A Shroud of Tattered Sails: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 4)

by Scott William Carter

  "Omar?" Quinn called.

  Again, nothing. His Glock leading the way, Quinn entered the room. The cops followed, Gage behind. Quinn checked the bathroom, saw nothing, proceeded into the main room. He was the first one to get a clear view of the bed.

  "Well, crap," he said.

  Gage, following the uniformed cops, saw Omar on the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. He wore socks but no shoes, an untucked white dress shirt, charcoal gray pants. His eyes were closed and his mouth partly open, as if he was merely sleeping, but his face bore a sickly gray pallor. There was an empty glass in his right hand, tipped to the side as if it might have spilled on the bedspread and yet there was no wet spot. There was, however, a darkening around his groin, no doubt the source of the foul odor.

  Quinn checked the man's hand for a pulse. They all waited until he shook his head. He told one of the cops to call it in, and the kid, covering his mouth, was more than happy to duck out of the room to use his radio.

  "Cold as hell," Quinn said. "Been dead awhile."

  "Probably poison again," Gage said. "He probably took care of him last night before coming to see Miranda this morning. No signs of struggle. Omar knew who he was, let him in, they had drinks."

  "Bastard never knew what was happening."

  "Nope."

  "We were played again, Gage."

  "Yep."

  "I'm feeling like this case is slipping away. He just tied up another loose end."

  "Yep."

  Quinn sighed. "You were supposed to disagree with me. Use that brilliant detective mind of yours to see something we're all missing."

  Gage tried to think of a sarcastic retort, but there was nothing. The cloud of despair that had settled over him was so dark it overwhelmed all over thoughts. Gage crossed the room to the open window, where the ocean breeze rippled the sheen. He thought about pushing aside the curtain, but he could not even summon this much effort. It was hard enough to simply stand there and let the sheen press up against his face like a veil. He saw the ocean, tinted brown through the material, and the sky above it a dull shade of gold, the whole thing like an alien landscape on some distant planet where nobody lived and nobody died.

  A cell phone rang. The sound made him flinch, and he turned to face the room, seeing Quinn and the others staring at him, before he realized the cell phone was his. He groped for it in his pocket, finally getting it out and clicking it open. He forgot to say hello, but the man on the other end didn't wait for Gage to speak.

  "Hello Garrison," the man said, "I imagine you're feeling a little blue about now."

  It was the same Mississippi drawl Gage had heard a few hours earlier. He tightened his grip on the phone. "Calling to rub it in, huh? You can knock off the phony accent. We know you're not Conroy. How did you get this number?"

  "I'm a resourceful person," the man said. "I'm sure you've figured that out by now. And I think I'll stick with Conroy's wonderful delivery, on the off chance that somehow this gets recorded. Tell your friend the chief that there's no need to try to trace this call either. It's just a burner phone I picked up today, and I reckon I'll dispose of it soon enough."

  "What do you want?"

  "Want? Oh, dear boy, I don't want anything from y'all. I just thought you should know that the poison used in both cases was quite rare, quite untraceable. It's amazing what modern science can create these days that was not possible even five years ago. You just have to know people, the right people."

  "You're calling to help us with our toxicology reports?"

  The man chuckled. "I'm calling, dear boy, because I could not resist the temptation of hearing the sound of utter defeat in your voice."

  "Well, why don't you come down here, then? I'm sure it will sound much better to you in person."

  "Oh, as appealing as that is, I'm afraid that would be tempting fate one too many times. No, I'll settle for this call, then be on my way. But I do so look forward to reading what you say to the media. The great Garrison Gage! Some of the things I've read about you in the papers have made you out to be like some kind of mythical figure. This should cut you down to size."

  "Trust me, I'll find out who you are. If you read about me, you know the one thing I don't do is quit."

