by Liz Dodwell
“Finn! Finn!” I shook his arm urgently and pointed across the water. “Look over there.”
He followed the direction of my arm. “I’ll be damned.”
Sitting in the corresponding slip was another Stingray. She was white with the same dark blue stripe and dark blue Bimini top. She was a twin to the one we were standing next to. We looked at each other.
“This could change everything,” Finn said. “We need to find the dockmaster.”
Together we headed to the marina office. The door jangled as we stepped inside. A woman was behind the reception desk with her back to us. She was a little on the heavy side but in a voluptuous kind of way. When she turned she didn’t disappoint from the front view either, and I saw Finn’s eyes flicker open a little wider. He just can’t help himself around a pretty woman. This one wasn’t wearing a trace of makeup, nor did she need it with the warm skin color and healthy glow of someone who works in the sun.
“Can I help you?”
“We’d like to see the dockmaster,” Finn said.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
For once, Finn was a little taken aback, but he recovered well, introducing himself and explaining our purpose in being there.
“I’m Moema Nuallain. Detective Batista had told me you would be here the other day but he did not say anything about today. You are asking for information on one of our clients and it is not our policy to give it out indiscriminately.”
Oh great, she was going to be bitchy about this.
Finn smiled. “You’re absolutely right to be cautious, Miss Nuallain. Why don’t we save ourselves any difficulty and give Batista a call? Frankly, he needs to know about this, too.”
“Please, call me Moe.” She smiled back, tucking a length of slightly graying hair behind her ear. “If you would call, I’ll fetch the record book.”
“I think she likes me,” Finn said in a low voice as he pulled out his phone.
SEVEN
Batista was excited. I could hear it in his voice over the speakerphone as he talked to Finn. We were back at the apartment and the detective had run a check on the owner of the second Stingray. As he spoke, I took notes.
The boat was pretty much a carbon copy of Marchand’s and belonged to Hemming Mathiasen, a Danish-born naturalized American, more usually known as Hammer. “To law enforcement,” Batista explained, “he is known as a dealer in jewelry, gold and silver of uncertain origin.” He went on to tell us that Hammer was based in New York City and had a rap sheet several yards long. “He started out as a low-class hoodlum, running drugs for the big guys and doing a little petty theft on the side. He dropped off the radar for a while. When he resurfaced, it seemed that somewhere along the way he hit it rich. Not really rich but enough that he could buy his way out of a lot of trouble and pay others to do his dirty work. At heart he’s still just a low-class hoodlum and he’s nasty, really nasty.”
“Does Hammer look anything like Marchand?”
“You’re thinking the same thing I am. This could be a case of mistaken identity.”
“Well,” Finn said, “Marchand’s boat was in slip B-11; Hammer’s was in C-11. The same location on parallel docks.”
“We’re looking into it.”
After that Batista clammed up, using the ongoing investigation excuse, but he did add, “Tell Phill she did good to notice the other Stingray.”
“You just did,” said Finn.
As it happened, we’d learned a little more from Moe. It had cost Finn a future dinner, but he wasn’t complaining. She had told us that Hammer had rented the slip four months previously and had been down at regular two week intervals since then. When he came down it was usually with an entourage. Thugs, she’d called them. Finn had asked if they all stayed on the boat. “Only Mathiasen,” she’d replied.
Finn had also asked about any similarity of appearance. Moe had said Marchand and Mathiasen were similar build but completely different features, though both were fair-haired. “And Rick Marchand was a good guy. I wouldn’t want to touch Mathiasen with a hundred foot barge pole.”
“So,” I was thinking aloud, “the killer can’t have known Hammer, or he’d know he had the wrong man.”
“He could have come up behind him without seeing his face and realized his mistake when it was too late. Either way, he still had to get rid of a body.”
“But why get rid of the body at all? It’s not like the killer really bought himself any time. And if that was his intent, he didn’t have to cart the body all the way to the Sea Spirit Reef. He could have simply weighted it and dumped it almost anywhere.”
