Shit! She spun and ran, frustrated by the attention. But there was no tactful, methodical way to search. Time was too precious. And she might need the gun.
“Jeb!” Where the hell was he?
Tourists darted away as she zigzagged, the balls of her feet digging deeper. She halted here and there, double-checking every tall blond-headed boy.
She must’ve sprinted a half mile before she stopped to scream his name again. “Jeb!”
Her heart thundered against her ribs. Losing Jeb would finish her. The pain would be too much. She snatched a glance behind her, the beach now deserted, except for towels and shoes left by the chaos she’d caused. Before her, crowds watched warily, pondering which way to run.
A police officer ran from around a dune, his boots kicking up sand. “Wait up, Ms. Morgan.”
Damn it! She considered running on, more anxious to hunt than waste time talking.
“Ms. Morgan!”
He reached her and took a firm hold of her arm. “Give me the weapon.”
She stared into Seabrook’s sunglasses; the calming techniques the doctor taught her in Boston vanished from her mind. “Jeb,” she said between ragged breaths as she removed the gun from her waistband. “Help me find my son.”
“Right now you need to settle down.” He took the gun. “You can’t just bolt from a crime scene. You especially ought to know that. And you’ve put the fear of God into all these people.” He released her. “Besides, you don’t seem like you’re in any condition to find your son. Get in front of your panic. Inhale deep. There you go. Now exhale.”
She gulped another lungful of air. She didn’t need another full blown anxiety attack. She eased down onto the sand and ran hot grains of sand through her fingers. Once, twice.
“I’ve got . . . to find my son.”
Seabrook hunched within inches of her face. “We’ll find your boy. You’re doing nobody any good like this. Let’s get back. Can you get up?”
He helped her rise and escorted her to his cruiser. Sunbathers who’d returned parted to let them pass. “Nothing here to see, folks. Go back to your business.”
People wandered away, peering over their shoulders.
He assisted her into the rear seat of the cruiser as if she were his prisoner, hand on her head, and shut the door. Bending at the waist, clutching her middle, she fought a surge of anxiety. Rocking, rocking, rocking. Get a grip, Callie. Get a goddamn grip!
Seabrook settled into his seat. “Now, what’s going on?” He turned on the air conditioning, and a chill rippled her shoulders as the cold hit her damp shirt.
“A murderer’s out there and so is my son.”
“Okay.” His mouth moved like he sorted which words to use. “Don’t take this wrong, because I don’t know you, or your boy, but why would Henry Beechum’s murderer want to hurt your son?”
“Who cares? What parent takes a chance like that?”
Seabrook obviously sought a logical answer for irrational behavior. “You’re a former detective, right?” He swiveled to face her and removed his hat. “You’ve seen plenty of robberies ending with bodies.” He locked eyes on her. “What’s really got you on edge?”
Her jaw tightened. “I have a history that justifies my behavior,” she said. “And we don’t have time to tell it. I must find Jeb. He’s without his cell phone.”
“Give me the abridged version,” he said. “Then we’ll hustle back. We’ll find Jeb before the day’s out. Promise.”
Her heartbeat began to slow to a more manageable pace at the man’s sympathetic tone. “You’re good at this,” she said and swallowed again.
His boyish grin accented warm green eyes with a spark of rebelliousness, though he had to be forty-five. “Have to admit I had to wing this one. We don’t get many beachcombers running around here armed.”
She wanly smiled. “I married a guy from Boston, a deputy US marshal. My husband died two years ago in a fire, but the autopsy proved he’d been shot. I believe the man responsible was a Russian drug dealer I arrested, or his family. Russians hold grudges. I’ve earned the right to overreact.”
Seabrook whistled through his teeth. “Sorry. Had no idea.”
“We didn’t exactly post a press release. And I don’t have time to fill you in.” Callie caught herself rubbing the scar again and redirected her attention. “So, radio someone and find Jeb before I think too much about that guy still running loose and go all ballistic on you again.”
