by Tripp Ellis
Jack and I exchanged a worried glance, then I called Sheriff Daniels. "Denise isn't here. Can you go to her desk and tell me the last thing she was working on?"
Daniels grumbled, but complied. "Hang on a minute. Let me get over there."
I waited anxiously as he strolled across the office. He pulled up her screen and entered a master passcode, then accessed her computer.
"She's got a web screen open to a news article about a teen charged with manslaughter," Daniels said.
"Yeah, she thought the teen was Skylar Van Doorn. Can you tell me who the victim was?"
"Dakota McMillan."
My face crinkled. "That name doesn't sound familiar. I don't know why Denise thought it might be significant."
"What about the name Willow McMillan?" Daniels said. "She's got that name scribbled on a Post-it note."
My eyes widened. "Send a patrol unit to the hotel. I think we have a situation."
I hung up and looked across the dressing room to Willow Rose as she primped in front of the mirror.
Willow wasn't exactly a common name.
"McMillan," I shouted.
Willow's eyes flicked to me.
I stormed across the room and confronted the flowery pageant contestant. "Willow Rose McMillan. Skylar Van Doorn killed your sister."
A look of shock washed over Willow's face, then denial. "No."
"Don't lie to me."
"The charges against Skylar were dropped. I've had to move on."
"Have you?"
"Are you trying to suggest I had something to do with Skylar's death?"
"Where's Denise?"
"I don't know. I'm worried about her," Willow said, feigning concern. "I haven't seen her all day."
"I know she was here," I said.
"I wish I could help you, but I'm about to go on stage. If you'll excuse me," she said, turning away.
I grabbed her arm and pulled her close. I clenched my jaw and growled like a ferocious beast. "You tell me where Denise is!"
"I don't know. Why would I?" she asked, incredulous.
"She discovered the connection between Skylar and your sister. You know what I think? I think she came to the pageant and confronted you." I looked around the dressing room. "You know who else I don't see here? Your brother. He's always here. Where is he?"
Willow shrugged, then stammered, "He must be in the audience."
"We're on in five!" a production assistant yelled.
"Let go of me," she demanded. "I really have to go!"
"You're not going anywhere until you tell me where Denise is."
36
Willow trembled with nerves. She forced a smile. "I don't know what you're talking about. You're making a big mistake."
"You're the one that’s making a big mistake. I know you killed Skylar, and I will connect you to her death. That's a capital crime, and we will seek the death penalty for you, and anyone else involved. And if anything has happened to Denise, rest assured, you won't even make it to trial. I'll see to that."
I must have looked like a rabid dog—teeth snarling, murder in my eyes.
Willow's blue eyes filled with terror.
The other contestants looked on with intrigue.
Willow broke down into sobs. "It wasn't my idea."
"Start talking," I demanded. "Make it fast!"
"That bitch got away with killing my sister. Her family paid off everyone and made it go away," Willow growled, the fierce side of her personality coming out.
"So, you poisoned her?" I accused.
"It was my brother's idea. I didn't want to do it. I knew Skylar was using. I switched her coke during rehearsals. I didn't think it was traceable."
"Too bad for you. Where is Denise?"
Willow hesitated. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "She confronted me. She knew everything. Everything that you're saying now. My brother was here, and he panicked. He hit her over the head. I thought she was dead. He stuffed her into a clothing trunk and made me help him load it into his van."
Rage boiled under my skin. My cheeks flushed, and the muscles in my jaw tightened.
"Where is she?" I growled.
The wheels turned behind her eyes. "We can work out a deal. I tell you where she is, and you let me off the hook. I'll testify against my brother, as long as I get to walk away."
Willow was out to save her skin, any way possible. It didn't matter who she had to throw under the bus.
"Tell me where she is, and you better pray she's still alive," I said through gritted teeth.
"We have a deal, right?" Willow asked.
I wasn't in a position to offer such a deal, but she didn't know that. "Right."
