Black Coral

by Andrew Mayne

  Shulme sees the reaction in my eyes. “That’s right. Want me to tell you what he did?”

  “Save it for your court-appointed therapist. We don’t care how you got here, only what you did. And what you’re doing now.”

  He sighs. “I know I screwed up. I let my curiosity get the better of me.”

  “You weren’t just lurking on the dark web. You were running servers and helping men victimize children,” I reply.

  “Women too,” he adds.

  “Victimizing them too. Um, okay.”

  “No, I mean not all those people were men. Some were women who sold their own children or others. They helped their husbands. People always forget about the women.”

  “Well, thank you for pointing that out,” replies Hughes.

  Shulme shakes his head. “You’re so tough. I’ve seen things you couldn’t even imagine. Children being hurt in ways that would make you want to blow your brains out to get ’em out of your head.”

  “Too bad you didn’t do us the favor,” says Hughes.

  “Ha. Want to know the really funny thing about my case? Want to know the part they left out? What never made it into the press? The reason I got a reduced sentence? Some of those videos, the worst ones? They didn’t have too much trouble finding out who the victims were, because they already knew. They only had to look at the case number at the bottom of the videos. The worst footage I’ve seen? I got it from cops.”

  A question I’ve kind of always wondered about comes to mind. “How do you guys find each other?”

  “A thing called the internet.”

  I ignore his sarcasm. “Yeah, but how do you trust someone enough to send them videos and vice versa?”

  “You ever play ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ as a little girl?”

  “Watch it,” says Hughes, maybe more to me than Shulme.

  “You start with a little trade. Maybe something barely illegal. They trade back. You build trust as you share. Each of you is in it just as much as the other. Unless they’re a cop using child pornography to entrap you.”

  I decide to not challenge him on his concept of entrap. “Mutually assured destruction, but with child porn. Each one of you is putting yourself into a vulnerable position.”

  “That’s basically it,” he says, but his voice fades.

  “No, it’s not,” replies Hughes. “That’s a big part of it for you, isn’t it? That pervert signaling? That’s a turn-on, isn’t it?”

  Shulme shrugs, not exactly denying what Hughes is saying.

  “You have a boat?” I ask.

  This catches him off guard. “A boat? No. You know how much I make? A damn boat?”

  “We didn’t ask if you rented the QE2 for cocktail parties.” Hughes nods to the car. “If you can afford a shitty car, you can afford a shitty boat.”

  “Hell, I can’t even swim. I don’t own a boat, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in one.”

  “You like women?” I ask.

  “Are you asking if I’m a homosexual?”

  “No. I would have asked you if you liked guys. Do you like women? Have you ever had a healthy relationship with a woman?”

  “Besides my mother?”

  Hughes covers his eyes and tries to stifle a laugh. I keep my composure, but I’m sure my reaction shows on my face.

  “That’s something else to talk to your therapist about,” I say.

  Shulme gets agitated. “You said relationship. I don’t think you asked me if I was screwing my mother. No. I was not. And no, I have not had much luck with women. But, yes, I like them. Why, do you like me?” He gives me a leer.

  “Not the man you are. No. Unless Detective Hughes has any questions, I think we’re done.”

  “I’m good,” says Hughes.

  “That’s it?” asks Shulme. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m the Swamp Killer?”

  I look him up and down. “You’re not.”

  Hughes and I walk back to my truck and get in. We watch as Shulme drives off.

  Hughes speaks up. “Steve doesn’t live with his mother and drive around in a busted-up Honda working the night shift at a box plant.”

  “He’s more organized than that.” I’m staring at the fading taillights of Shulme’s car. Something he said, or rather some things he said, are running through my mind.

  “What’s up?” asks Hughes.

  “If you saw Shulme at the supermarket, what would you think?”

  “Hide my kid?”

  “No. I mean just the image of the man. What would you assume?”

  “There goes some loser who probably lives with his mother.”

  “A loner.”

  “Clearly. I’d hate to be at the party where he’s the charismatic one.”

  “But he’s not a loner,” I say, thinking out loud. “I mean, maybe now. But not when they arrested him. He was the center of a large group of perverted men.”

  “And women,” says Hughes. “He made it clear that it was an equal-opportunity pervert club.”

  “Right. Whatever. My point is that he’s not a loner. He has people he talks to. People he shares his perversions with. Think about that level of trust. He shares the kinds of things you’d think he’d want to hide,” I explain.

  “He didn’t exactly announce it to the world,” says Hughes. “He shared it with other pervs.”

  “But not just to get more illicit material. Sharing was part of the thrill.”

  Hughes nods. “I see what you’re saying. You’re wondering if Sleazy Steve is the same way.”

  “Or maybe Sleazy Steve was, but that all stopped when he became the Swamp Killer. Who did he share his perversions with?”

  “Would he? We both agreed that Shulme isn’t the type because he’s such a mess. I can’t see that guy talking to a girl, let alone working his way into her home without her calling the cops.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t look that way on the outside, but there are some awful men in benign-looking packages.”

