The Mermaid Murders Page 3

  “If McEnroe was also missing, I’d have said they took off together,” Gervase said. “But we talked to McEnroe first thing this morning.”

  “Waste of time on a waste of space,” Boxner said.

  Gervase said, “The Madigans tried to discourage Rebecca from seeing him, but teenage girls have a mind of their own. Like I said, I don’t like him, but I don’t have any reason to doubt he’s telling the truth about Rebecca.”

  “Except he’s not out here in the noonday sun wasting any time looking for a girl he’s supposed to be in love with.”

  “Maybe we ought to have a chat with Mr. McEnroe,” Kennedy said.

  Jason had become so used to Kennedy treating him as though he were invisible, it took him a second to realize he was being addressed. “Sure! Yeah!”

  Maybe he sounded overly enthusiastic because Kennedy’s blond brows rose in what was fast becoming his usual skeptical expression regarding Jason, but not only was Jason happy at the opportunity to hand off his clipboard, he was relieved at the promise of at least some cursory investigation into the possibility Rebecca might not be the victim of a copycat killer.

  Despite Kingsfield’s gruesome past, serial killers really were the least likely scenario in most missing person cases. And so far a missing person was all they really had.

  “I’ll drive you out there,” Gervase said. “Boyd can stand in for me for a little while. Right, Boyd? Nothing you’d like better than to show me up at doing my own job.” He was grinning as Boyd began to protest.

  Jason bestowed his clipboard on Boxner, who gave him another one of those narrow looks—did he really not remember Jason at all?—and followed Gervase and Kennedy to the chief’s SUV.

  The chief’s radio was buzzing with updates as they climbed inside. The interior of the vehicle smelled of the little fake pine tree deodorizer hanging from the rearview mirror.

  “I don’t believe we’re looking at the end result of a lover’s quarrel,” Gervase told them as he started the SUV’s engine. “I admit I’m curious as to why young McEnroe isn’t out here with the rest of us.”

  Maybe because he knows everyone will be watching him, speculating, whispering. Jason didn’t say it aloud. He gazed out the window at the tangle of maple, birch, and oak trees, giant ferns, and flowering vines lining the roadside. You could wander a few steps from the road and lose all sense of direction in no time. However, Rebecca wasn’t a small child. She hadn’t wandered away from home and gotten lost.

  “I saw you finally solved that case in Wisconsin,” Gervase said as the SUV bumped off the grass and onto the paved road. “Did you really throw the sheriff out the window?”

  Kennedy said, “No. I thought about it plenty.”

  Gervase laughed. “Well, I guess you’ll weather that okay. Your record ought to speak for itself.”

  Kennedy didn’t respond, perhaps because he was conscious of Jason sitting behind them, SAC Manning’s eyes and ears. Not so much. Jason wasn’t going to let Kennedy throw anyone out a window, but he also didn’t plan on reporting back to Manning with a transcript of everything Kennedy said and did.

  The towering trees overhanging the rural road diffused the bright sunlight, creating a hazy, almost surreal effect. Tonalism. It reminded him of Whistler’s nocturne painting, those dreamy, pensive landscapes. In fact, Whistler had been born in Massachusetts.

  Through the fretwork of leaves he spotted the distinctive black hump of a familiar hillside outcropping. Memory slithered down his spine.

  “Our boy lives a ways out,” Gervase was saying apologetically. “Come to think of it, here we all live a ways out.”

  “Isn’t this near Martin Pink’s property?” Jason asked.

  Kennedy’s head turned his way. Sunglasses met sunglasses.

  “I guess you’ve done your homework,” Gervase said. “Yep. Pink lived over that ridge to your right. Lived there with his crazy old mother and his pothead brother. They’re all gone now. Even the house is falling down. Of course, it always was.”

  The car hit a pothole.

  “How long has McEnroe lived in the area?” Kennedy asked.

  “Four or five years. Unfortunately.”

