The Mermaid Murders Read online

  Let Kennedy think what he wanted. He couldn’t prove it. And it wouldn’t happen again. Today had been…a fluke. The very natural surprise of coming face-to-face with a loaded weapon. That would give anybody pause.

  Getting shot, even in the shoulder, wasn’t like on TV. A .22 round tearing through muscles and nerves and ligaments was one very special episode indeed, and as challenging as the physical recovery was, that was nothing compared to the psychological recovery. Having been shot once, the normal human reaction was to wish passionately never to repeat the experience. To do anything to avoid repeating the experience.

  Which unfortunately did not necessarily square with the duties and responsibilities of an FBI special agent. Even an agent on the FBI’s Art Crime Team. It wasn’t all lecturing museums and galleries on how to protect their priceless collections. Sometimes it came down to bad guys with guns, bad guys who were ready and willing to blow a hole in your chest to stop you from interfering with their multimillion-dollar business.

  No shame in a healthy fear of being shot. It didn’t mean Jason couldn’t still do his job. The shrinks at the Bureau believed Jason could still do his job. And they should know.

  His shoulder twinged, and he rubbed it. He was okay. He was fine. Next time he would not be caught off guard. Next time he would not hesitate.

  He reached for another file, flipped it open, and began to read.

  Patricia Douglas’s statement was as unhelpful as all the previous statements.

  According to Patricia, there had been no argument. She and Rebecca had been joking the whole time. She loved Rebecca like a sister. Everyone liked Rebecca. No, she knew no one who would wish Rebecca harm, knew of no one Rebecca had any kind of serious falling out with, knew no reason Rebecca would leave her own party, knew of no one else who had left the party around the same time as Rebecca.

  And if she did know, she wouldn’t be telling Officer Boxner. That came through loud and clear even in Boxner’s nearly illegible handwriting.

  The problem with adolescents was they believed they were honor bound to tell adults as little as possible regardless of the situation.

  The other problem was they thought they knew everything.

  Reading between the lines, yeah, there was a good chance Rebecca had left the party of her own free will. Or at least that was the most likely scenario in the opinion of her friends. And if that was the case, the last thing they were going to do was anything that might mess things up for Rebecca.

  It was pretty much the same story as all the others. Everyone had had way too much to drink. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary.

  “There has to be something here.”

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Kennedy said, “There always is. Sometimes you know it’s there by its very absence.”

  Very Yoda-esque. Wise in the ways of aberrant psychology are you, Senior Special Agent Kennedy.

  Then again Kennedy was wise in the ways of aberrant psychology. That’s why he was so very good at his job. Reportedly he could read over a profile and tell you whether the suspect had a speech impediment or visited the graves of his victims or had financial problems.

  What the hell must his dreams be like?

  Not that Jason’s dreams were so wonderful. He dreamed about getting shot. A lot.

  The next time Jason surfaced it was to the sight of the police chief ushering Rebecca’s parents into his office. It was obvious who they were. A strained and affluent- looking forty-something male with his arm around an attractive blonde woman with red and swollen eyes. They both wore resort wear and looked like they had come straight from the airport.

  You didn’t typically have to deal with grieving parents in ACT. Granted, the way some people carried on about a stolen Picasso, you might think they were grieving the loss of a child, but no. The Madigans were terrified. Desperate for any shred of hope.

  “She’s still alive?” Mrs. Madigan was asking as the door to Gervase’s office swung shut. “You do think she’s still alive?”

  Jason glanced over, but Kennedy didn’t look up from the report he was reading. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe after this many years of hunting monsters he had learned to tune it out. Turn off the receptors to other people’s pain.

  Maybe you had to in order to do the job.

  For once Kennedy didn’t seem to feel Jason’s stare, and Jason let his gaze linger. Kennedy wore gold wire reading glasses—exactly how old was he?—his thighs in blue jeans looked muscular, his shoulders powerful. The scent of his cologne had faded, replaced by clean sweat and laundered cotton.