He cut her a glance. “We sure don’t want that.” The radio crackled as he keyed the mic.
“Thanks.” She sank into the seat. “Oh,” she said, sitting back up. “Where’d you put my Glock?”
“You can pick it up from the station tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why not when we get to the house?”
“Your go-all-ballistic comment sort of shot that option.”
Fine. She had another weapon at the house. She’d decided long ago that one gun was far from enough to protect a single mom and her child, who’d once had a price on their heads.
Chapter 4
WITH THE AIR-conditioner blowing full blast to cool Seabrook’s cruiser, Callie spouted Jeb’s description: eighteen, six foot one, wavy blond hair, slim build, a hundred fifty pounds. He wore sky blue swim shorts, black flip-flops, navy beach towel.
The cop radioed the boy’s description to dispatch then cranked the engine. “We’ll find him,” he said, as if he hadn’t a doubt.
But they’d be hunting for a generic kid. She knew his walk, his voice. “On second thought, let me out. I can identify him quicker. He’ll come to my voice. Let me out. Now.”
“Not after the mayhem you just caused. I said we’ll find him.”
“There’s more to this than—”
“I heard you about the Russians.” Seabrook glanced in his rearview mirror before he pulled into the spotty beach traffic.
She flopped her head against the seat. Papa’s murderer had stripped her of social graces. Nothing she could say now would be trusted.
Seabrook drove toward the crime scene, soon turning the cruiser onto Jungle Road. He maneuvered the car and accompanying silence with smooth ease, no edges to the man like one might expect from an officer full of machismo. “You’re an experienced cop,” he said. “You gave chase when most would have frozen. Nobody’s beating you up, so don’t do it to yourself. I know it sounds like too much to ask, but relax.”
She stared out the window, trying to ignore the polite lecture. If the killer had been after her, why’d he kill Papa? And what hit man would hang around a crowded beach hunting for a boy with so many witnesses? Maybe she was overthinking this.
Actually, Jeb could be on his way home by now. The waning sun slipped behind palms, the shadows of houses lengthening.
The memory of the fire erupted in her mind’s eye again, the orange and yellow flickers painting the night with an obscene beauty as it consumed her husband. She never came home at dusk, and Jeb understood why. She hadn’t realized the time of day until now. No wonder she’d panicked.
Uniforms littered the frontage to hers and Papa’s homes. Neighbors and onlookers crowded the drive. This was too damn close to déjà vu.
She gripped the partition between them as she scoured the crowd. “Stop, Seabrook.”
“Hold on. I’m trying to find a spot that doesn’t block the road.”
The drum in her chest returned. She craned to see. “Open the damn door.”
“Settle down, Ms. Morgan, or I’ll leave you back there.” He was tame, steady, which only aggravated her more. Did he not hear a word she said?
Seabrook parked next to three squad cars, exited, and opened the rear door to release Callie. She leaped out and darted toward Chelsea Morning, the first place Jeb might be.
�
�Mom!” Jeb yelled, breaking loose from a group of youngsters. “Someone killed Papa Beach.”
She bolted to him, hugging him hard, relishing his skinny arms around her. “I know, baby. We’re okay.” Fighting her pants, hoping Jeb couldn’t tell, she squeezed him again. “I was worried sick,” she said, drawing back to gaze at him. “Where’ve you been?”
He stared quizzically. “I was at the beach. You knew that. A cop said you ran off when they showed up. I was afraid—I mean, when I came home and you were gone.” He drew her back to him and whispered in her ear, “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m good,” she whispered back. “Especially now.” Jeb hugged tighter, and for a moment she let his embrace feel like John’s.
Her husband could always settle her like this, and Papa B used to know when she needed to talk just by seeing her across the yard. John had loved talking to Papa B during their vacations. Neither could help her now.
“Ma’am.” The ruddy-faced, red-headed Colleton deputy got in her face. “We might’ve shot you running from a murder scene like that.”
Cops raining lead on the streets of Edisto Beach, at the peak of tourist season. Right. She sidestepped the man and his coffee odor.
