I heard him before I saw him. The fast clip of the wingtips against the concrete, the strut, the sense of command and authority in his pace. Slater rounded the corner and stood in front of my cell. He stared, his eyes burning into me.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Your little e-mail trick is horseshit. It shows nothing. Nothing! You hear me? Just a thorough search!”
“Go on and scream Detective. Nobody will notice.” I stood up from the cot and stepped to the bars. “But they will notice your reaction to not finding the hair you planted. I shot video when I found it. The date and time are displayed in the frame. I got a close-up where you’d left the victim’s hair. That was exactly where you looked today trying to find something you’d left. Planting false evidence. Hope you have a hell of a good reason. Because right now it looks like you’re the killer. The killer you’re telling everyone you’re looking for. You know, body language speaks volumes, Slater. We have your on-camera commentary. Let me see if I can quote you from memory: ‘Bastard’s found it.’ You went berserk when you couldn’t find the hair to frame me. Combine that with your editorial, and the fact that evidence acquired on your watch has come up missing. I smell an indictment.”
“You’re fuckin’ nuts, you washed-up prick. I didn’t murder anyone!”
“Then who did?”
“You’re crazy, O’Brien.”
“Maybe — but then jail does have a way to work on the psyche. You’ll discover that when you spend the next twenty years in a place worse than this.”
“What do you want?”
“You to come clean. Tell me what you know about the murder or murders. Tell me why you’re so protective of the Brennens. Maybe Richard Brennen or his old man is a killer. They’ve got plenty of easy prey all around their ranch. You want to take the fall for a psychopath? Even you must have learned something in law enforcement before you got greedy. You know this guy won’t stop. He’s addicted to the kill. You want the blood of these girls on what’s left of your conscious?”
He leaned forward on his big wingtips and made a slight snorting sound from the back of his throat. His eyes were slightly dilated, a nerve twitching under is right eye, his breath smelling of Maalox. A tiny speck of antacid tablet dangled from the corner of his mouth. “Screw you, O’Brien. You don’t know a damn thing.” He turned and left.
After midnight, there was no sign of Nick. I was worried but didn’t have any options. Now it would be too late to make bond. I stretched out on the hard cot and felt my heart beat in my temples. I could smell the stink of sweat on the thin mattress.
I closed my eyes, the fatigue and exhaustion flooding my mind. Somewhere in the twilight of subconscious the dream weaver entered my cell. I stood with my uncle on the wooden deck of my childhood home. He pointed to a pair of eagles starting their nest in the bald cypress tree near the end of our property.
I turned to open the sliding glass doors, but I couldn’t push the latch free. Struggling with the lock, I saw the silhouetted reflection of the eagles on the doors. I cupped my hands to the sides of my face and leaned into the glass to see if my father was in the kitchen. Alll I saw was darkness.
THIRTY-SIX
I awoke with a pounding headache, stiff back, and a morning wake up from an inmate two cells down screaming that his ex-wife should have the lips on her vagina sewed together. He blamed his state of life on his wife’s anatomy and his apparent inability to steer clear of her sexual pull. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Bitch took my son, and she’s fuckin’ her probation officer. Ya’ll hear me! That’s against the damn law!”
Good morning America from the county jail.
Two hours later I bonded out on my own recognizance. Although I told the presiding judge that I’d acted in self-defense, his Honor reminded me that I was formerly an officer of the law and should regulate my personal life accordingly. I paid two hundred dollars in court costs and promised to appear if the plaintiff pursued the assault charges.
As I was walking down the courthouse steps and wondering what had happened to Nick and how I was getting home, a black Ford pulled up to the curb. Detective Leslie Moore lowered the driver’s window. “Looks like you could use a lift.”
“I could use a drink. Bloody Mary, cold, very spicy, a scallion and celery.”
“Get in,” she said, with a smile that reminded me why I could never adjust to gender segregation in a cell.
I got in the unmarked police cruiser and could smell a trace of her perfume. Light and feminine. Her hair was pulled back, accentuating her striking profile. She looked at me, eyes falling somewhere on my face, before she adjusted the rearview mirror and merged in with the flow of traffic. She drove silently for a few seconds, giving me time to explain what happened. “Although I’m glad to see you, I’m concerned that Nick isn’t here.”
“Who?”
I told her who Nick was and what had happened.
She said, “Maybe he had a good reason. I read the arrest reports and decided to come here, but didn’t want Slater to see me.”
“He wasn’t around.”
“That’s odd.”
“Not really,” I said. “After our heart-to-heart chat last night, he’s on the defensive at the moment.”
“I know he’s suspicious of me. He’s popped some questions out of the blue.”
“Such as?”
“He wanted to know if I’d questioned you at your home. Asked me things like whether I was withholding any evidence I might have on you. He actually said there was no place in his shop for cops, as he called them, who held press conferences. Now, this is coming from a man who just held a news conference announcing his bid for sheriff.”
“Let’s get that coffee. I have a lot to tell you and something to give you.”
“What’s that?”
“Drive to the marina and I’ll show you.”
A half hour later we were pulling into the parking lot at the marina, oyster shells popping beneath the tires, the smell of fish in the air. It was Monday morning, and there were only a few cars in the lot. Nick’s motorcycle was gone. He usually parked near the wall between the tiki hut and the marina office.
I knelt down at the spot where I’d last seen the BMW motorcycle. Two imprints in the grass. Wide tires. A small shine on the grass between the tire marks. I touched the oil, rubbed the residue between my fingers, felt the gumminess, and sniffed the burnt deposit. Nick hadn’t been gone too long.
As Leslie and I walked past the bar, Kim was filling crushed ice into a stainless steel bin. Big John was the only customer, sitting at the bar, sipping black coffee, nursing his head, and cursing events of the previous night.
“Good morning Kim, morning John,” I said. “Have either of you seen Nick?”
Big John looked over the lip of the coffee cup, his eyes red and soggy, a patch of white chest hair sticking though a black tee shirt that read SLOPPY JOES — KEY WEST. His voice sounded like he spoke with gravel stuck somewhere in his larynx. “Nick pulled outta here last night. A few hours after they toted you off.” He cut his bloodshot eyes over to Leslie and spoke out of one side of his mouth, Popeye like. “What did you do?”
“It was a little misunderstanding, that’s all.”
Kim dried her hands on a bar towel. “You okay, Sean?”
“I’m fine. If you see Nick, please tell him to stop by my boat.”
Kim smiled, “I’ll tell him. Would you two like some coffee?”
Leslie shook her head. I said, “No thanks. We might be back for lunch.”
“Do that.” Kim smiled and folded her arms across her breasts.