  I check my phone and see an email I’ve been waiting for. “Oh great.”

  “What’s that?” asks Hughes.

  I almost tell him, but I don’t. I can’t drag him any further in. For the first time in my professional career as a police officer, I lie to a coworker. In my defense, it’s to protect a friend who has access to interagency communications.

  “It’s nothing,” I reply and immediately feel horrible about doing it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ACCOUNTABILITY

  The sun is rising as I pull into Darren Cope’s driveway and block him from pulling out in his work truck. His house is in a blue-collar neighborhood in Sunrise, Florida. The lawn is a bit overgrown, and the fence on either side of the house has blue tarp blocking a view of the backyard. I can tell his vehicle’s filled with junk because of the stack of air conditioners poking above the edge.

  Cope gets out of his truck dressed in work overalls with his Cope AC & Electric logo stitched over his chest.

  “Can I help you?” he says in a surly voice, striding up to me. He’s got gray hair poking out from underneath his red cap and a weather-beaten face with a thick silver mustache. His build is large but wiry, as if he recently lost a lot of weight.

  “I’m Detective McPherson with the UIU.”

  “The UI what? Never mind. Move your damn car, it’s blocking my way,” he says, turning back to his truck.

  “I have some questions,” I say, not budging.

  He points to a camera aimed at the driveway. “See that camera? I put that there because of you guys. Now let me leave, or else.”

  “Or else what?” I open my jacket, revealing the butt of my gun.

  “Or else you’ll hear from my lawyer.”

  I call his bluff, fairly certain he doesn’t want this to escalate. “Want to call him? Is he cheap? We can do this at the station.”

  “This is harassment,” he complains.

  “This is an investigation into the murders of Lara Chadwick
and Eric Timm.”

  The email I didn’t show Hughes was a list of persons of interest from the couple’s murder: all service workers spotted in the area. Cope was at the top because he made six visits to the neighborhood, working on the AC unit of their neighbor. At least twice he was spotted walking into the couple’s yard.

  When originally interviewed, Cope said it was because they’d asked him to give them an estimate for AC repair. When he couldn’t show a call log or email proving that, he claimed that he’d run into Eric Timm in a parking lot. This was probably after he realized that one of the neighbors had a surveillance camera that observed half of Chadwick’s yard and there was no proof of either of them walking over to ask him to check their unit.

  Cope folds his arms and leans against the tailgate of his truck. “You’re making a huge mistake here.”

  “Am I?” I pull out my notepad but don’t take my eyes off the man. “It says here in the notes that on the night of the disappearance your alibi checked out, but it seemed kind of sloppy to me. I was wondering if you could tell me where you were?”

  “Not there,” he replies.

  I shake my head. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Enlighten me. How does it work?”

  “Six visits to the neighborhood? That’s a lot. I figure either you’re really bad at your job or maybe you had a thing for Lara Chadwick.”

  “Never saw her,” says Cope.

  “That’s not what you said when you told detectives that you ran into Eric Timm.”

  “I don’t remember what I said. Maybe she was in the car. Maybe she wasn’t.”

  “What restaurant was it again?” I ask. “They say they couldn’t find a credit-card charge for either of them.”

  “Maybe they used a magical thing called cash. I don’t know where they ate. I ran into him in the parking lot. You really need to let me go now.”

  “Where were you that night?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “You really are a dumb bitch.”

  “Say that to my face.”

  He steps right up to me, glances at his camera and then back to me. “Dumb. Bitch.”

  I make a tiny lunge at him, and he flinches, covering his face.

  “You’re so done,” he growls as he recovers. “I’m getting into my truck and backing up. If you’re still there, then I’m going to hit your car. It’s my property. It’s my right.”

  He gets into his truck and puts it into gear and revs the engine. Is he serious?

  He guns it at my truck and skids to a stop in front of my bumper.

  “Ten seconds,” he calls out through his open window.

  There’s something seriously off about this guy. I’m thinking he might go ahead and do it. Technically speaking, he’s right about this being his property. I glance at the large dent on the right side of his rear bumper and realize he truly doesn’t care.

  I grit my teeth and get into my car and back up. He drives past me in the street and stops, a cocky grin on his face.

  “Thought so,” he says.

  I lose my temper and say something I shouldn’t. I regret it before it even leaves my lips. But I want to see what he does.

  “See you later, Sleazy Steve.”

  His face doesn’t freeze in horror. He doesn’t appear shocked. He doesn’t react at all. He also doesn’t seem confused. He simply processes the information without telling me what he makes of it. Then his attention snaps back to the road and he flips me the finger and peels out, racing down the street.

  After he’s gone, I get out of my truck and catch my breath. What was I thinking? What was he thinking?

  I glance at his house and walk over to the sidewalk. Do I take a closer look? The camera is right there. He’ll know, but what will he do?