“Hold it right there,” he started.
“It’s okay, Don,” Seabrook said. “I spoke with her already.”
The deputy threw him a disgruntled look, thrusting his belly out more, stretching the bottom button on his gray uniform. “I’ll take care of this, Seabrook.”
“With due respect, it’s my jurisdiction,” Seabrook gently reminded the older cop.
The deputy arched a bushy red eyebrow. “Assigned to you because you can’t deal with the load.”
“I’m sorry, Deputy Raysor,” Callie said, glancing at his nametag. She didn’t want anyone to lose face over her actions, and this blowhard seemed intent on making a stand. “I’m a former Boston detective. A dozen scenarios played out in my mind. Jeb’s my son, and he’s all I have.”
Raysor removed his hat, wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, and lowered his voice. “A former detective, huh? Peculiar behavior, if you ask me.”
“I know, I know, and again, my apologies.”
“Call me Don, but that don’t mean we’re drinking buddies.” He squinted. “You hear me?”
She nodded, then caught Seabrook’s narrow smile from the corner of her eye. Seabrook might be all right. The jury was still out on Raysor.
Raysor adjusted his hat back in place, rocking it forward then slightly back as he turned away. “Get these rubberneckers out of here, and somebody take a statement from this lady before she bolts again.”
“Officer Raysor?” Callie said. “Don?”
He made a half turn. “Ma’am?”
Callie moved closer and away from the ears of eager onlookers. “If this were my case, I’d consider the missing coin collection as a possible ruse.”
“Well, it’s not your case,” Raysor grumbled and crossed his arms across his barrel chest. “But let’s hear it, ex-detective.”
Seabrook sidled up to hear.
“An opportune thief might take the antique coins, but why kill the old man?” she said. “He could’ve gone down with a slap.”
Raysor stared skeptically. “The old man probably interrupted the guy who then overreacted. Panic, nerves. If you’ve got a gun, you tend to use it. But then I’m a lowly deputy, so what do I know?”
Her experience had to amount to something, though, even to this yahoo, and her cop senses were screaming this crime wasn’t a happenstance murder. “The killer turned the place upside down, yet he took nothing of real value,” she said. “Not even the victim’s wallet, I bet.”
“You disturbed the robber.” Raysor tipped his hat. “But go on. I’m listening.”
“I think he took the coins to make it appear like a robbery.”
“She has a point,” Seabrook said. “The body shows signs of torture.”
Callie’s eyes widened. “What?” She glanced back to ensure Jeb remained out of earshot.
“Everybody’s a sleuth,” Raysor said, groaning. “So what in particular was the guy searching for?”
“Maybe he was after information.” Even as she said the words, she felt the suggestion weak. Still, what if they wanted info on her? But then, why not just come get her at Chelsea Morning? She was alone.
Raysor leaned in and glared. “Let us get on with our job. I know in your eyes we appear to be a herd of Barney Fifes, but I assure you we know what we’re doing, ex-detective. Besides, state law enforcement’s coming from Columbia. I’m sure they know their jobs as well as you used to know yours.”
He tipped his hat and strolled away, shaking his head.
Seabrook gave Callie an apologetic wink and followed the deputy.
The only other homicide in this community she was aware of had been a domestic issue three years earlier when an outraged husband from New Jersey sliced open his wayward wife. Callie’s mother had called her about that event after not speaking to Callie for two months.
The atmosphere of Edisto Beach wasn’t conducive to serious crime. The occasional robbery, yes. Alcohol-induced brawls, marijuana trippers here and there. All expected. But murder?
“Ms. Morgan.” Seabrook waved her over after Raysor drove off. “Can we go in your house to take your statement, please?”
“Sure.” She turned to Jeb. “You okay?”
He nodded. “What about you? I mean, you knew Papa—”
“Shush,” she replied, laying fingers across his lips. “Go be with your new friends. I’m good.”
Jeb returned to a young crowd gathered under a palmetto that immediately swarmed him for info.
