“Maybe.”
“Please try. I truly believe she’ll be safe only if she’s in kept the public eye, visible but protected by law enforcement or the courts.”
“I’ll do my best to find her.”
“Thank you. God, I’m so very sorry this has happened. I have to go, Sean, someone’s coming down the hall.”
I looked across the marina, through the sea of bobbing boats. To the far right in the distance were satellite news trucks, microwave antennas rising up from other trucks, TV lights blazing. I could see reporters conducting interviews with boat owners, barflies, anyone who might shed a better theory on what he or she did or didn’t know about me or even Courtney Burke. I hoped the media were leaving Kim Davis alone. I called her.
“Sean, where are you?”
“Close, but not that close.”
“Stay wherever you are. I’ve never seen anything like this. The marina hired off-duty deputies to enforce the private property rules. Still, Dave Collins told me he ran off two of them who were taking video of your boat. Dave’s been keeping an eye on Nick and Max. Wherever you are, Sean, let me help you if I can. I can take Max to my house. I can bring you guys groceries, whatever you need, okay?”
“Thank you. I might go back to my place on the river for a while.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I can deliver there, too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I appreciate it.”
“Before you go, all these reporters and airheads on the cable news stations are talking about is Courtney Burke and whether she’s a natural born killer, and what will happen to the presidential election if she is. They’re speculating how, if she’s Andrea Logan’s daughter, how Andrea — a mother — must feel. Nobody’s saying anything about how you might be feeling as the father. I just want you to know I care, your friends care, and we’re all thinking about you.”
“Thank you, Kim. I have to go.”
“Be careful.” She disconnected. I stood there, on the dock, in deep thought. I watched three white pelicans sail over the sailboat masts, over the mangroves between the marina and the Halifax River, and turn east to Ponce Inlet and the Atlantic Ocean. I thought about what Andrea had told me. And I thought about Courtney. I closed my eyes for a moment, recalling the number I’d memorized from Isaac Solminski’s phone. Then I made the call.
One ring. Come on, Courtney, pick up. Answer the damn phone. After the fourth ring, a man said, “Hello.” His voice was high. It had some of the tonal qualities I heard in Isaac’s voice.
“May I speak with Courtney?”
There was a short pause. Even through a mobile phone I could detect it — the hesitancy that comes with knowledge of a hallowed subject, but not prepared to respond to questions about it. He said, “There isn’t anyone here by that name. Goodbye—”
“Wait! Before you hang up, listen, please. My name’s Sean O’Brien. I’m a friend of Courtney’s and—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I must go—”
“Please … just hear me out for thirty seconds. I got your number from Isaac Solminski. Maybe you’re related to him. It doesn’t matter. What matters is saving Courtney’s life. If she’s there, please let me speak with her. If she’s not, can you get a message to her?”
“We have no one here by that name.”
“If you see her, please tell her to call Detective Dan Grant with the Volusia County Sheriff’s department. We’re getting more evidence that will clear her in the killing of Lonnie Ebert. She has to stop running because she can’t be protected if she’s in hiding.”
“Protected from what?”
“From people who will kill her.”
There was another long pause. In the background, I could hear a dog barking and a train whistle. He said, “Okay. What’s her last name?”
“Burke, Courtney Burke.”
“No problem. If a Courtney Burke arrives, I’ll give her the message to get in touch with Detective Grant at the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office. Good bye—”
“Where are you located? I can help her.” He disconnected. I went online and looked up his phone number, looking for an ID. There was no public record of the number. I squeezed the mobile phone so hard I thought it would break.
I glanced up to see Dave Collins approaching in the Zodiac, the small rubber boat creating a V trail across water painted in shades of purple, cherry, and merlot reflecting off clouds drenched in the colors of a sunset.
But his face mirrored the opposite of twilight serenity. With his seasoned years in covert intelligence, even from a few yards away, I could tell the uneasy look on his face forecast a bad storm on the horizon.
45
By the time we’d crossed the marina in the Zodiac, darkness was creeping over the boats like a dark tide. The smell of sautéed garlic shrimp drifted from the deck of a Grand Banks trawler tied to the dock, while the pulse of reggae, Bob Marley’s One Love came from a houseboat lit with multi-colored Japanese lanterns. We quietly boarded Nick’s boat, St. Michael, keeping low, staying in the shadows, watchful of security cameras and prying eyes, neighbors and news media.
Nick greeted us with a crooked grin, his face still swollen. The swelling around his eye had gone down some. His hand was wrapped in a large, white bandage, his shirt unbuttoned, ribs supported with a flesh-colored binding. He sat on his couch and sipped a micro-brew from a bottle, Max beside him. She jumped off and trotted over to us, tail animated.
Nick lifted his bottle. “Sean, where the hell have you been? Hotdog and I were getting a little worried.”
“Just trying to take care of a little business.”
“Man, looks like all those reporters want to make your business everybody’s business. They’re like gnats around a dock light.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Good. I decided to stop the meds and replace ‘em with cold beer.” He looked at the bandage on my arm. “What happened to you?”
“Just a scrape. I’m glad he used an icepick rather than a real knife or he’d have cut me to the bone.”
Nick’s eyes widened. He sat up on the couch. “Did you find the guy who did this to me?”
“Yeah, I found him.”
Dave sat down at the three-stool bar and poured a Grey Goose over ice. He sipped and motioned with his head towards the media in the parking lot. “In view of all this national, even international news coverage of, shall we call it, the situation, tell us you didn’t kill the guy.”
“He’s alive, but his motorcycle is dead.” I told them about the chain of events at the Lone Wolf Saloon, and then I let them know what occurred on Carlos Bandini’s bus. Nick listened in pain and disbelief. Dave started his second cocktail in the five minutes it took me to tell them what had happened. I set my Glock on the coffee table and sat in the canvas deck chair.
“Shit,” Nick said, pursing his lips to whistle, but it sounded like he was trying to blow up a balloon. “Sean, I know you saved my life a couple of years back when you pulled those guys off me. Man, we’re square, okay? You didn’t have to walk in a biker bar, by yourself, and kick the shit out that guy and blow up his bike in the parking lot, and do it in front of his BFF’s.” Nick shook his head and took a long pull from the bottle. “I gave up my meds too damn early.”
Dave said, “I made a simple seafood bouillabaisse with some shrimp, redfish, tomatoes, onions, garlic and clams. Nick was shouting the Greek recipe to me at the stove. I’ll get you a bowl and a beer.”
“Thanks.” I scratched Max behind her ears, her attention on Dave in the galley. Then I set her on the floor and she made a beeline to him. My phone buzzed in my pocket.