Network of Deceit

by Tom Threadgill

  Another tube, this one occupied by a boy who looked to be around ten, bumped into her. She smiled at him and he kicked against her tube to push away. The splash sent water into her face and dotted her sunglasses. Her grin faded and she lifted her legs to join the current before others got too close.

  Sitting in the tube would be easier and more comfortable, but this way kept her body in the water. She’d never been self-conscious about her appearance, as evidenced by her minimal use of makeup, but being in public in her swimsuit crossed an imaginary line. The gene that allowed her sisters to wear anything without being self-conscious had skipped right over her. Based on some of the people she’d seen so far today, the gene should’ve bypassed them too. Not much left to the imagination.

  She drifted around a corner in the river and gained speed as underwater jets shot ice-cold streams along the route. From here, she could see several rides, including one of the slides she’d spotted from the parking lot. A line of people climbed the circular path to the top for their chance to shoot downward on a thin layer of water. Three sharp turns were completely covered, an indication that riders went high on the walls. At the bottom of the ride, guest after guest shot out into a small pool, clambered out of the water, and hurried back to go again. No thanks.

  As she rounded another corner, she gained quickly on a group of teens, each with a hand holding someone else’s tube. After glancing behind to make sure no one was close, she planted her feet on the bottom and duck-walked to the edge of the river. Let them get farther ahead. On the opposite side, a high bamboo fence, doubtless hiding chain-link, lined a thin strip of land that defined the park’s boundary. A pole reached above the barrier and secured two cameras, one pointed at the park and the other at whatever was hidden back there. She peered farther down the river and saw the setup repeated at regular intervals. If nothing else, Cannonball believed in protecting their perimeter. Their insurance probably demanded it.

  As she merged back into the current, several people entered the river between her and the teen flotilla. As the day wore on and the crowds increased, any hope of avoiding contact with others faded. Nothing she could do about that. Another reason she preferred a lawn chair and kiddie pool.

  She completed her semi-loop of the first island and drifted toward the second. This one was larger and newer, with more open spaces for future attractions. A large beach lined this side of the land. People, coolers, and noise abounded. This was the section geared to younger kids. Smaller versions of the tamer rides oriented themselves around a lake in an attempt to corral the children in a central area so the parents could maintain their view without having to constantly relocate. Based on the amount of running and yelling going on, the concept might be good, but someone forgot to tell the kids. With distractions like this, you could slide a dozen bodies in the water here and no one would notice.

  She rounded another corner and continued on the loop for a few minutes before the chaos faded behind her. None of this looked familiar, meaning either Zachary didn’t come here or, more likely, the cameras weren’t working that day. Hordes of guests could’ve traveled this way and remained unseen by the security system.

  On the other side of the bamboo fence, steel beams stretched into the sky. A sign with an architect’s drawing of the park’s under-construction ride promised guests new heights and bigger thrills next year. Another underwater jet propelled her forward and the ambiance shifted. A few more rides beckoned the adventurous, but the island grew quieter and the crowd sparser. Cabanas dotted the grassy expanse. Clusters of palm trees provided some shade and a wide beach separated land and water. This was where Sanchez suspected Coleman went into the river.

  She stepped out of the water and nudged the inner tube back on its way. The sun soaked her skin and brought warmth to her goose bumps as she wandered the area, casually searching for a hint of wrongdoing. Nothing. Several security cameras hugged their trees, but none of them had the right angle to have taken the first known video of Coleman in the water. A thatched-roof building sheltered restrooms and more lockers.

  Plenty of secluded spots existed, but only if no one happened to wander past. On a busy day, there’d be no guarantee of privacy. If the teenager had been murdered, the killer was either extremely lucky or had planned the death. Plotting his actions wouldn’t eliminate the danger of being caught, but it would greatly reduce the chance of that happening. If Zachary didn’t die from alcohol poisoning or an accidental OD, the method of killing had to be fast, quiet, and internal. The tox report would answer that question. Hopefully.