"He said he was going to take her on his boat and dump the trunk in the ocean. That's all I know."
My heart sank, and my stomach twisted.
"Where's his boat, and what's the name?"
"He keeps it at Salt Point. The name is Reel Life."
"Stay with her," I said to JD. "Call Sheriff Daniels. Have him meet me at Salt Point with a unit. Call the Coast Guard. Put out a BOLO on the Reel Life."
"Wilco," JD said.
He took hold of Willow.
"Give me the keys!" I said.
JD dug into his pocket and tossed the keys to the Porsche to me. "Don't wreck it!"
I scampered out of the ballroom, running past Crystal Connors, who shouted, "What's going on?"
I didn't bother to answer.
I raced through the hotel, weaving through the crowds, then dashed across the parking lot. I found the Porsche, hopped in, twisted the ignition, and reversed out of the narrow space. I dropped the car into gear and raced onto the highway.
Wind whipped through the cabin. The tachometer redlined, and my foot jammed the clutch while my hand grabbed the shifter, slamming it into second gear.
Then third.
Then fourth.
The engine howled.
A paddle-shift is faster. There is no argument. But there is nothing like a manual gearbox to connect you to the car. The thrill of perfectly timed shifts. The sensation of racing through the gears, slamming you against the seat back with every shift.
I didn't care about my connection to the car at this point. I just wanted to get to Salt Point Harbor as fast as possible.
I weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac, the tachometer bouncing off redline.
I screeched into the parking lot of Salt Point—did a half ass job of parking the car—hopped out and ran down the dock.
The owner, Buck, was emptying the trash bins.
"I'm looking for Phoenix McMillan," I shouted as I sprinted toward the old man.
Buck's face twisted into a confused scowl. "Who?"
"Reel Life!"
"Oh, yeah. He and another fella just left."
"They say where they were headed?"
Buck shook his head. "No, but they left the harbor and headed south."
"How long ago?"
"Maybe 10 minutes?"
"I need to borrow a boat," I said, flashing my badge. "Official police business."
Buck knew I was a deputy, but he often seemed to forget minor details. The badge was to jog his memory.
Buck pointed down the dock to a 20 foot wake boat. "You can take Making Waves."
"Keys?"
"Hang on, let me get them for you."
He ambled down the dock toward the office, moving at a pace that left much to be desired. "I want her back in one piece. I'm taking some hotties out tomorrow."
"I did mention this is urgent, didn't I?"
He grumbled, "I'm moving as fast as I can."
I followed him to the office. He ambled around the counter and pulled the keys from a drawer, then tossed them to me.
I took off running down the dock and hopped into the wake boat. My fingers loosened the knots and cast off the lines. I twisted the ignition, cranking up the engine.
The sleek little boat was brand new. It was a SurfPro 650 SE. It had ample seating, and a
swim platform at stern. There was aft storage, and a comfortable lounge area at the bow. There was a retractable sunshade, and JL Audio speakers lined the boat. Four massive speakers hung from the tower, aimed toward the stern, blasting audio like a cannon. There were a ton of options for designing the wake behind the boat. It had a 4200 pound subfloor ballast that used six pumps to craft pro-level waves. The digital screen provided clear information.
It was a helluva nice wake boat.
I eased out of the slip, then throttled up, bringing the boat on plane as I left the harbor.
It wasn't the fastest craft in the world. The 6.2 L engine would make 40 kn at full speed, with 595 foot-pounds of torque. Enough to have good times on the water, but it might not catch up with a Sportfish that had a head start.
I raced south, carving across the water, scanning the horizon for any sign of Reel Life.
My stomach twisted, and a sour acidic taste crept into the back of my throat. My mind drifted to the worst-case scenario.
What if Denise was already dead?
37
I didn't have any binoculars. No night vision opticals. Nothing to assist me in my quest. There were countless boats on the water at night, and the ocean was vast. I knew my odds of finding the Reel Life were slim.
