack in the Lee County Library, a copy of Field and Stream open in his hands. But his eyes were on Frank Woods.

  If ever there was a man who defined “average,” Woods was it. He was in his late fifties, about five-nine, maybe a little overweight. His complexion was not especially light or dark and he had a sort of gray cast, like he spent too much time indoors. His hair was dark but heavily peppered with gray, and he kept it trimmed short, like it was more a time consideration than style. His clothes were as innocuous as the rest of him. Long-sleeved white cotton shirt, buttoned at the collar and set off by a dark tie wide enough to look like it came from the sixties. His plain brown trousers were clean but didn’t have any crease. It was clear he didn’t care about any notions of fashion. The only thing about him that could make him stand out at all was his short salt-and-pepper beard. Other than that, Frank Woods looked exactly like what he was —- everyone’s cliché of a librarian.

  Louis flipped through the magazine.

  Diane Woods, Louis had discovered, was a high school principal, an only child whose mother had died when she was young. Diane was obviously a smart woman who was close enough to her father to have regular dinners. If anyone could judge whether Frank Woods was capable of murder, you would think it would be his daughter.

  Louis watched Frank Woods as he wheeled a book cart away from the desk.

  He didn’t believe families never saw it coming. They knew. They might be in denial, but they knew. And Diane Woods knew something, too. More than she had let on.

  Louis set the magazine back and wandered toward the front of the library, making his way closer to Frank Woods.

  Woods was filing books from a cart, and every once in a while, he would look up and Louis could see his eyes —- brown, alert, intelligent —- sweep the library. Then he would pick up the next book and silently slide it into place.

  Louis eased closer, pretending to look at books. Suddenly, Frank disappeared around a shelf. Louis sighed. He had wanted to use this first visit to size Woods up, to get a sense of what kind of guy he was. But the library was nearly empty and he suddenly felt very conspicuous.

  “Can I help you?”
r />   Louis turned with a start.

  Frank Woods was right next to him, his brown eyes intense.

  “I was looking for something,” Louis said. He looked at the shelf in front of him. South American poetry...

  “What’s the title? Maybe I can help you find it,” Woods said. His voice was soft, parental, as if he were gathering children for Saturday morning story time.

  “Uh, local history,” Louis said finally. “I guess this isn’t it.”

  Woods’s lips pressed together, and for a moment Louis felt he was caught, even though he knew Woods had absolutely no reason to suspect anyone was spying on him.

  “This way, please,” Woods said.

  Woods had an erect posture and an oddly light way of walking, as if he were afraid of waking someone up. Louis tried to imagine him chasing the Monkey Island woman across God-knows-what kind of terrain and it wasn’t coming. But then he remembered Frank Woods owned a rifle and thought of hunters stalking prey.

  “What exactly is it you need?” Woods asked, his eyes scanning the books as he walked slowly down the aisle.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Woods looked back at him. “You’re not sure?”

  Louis paused. “College. I’m doing a paper.” Another beat. “On Captiva Island, history, that sort of thing.”

  “It’s your term paper?” Woods asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Woods was staring at him. “Where do you go to school?”

  “Community college.” Louis shrugged. “I got a late start.”

  “So you’re over at Edison Community College then,” Woods said, running a finger around the book spines.

  “Yup. Maybe I should start with newspapers,” Louis said.

  Woods turned. “We have the News-Press in binders going back to 1970. Anything older than that is on microfiche, over there.” He nodded toward the back of the library. “However, I think you would have more luck with books. Local history is in the 917 section.” He started away.

  “Maybe you would recommend some books?” Louis asked.

  Woods hesitated. “All right. Follow me, please.”

  Louis followed him to another shelf and watched as Woods pulled down three books. He held out the first to Louis.

  “This is about Captiva Island, its local color, history, and people, from 1900 until about 1976,” Woods said. “This one is a pictorial of Fort Myers, and this last one deals with the 1800s and the settlement of the outlying islands.”

  Frank dumped the books in Louis’s arms and started off. Louis glanced at them, then back at Woods. Either he knew or he didn’t. His next question wouldn’t matter.

  “What do you have on runaways?”

  Woods stopped, took a breath that expanded his round shoulders, and turned. “You’re writing a paper on that, too?”

  Louis forced a smile. “Heavy class load.”

  Woods’s lips tipped a small smile. “Odd time of year to be writing term papers, August.”

  “Summer school. Like I said I got a late start.”

  Woods stared at him, his eyes growing distant. Then he turned quickly and moved away. He returned a minute later with two more books on the psychology of teenage girls.

  “This should get you started,” he said. He left, without saying another word.

  Louis set the books on a table and headed toward the archive department. It was in the back, shielded from the front desk by shelves. With the microfiche reel for 1953, it took Louis a half hour to find another reference to Emma Fielding. It was only one short article, saying Emma Fielding had never been found. He printed out a copy, picked up his books, and started to the front desk.

  Woods looked up.

  “I’d like to check these out,” Louis said.

  “Your card please.”

  “Ah...I don’t have one.”

  Woods stared at him. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  Louis pulled his wallet from his jeans and slipped out his license. Woods took it and started filling out a form. Halfway through it, the pencil paused.