  But the problem still remained. If, as she assumed, the death was intentional, why do it in such a public location? Didn’t make any sense. There had to be a gazillion better places that didn’t have the risks.

  She walked to the nearest palm tree and stared at the camera. Pretty convenient that the system wasn’t working when the death happened. She made a mental note to follow up on the issue with the vendor who supplied the software. See if they’d had the same problems anywhere else. And if not?

  The crystal-clear waters at Cannonball might hold a very murky secret.

  6

  Amara and Starsky slid their menus to the edge of the table, the universal sign they were ready to order. The waiter, properly attentive to such cues, hurried over. The restaurant, an old pub with dingy, dark decor, had struggled with its dive bar identity ever since it had been featured in the Best of San Antonio annual awards. What used to be a low-key spot popular with locals was now crowded, noisy, and trendy. Three things she hated.

  “What can I get y’all?” the waiter asked.

  “Fruit salad for me,” Amara said.

  Starsky arched his eyebrows. “That’s not much dinner.”

  “I had a burger this afternoon at the water park. Bad call. Good burger”—she tapped her sternum twice with her fist—“but bad call.”

  “Gotcha. I’m gonna have the burger and chips with everything. Oh, and do you have chili? Put that on it too.”

  The waiter glanced up from his pad. “No, sir. Sorry. No chili.”

  “Okay,” Starsky said. “Add one of those brat rolls then. And some beef nachos for an appetizer.”

  Amara covered her mouth and stifled a burp. “I hope you’re not counting on me eating any of that.”

  “Nope,” Starsky said, “but I can get a double order of nachos if you want some.”

  She shook her head and the waiter moved away. Starsky’s ability to eat enough food to choke a mammoth and yet remain pencil thin was a thing of wonder. And envy.

  He shifted and rested his arm on the back of the booth. “When did this place get so crowded? Have to scratch it off the rotation. You have a fun day at the Cannonball?”

  “I was working, not playing.” She smiled. “Yeah, it was okay. Oh, and thanks for the picture.” The dreaded photo was indeed Starsky in a yellow bathing suit but no Speedo, and he wore a sleeveless T-shirt. “Strange how much you looked like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “Get serious. He wishes he looked as good as me.”

  “I’m sure. You do anything exciting today?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Caught up on some paperwork and reviewed a couple of cold cases to see if it was time to take another look.”

  She nodded and doodled circles on the table with her finger. Third time going out, and so far all they’d talked about was work. Realistically, they had nothing in common other than their jobs. Was that enough? Yep. For now. Not like she was looking to get married or anything. But was he?

  He waved his hand in front of her face. “Hello? Anyone home?”

  She straightened and cleared her throat. “Sorry. Lost in my thoughts.”

  “Yeah? Everything okay? Anything I can help with?”

  She rubbed the back of her neck. Tomorrow night was the weekly Saturday get-together at Mama’s. She could take him to meet her family. See how he reacted in a group setting. What he talked about when it was more than the two of them. Could be fun.
Educational too.

  But would she be the teacher or the student?

  Amara kicked off her flip-flops and tried to relax in a lawn chair in Mama’s backyard. Most of the family was already here and plates and cups lined the large picnic table under the mesquite tree. In a few minutes, the parade of food from the kitchen would begin.

  Her knees bounced rapidly and she rested her hands on them. Starsky should be here any minute. Mama had oddly hesitated when Amara asked if it was okay to bring a visitor. No problem, she’d finally said. But she hadn’t asked about the guest. Amara was the only unmarried child. Mama always wanted to know if it was a man coming with her. Always.

  “You okay? Seem nervous.”

  Amara turned to the man beside her. Wylie Dotson, retired cop and coworker back in Property Crimes, sipped his cold drink and stared at her. Not so long ago, she’d brought him to one of these family dinners, and he and Mama had become somewhat of an item. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m okay.”