  I decide to step onto his property and take a peek over the fence. The path between the side of the house and the fence is crowded with AC unit covers and plastic sheds. It takes every effort I can muster to not hop the fence and start poking around. I have to know my limits, and I’m afraid I may have already pushed them too far.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE FOG

  The rain is coming down hard on our boat’s canopy and draining from either side in waterfalls at the creases. The Pacific Miracle is directly across the waterway from us, its satellite dome still firmly attached to the spotting tower. George and I are watching from his boat while Hughes and two BSO deputies do the same from another boat nearby. Since we’re assuming the Bandits make a careful surveillance of their target before they strike, we couldn’t have a Marine Patrol or coast guard boat stand by. It’d be too easy to spot from the water.

  The owner of the two-hundred-foot yacht, Tariq El Momet, is currently under house arrest in Saudi Arabia, and his boat’s in arrears for dockage fees and coast guard violations. When George heard the State Department had taken possession, he leaped at the chance to use it for this purpose. After some horse trading, we were able to get use of it for three days.

  Today is the last day. After that it gets sent to Miami and eventually government auction if Mr. El Momet doesn’t step up and pay his fines.

  A small cabin cruiser makes its way up the canal, a lone man standing at the helm.

  George watches him with his night-vision goggles until he passes out of sight.

  A cigarette boat comes next, its massive outboards sending waves all the way to us, rocking our boat.

  I glance back at the Miracle. Something is odd. “Solar. Check out our boat.”

  He swivels his scope toward the yacht. “What am I looking at?”

  “I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Feel right?”

  I call into the radio. “Locomotive, this is Sidecar. Do you notice anything?”

  “Could you be more specific? Over,” says Hughes.

  “Something weird? Odd?”

  “We only saw the two boats pass, over.”

  I glance back at the yacht’s satellite dome.

  It’s gone.

  “Look!” I tell George, pointing.

  “What the fudge? Hold on . . .”

  I squint, trying to see through the rain. It’s simply not possible for them to have taken it so fast.

  “Hold up,” says George. He calls into the radio, “Locomotive, be advised, the suspects are on the boat. I repeat, they are on the boat. They appear to have thrown a black cloth over the dome. I think that’s so they can work under it.”

  But how the hell did they get on the boat?

  “What do you advise?” asks Hughes.

  Hughes and the deputies can reach the yacht first, but if they spook the suspects, then we risk them vanishing the same way they appeared. If we rush the yacht at the wrong time, that might make the bad guys open fire, and things could get nasty.

  “How much does that dome weigh?” asks George.

  “Forty pounds?” I say.

  “How did they get aboard? More importantly, how are they going to get it off?”

  I glance down the waterway and realize the cigarette boat has stopped and is poking out beyond the corner of a seawall about a half mile away. “Look there. They probably dived off a docked boat while that one was making itself seen.”

  “Two boats? Clever. You’re the resident pirate—what do we do?”

  “Taking the dome is at least a two-man job. We can try to grab them.”

  “But then the boat gets away. I have a feeling the guys on the yacht are hired help. The moment we move on them, the cigarette boat’s out of here.”

  “We can tell the coast guard, give them the description,” I say hopefully.

  “Any other solutions?”

  “Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “Any solutions that don’t involve you going into the water?”

  “Um.”

  “Yeah. Thought so. We need to decide now. It looks like they’ve got the dome. Any second now that boat is going to come racing down here to do a pickup, and ther
e’s no way we can outrun them,” says George.

  “Don’t,” I reply.

  “What?”

  “They’re not drug runners out in the open ocean. The guys on the yacht are going to take the dome to the edge of the pier and climb aboard. The cigarette boat will then leave slowly. Racing out of here would attract too much attention,” I explain.

  “And then what?”

  “We follow them. Get Hughes and his team ready to follow by road while we follow from a safe distance.”

  “I don’t like that. We could lose them.”

  “We can get the BSO helicopter here in fifteen minutes, and Marine Patrol can block them at the other end.”

  In the distance, the cigarette boat’s engines roar to life, and it starts cruising back down the canal. George watches it approach, weighing his options.

  “Is there a plan C?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Let me drive.”

  “We can’t go faster.”

  “No. I just have to drive smarter.”

  George considers this. “I’m not sure if I prefer the cautious McPherson or the impulsive one.” But he backs away from the console, letting me take the wheel. “Now what?”

  “Lower the canopy. It’s gonna get windy. And grab the anchor. Get ready to throw it when I say so.”

  “Jesus Christ. I hate this plan already.”

  “Relax.” I nod at the cigarette boat heading down the waterway. It’s beginning to make a curving arc that will take it to the edge of the pier, exactly as I predicted.

  It’s my pirate blood.

  “Okay,” says George as he takes the top down. “What’s next?”

  “Tell Hughes to get ready and . . . hold on!”

  I gun the engine and head straight for the cigarette boat as it nears the closest point to the pier. The sound of the rain covers the rev of our engine initially, but soon enough the man on the cigarette boat jerks his head around, trying to see what’s coming at him.

  Two men carrying a black bundle race across the dock and prepare to leap into the cigarette boat once it gets closer. But it’s still not there yet. The cigarette boat captain isn’t sure what to do. Should he let them jump aboard? Or should he cut and run?