“Maybe he just wanted to confuse things by making people wonder if the reef had any significance in the crime. We may never know.”
At that moment, Finn’s phone rang. “Sonny! What do you have for me?”
He gave an occasional grunt as he listened and his face drained of emotion. “Thanks, Sonny. I appreciate the help.”
“Well?” I raised my eyebrows.
“I have to do some thinking.”
“You have an idea what’s going on, haven’t you?”
“Pretty sure. And it’s not good; not good at all. I need to do some serious thinking and be sure I’m not making a big mistake.”
I knew I wouldn’t get anything else out of him until he was ready, so I figured I may as well just go to bed.
EIGHT
At ten o’ clock sharp, the moment the store opened, we walked into Everything Goes Pawn. “Everything,” seemed rather optimistic for what was, in fact, a very modestly-sized establishment. The clerk didn’t seem too surprised to see us hanging by the door, though; simply gave a half-smile and said an unfeeling “Good morning.”
Finn had been in touch with Bert again during the night and set him the task of discovering Irina’s employer at the time she went missing. I’d been pumping Finn for information since I got up but he wasn’t saying anything.
As we entered Finn immediately asked for Mr. Guzman. Bert, of course, had supplied information on the store owner. The clerk was hesitant but Finn insisted, telling him it was extremely urgent.
“Wait here,” the fellow said.
Moments later an elderly man appeared from what must be a back office. He was dressed in a three-piece striped suit that was a little large for his slight, stooped frame. Heavy rimmed glasses hid much of his thin face but the eyes behind them seemed kind. He held out his hand.
“I’m Ezra Guzman, but you have the advantage of me.”
We introduced ourselves and Finn asked if we could speak privately.
“What’s this about?”
“I’m working with the Palm Beach police in a consultancy capacity,” that was stretching it a bit, “on a case that might have something to do with Irina Kearns.”
Guzman registered surprise. “You’d better come back.” And he led us to an office barely bigger than a closet. We plopped on a couple of cheap plastic chairs and Guzman waited for us to begin.
We were with the man for an hour or so, and what he revealed in that time was both shocking and disgusting. It was obvious he’d been fond of Irina. “If you can do anything to help find these people,” he’d said, “you have my full support.”
As we walked out I glanced at Finn. Oh, yeah. He was in Lone Ranger mode alright.
NINE
We were in the Kearn’s living room with Russ and Viviana. They were seated close together on the couch. The morning sun that flooded the room did nothing to brighten Viviana’s pallid complexion, and her skin looked dry and papery. She clung to her husband’s arm as if it were a lifeline, even though he slumped beside her with no more vigor than a limp pickle.
I had parked myself where I could observe without being too close, while Finn stood, looking grim, with one hand resting on the mantelpiece. For a fleeting moment I was reminded of Nemesis, the personification of indignation toward those who had committed crimes with apparent impunity. Was Finn going to be a “dispenser of dues” to Russ and V
iviana? We all looked expectantly at him.
“From the beginning, we all thought this murder was about money and treasure. Why else the gold doubloon lodged in the dead man’s throat? Had Rick Marchand found a treasure trove from the 1715 Fleet and cheated his partners? Had he stolen treasure from another diver? The coin, after all, appeared to be a shipwreck gold piece and, in fact, it was.”
Here, Finn paused and put his finger to his mouth in momentary thought.
“We’ll come back to the coin a little later. First, let me put before you all the known facts.
“A man is killed by a bullet to the back of the head. He is Rick Marchand, a local man, owner of a successful insurance agency, with a loving wife and family, and by all accounts a pillar of the community. He has no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. He owns a 25 foot Stingray cabin cruiser, white with a dark blue stripe and dark blue bimini top. This boat, which is called Made My Bed, he keeps at Dockyard Marina in slip number 11 on Dock B. It is on the boat that he is killed with a shot to the back of the head. A professional hit, according to the police. The body is then taken to the Sea Spirit Memorial Reef where the killer does a poor job of tying it down. Two days later, as a service is in progress on a boat above the reef, one of the concrete memorial stones breaks from its harness and falls to the reef, dislodging the corpse below.”