  “He’ll do fine.”

  She propped her elbow on the armrest. “Who?”

  “Starsky. That’s what you’re worried about, right?” He wiped beads of condensation off the can and flicked them at her.

  “You ever growing up?” she asked.

  “Hope not. Anyway, he seems like a good guy. You know how cops are with rumors and gossip. Never heard nothing bad about Starsky.”

  “He’s just a friend, Wylie.”

  “Yeah? Not what I hear.”

  She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean I don’t hear things. Rumors and gossip. Only things that keep cops sane.”

  “Who exactly are you hearing these things from?”

  “Heard that you and Rutledge are best buddies too.”

  She grimaced. Travis Rutledge, a longtime Homicide cop with a habit of wearing jackets that might have buttoned two decades ago, had gone out of his way to make sure she knew where she stood. At the bottom of the pecking order. She’d already pegged him as the class bully and cautioned him to back off. So far, he hadn’t. Fine by her. His face fit perfectly on the Muay Thai bag. A new imaginary target to aim at during her workouts.

  The backyard gate swung open and Starsky paused to get his bearings before walking toward Amara. Her chest fluttered and her mouth dried. He wore khaki pants, an olive-green long-sleeved dress shirt that set off his eyes perfectly, and a cream-colored tie. Overdressed for the occasion? Absolutely. Did that bother her? Absolutely not. Really seriously emphatically not.

  “You look nice,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Wylie said. “I do my—”

  She swatted his hand. “You know I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Starsky grinned and sat in the lawn chair beside her. “Thanks. Couldn’t decide between this or the Speedo.”

  “You made the right decision,” she said. “You hungry?”

  He tilted his head downward and arched his eyebrows.

  “Right,” she said. “Stupid question.”

  The weekly procession of food from the kitchen to the picnic table began as Amara’s siblings marched across the yard.

  Starsky sat taller so he could get a better peek at dinner. “Looks delicious,” he said.

  Wylie patted his belly with both hands. “It is. Just as good for breakfast the next day too.”

  Her mother stepped out the back door and the trio stood.

  “Mama,” Amara said, “this is Starsky. Starsky, this is Maria, my mother.”

  The woman smiled and shook his hand. “So nice to meet you. That is an unusual name. Pleasant, but different.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a nickname. My real name is Jeremiah.”

  Her mother shook her head. “You are not a Jeremiah. Or a Jerry. Starsky fits. Why do they call you that?”

  “Yeah,” Amara said. “Why do they?” Starsky held the secret close. The story was that a few people in Homicide knew the origin of the nickname, but they weren’t talking.

  “Later,” Wylie said. He gestured toward the mass of food. “We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

  The group joined the rest of the adults while the children sat at two card tables nearby.

  “Everyone,” Amara said, “this is my friend, Starsky.”

  A chorus of Holas and Bienvenidos greeted him and he smiled in return. Mama said grace and insisted on describing each dish to Starsky, who nodded politely as she worked her way down the list. When she finished, she cautioned that some of the food might be too spicy.

  Amara pointed at him. “Not gonna be a problem, Mama. Cast-iron stomach.”

  Wrinkles appeared on the woman’s forehead as her eyes narrowed. “Que?”

  Starsky grinned. “I can eat anything. The hotter, the better.”

  Wylie pulled a casserole dish of enchiladas over and plopped two on his plate. “We talking or eating?”

  Given their cue, the others dug in and began the weekly free-for-all. As dusk faded into darkness, the multicolored strings of lights hanging overhead broadcast their festive atmosphere. The slightest of breezes rustled the mesquite’s leaves, and the clink of knives and forks gave way to laughs and boisterous talk.

  Starsky pushed his plate away and leaned to Amara. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m stuffed. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. Or at least for another hour or two.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it. Mama’s been doing this for as long as I can remember. We’ve offered to take turns fixing everything, but she won’t hear of it. Says that watching her family eat her cooking is one of life’s biggest joys.”

