“Thanks, Dave.”
He grunted. “This unfortunate chain of events might play out very poorly for Courtney. She’s hiding somewhere in a house of cards, and all it takes is some investigative reporter to connect the dots. What we know now is four people working in the carnival business have been killed. We don’t know if Courtney was in close proximity to the first two killings. She was definitely at the scene and may have been the source of the last two deaths, certainly the shooting of Tony Bandini. The FBI will intensify their investigation, should Courtney be connected to the Logans. The Secret Service will join the posse. In the meantime, local police are searching, and members of the Bandini family may be looking, too. By now, there might be a hit placed on the girl. And if, by sowing of the seeds of fate, Courtney is your daughter, Sean … even with your considerable skills and tenacity, how in the hell can you protect her?”
“The best I can.”
Dave nodded. “Fair enough.”
“But I don’t know that she’s my daughter. Until a few hours ago, I didn’t know that I had a daughter. Adoption records were sealed. Andrea says she never knew the adoptive parents nor wanted to interfere with their parenting of the child. Right now the only tangible connection, the common familiarity, I have with Courtney is her awareness of my birthmark. How’d she know about it? How’d she know its symmetry to a four-leaf shamrock if Andrea didn’t tell her? If she didn’t, then who did?”
Nick stood from his stool. “The only way to find that out is to track her down and ask her.”
“And that’s what I’ll do.”
“You will?” Nick’s dark eyebrows arched.
“Yes, and I’ll need your help to start. I figure if I go to the carnival before it pulls out, I might find those guys you overheard talking in the bar. If you come with me, you can point them out. Saves time. Makes it simpler.”
Nick grinned, his thick moustache lifting. “Sounds good. I’ll be your back-up.”
“I hope it doesn’t get to that.”
Dave crushed a piece of ice with his back teeth and said, “If it was a simple case of a run-away, and you’re just trying to help someone — no problem. But this case is far from simple. It’s now national. A missing girl wanted in connection with serial murders, a missing girl who may be biologically linked to the wife of a powerful U.S. Senator who is spending millions to occupy the White House, a missing girl who’s killed a member of the Bandini family … and last but certainly not least, a missing girl who might be your daughter. Now, Sean. How the hell are you going to simplify that?”
Dave poured himself a second shot of Jameson.
And I had no answer.
27
It was a few minutes past 10:30 in the morning when Nick and I arrived at the Volusia County Fairgrounds, Nick nursing a slight hangover and holding his third cup of dark-roast Greek coffee in his hand. He sipped and then said, “You never told me what we’re gonna do if or when we find these dudes.”
“Right now it’s questions only.”
He grunted. “And what if they don’t want to give us any answers? You’re not a detective anymore, so you can’t question them in some police room, strap these guys up to a lie detector.”
“I don’t need a lie detector.”
“How so?”
“A lot of it’s in the way you ask the questions. I’m not looking always for the oral responses. I’ll assume most of that will be lies based on what Detective Dan Grant heard when he interviewed Randal Barnes. I’m looking for the physical responses, or lack of them, the silent signals that most people don’t realize they give when they’re lying. When you catch them there, that’s when the real interrogation begins.”
Nick sat a little straighter on his side of the Jeep, draining the remains of his coffee. He gestured with his hand. “It’s still kinda early. The lot isn’t filled yet. But since this is a Saturday, figured more people would be here in spite of the fact two carnies died. This is the last day, huh?”
“Yeah, I heard that they shortened their contract with the county in view of circumstances, and they’re leaving tomorrow.”
I pulled into the sawdust parking lot next to an empty school bus, paid the fee, and Nick and I entered the fairgrounds. Many of the venues were just opening, carnies extending attached awnings, restocking food and plush animals, the smell of damp sawdust and cotton candy in the warm air. School kids, chaperones, and dozens of teens roamed the midway. Off-duty sheriff’s deputies, in uniform, strolled the grounds, dispatch radios crackling under the music from the rides and outdoor speakers.
“One shot to win your girl a cupie doll. How ‘bout a doll for your doll?” Shouted a carny barker, teasing some of the teenagers, enticing them into games of chance — the Knock ‘Em Down, Water-gun Horse Races, Balloon Pop, Free-Throw and dozens more.
I glanced at Nick. “Do any of those men working the venues and the carnival rides look like either of the two guys you saw that night in the Tiki Bar?”
“Nothin’ is jumping out at me.”
“Let’s keep moving. When you see one or both of them, say the word.”
We walked about another fifty yards, past the Tilt-A-Whirl to where the double Ferris-Wheel stood. More than a dozen people were in the queue line to ride the Big Wheel, the smell of funnel cakes in the breeze. Nick lifted his hand and pointed to the ride operator, “There’s one of the guys. He has the tattoo of the mermaid on his right arm.”
I replayed some of what Courtney told me that day on Jupiter. ‘Lonnie was a ride operator. I talked him into letting me take a midnight ride on the Big Wheel.’
The ride op was at least six feet tall, thick chest, beer belly, a sweat-stained bandana on his head, tanned face, two hoop earrings and wrap-around dark glasses. He worked with a partner, a skinny man with jeans an inch below the crack in his butt, arms covered in ink, unlit cigarette parked behind his left ear. He was lowering the safety bars as each rider took his or her seat on the Big Wheel. “How about the guy locking the riders in, Nick, recognize him?”
“No, different dude.”
I stopped walking and watched. Within a few seconds, the riders were all strapped in, anticipation on their faces. The ride op slapped a button at his stand and the Big Wheel began moving, rock music blasting. “Let’s go, Nick.”
We approached the ride op as he lit an unfiltered cigarette, borrowing a lighter from his helper. I smiled and said, “I used to love this ride.”
He nodded and spit a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. I could see myself in his dark glasses. He said, “Three minutes pal, you and your BFF can catch a ride on the Big Wheel.”
“I imagine this was right about the spot where Lonnie Ebert was standing when he was murdered.”
He said nothing, cupping the cigarette in the palm of his hand, the letters E-V–I-L tattooed on each of the fingers holding the burning cigarette. He blew a slow stream of smoke out of one side of his mouth. He looked away, down the midway.
“Where’s Smitty today?”
He turned back to me. “Don’t know nobody called Smitty. You two cops? You need to check in with the office. I’m just a hired hand.”
“We’re not cops.”