Red Surf: Leah Ryan Thrillers (The Leah Ryan Thrillers Book 4)

by Tracy Sharp

  Red Surf

  Private Investigator Leah Ryan is on a much needed vacation. A week in Bass Bay, Maine. Nothing but sun, swimming, sand and relaxation. No missing people. No murder. No stress.

  An hour into her vacation, Leah hits the ocean for a cool swim after a run on the beach and almost swims into a dead girl.

  Shark bites on the victim indicate a horrific shark attack, but closer examination of the remains suggests that sharks aren’t the only predators in Bass Bay.

  It may be July fourth weekend, but as the bodies of more young women turn up, Leah is about to find out that murder doesn’t take a vacation.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  Also by Tracy Sharp

  RED SURF

  A Leah Ryan Thriller

  Tracy Sharp

  Murder doesn’t take a vacation.

  This book is for Jeff

  Chapter 1

  At first, I didn’t realize she was dead.

  ***

  I’m on vacation, I thought, pressing down on the gas pedal a little more, bringing it to twenty above the speed limit. Southern Maine, here I come. No cases. No murders. No missing people. Nothing but sand and sea.

  I’d rented a little two bedroom beach house on Bullfrog Beach in Bass Bay. Sun deck overlooking the ocean. According to the photos on the internet, a view to die for. It was more money, by double, than I’d wanted to spend, but damn it, I’m worth the splurge. My schedule would involve running on the beach, swimming in the ocean, and sitting on the deck looking at the beach and the ocean.

  Other than that, the plan was to have no plan. And no stress.

  My radio went fuzzy the third hour into the trip so I found another channel. Then that one went fuzzy. I entered a weird spot where all that played was old fashioned, twangy music, and one featuring a man shouting about my sin finding me out. Whatever that meant.

  “Too many to count, chum,” I muttered. I hit scan. Found one called The Tide that played decent old time rock and roll. I could dig it.

  Pretty soon, all the working stations had names having to do with the ocean: 92.4 The Surf, 105.7 The Wave, 84.4 The Shark. That was fine by me. All I wanted was relaxation—and counting grains of sand between my toes. Maybe I’d even go shopping for a summer hat. I love those. One of those big, floppy jobbies. Then I could feel all cute and classy and shit.

  But then a news bite came over The Wave that made the back of my neck tense and my shoulders bunch. The search was continuing today for seventeen year old Shannon Cook who was last seen surfing with friends on Bass Bay Beach the day before. She hadn’t come back out of the water. Bass Bay Beach was only a half mile from Bullfrog Beach.

  I frowned. Took a deep breath and blew it out. This was not my case. I was certain that the police in Bass Bay were doing all they could to find the girl. I knew nothing about Maine except that it was on the Atlantic Ocean and Stephen King was from here. That was good enough for me. Man, I love those books. All atmospheric with all those creepy-ass people hanging around. I wondered if I’d see any creepy people like that. That would be kind of cool.

  I found the beach house and parked the Jeep in the driveway. The key was in the mailbox, left by the owner, Mrs. Brennan, who was expecting me. Two grand for the week. But the view was spectacular. I walked around to the deck and stood marveling at the ocean. Ripples glinted in the sun and a seagull swooped down over the water, diving for fish.

  “Wow.” I took a deep breath and felt all stress evaporate. “So worth every cent.”

  Inside, I found the place was small and bright. The sliding glass doors, which opened to the deck, were covered with sheer curtains and allowed sunshine to filter through. To the left of the sliding doors was a huge picture window, with a bench seat below it which lent a breathtaking view of the sea below. This place was made for relaxation.

  With two bedrooms, a living room with a fireplace, and a small kitchen, it was perfect for me. I chose the larger of the two bedrooms and opened the blinds so that I could look at the view while I dressed. I wanted to get my two grand’s worth of the view, so I’d be looking at it a lot.