  He puffed his cheeks and let the breath slowly escape. “She brought about two pounds of joy into my belly.”

  Amara glanced away. She’d never had any desire to learn to cook, but had she lost out on something? Was the time invested worth the payoff? The contented look on her mother’s face said it was. Maybe she should ask her for lessons one day.

  Wylie tapped a knife against the side of his glass several times, then whispered to her mother, whose smile faded as she stood.

  “I have something to tell you all,” she said.

  Conversation hushed. Squeals and laughter echoed from the far side of the yard as the kids played tag. Her mother watched them for a moment and the smile returned. “I didn’t want to say anything, but Wylie insisted.” She reached for his hand and clutched it to her chest while he dabbed at his eyes and sniffled.

  Amara’s heart froze and her lips parted. This was not going to be good. Something was wrong with Mama.

  “A little over a week ago,” her mother said, “I went to the doctor. There is a lump under my arm. He did a biopsy and I have breast cancer.”

  Several gasps sounded and Starsky placed his arm around Amara’s shoulder. Her mother held up her hand to still the commotion. “I go back next Thursday and they will do a scan of my body to find out if . . . to make sure we know what we’re dealing with. I asked Wylie to go with me, and he agreed. When we have more information, I will share it with you.”

  One of Amara’s sisters stood. “I can go too, Mama.”

  Her mother shook her head. “No, Selina. Thank you, but no. I will not allow this to interfere with your lives.”

  “Mama,” Amara said, “I can—”

  “I said no. I understand this is difficult for all of you, but if you want to help me, the best way is to continue to live your lives as normal as possible. If you will do that, I promise to keep you informed of everything. That goes for all of you. Now, no more questions or talk of this. Not tonight. There will be time later. Comprende?”

  Amara and the others nodded.

  “Good,” her mother said. “I apologize to everyone, especially our guest, for bringing somber news on such a pleasant evening.” She picked up her glass of sweet iced tea and held it high. “Will you join me in a toast?”

  The group stood and raised whatever they were drinking.

&nb
sp; Across the yard, screams of “got ya” and “did not” cut through the silence as the kids chased and tackled each other.

  Her mother closed her eyes. “To family.”

  Glasses clinked and “To family” echoed.

  Amara leaned her head on Starsky’s chest and wept into her napkin.

  7

  Amara eased away from the drive-thru window and opened the coffee lid to let the drink cool. Hot was good. Lava was not. Monday morning traffic wouldn’t kick into high gear for another hour, and she wanted to get to work early. Anything was better than sitting at home.

  Sunday had been a blur. She’d hit the gym for a workout, trying to clear her mind. Even picturing Travis Rutledge on the bag did nothing other than exhaust her body. No sense of accomplishment or rush of energy. All thoughts had remained fixated on her mother. Her one-two jabs were combinations of fear and frustration. She’d always tended to jump to worst-case scenarios in situations. How could she not? Mama had cancer and Amara could do nothing about it. And until the diagnosis and treatment options were known, there’d be no plan of attack. No way to deal with things.

  Starsky had been wonderful. Called Sunday morning to check on her and tell her that if she wanted to talk, he’d be there. He asked if she was okay with him checking on her later, and she’d thanked him but said she needed to be alone with her thoughts for a while. “Alone with her thoughts” turned into a day of drowning in emotions and a second night of little sleep.

  She’d reviewed the video footage from the water park four times yesterday, each go-through focusing on a different teen. It was like watching a movie with the major plot points cut out. The teenagers bounced from ride to food to ride, sometimes together, oftentimes not. At no point did anything appear out of the ordinary. No sign of any danger. No indication that Zachary Coleman would be dead at the end of the movie.

  She tested the coffee with the tip of her tongue, decided it was cool enough, and replaced the cup’s lid. The brew was more potent than the stuff at the office and jolted her taste buds awake. The rest of her remained drowsy and dreading. Not a great start to the day.