  "That's the spirit, my boy! I'm afraid it won't do you a lot of good in this case, but I do like to think of you spending the rest of your days chasing my shadow. You have no idea how outside the system someone like me is. And what a stroke of luck, having the woman you call Miranda forget everything about me! That was such a wonderful name, by the way. I do so like that play. I see myself like Prospero, using my powers to fool you all, taking my revenge for past misdeeds."

  "Miranda was Prospero's daughter. He loved her dearly."

  "I loved her, too, but she had to be punished. Even if you somehow discover who she really is, there won't be any hard evidence against me. And Omar, as tenuous as his link was to me, he's now gone too. The curtains will close, and I will take my bow."

  "They must have stolen a lot of money from you," Gage said, "for you to go to so much trouble."

  The man made a tsk tsk sound. "Ah, there you go, fishing for clues in the most sloppy manner. I'd like to think you'd have a bit more respect for me, Gage, after the demonstration of my abilities you just witnessed."

  "I'm afraid I don't have much respect for murderers."

  "Well, that's too bad. Some of the most brilliant men in the world are killers. I'm not talking about freak shows that shoot up schools and movie theaters. Some of the folks I'm thinking of end up as presidents and prime ministers. You just have to expand your definition of killer a little bit."

  "If you don't tell me who you are, your name can never live in infamy."

  The man sighed. "Now you're just boring me, dear boy. And with that, I think I shall take my leave. Just remember, if I could get to Miranda, I could get to others. I'm sure you're not worried about yourself, but what about Zoe? What about Alex?"

  "Threats?" Gage said. "Now who's the one who's getting sloppy?"

  There was a long moment of silence. Gage strained to hear something in the background, some clue as to where the guy was calling from, but he heard nothing.

  "Goodbye Gage," the man said.

  "Wait—" Gage said.

  But it was too late. The phone went dead.

  Chapter 18

  The man who'd masqueraded as D.D. Conroy was right about one thing. The press, once they got wind of what happened, made them all out to be fools.

  In fact, as much as it burned Gage, the man turned out to be right about pretty much everything.

  With so much media interest, Chief Quinn couldn't hold back the truth for long—and it turned out he couldn't even hold it back an hour. Somebody in the police department must have blabbed, because by the time they got back to the station, the hordes of journalists lined up outside were yelling questions about who they thought the Conroy imposter was and why he had been so determined to kill the woman with amnesia. Buzz Burgin, he of the doughy face and the purple presentation, shoved a microphone in Gage's face and asked him what it felt like to get so close to the killer only to have him slip away.

  It was only the presence of two network television cameras behind Burgin that prevented Gage from giving in to his worst impulses. If he couldn't get his hands around the killer's throat, Burgin's would have been the next best thing.

  Inside the station, once they'd gotten past the throngs of detectives and officers and safely into the confines of the chief's office, Quinn said, "God, I hate that guy."

  "Burgin?" Gage said. "Join the club."

  "I haven't said a word to him, but he's still spewing stuff all over his blog like he's got an inside track. And next day, whether the stuff he says is true or not, all the other reporters are picking it up and running with it."

  "Isn't there some kind of exception in the law for violence against lowlifes like him?"

  "Afraid not. But enough about that creep. Tell me how we're going t
o catch our killer."

  "Right now, I've got nothing."

  "Nothing? Come on, man! I've got thousands of cops across the state on high alert, ready to pounce on this guy, but I can't even tell them what he looks like! He could be stepping onto a plane in the next few minutes in Eugene or Portland and there's nothing we can do to stop him."

  "Nope."

  "Damn it, Gage!"

  "Well, what do you want me to say? He won this round, no doubt about it. I'll still get him eventually."

  "We will get him eventually. We, Gage, we."

  "Of course."

  Quinn aimed his index finger at him as if it was the barrel of a gun. "You better not be planning to do something on your own here. If you've got some kind of idea who this guy is, or at least a lead on something that will point us in the right direction, you better tell me right now."

  "I have no idea who he is," Gage insisted.