A low moan escaped Viviana’s lips. She was biting on her knuckles with her head down and I could see her squeeze her eyes shut. Finn glanced at her, then went on.
“Also in Dockyard Marina there is another 25 foot Stingray; in every regard the same as Rick Marchand’s, except this boat is named Hammer Head, and is owned by Hemming Mathiasen, who goes by the moniker, Hammer, and who lives in New York. The boat is on Dock C, the slip number is 11. This “Hammer” is a very different type of man to Marchand. He has a long criminal history. His money has been gained by a combination of thievery and thuggery.
“Both men are of similar build, with dark hair. Marchand was part of a large fraternity of recreational divers who regularly searched the local waters for clues to 1715 Fleet treasure. Hammer is a guy who knows nothing about boats or diving, or treasure for that matter. For him, the boat is a way of trying to show the world he has worth. It also happens to be where he lives when he comes to Florida.
“On the evening of Marchand’s murder, we know, of course, that Made My Bed was in her slip and Marchand was on board. The Hammer Head, however, was gone. That has been confirmed by the dockmaster, Moema Nuallain.”
“And Hammer was on board his boat?” It struck me we needed clarification of the fact.
“His captain told Ms. Nuallain he was taking his boss and some friends for a day of fishing. She saw them pull away at around ten. Hammer was on deck waving a bottle of champagne.
“Now,” Finn continued, “we come to Irina, your daughter.” He looked sadly at Viviana and Russ.
Viviana began to sob. RJ, who had been sitting passively, exploded to his feet. “What does my sister have to do with this?”
Finn gave him a hard stare, which he then transferred back to Russ and Viviana. “Everything. It’s the reason an innocent man was killed.”
“What are you talking about?” RJ’s fists were clenched. He was a bull shark preparing to bump and decide if he should bite.
He was no match for Finn, though, who went completely still. In a chill voice, so low that RJ had to strain to hear it, he merely said, “Sit down, RJ.” Almost immediately RJ’s ire deflated and he fell back into the chair.
“To continue,” Finn said, “about 20 months ago Irina was working at a pawn shop where she handled data entry. Rarely did she work with the customers, but this one day she was asked to fill in for just a few minutes. In that short period of time, Hemming Mathiasen – Hammer – walked in with a gold doubloon.
“Though she carries the characteristics of Down syndrome – the almond-shaped eyes, slightly flattened button nose, the flat profile - Irina is still an attractive and lively young woman. She was captivated by the gold coin and Hammer pounced on this, exploiting her innocence, and persuaded her to meet him later.
“He plied her with alcohol, which she wasn’t used to, then he raped her. Nine months later, she gave birth to a child. She is now in a home that cares for the functionally and mentally disabled, many of whom are HIV positive.”
“How the hell do you know all this?” It was Russ who interrupted this time. He was breaking out of his torpor, but his eyes were too bright, his color inflamed.
“The police report you filed, naming Mathiasen as aggressor.”
“That’s privileged information. You had no right…”
Finn flared. “An innocent man has been brutally and senselessly killed. Phill was nearly killed…”
“She was never…”
“Shut up, Viv.” Russ snapped at his wife then rose and faced Finn. “Whatever you’re implying, you have no proof.”
“You think Batista won’t find that report? You think he’s not already putting two and two together? He saw the diver who shot at Phill; a big, broad-shouldered man.” At this, Finn looked pointedly at RJ.
Fear flashed across Russ’s face. “RJ had nothing to do with it. I did it. I killed that man.”