  I dropped my bag and laptop case on the bed and stepped into the fitness shorts that would also serve as swim suit bottoms after my run, and one of the many black tanks I own.

  I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table. Four p.m. I slipped my black Nikes onto my feet, and stretched my calves. I was tickled about running on the beach. I wanted to run on the sand with the ocean beside me, like they do in the movies and feminine products commercials.

  After a few more stretches, I slid the glass doors open and ran down the deck stairs toward the beach.

  When I reached the ocean, I stood for a moment, looking left and right, trying to decide which direction to go. A long way down the beach I saw a little blonde girl sitting on a dock with a fishing rod in her hands. At first, I thought I was seeing a ghost. She looked so much like Susie my heart squeezed. But no, this little girl was older than my little sister had been when she’d been taken.

  From this distance, about half a mile away, this little girl looked to be about ten years old. As if sensing me watching her, she lifted her shining, golden head and looked up at me, then lifted an arm and waved.

  Smiling, I waved back as she turned her attention back to the task of fishing.

  I turned away from her and headed in the opposite direction. My Nikes sank into the sand, making it hard to get my stride. The burning in my muscles as my legs worked harder than usual felt good.

  I ran two miles up the beach, into Bass Bay Beach, and remembered the news bite on the radio about Shannon Cook, the missing girl. I looked out onto the water and wondered what had happened to her. Had she drowned with all her friends around and a beach full of people? It had happened before. People tend to feel a false sense of security in numbers.

  A shaggy, red haired kid of about seventeen stepped out of my way, surfboard in his arms. He watched me intently, like a local who knew I didn’t belong; curious, as if I was something exotic he hadn’t ever seen before. Then he smiled and nodded a greeting. He lifted a camera. Snapped a picture of me. Smiled again.

  I prickled. Almost tripped. What the hell?

  “Sorry!” he called out to me. “New camera. I hope you don’t mind!”

  I waved a dismissive hand. Kept running. Whatever. Kid was probably taking pictures of everything that came within his line of sight. Photographers weren’t known for asking first before they snapped photos of whatever they wanted. They’re driven by their passion of taking pictures. They snap what moves them. Or moves in front of them.

  I ran harder. Saw a people running bare foot. I’d have to try that—I’d never run barefoot. When I wasn’t running, my feet were usually in some kind of boot. Motorcycle boots. Trooper boots. Combat boots. Ankle boots. Even cowboy boots. I didn’t even own a pair of sandals. I needed to buy a pair of sandals, I thought, as I puffed my way back to Bullfrog beach.

  Within forty-five minutes I was drenched in sweat. The ocean breeze felt good; cooling me as I slowed. When I reached the yellow beach house, I untied my Nikes, pulled off my socks, and ran into the waves.

  The frigid water was a shock to my system and I shrieked as I belly flopped into it. I took a deep breath and dove underwater. Opened my eyes and saw nothing but sand in the hazy green of the sea. I’d have to invest
in some goggles, maybe a snorkel. I mentally added them to the list of things I needed for my vacation.

  Heading out deeper, I searched the sandy bottom to see what I could find. It would be neat to see a starfish, or some seashells. Something I could bring back to New York and put on my desk, and look at when I was stuck in the freezing cold or sweltering heat of the office my partner, Jackson, and I shared. Something I could hold in my hand and cry over.

  I almost swam into her. Her face appeared out of the murk like some mermaid from a fairytale. Her blonde hair fanned around her head, her pale eyes open and watching me. Only, they weren’t really watching me, because she was dead.

  Her body rotated in the waves. Everything below her ribcage was missing.

  Shock and revulsion made me shove myself backward, trying to get away from her. Fear clawed at my belly and my heart hammered in my chest. I inhaled water as I swam upward, toward the surface.

  A fit of coughing overtook me as I tried to clear my lungs and throat. I swam toward the shore like I was in a nightmare. My limbs moving far too slowly through the water.