  Same length of time as the Madigans, Jason noted. Which meant…probably zilch. Despite the sincere efforts of Hollywood writers to prove otherwise, there were actually a lot of meaningless coincidences in crime investigation.

  Kennedy had turned that appraising stare on Gervase. “Trouble?”

  Gervase dipped his head from side to side in a sort of noncommittal way. “We’ve got an ongoing situation regarding a little patch of so-called medicinal marijuana he’s cultivating on his property.”

  At the lack of response from either agent, Gervase said, “McEnroe is twenty-two. Rebecca is seventeen. So yes, there is always going to be trouble in that kind of situation.”

  They passed a stand of battered mailboxes and turned down another dirt road. The tattered green canopy of trees created the illusion it was much later than it was, that the afternoon was growing darker and chillier as shadows lengthened, reached out. The light had a tired, watery look to it.

  Jason became aware Kennedy was watching him in the side mirror. The sunglasses made it hard to be sure, but he could feel that steady regard, even if he couldn’t see it.

  He was newly, uncomfortably aware of how he must have come across earlier. Brash. Cocky. Contentious. Partly he had been reacting to Kennedy’s not even pretending to consult with him. Partly…he had been irritated with himself for not having the gumption to refuse Manning’s request. You didn’t earn promotions by refusing favors to head honchos—however ill-thought-out those requests might be. His irritation, impatience with the situation, had been acerbated by Kennedy’s obvious displeasure at being partnered with him. But why wouldn’t Kennedy be displeased at being saddled with what amounted to a handler?

  A handler with a fraction of his experience with violent crime.

  Jason winced inwardly. He didn’t like thinking he had been playing the role of company stooge. That was not who he was. Though very likely that was what SAC Manning was looking for from him. And it was probably how he appeared to Kennedy.

  Well, you only had one chance to make a first impression and…no. So moving forward, he would try not to be such a prick. And maybe Kennedy, who was almost certainly a congenital prick, would stop treating him like the enemy. It would make the job easier for both of them—and allow them to better serve the people they were there to help.

  The road jogged to the left, and they pulled through a gate that looked more like a car had busted a wide hole in the sagging fence. The dwelling was a single-story ranch style painted a dusty red. The doors and shutters were an equally faded blue.

  The chief parked next to a white pickup truck, and they climbed out.

  It was the kind of place where you expected to be greeted by a barking dog, but there was no dog. No sign of any life. Jason felt an uneasy prickle between his shoulder blades.

  He rested his hand lightly on the butt of his Glock, and then noticed Kennedy had unsnapped the thumb-break on his holster. So he wasn’t overreacting, wasn’t unduly nervous. His response was appropriate to the situation. He found it harder to be sure these days.

  They followed Gervase across the mowed weeds and up the wooden steps to a small platform that served as, well, a small platform. It wasn’t big enough to be a deck, let alone a porch, but it was wide enough to accommodate the three of them. Gervase banged on the peeling wooden screen. Jason and Kennedy waited.

  Jason could hear Kennedy’s wristwatch ticking over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

  It took several more energetic knocks before a muffled yell from inside the house reached them. At last the front door swung open. A willowy young man leaned against the frame as though he needed the support. His long blond hair was rumpled, his jaw was heavily stubbled, his dark eyes bleary and hollow. He wore a long-sleeve plaid flannel shirt and Joker boxer shorts.

 
; “I already told you she’s not here!” he snarled at Gervase. It was a weary snarl though, as if most of McEnroe’s energy was going into staying upright.

  “Okay,” Gervase said evenly. “You already told us. We’d still like to talk to you.”

  “Who would?” McEnroe took in Jason and Kennedy. His scowl deepened. “Who are you?” He turned back to Gervase. “No way. You brought the goddamned ATF out here?”

  “You’re thinking of the goddamned DEA. We’re the goddamned FBI,” Kennedy said. “And yes. We’d like a word.”