  “Is there something wrong?” Louis asked.

  Woods didn’t look up, but shook his head. He finished completing the form and pulled a small blue library card from a drawer. In cramped small handwriting, he filled in Louis’s name and address.

  After running the books through the scanner and slipping the cards in the back, Woods stacked them and slid them across the desk to Louis along with his license.

  “Thanks,” Louis said. He hefted the books and started away.

  “Mr. Kincaid?”

  Louis turned.

  “Your library card,” Woods said, holding out the blue card.

  Louis came back and took the card. “Thanks.” Louis slipped the card inside one of the books and started away.

  “Have a nice day, Detective,” Woods said.

  Louis hesitated, debating whether to turn back, but decided to keep going.

  Detective? How the hell did he know? Did he recognize the name from the newspapers? Or was he expecting someone to come looking for him?

  As Louis got to the front glass doors, he paused just long enough to glance back at the desk. Frank Woods had disappeared.

  CHAPTER 7

  The phone was ringing when Louis got back to the cottage around five. It was Horton’s secretary.

  “The chief just wanted to let you know that the baby skull came back from Tallahassee.” She paused and Louis could almost hear her thinking that he was some kind of ghoul or something. He didn’t care.

  “Do you want it?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’ll come over now.”

  Louis hung up and stood there for a moment, listening to the whisper of the surf. The sun was starting its descent into the gulf, filling the cottage with liquid gold light. His eyes wandered to the shelf near the sofa.

  A couple of months ago, he had finally unpacked the last of his boxes, conceding he was staying if not really putting down roots. His books now were lined up next to his fast-growing collection of blues and rock CDs and tapes. But the top shelf he had left empty —- except for four items.

  He had never thought of himself as a sentimental man. The closest thing to a souvenir he had ever had was the Tiger pennant back on the bedroom wall of his foster parents’ house.

  But for some reason, he had felt the need to put these four things out where he could see them.

  Louis went to the shelf. There was the snowflake obsidian that his partner in Michigan, Ollie Wickshaw, had given him. Next to it was a puka shell necklace. There were two picture frames. The smaller one held a sepia-toned portrait of his mother, Lila. The other was a letter with a quote from Winston Churchill: “The only guide to a man is his conscience...with this shield, however fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.”

  Louis picked up the obsidian, rolling the smooth black stone between his fingers, thinking of Ollie. It is a stone of purity, Louis, that balances the mind and the spirit.

  He was thinking, too, about the baby skull, trying to figure out why he wanted it.

  The light was fading. He glanced at his watch. He had to get to the station.

  It was after six by the time he got to the station. As he climbed the stairs, his thoughts turned to Frank Woods again. He would have to tail him, see what kind of life he led outside the library. But he had the feeling Frank Woods was one of those guys leading a life of quiet desperation, as the saying went. And that this case was going to be even more boring than usual.

  At Horton’s door, he stopped to knock.

  “He’s left for the day.”

  Louis turned to see Mel Landeta standing in the doorway of another office, a file folder in his hand. His tie hung loose and his black suit looked like he had slept in it.

  “You know if he left anything for me, a FedEx box?” Louis asked.

  “You mean the skull,” Landeta said taking off his yellow- tinted glasses.

  “Yeah. He said I could have it.”

&nb
sp; Louis waited for a reaction from Landeta, but the detective just rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s in here,” he said, nodding to his office.

  Louis followed him in. Landeta’s office was small and furnished with only a desk, two chairs, and some black file cabinets. The blinds to the street were rolled shut, and there was not one certificate, plaque, or picture on the walls. The place was lit up like a hospital operating room.

  Landeta reached down beneath his desk. He set the Federal Express box on the desk.

  The top was open and Louis looked inside. The skull was nestled in a bed of Styrofoam peanuts. Louis carefully lifted it out. He felt Landeta’s eyes on him and turned. Landeta was sitting at his desk, still holding the file folder.

  “So what are you going to do with it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Try to trace it, maybe.”

  “Why?” Landeta asked.

  Louis shrugged. He carefully set the skull back in the box. Landeta was whistling softly, a low sad-tinged sound with no particular melody.

  “Well, I gotta get going,” Louis said picking up the box and starting to the door.

  “You want to hear about Jane Doe?” Landeta asked.

  Louis hesitated. “You got an ID yet?

  Landeta shook his head. “Not yet and she has no prints in the system. We put out a statewide BOLO and sent out a sketch of her face and a photo of the ring to the papers. Nothing. Nada. Rien. Zero.”

  Louis came back in, setting the box on the desk. “Is there any way to tell where she went into the water? You know, currents and stuff?”

  “Normally, maybe. But not with the storm.”

  “Maybe the ring can be traced. What’s it made out of?”

  “Coral.”

  “Seems someone would know.”

  “Someone does know. They just aren’t talking.”

  “Nothing in her jeans? Wallet? Papers?”

  “Not a thing,” Landeta said. He picked up a folder. “This just came in a few minutes ago. It’s the autopsy report. Haven’t even had a chance to read it yet.”

  He held it out to Louis. “Go ahead, take a look. You can read it to me while I clean up,” he said, going behind his desk.