Kill Tide

by Timothy Fagan

  “Pardon me?” asked Yelle.

  Brown scoffed. “You were a tech guy. You fucking know what that is.”

  Yelle seemed a little more pale now. “It’s just a bird cage. Is there some condition of parole which prevents me from breeding birds?”

  “Not if that’s true,” said Sweeney. “But yes if you’re lying. It’d be truly life changing for you.”

  Sweeney waited. Gerald knew he was hoping Yelle would say more. But Yelle stayed silent, fidgeting restlessly.

  So Sweeney moved on. “But you’ll be happy to know—the people who broke in, they didn’t steal your ladies undergarment collection.”

  Yelle stopped fidgeting.

  “What’re you doing with women’s undies?” asked Brown. “I could violate you just for that.”

  The man’s answer was cold and careful. Seemingly emotionless. “They’re mine. I wear them to express my sexuality.”

  Brown snorted. “You expect me to believe suddenly you’re a cross-dresser?”

  Yelle said nothing.

  Gerald wondered if Yelle bought or stole the women’s underwear for kicks. Or had the man gathered them from victims like Emma Bailey—was he some kind of serial kidnapper? They would have to test the underwear for DNA.

  Sweeney changed topics again, trying to keep Yelle off balance. “By the way, where’s your van parked today? It’s not at your apartment.”

  Watching the monitor, Gerald thought Yelle looked scared for the first time. His color reddened slightly.

  “My van? Someone stole it two days ago.”

  Brown banged on the table. “Stop jerking us around, Casper. This is your last chance. Someone stole it?”

  “Yes!”

  “So you filed a police report?” asked Sweeney.

  “I was planning to. Honestly. Then I saw on TV about the poor kidnapped girl. And that the perpetrator was allegedly driving a white van. I thought someone might have stolen my van to abduct the girl. So I was waiting to report it in a couple days. Perhaps it would turn up first. Maybe after you catch the perpetrator behind the wheel.” Yelle paused to think. “But if you don’t mind, I think this might be a wise time for me to talk to a lawyer. If you have any further questions.”

  “Where is it, Casper?” persisted Charlie Brown. “You don’t talk, you go straight to Shirley. Then you’ll get a fucking lawyer, too late to do you any good.”

  “And maybe a new boyfriend in max security who’ll appreciate your taste in underwear,” added Sweeney.

  But Yelle refused to say anything more. He just kept looking around the room, like he was avoid making eye contact with things no one else could see.

  Gerald wanted to learn what the others thought, especially Don Eisenhower. But having watched the interrogation closely, Gerald was confident about two things: Casper Yelle was hiding something. And if he was the kidnapper, they’d nail his smug, high-IQ ass.

  They left the suspect in the interrogation room. Gerald sent Charlie Brown and Kevin Sweeney to Yelle’s apartment to retrieve the box of women’s underwear and search the apartment again more thoroughly.

  Don Eisenhower put out a BOLO for Yelle’s white van.

  Right about that time, the New Albion police station’s phones started ringing with calls from crime reporters asking for confirmation whether the kidnapper was in custody.

  Had whoever tipped the Bailey family about Casper Yelle also tipped the media? Gerald told the receptionist to refer the media to the Eastham police department.

  Because he had nothing good to say, just yet…

  Chapter Nine

  Pepper received a text from Delaney inviting him to come to Sandy’s Restaurant for dinner at six, don’t be late. She explained nothing, and Pepper didn’t ask. This should be a great chance to keep getting to know her. And maybe ask her out…

  He called Angel, who agreed to join him at Sandy’s as his wingman. He had a rare Friday night off from delivering pizzas. Sandy’s Restaurant had the best lobster rolls on the Lower Cape, possibly in the world, so he’d known Angel would say yes.

  Pepper cruised down Shore Road, parked in the big lot for Sandy’s Restaurant and walked inside. It smelled like freshly baked bread. His mouth ran with saliva. Sandy’s really was Pepper’s favorite place to eat in town—it was just a big bonus that Delaney worked there.

  Pepper asked the hostess, a high schooler with a nose stud and long blonde hair in a ponytail, if he could sit in Delaney’s section. The girl didn’t even try to hide her smirk as she grabbed a menu and led him through the bar area toward the restaurant section.