  When my feet touched the sandy bottom I tried to run, but kept falling toward shore. When I finally cleared the water, I fell onto the sand, half-screaming, half sobbing. I’ve seen some horrible things, but I’d never seen anything as bad as that young woman, nothing more than a torso, slowly turning in the surf.

  ***

  “Hell of a way to begin your vacation,” Jackson, my partner and best friend, said in my ear. “I’m coming up.”

  “No. No you’re not. I’m fine. I just wanted to check in and let you know I’m here and alive. And to tell you about my experience swimming with a dead girl.” My voice shook on this last part, and I knew Jackson heard it.

  “Leah. I’m coming. I’m already packing as we speak.”

  “You really don’t need to,” I said. But I was glad he was on his way. I wouldn’t let him know that, though. So my vacation would change a little. Jackson could hang with me. It was more fun that way anyway. We could both be on vacation. Right?

  Right.

  “I’ll see you in about four hours,” he said. And I could hear him opening and closing drawers, and the squeak of his folding closet door.

  “Bring your swim suit. And some shorts. We’re on vacation, Jackson.”

  “That’s cool. I won’t get in your way, Kicks. I’ll just be there in the background. You’ll barely know I’m there.”

  Jackson is six-foot-four and about two hundred and forty pounds. He’s hard to miss. “Okay, Jax. See you soon.”

  I ended the call and stood on the deck overlooking the ocean. Crime scene techs and police surrounded the dead girl. Crime tape surrounded a large area around them.

  The cop who had questioned me earlier, Officer Chris McCool—his trooper boots sinking and throwing sand upward toward his pressed pants—made his way back toward me. He walked like he was used to it. Probably had grown up here. His sandy blond hair lifted slightly in the breeze. His tanned face looked stricken.

  I watched him climb the stairs to the deck. “Officer McCool. I’m really sorry about this girl. Do you think this is the same girl who went missing while surfing yesterday? Shannon Cook was her name?”

  He nodded his head slowly. “Yes. I knew Shannon. She was an amazing surfer. Had the world by the tail. No one could’ve imagined this happening to her. This is going to kill her parents.”

  “What do you think happened?” I asked him. Unable to shut down the private investigator in me. “Drowned? Do you think she was sliced up by a passing boat? Shark?”

  He put his notebook in his shirt pocket and sat down on the bench which stretched around the deck. He looked out at the waves. “I’m not supposed to surmise.”

  I sat down next to him, looking up at his face as he stood next to me. He was handsome, maybe early thirties, and had that sun kissed look. “I promise I won’t tell.”

  He offered me a little smile. “You’d better not, Ms. Ryan. You’ll get me into hot water.”

  “Leah. Please. I won’t say a word.” I kissed the index and middle fingers of my right hand and held them up.

  “We’ve got all kinds of sharks in these waters. Bull sharks like hugging the shore. Especially when the tide comes in, like it was doing yesterday when Shannon and her friends went surfing.”

  There were recent news reports that the Great White is making a comeback. The seal population had risen from about ten thousand a few decades ago to about three hundred thousand now. Sharks go where the food is. “There have been quite a few sighting of whites in the last few years.”

  He nodded, squinting toward the sea. “That’s true. But shark attacks are rare. When someone is bitten, it’s usually because they’re mistaken for food. A shark will take an exploratory bite. They don’t favor humans for a snack. We’re not fatty enough. So, they would likely spit us out. But a shark nibble can be fatal to us mere humans.” He shrugged. “The ocean is their home. If you’re in it, you’re pretty much on the grocery shelf.”

  “So, you think it could be a shark?” The thought made me shudder inwardly.

  “Or, more than one. There are Blues, Mako, Bull Sharks and Tiger sharks in these waters. Threshers, Porbeagles, Whites, just to name a few. Or, it could’ve been damage caused by a boat. But the strange thing is that Shannon’s friends say she didn’t cry out. She swam out a ways on her board. There one moment, gone the next.”