Total silence gripped the room into which Finn’s voice was heard, softly, gently. “No you didn’t, Russ.” He paused for a long moment. “It was Viviana. Oh, she didn’t pull the trigger; she did arrange the hit, though.” He turned to her, “Didn’t you?”
In slow motion Viviana nodded.
“Viv!” Her husband’s face was a mask of misery.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” She looked up at him and took his hand. “I’m almost glad it’s over.” Then she addressed Finn. “How did you know it was me?”
“The flowers were the first thing that clued me in.”
She looked confused.
“The huge floral arrangement you sent when Phill was in the hospital. It was overkill. Russ wouldn’t even think to send flowers so it had to be your idea. And you hardly know Phill; why spend so much money on a casual acquaintance unless out of guilt?
“It was also the doubloon. I had a friend trace it. He found a dealer who purchased it from a walk-in, no questions asked. The coin was then re-sold to a guy the dealer knew to be Colombian. Viviana, you’ve hinted that your family in Colombia are somewhat morally reprehensible. I’m betting you would know how to find someone to do your dirty work.”
Viviana let out a soft sigh. “Irina simply didn’t understand. Mathiasen actually told her the rape was an act of love. Do you believe it? He told her that’s how men expressed their love.
“He took her out on the boat after that, with three other men. They took turns in ‘using’ her. The next morning, before it was light, they put her in the outboard and dumped her on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. Then they hightailed it back to the boat. She was found wandering and mumbling incoherently; bloody between her legs from the rough sex. She had no identification and it was another day before we were able to track her down and bring her home.”
By now, I was feeling totally sickened. I was almost ready to put a bullet in Mathiasen’s head myself, but the story wasn’t over.
“Irina was unable to accurately describe the men who took her, or the boat they were on. And she was so emotionally fragile, we didn’t want to push her. Worse still, the bastards left her pregnant and HIV positive.”
Sweet Jesus.
“We were advised to abort the baby, but my Catholic upbringing got in the way of that. So once Irina was physically well enough, we brought her home. With the newer treatments available today, transmission of HIV from mother to baby can be less than one percent. We hoped her emotional stability could be improved enough that she could keep and care for her child. She was doing well, and I decided to take her to Palm Beach for a day out together. Irina was at seven months and showing. We were strolling along Worth Avenue when a guy came out of a store. Irina went rigid. He saw her. “W
ell, well,” he said. “If it isn’t little Irina.” She began breathing in shallow, rapid gasps. It was obvious she was terrified. “Do you want to love me?” she asked.
“Right then I knew. I knew this was the man who had tortured my poor girl. I wanted to rip his throat out but I couldn’t move. He laughed…laughed! And walked away, and Irina collapsed. I called for help; people were all around us. A girl came out from the store and I grabbed her and demanded to know, “Who was that man?” She told me: Hemming Mathiasen. And I vowed right then that I was going to kill him.”
At that, Viviana seemed to shrink, while Russ and RJ closed ranks around her.
“She nearly lost the baby, you know?” RJ said.
“The child you’re now raising,” Finn stated and RJ nodded.
“She never did understand the pregnancy. The baby was taken from her without her having a chance to see him. Everyone thought it best.”
“How is the baby?” I desperately hoped he was OK.
“Perfect.” RJ’s smile was tinged with sadness. “His name is Russell 3rd. We call him Rusty.”
For a while there was silence.
“What now?” Russ asked.
“Now it’s up to Viviana.” Finn was firm. “It’s time to tell the truth to the police.”
“What good would that do?” Russ’s tone was pleading. “There’s been enough suffering all around.”
Viviana pulled her shoulders back. “Finn is right. Because of my hatred and thirst for revenge Rick Marchand is dead. I will never forgive myself for that. And I will always regret that Mathiasen is still alive.”
Hours later, Finn and I left the police station after giving our statements. Russ and RJ had continued to argue against Viviana turning herself in and had pleaded with Finn to let it go, but Viviana was resolute and called Detective Batista.