  The TV mounted high over the bar was on a Boston news station, and the screen showed a story about the Emma Bailey kidnapping. The sound was off and the banner headline read “Greenhead Snatcher Update.”

  Pepper paused to see the news story. “Greenhead Snatcher” was the dramatic new nickname for Emma Bailey’s kidnapper, coined by some news anchor because Emma’s little brother had told police the man had a green head. That meant the kidnapper was likely wearing a green hat, but the new nickname had quickly spread among the media.

  And sure, greenhead flies were a plague on the Cape most summers. But to Pepper, the nickname seemed smart-alecky. Insensitive?

  The TV picture cut to a man in sunglasses being interviewed, looking important and puffed up. It was Fester Timmins, Jake’s old classmate who Pepper had seen in the mob scene at the police station of volunteers to help search for Emma Bailey.

  How did Timmins get himself on TV—playing a concerned citizen? Pretending he was a witness? Sure, yesterday he’d joined the search, but…

  Pepper wished he could hear what the guy was saying. He looked crazy excited. He was waving his arms as he talked, then took off his sunglasses to make a particularly important point. Presumably.

  He didn’t know what Timmins did for work. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with law enforcement.

  What’s his deal? he wondered.

  The hostess sighed, so Pepper gave up on the TV and followed her to a table.

  After he sat, Pepper pushed the menu aside because he always ordered the same thing—lobster rolls. Sandy’s lobster rolls were traditional, but somehow they were better than anywhere else. They came with the usual toasted, split-top hot dog bun. One nice long lettuce leaf. Big chunks of lobster tail and knuckle meat. A sprinkle of paprika.

  Sandy’s gave you two choices: drizzled with drawn butter or tossed in mayo. Pepper was religiously in the mayo camp, and Angel was a butter guy—just another example of how Angel was a heathen.

  The place mats at Sandy’s restaurant were a map of Cape Cod, shaped like a flexing arm stretching into the Atlantic Ocean. The map was decorated with the usual cliched items: lighthouses, whales, seagulls and major shipwrecks over the centuries.

  Pepper studied the map, wondering where Emma Bailey might be. New Albion was on the Lower Cape, near the elbow of that flexing arm. He wondered whether the suspect Casper Yelle had confessed yet. If not, there were a thousand places he could have hidden the girl.

  Tens of thousands, if she was dead. If Yelle had killed her and then disposed of her body, there were lots of marshes. Or if he had a boat, he could take her out to sea and toss her overboard.

  But Pepper couldn’t think about that possibility. She had to be alive.

  If Yelle’s plan was to take her away off the Cape, he could take two bridges: the Sagamore or the Bourne. Or again, he could escape by water. No one would ever know.

  Angel arrived and noisily plopped down across from Pepper. Angel was wearing a pink T-shirt that said “Casanova.” Some wingman.

  “Hey, mano,” said Angel. “You order for us yet?”

  “Just sat down. And I couldn’t order you lobster rolls with butter. It’s an abomination.”

  “Lobster always comes with drawn butter,” complained Angel. “It’s a classic, just like me.”

  “Not on a hot dog bun,” said Pepper. But he cut off the debate because Delaney appeared
at their table. She didn’t look very rock-and-roll today. Knee-length white skirt and a puffy white shirt. But she still looked beautiful.

  She smiled at them. “Hey guys, you showed up!” She looked over her shoulder distractedly. “Sorry, I’m slammed right now. What can I get you to drink?”

  He and Angel both ordered iced teas, and Delaney hurried away, all business.

  Was he going to have time to ask her out?

  She trotted back with their drinks and took their food orders. Then left them again quickly.

  “Either she’s super busy or you need a shower,” said Angel.

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  Angel was jabbering about a trip he’d made to Ocean State Job Lot, a discount store, to buy tiki torches. He had fallen in love with the checkout girl. Maybe the third time Angel had fallen in love that week and that was only the girls he’d told Pepper about.

  Pepper was only half listening as Angel talked. He was watching Delaney, who was all over the place, usually with her hands full. Practically running.