  “How about fuck off?” McEnroe tried to slam shut the door, but he was neither fast nor steady. Kennedy’s hand shot out; he grabbed the edge of the door and gave it a sharp shove. McEnroe staggered and tumbled back, landing on his butt. He blinked up at them in bewilderment from the bare floorboards.

  “That’s two words,” Kennedy said.

  “Get up, Tony,” Gervase growled. “We’re not here about your crop, so don’t make a bigger ass of yourself than you have to.”

  McEnroe climbed ungracefully to his feet and, with several looks of mingled reproach and outrage, led the way into the front room.

  The house smelled of cigarettes, bacon, and something vaguely antiseptic. Liniment? Pine-sol? Sea Breeze?

  McEnroe flung himself on a sagging sofa upholstered in beige corduroy and glared at them.

  “I don’t know what the hell you want from me. I don’t know where Becky is.”

  “You do remember she’s only seventeen, right?” Gervase said.

  “I remember.”

  “What did you argue about last night?” Kennedy asked. He remained standing as Gervase took the tan recliner chair across from McEnroe.

  McEnroe’s eyes widened. “I don’t—how do you know? We didn’t.”

  Jason positioned himself next to the front door. It afforded a cattycorner view of the kitchen, which was in the process of either being remodeled or sold for parts.

  You could tell a lot about a person by the art on their walls, but Tony McEnroe did not have art on his walls. No photos either. The place didn’t seem exactly untidy so much as under halfhearted and perpetual construction. There was a layer of dust on the floor sander by the window.

  Kennedy asked, “Why did you leave her party early?”

  McEnroe dipped his head, running a hand through his long, oily hair. Or maybe his hair wasn’t oily. Maybe he just used a lot of product. And not much soap. “I-I just felt like it. It was boring. Too many stupid, snotty kids clogging up the place.”

  “Aren’t those stupid, snotty kids the same age as your girlfriend?” Kennedy inquired.

  McEnroe shook his head without looking up.

  Kennedy studied him as though deciding on the best angle of approach. “Tell us about the party. Walk us through the evening again.”

  McEnroe raised his head, glowering. “There isn’t anything to tell. I showed up about nine thirty, which was when the party started. Becky was in a bitchy mood. So after an hour of it, I left. That’s it. That’s the entire night right there. I went home and went to bed. The first I heard she was missing was when you knocked on my door this morning.”

  “Alice Cornwell contacted you before she phoned us,” Gervase put in.

  “Well, okay. Whatever. I just mean I didn’t see her again. She didn’t come here.”

  “You don’t seem particularly broken up over your girlfriend going missing,” Gervase observed.

  “She’s not missing.” McEnroe’s gaze was defiant.

  Gervase looked at Kennedy.

  “What does that mean?” Kennedy asked.

  “She’s just doing this for attention. I know Becky. This is her idea of getting back at me.”

  “Getting back at you?” Kennedy repeated thoughtfully. “Why would she want to get back at you?”

  McEnroe seemed to struggle to put his thoughts into words. At last he said bitterly, “Because she can’t stand it when everything doesn’t go her way. When she isn’t the center of attention. When she’s not the one in control.” Absently, nervously, he stroked his arms through the soft material of the flannel shirt.

  “I see.”

  Jason could tell Kennedy wasn’t buying it. Personally, he wasn’t convinced either way. For sure, McEnroe wasn’t telling them everything. Most people didn’t tell them everything. Not at first anyway.

  McEnroe wiped his pale and sweaty face on his shirtsleeve. “Is that it?”

  It was a hot summer day. Too hot for long sleeves. Too hot for flannel.

  Jason asked, “How did you get those scratches on your arms?” He felt rather than saw the quick look Kennedy threw him.

  It was a shot in the dark, but McEnroe gaped at him, instinctively tugged at his sleeves, although the cuffs were already covering his wrists, and Jason knew he was right.

  “What? I don’t—I was playing with the cat. Becky’s cat. Snowball. She scratched me. The cat scratched me.” He looked frightened.