  "If you're lying to me—"

  "I'm not lying."

  Quinn searched Gage's face as if looking for any sign of deception, until finally shaking his head. He turned his intense gaze to the stacks of paper on his desk. A vein pulsed on his temple, and Gage sensed the anger coiling inside of Quinn, growing tighter, the pressure mounting. The room was very still even as the department outside was a hurricane of activity.

  Then Quinn let loose with a primal roar and swept everything off his desk in one violent motion.

  * * *

  It was true. Gage wasn't lying, not about knowing who the killer was. He still had no idea.

  What he hadn't said was that a plan to entice the killer to reveal himself on his own—not even a plan, but only the faintest shadow of a plan—had started to appear in his mind. The police, if they were involved, would only screw it up. He knew that much at least.

  Quinn's comment about Buzz Burgin was what got Gage thinking. The man was certainly annoying, no doubt about it, but maybe there was a way to use Burgin's nosiness and over-eagerness to be in the middle of things to Gage's advantage.

  Leaving the station, stepping into a stiff breeze and a bright afternoon sun, he said nothing to Burgin or any of the other journalists who shouted questions at him. He climbed into the van and headed across town, driving slow enough that Burgin and a few of the others who'd decided to follow him rather than remain at the station could safely keep up. For once, he didn't mind. The shadow of a plan was becoming more substantial by the minute. After he parked in front of the Turret House, he waited until Burgin's purple Pontiac Safari parked behind him before getting out of the van.

  He approached the Pontiac with a friendly wave, but Burgin, in full panic mode, still lunged to lock the door. He twirled the ends of his handlebar mustache and peered out through his windshield with fidgety ferret eyes.

  "Now is that any way to treat a friend?" Gage said. He tapped on the glass. "Come on, roll it down. I'll be nice."

  Burgin sank further into his seat.

  "If you want a scoop," Gage said, "you're going to have to take a chance. Come on, the other guys are getting out of their cars. You've got maybe five seconds."

  The word scoop seemed to motivate Burgin, because he lowered the window enough that they could talk without going so far that Gage could potentially reach inside. The crew from the Portland news van was quickly approaching—a woman in a gray pantsuit and a stocky guy lugging a camera.

  "Yes?" Buzz said.

  "Give me your card."

  "What?"

  "Your card, your card! I might have some news for you later. I need to know how to get in touch with you."

  It took Burgin a few seconds to realize that Gage was actually serious, but he did eventually fish around in his jacket pocket until he found a business card, which, no surprise, was a shade of lavender. Gage snapped it away, said he'd be in touch, and headed into the Turret House.

  Home as usual on a Tuesday, Alex waited for Gage in the entryway. Perched on the edge of the credenza, his hands clasped under his chin, he had the look of someone who had been waiting a long time.

  "You heard?" Gage said.

  Alex's eyes were bleary and red. "Everybody's heard. It's all over the news. I'm so sorry."

  "I don't think she was lying. She really didn't know who she was."

  "Tragic," Alex said, shaking his head. His breath smelled of wine. "It must have been terrible, dying like that. So confused, so alone."

  "You've been drinking."

  "Of course I've been drinking! You should be drinking, too. This is horrible."

  "Where's Eve? She here?"

  "Yeah. She's... she's lying down."

  "And Zoe? She at the store?"

  "I told her she could close, but she said it was better to work."

  "Good," Gage said. "I like knowing where she is. I'll need to talk to her, too.

  "About what?"

  The skin around Alex's eyes was puffy and threaded with thin red lines. The man had once been such a rock, his emotions in his FBI days fortified by the usual tough guy act, but the years had made him soft. It wasn't a bad thing. Gage took him by the arm and led him into the kitchen, away from any curious ears outside. The late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, placing yellow rectangles on the countertops and illuminating the flecks of black and gold in the green marble. A bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir and two wine glasses sat next to box of crackers that looked like they hadn't been opened.