  Okay, possibly it wasn’t his smell.

  Pepper noticed Brad St. John’s roommate, Dennis Cole, the biker guy who claimed to have music industry connections, enter the restaurant and saunter toward their table.

  Hmm. Was this why Delaney asked him to be here at six?

  Cole came over and rested his fingertips on their table, a big, friendly smile on his face. “You guys are right on time,” he said. “A rare talent for musicians.”

  Pepper slid over and Cole sat next to him.

  “Delaney and me had a nice long talk this morning. She tell you?” asked Cole. “I have lots of connections in Nashville—you guys could go a long way down there.”

  “You guys?” asked Angel.

  “I’m not interested in anything that doesn’t include Angel,” said Pepper.

  The man paused, grinned at them, then said, “Absolutely! The three of you. Every band needs a beat.”

  “What about your roommate Brad?” asked Pepper.

  Cole laughed. “Brad’s a good dude. Loves his music. But he’s more of a cover band guy. And he either has a drinking problem or a bad case of stage fright.”

  Or both, thought Pepper.

  “But Brad said you’re working this summer as a cop?” Cole asked.

  “A cadet.”

  “Huh. That’s great. It was horrible about the teenager getting snatched last night.”

  “Absolutely,” said Pepper.

  “You guys have any good leads yet to find the bastard who did it? Any hot tips to collect the reward Brad was talking about?”

  Pepper felt uncomfortable. “Dozens of tips. Possibly hundreds. Some probably motivated by the reward, sure. Some just good people trying to help.”

  “I’m one of those good people,” said Angel. “But picking up the reward would be icing on the cake. And it’s hard to become a millionaire slinging pizzas one at a time.”

  “I hear that!” said Cole. “And I have a damn good theory of my own about who did it. Nothing solid enough to cash in yet. But I talk to people who don’t talk to cops, you know?”

  Sounded to Pepper like Cole might pull a vigilante move that would land him with the Bailey relatives in their jail cell. But Pepper wasn’t Cole’s keeper. “You get anything solid, call it in.”

  “You bet,” said Cole. “Somebody’s got to find that little girl quick. And thanks for your service! In fact…” The biker took out his wallet, which was secured to his belt by a chain. He slapped down enough twenty-dollar bills to cover the check, plus a fat tip.

  “Your dinner’s on me, guys. And I meant what I said last night—I can help you take your music to the next level. Call me if you’re interested. Hell, call me for whatever. Like if you learn any juicy news about the snatcher. There’s plenty of cash to go around.”

  Cole gave them each a half hug, then left them. They watched him stop at the front door, chatting a bit with the blond-haired hostess. Cole and the girl laughed, and then Cole strutted out the door. The guy was quite a charmer.

  They heard a Harley-Davidson fire up in the parking lot, its pipes snarling like a wild animal. Other diners’ heads turned toward the window, annoyed. Then the sound of the motorcycle growled away into the distance.

  “Heck of a nice dude,” said Angel. “Our new super fan. Who do you think he has a crush on—Delaney? Or you?”

  Pepper laughed, unsure about their sudden new friend. He wasn’t going to call Cole and dish any inside news about the progress of the kidnapping case. But Pepper didn’t want to burn the bridge with the biker either, in case he could really help them on the music side.

  Pepper threw a fry at Angel. “Or maybe he likes Cuban drummers? But hey, no harm letting him do us a favor. Right?”

  When Delaney arrived with their plates of lobster rolls and fries, she sat down across from Pepper, next to Angel, and let out a big sigh.

  “Sorry, guys, I had a table of twelve who wanted to pay with six separate checks. Canadians—so damn polite I had to say yes! Someday, when I’m a rock star, this’ll just be a funny story.”

  “Rock star, huh?” asked Angel.

  Delaney smiled, pushing some stray hair back from her face. “What, you don’t think? I talked to Dennis Cole for an hour this morning. He got my number from Brad. Dennis has a lot of experience with the music industry… Austin… Nashville… lots of places. He got me all worked up.”

  Pepper’s mouth was full of lobster roll, so he gave her an inquiring eyebrow.