  “You know what I think,” Gervase said suddenly, heavily. He placed his hands on his thighs, as though about to push to his feet. “I think we’d better finish this conversation back at the station.”

  “What?”

  As McEnroe jumped off the sofa, Jason tensed, ready for anything. He did not reach for his weapon—he would have been the only one who did—but it was close.

  McEnroe was babbling, “You’re crazy, old man! I already told you I had nothing to do with Becky running away. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t want to know anything about it.”

  “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. There are still questions that have to be answered.”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “Son, you can cooperate and come in voluntarily, or I can arrest your ass,” Gervase said. “Up to you.”

  “This is crazy!” McEnroe was trembling, wild-eyed as he looked from face to face. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Kennedy looked his usual stony self. Gervase looked pained.

  “What are you getting so worked up about, McEnroe?” Gervase’s tone grew fatherly, almost reassuring. “It’s routine. You’re the boyfriend, you’re going to be questioned. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s a couple of hours out of your life.”

  McEnroe stared at the police chief and seemed to calm at whatever he read in his expression. He stopped trembling. The wild-eyed look faded.

  “I’m not under arrest?”

  “Not so far.”

  His Adam’s apple jerked. “Can I at least put my pants on?”

  “Please do,” Gervase said cheerfully. “Please do.”

  McEnroe shuffled out of the room and down the hallway. A door creaked open. They heard the scrape of drawers opening and shutting. The back and forth of footsteps. The slide of a closet door.

  “You won’t need your toothbrush,” Gervase said to the ceiling.

  Jason said, “I’m going to cover the back entrance.”

  Kennedy nodded. Gervase smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The chief was probably right. He’d lasted a long time at his job, so he probably knew his constituency pretty well, but this go-put-your-pants-on-and-come-with-us method seemed a haphazard way to bring in a suspect. Jason could tell by Kennedy’s expression that he too was listening closely to the sounds of McEnroe moving around his room, so maybe they were on the same page here.

  He opened the front door and slipped outside, jumping from the steps and moving quietly along the side of the house, carrying his pistol at low ready.

  The mowed weeds ran right up to the foundation of the building. They whispered beneath his feet as he passed the living room window and turned the corner of the house.

  No screens on any of the windows.

  The back of the house faced the woods. There was a half-constructed deck that looked like someone had got bored playing with giant Lincoln Logs, and a brand new hot tub still in its plastic wrappings. Reassuringly pros
aic. The back door screen leaned against the red siding, and the door itself was boarded up.

  Nobody was leaving that way. Maybe Gervase knew that.

  Those windows without screens made him uneasy. Jason crossed the back of the residence, heading for the east side again—in a minute he’d be going in circles—and turned the rear corner in time to see black curtains gusting in the breeze and McEnroe crawling headfirst out the bedroom window.

  At the same instant, McEnroe spotted Jason and brought up his arm.

  Jason found himself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.

  Chapter Four

  Time stopped.

  “Drop your gun,” McEnroe whispered.

  Jason did not move a muscle. He could not have moved if his life depended on it, and there was a good chance it did. A perfect and boundless stillness washed through him as he waited for the shot. That terrifying bang that always came a split second after the worst had already happened.

  “Drop it,” McEnroe hissed. His hand was rock steady.

  It wasn’t even fear Jason felt so much as numb inevitability. He knew he needed to think past the pistol aimed at him, but he could not tear his gaze from the black hole of the barrel pointed at his face. A suicide special. A cheap, compact, small-caliber weapon. Equally special when used for homicide.

  Getting shot in the chest with a .22 or a .25 was almost always fatal. That high velocity bullet would ricochet around tearing up organs and everything else in its path like a murderous pinball machine. Getting shot in the head…

  Jason let his Glock slip from his fingers. It hit the ground in front of him with a dull thud.

  McEnroe slid gracelessly the rest of the way out the window, pistol trained on Jason. There was no more than three feet between them. Too far—and not far enough.