  "We've got to catch this guy," Gage said.

  "Well, that's stating the obvious."

  "No, I mean we have to catch him now. He leaves town, we'll probably never get him."

  Alex picked up the wine bottle. In a shaft of sunlight, the glass was a vibrant green and obviously empty. He sighed and put it back on the counter.

  "I assume it's going to be something you do by yourself," he said. "Because, you know, you wouldn't take the help even if it was offered. I also assume, like usual, it will put your life in danger in the most stupid and crazy way possible."

  "You think I should risk everybody's life?"

  "I think maybe you should use the police—for once."

  Gage took out Buzz Burgin's card and slapped it on the counter. "Maybe I can tell you my plan before you piss all over it, okay?"

  "That card really is a nice shade of purple," Alex said.

  "Be serious."

  "All right. I seriously think that's a nice shade of purple."

  "Alex ..."

  "Tell me your damn plan, then."

  Gage leaned against the counter. "It's like this," he said. "What do we know about our killer? Nothing definite, but we have a lot of bits and pieces. From what Miranda said, he's a man of huge ego who's prone to fits of violent anger. We also know he took an enormous risk to cover his tracks. From what we learned from the FBI, eTransWorld might have been moving money for certain terrorist organizations. This man, our killer, was probably either working for them or stealing from them. Omar was working with him on this. Miranda and Marcus screwed up their plans somehow. Either way, these people he works for are not going to be happy if their money is gone. It would explain why Omar sent people after Marcus, his own brother. He was scared out of his mind that the truth was going to get out. Maybe eTransWorld let them remain mostly anonymous, but Marcus and Miranda definitely knew who they were."

  "This all sounds plausible," Alex said. "But what reason does our killer have to show himself now?"

  "Exactly," Gage said. "We need to give him a reason. That's where my friend Buzz Burgin comes into play. As much as I dislike the guy, he's got some influence. He puts something on his blog, it gets picked up everywhere. Maybe we can use that to our advantage."

  The thought seemed to breathe a little life into Alex, not a lot, but enough to get him to straighten his back. "All right. I'm seeing where you're going. But what do you tell him? Even if all the stuff you just said is true, I'm not sure there's anything there that you could tell Burgin that would flush out our killer. He must know that at least that much of the tr
uth is going to come out."

  "That's just it," Gage said. "I'm not going to tell Burgin the truth. Not completely, anyway. In this day and age, rumors can do more damage than the truth."

  "Okay, now you've piqued my interest."

  "Good. I'm glad the wine is finally wearing off. Here's the deal. I've got to make this guy angry enough that he wants to come after me right now. How do I do that? By making him seem like an idiot and a coward. Later today, when I'm sure that everybody I care about is safe, I'm going to call Buzz Burgin. I'll tell him that when I talked to our killer, he obviously sounded scared of me. Then I'll tell him that I'm working on some leads that indicate our killer was a kind of patsy that was played by Omar and Marcus, an idiot who was working for a terrorist organization. I'll just tease Burgin with this stuff, tell him I want to meet him tomorrow morning for a much bigger scoop. I'll hint that our killer said some pretty nasty things about these terrorists he works for, especially about the stupidity of Islam. I'll say I've got all kinds of proof."

  Alex nodded. "All right. You're putting a big chunk of bait out there. You really think this guy won't see right through it?"

  "I don't think it will matter. He'll know that I know it's not true, but he'll hate that other people might think it's true. And he might be a bit nervous that his terrorist friends will be pissed off enough about his insults to come after him. I'm really hoping he's so angry that he'll want to take me out to send a message."

  "What, you're just going to hole up at your house?"

  "That's exactly what I'm going to do."

  "Garrison—"

  "I know what you're going to say, and don't bother."

  "I'm not going to let you do this alone."

  "No," Gage said, "you're not. What I need you to do is protect all the people I care about. You still have your Glock?"