Pride swelled in Callie at the maturity of her son, his effort to fill his dad’s shoes, and his ability to realize that his mother was anything but fine.
She’d been a complete fool on the beach. She saw that now. But kicking into overdrive had helped her catch criminals. Fast, intense, focused. Now, however, she couldn’t exactly control the speed, or the steering.
THE NEXT MORNING, Jeb hung around the house, chattering like a hyper chickadee about the previous day’s events. Events she preferred to ponder alone. Maybe she’d revisit the crime scene and scout for what others might have missed. But not with Jeb around. She’d always done her damnedest to not let her job cross Jeb’s path.
In Boston, she’d fallen apart after a year of hunting John’s killer and pretending all was fine to Jeb. The obsession had eroded her ability to compartmentalize, organize, and dissect a crime. She couldn’t end the day without devising new strategy against the Zubovs. Vengeance muddled clarity.
She moved from room to room, her son on her heels as she dusted, washed clothes, and settled her belongings amongst those already in place. Occasionally she glanced out the window at the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze.
“The kids I met said Papa Beach got shot with his own gun,” he said.
She snapped towels, fresh from the dryer. “Jeb, how would they know? Quit with the amateur investigating. And get out from under my feet. I know what you’re doing, and I’m fine. I used to work in the middle of this kind of crap.”
“Yeah, but . . . you know.”
Lifting a stack of linens, she shoved them into his arms. “Are you spying for your grandparents? I’ll skin you for that. I don’t need a sitter.”
He hesitated enough for her to see the yes in his eyes. She filled the dryer again and switched it on. “Go to the beach before I put you in the corner.” She waved at him dismissively, internally not wanting him to leave the house. “Meet somebody,” she said. “Maybe even a hot girl in some knock-out bikini.”
He scowled. “My mom isn’t supposed to talk about hot girls. And since when do you want me out fro
m under your own bodyguard protection?”
Her son was too sharp. Finding a dead body next door, minutes after overcoming an anxiety attack, was ample reason for her overreaction yesterday. Today, however, she liked to think she controlled herself better. “If you take your phone and call me periodically, and stay around friends, I won’t worry so much.” She sighed. “I’m trying to give you space. College is only two months away, and I’m struggling with it.” She put the fabric softener and soap up on the shelf over the washer. “Stick around, however, and I’ll educate you on my dating secrets.”
“You win.” His smile shone from a deeper place. “Don’t need a lesson on prehistoric social skills.” Bare feet slapping the oak floor, he disappeared into his bedroom to change. Shortly thereafter, he exited the house, locking the door as John had taught him.
Callie poured herself an ice water and fought not to mark time with constant peeks at the clock. Fought not to glance out the window at yellow crime scene tape.
She needed something to do. After lifting her .38 from the credenza drawer, she pulled out the gun cleaning kit. Then she dialed a familiar number and rested the phone on her shoulder as she took the weapon apart. “Stan Waltham, please. Tell him it’s Callie Morgan.”
Stan shot straight with her, respected her, and when she’d left the police department, she swore she saw moisture in his brown eyes. His gruff exterior enveloped a marshmallow core. Ten years older, he played the handsome father-figure one minute and a stand-up buddy the next. She still remembered the musk of his cologne when he hugged her goodbye that long moment outside the bar. She missed him more than anything else about Boston.
“Morgan! How’re you doing?”
“Making it, Stan.” Her shoulders relaxed hearing his thick Massachusetts accent and gravelly voice. Her last call had been two months ago, which meant he’d cut that curly black and gray hair at least three times. “Wanted to let you know where I am. And check on life back in Beantown.”
“Missing you around here, Chicklet.” He chuckled as he used her old nickname derived from her small size when compared to his six-foot five. Stan’s square jaws usually chomped on gum, cinnamon-flavored, a habit cultivated when he quit smoking. “What’ll it take to get you to come back? Boston’s overrun with crime now. They’re thinking about shutting us down, moving us to New York, and letting the clans and mobs have it.”
Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) Page 4