Making Waves sliced through the inky water, leaving a perfect wake behind. My eyes kept scanning in all directions. I raced through the blackness for a few minutes, then saw the flicker of running lights on the horizon.
I made a beeline for the boat.
My heart pounded with anticipation. The engine roared as I skimmed across the surface of the water, hoping against hope.
As I drew closer, I realized it wasn't the Reel Life.
The muscles in my jaw tightened. Then I grumbled under my breath.
I kept the little boat at full throttle, splicing the swells. Within a few minutes, I saw another set of running lights. I steered Making Waves toward the vessel ahead and skimmed across the surface.
My veins coursed with adrenaline.
The name Reel Life became visible on the transom of the sport-fish as I drew closer.
A momentary wave of joy rushed through me. But that sensation quickly turned to dread—then pure horror.
Two men in the cockpit grabbed opposite ends of a clothing trunk. They heaved it onto the gunwale, then pushed it overboard with a splash. It floated on the water for a moment, bobbing amidst the swells.
The two men ran back to the helm and throttled up. The Reel Life spit a frothy white wake, and the engines roared as the craft disappeared into the night.
I raced Making Waves toward the trunk which had fully submerged by the time I arrived.
My heart was in my throat.
I tossed out a Danforth anchor and hoped for the best. No time to set it.
From my pocket, I grabbed my keys which had a small tactical flashlight attached to them. I clicked the power button, held the light between my teeth, filled my lungs with a deep breath, and dove into the black water.
The salt stung my eyes as my hands pulled me below. The throw of the flashlight was short. I could barely see a thing. My hands kept pulling me deeper and deeper.
The pressure squeezed my ears.
The beam of my flashlight raked across the trunk as it plunged down.
I swam after it.
The trunk descended to the murky depths and settled on the seafloor. The impact created a plume of soft sand.
Fortunately, we were only in 20 feet of water.
There were two latches on the trunk, both of them were locked and required a key. My thumbs pushed against the sliding mechanism, trying to get them to release, but that did nothing.
Time was of the essence.
I drew my pistol and placed the side of the barrel flush against the trunk, aiming the weapon at the latch. With the weapon parallel to the face of the trunk, I felt confident Denise would be safe inside, unless the bullet ricocheted in some bizarre way.
The 9mm would fire underwater, but it wouldn't have much distance or accuracy. It didn't need to. Fired in open water, the bullet would probably travel 6 feet before falling away. I just needed to blast the latch off.
My fingers squeezed the trigger.
A deafening crack snapped through the water.
Instead of muzzle flash, a bulge of gases displaced the water as the bullet rocketed from the barrel. It hit the latch, twisting it to shreds.
I repeated the process on the other latch.
I jammed my pistol back into the holster, lifted the lid, not knowing what I'd find inside.
Denise lay motionless in the trunk, curled into a ball, bound about the wrists and ankles.
I pulled her from the trunk and swam toward the surface. By this point in time, my lungs were on fire.
We finally broke through the surface of the water, and I sucked in a breath of air.
Making Waves had drifted slightly. I swam against the swells and I pulled Denise to the swim platform, then heaved her onto it. I climbed out of the water, and lifted Denise to a pad on the stern. My palms pressed against her chest, starting compressions, pumping in a rhythmic fashion.
"Come on, baby. Breathe!"
I kept pumping on her chest at a feverish pace.
38
Denise coughed and spit a mouthful of water on the deck. She gasped for breath and kept coughing like a two pack a day smoker, trying to get all the fluid from her lungs.
Her pageant dress was soaked, and her hair looked like a rat’s nest. The waterproof mascara held up pretty well, but the rest of her makeup had been washed off. She looked at me with dazed eyes, her chest still heaving for breath. "I guess I owe you one?"
The boat rocked as it drifted on the swells while I untied her.
"I assume you figured out that Willow killed Skylar?" she said.
"Wouldn't be here otherwise."