  “I want to hit the road and gig a lot of small places,” she continued. “Work up a good set of original songs and see if we can catch lightning in a bottle. Get a recording deal. The whole thing. But it takes a lot of luck too. Do you think Cole can help us?”

  “Maybe,” said Pepper. “Though I’ve got to wonder how big of an industry player he is, splitting a rental house with Brad St. John.”

  Delaney was so animated. “Don’t you want to see more of America than just Cape Cod?”

  “Not me,” said Angel. “I’m a home boy. But Pepper has all kinds of plans…”

  Damn Angel! Was he about to spill Pepper’s secret about leaving for college at the end of the summer?

  But Pepper had been picking up little signs that Angel was bummed out about Pepper heading away to college, so possibly this was more of that.

  “The Cape’s not boring this summer,” said Pepper, changing the topic. “More like a nightmare, since Emma Bailey got snatched.”

  “Were you helping with her case today?” Delaney asked him. “Did they catch that psycho yet?”

  Pepper knew he wasn’t supposed to talk about open cases. He knew it was a mistake. But Delaney was still super worried about the kidnapping. She was looking at him hopefully with her wide, beautiful eyes. One dark hazel. One blue. Amazing…

  “You’ve got to spill the dirt,” said Angel, shoving a few fries in his mouth.

  What could Pepper do? He had to show off a little… Especially after how ridiculous he’d looked the last time he was with Delaney, when Randy Larch had cut short their failed search.

  So he told her and Angel the basic info. A suspect was in custody. Emma Bailey was still missing. Some people broke into the suspect’s apartment, looking for the girl. Pepper hinted he knew a lot more, even though he didn’t.

  “Oh, and you can’t tell anyone,” he said. “But the main suspect lives at the Langham Arms too. Next building over from yours.”

  The Langham Arms comprised three brick buildings in a horseshoe shape. The middle area was a big parking lot. The complex was old enough to look tired, but not old enough to be vintage. More like 1960s run-down.

  Pepper described Casper Yelle, relying on the details Randy Larch had told him.

  “Oh my God, Pepper!” Delaney exclaimed, her voice shaking. “But he’s in jail, right?”

  “He might be out by now. He’s just a suspect, he might not have done it.”

  “If I see a guy who looks like
that, I’ll scream!”

  Delaney’s voice was so strong, Pepper would probably hear her scream from across town.

  “Seriously, you shouldn’t worry. But if you see something, you know…say something.”

  “But it’s safe for me to go home?”

  Probably, thought Pepper. But he said, “Oh, absolutely.”

  “I’ve got the shivers now,” she said. “If you can get a picture of him, can you text it to me? Please?”

  “You bet,” said Pepper. How could he not? But how was he going to get a picture of Casper Yelle? He bit into his lobster roll again. It tasted perfect. Only his promise left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Delaney!” barked a tall, beefy guy with flaming red hair and a slight accent. English? He was wearing a white dress shirt with a Sandy’s logo. And an ugly tie. Possibly in his early thirties. “Table six asked for you. Again!”

  “Sorry, Scooter!” said Delaney, rising and hustling away.

  Pepper saw Delaney collect food from the kitchen window and deliver it to a table. Then she checked on three other tables, hustling back and forth from the drinks station and the computer terminal, taking care of her tables. Finally, she worked her way back to Pepper and Angel. Her cheeks were pink from her efforts and her hair was awry, but she looked even more spectacular.

  She looked around, then sat down with them again.

  “My feet are so fried,” she said, dragging out the word “fried” in her cute southern accent, while frowning.

  Pepper thought he should offer her a foot rub after she got off work, but she intimidated him too much.

  Angel was filling the gap, telling Delaney about being the fastest pizza deliveryman in the Lower Cape. That he was a bit of a legend. Going on and on. And Pepper just sat there, thinking about how amazing Delaney was. Like a mute idiot.

  He wanted to say something else, anything else. But he said nothing. He choked.

  She was older; she was beautiful; she was too fricking cool…

  “Delaney!” barked Scooter, the redheaded manager. He’d somehow slipped up to their table without them spotting him. Like he had a superpower. “Are all your other customers impeding your love life?” he growled in his British accent.