  “McCool!” Another cop called out to him and waved him over.

  “Well, try to enjoy the rest of your vacation, Leah. I’m sorry we’ve met under these circumstances. Maine is an awesome state, and Bull Frog Beach is a gorgeous area. I’m just really sorry this is how you’ve been introduced to us.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been boring. I’ll give you that.” I knew it was a lame thing to say before it was out of my mouth. But I’m not known for my social graces.

  He grinned and headed back down toward the beach.

  I looked out at the water and remembered Shannon’s blonde hair floating around her head, and her pale, blue eyes staring right at me, like she knew I was there.

  Like she wanted to tell me something.

  ***

  I sat on the deck, sipping beer and watching the ocean. Seagulls swooped over the waves, looking for fish. A motorboat zoomed by, kids whooping and hollering as it went. They waved at me. I waved back.

  This felt very strange, given the crime scene tape still marking off the area near where they pulled Shannon’s body from the swell only hours before.

  The sound of a motor and gravel spitting made me stand and head over to the driveway. Jackson’s black pick-up lumbered to a stop. He unfolded his large frame from the truck and stretched his long legs. “Hey, Kicks.”

  Jackson called me kicks for my fondness of kicking bad guys. Usually where it counts.

  “How you been?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen you since, oh, this morning.”

  “Been good. Been good.” He patted his flat belly. “Hungry.”

  Actually, I was hungry, too. But it hadn’t occurred to me that the gnawing feeling in my stomach was actually hunger. “Me, too. Let’s go get some food.”

  We drove up the main road of Bass Bay, scanning the restaurants and food stands. “What do you feel like, Jax?”

  “I think shrimp. We’re in Maine. We should eat something seafood-ish.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  “It’s an unwritten law.” He lifted his hand off the steering wheel, like I should know this.

  “Unwritten Law. Good band.”

  “How about there?” He pointed to a restaurant with a giant clam on the sign called The Oyster.

  “Fine. But I’m not eating oysters.”

  We only had to wait thirty-five minutes for a table. Of course. Tourist season in Maine, I don’t know what else I was expecting.

  We were seated at a table next to a family of seven. Four kids. I looked around. Families with loud kids filled the place. />
  “You didn’t actually think you’d get some rest and relaxation on this vacation, did you?” Jackson said, grinning.

  I made a face at him. “So, Jackson. Why are you here?” I dipped deep fried shrimp in cocktail sauce. “Really?”

  We’d both ordered shrimp, but his basket was a shrimp, scallop combo. He munched on a scallop and took his time, his mouth somehow making it look like the most delicious morsel on the planet. “I don’t know. A hunch.”

  “What kind of hunch? Like, you don’t think Shannon’s death was an accident?”

  “The girl was a skilled surfer, Leah. Something just doesn’t sit right with me about this whole thing. She knew how to swim. She’d been a lifeguard for years. She just suddenly drowns without making so much as a panicked splash? No cries for help?”

  “A shark could’ve grabbed her and dragged her under the water,” I said.

  “She and her friends, all surfers, knew to keep their eyes open for sharks, especially with sightings of Great Whites becoming more and more common over the last few years. They knew what to look for.”

  “But sharks can come up out of nowhere and grab from below, without anyone even seeing a fin.”

  He tilted his head in a way that said he wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know. Something is off. Nobody notices any kind of panicked splashing? Bubbles? A Great White doesn’t just drag a person under. They take a bite...” He demonstrated on a shrimp.

  He continued, “They let their prey surface, bleed a little. Weaken.” He lifted the half eaten shrimp into the air, wiggling it slightly. “Then they come back for another bite. Sometimes they jump out of the water and shake their prey around. Shannon would’ve screamed her lungs out. I know I would’ve.”

  His explanation was making me feel queasy. “What are you, a shark expert?”

  “I did my research before you left for Maine. I had to make sure the likelihood of you getting eaten by a shark while frolicking in the ocean was low.”