My cell phone was rated for a depth of 30 meters. The skeptic in me figured it was toast. I pulled the device from my pocket, swiped the screen, and called Sheriff Daniels.
The first few words that filtered through the speaker were muffled until the water was pushed out by the vibrations. Aside from that, the device worked perfectly.
I told Sheriff Daniels I had recovered Denise, and that Phoenix, and his accomplice, were still at large.
The Coast Guard would maintain their search.
I asked Daniels to meet me back at Salt Point with an ambulance. The EMTs needed to give Denise a thorough evaluation.
"I'm fine!" Denise protested.
"You could be brain-damaged," I teased.
Her eyes narrowed at me. "I am not brain-damaged!"
I ended the call, then weighed anchor, cranked up the engine, and banked the boat around, heading back to Coconut Key.
At Salt Point, Denise tossed Sheriff Daniels the lines, and he helped us tie off.
Red and blue lights bathed the area. We climbed out of the watercraft and joined Sheriff Daniels, two other deputies, two EMTs, and the harbormaster, Buck.
I handed the keys back to the old man, and he surveyed the watercraft for damages. Buck seemed satisfied, then ambled back to the office.
The EMTs checked out Denise despite her protests. She had a small laceration on the back of her skull from the blow to the head. The EMTs thought she might have a slight concussion and suggested taking her to the ER for a full evaluation.
Denise didn't want to go, but I insisted.
"I'm going to miss the pageant," she said with sad eyes.
I looked at my watch. "Sorry. You've already missed it."
A frown twisted on her face. "Fine," she sighed. "I'll go to the ER if it will make you feel better."
"It will make me feel better," I said.
She climbed into the meat wagon, and I followed in the Porsche.
Daniels said he would call if the Coast Guard found the Reel Life.
I called JD and caught him up to speed. He met me at the ER, and we waited as they did a CT scan, and a
chest x-ray on Denise.
Dr. Parker put a stitch in Denise's scalp and discharged her. "Just keep an eye on her. If she has any double vision, mental confusion, slurred speech, or if the headache persists or increases in intensity, bring her back. She has a slight concussion and needs to stay awake for several hours. You'll need to wake her at regular intervals."
"Is that really necessary?" Denise asked. "I feel fine. Just a little headache."
"Doctor's orders," Parker said, handing her the discharge papers.
We stopped at the administration desk and made the insurance co-pay.
"Why don't you stay on the boat tonight, and I can look after you?" I said.
Denise's eyes narrowed at me with suspicion.
I raised my hands, innocently. "I'll be a perfect gentlemen."
Denise sighed. "Fine, but we have to stop at my house and get my overnight kit and a change of clothes."
Jack suggested we take his car and said he would take a cab home. We left the hospital and stopped by Denise's place, then drove to Diver Down. I figured we'd pick up her car from the hotel in the morning.
Denise looked online as I drove to the marina. She was anxious to see the results of the pageant. She deflated when she saw them. "Guess who won?"
I shrugged.
"Me," she said, flatly. "But I was disqualified because I wasn't in attendance. Can you believe that?"
"That sucks! So who did they give it to?"
"Well, at least I can feel good about the fact that Brooklyn is our new Miss Coconut Key. Taylor Lexington was the 1st Runner-Up." Denise forced a resigned smile.
"Maybe when you explain the circumstances to Crystal, she might reconsider?"
Denise shrugged it off. "The rules are the rules. You have to be present to win. Besides, I don't know if I really wanted that kind of commitment. You have to make public appearances at all these events. I've got a full-time job, and Daniels is already a little upset about all the time I've been taking off. It is what it is." She smiled for real this time. "I'm a firm believer that what's meant to be will be. The universe provides."
We pulled into the parking lot at Diver Down, and I escorted Denise down the dock to the Vivere. Buddy greeted us as we entered the salon, and Denise knelt down and loved on him. He licked her face and wagged his tail.