  Kennedy knew his stuff. No question there. Whatever had gone wrong in Wisconsin, it didn’t make Kennedy the screw-up Manning had implied. Sometimes cases blew up in your face, and sometimes you ended up the scapegoat for local politics. And yes, sometimes maybe you did mess up. But should one case, one mistake, define a man’s career—especially an agent with Kennedy’s impressive record?

  Jason forced his attention back to the witness statement before him. Which was the same as all the other witness statements. One minute Rebecca had been there, the next she was gone.

  After a time, Gervase ushered the Madigans out of his office. He was kind and comforting, but Jason noticed he was not overly reassuring; Gervase had a lot of experience at this and had learned not to give out false hope.

  After the chief saw the Madigans out, he returned to the office where Jason and Kennedy were still cross-checking eyewitness accounts. If you could call see-no-evil-hear-no-evil-speak-no-evil an eyewitness account.

  “We’ve called the search off for the night.” His face was bleak. “The light’s gone, and those woods are too dangerous to ask people to wander around in the dark.”

  Kennedy nodded.

  “There’s no sign of her,” Gervase said. “None. The dogs lost the trail a couple of feet beyond the back of the property line. It’s like she stepped out of her backyard and vanished into thin air.”

  “Or she stepped out of her front yard,” Jason said.

  Kennedy gave him a curious look.

  “We tried that too,” Gervase said wearily. “Front or back, the dogs never picked up her scent more than a foot or so from the Madigan property.”

  Jason began, “There’s no possibility—”

  “No. None. Every inch of that house has been checked. Basement to attic. Tool shed to pool house. Rebecca is not on the premises.”

  The chief seemed to be waiting for something from Kennedy. Kennedy said, “You’ll resume the search at first light?”

  “Hell, yes.” Gervase’s mouth twisted. “By the way, your boy McEnroe is asking to take a lie-detector test.”

  Kennedy’s brows rose. “Is he? Interesting.”

  “You know as well as I do, the results are unreliable.”

  “They are. Don’t you think his willingness to take the test is noteworthy?”

  “Noteworthy?” Gervase snorted. “I guess. So what do you think?”

  “I think we give him a polygraph.”

  Gervase nodded, but he said, “I guess he believes he can beat the machine. I still think he knows where she is.”

  Jason said. “I’m not so sure. I think he’s telling the truth.”

  Kennedy’s mouth curved in that humorless smile.

  Gervase said, “Did you find another viable suspect in those reports?”

  “No,” Jason admitted. “Nothing yet.”

  Gervase sighed. He looked very weary. “Well, she could still be alive,” he said with what sounded like forced cheer. “There’s always hope until there isn’t. We might find her tomorrow.”

  Kennedy nodded, but it seemed to be at his own thoughts and not the police chief’s words.

  Jason said, “If we are dealing with a copycat…”

  He didn’t finish it. He didn’t have to. They all knew that if they were dealing with a copycat, Rebecca was already dead.

  Chapter Six

  “We hope you’ll be very comforta
ble here at the General Warren Inn. Just ask for Charlotte—that’s me—if you need anything.” The lanky blonde at the motel front desk slid a keycard across the scratched maple counter.

  “Thanks.” Jason picked up the plastic card and glanced back at Kennedy, who had already finished checking in and was walking out the sliding lobby doors into the dark courtyard.

  It was eight o’clock on Saturday night. After the search for Rebecca had been placed on hold, he and Kennedy had continued to work their way through the remaining statements. They had come up as empty-handed as the volunteers scouring the woods and hills.

  Sometimes no news was good news.

  The search—both on foot and on paper—would start again at first light.

  Charlotte was watching Kennedy too, and as the doors slid shut behind him, she said, “I remember him from the last time. He stayed here then too.”

  She looked to be about eighteen, which would have put her around age eight when Kennedy had been in Kingsfield working the Huntsman case. Jason didn’t doubt her though. Kennedy would always leave an impression.

  “Did he leave a nice tip?”

  Charlotte looked surprised. “He did, yeah.”

  Jason winked at her and started to turn away, but she said quickly, “Do you—do you think you’ll find her? Rebecca?”

  “Is she a good friend?”

  Charlotte shook her head but then nodded. So which was it? Yes or no? Maybe Charlotte wasn’t sure. “I know her. We hang out sometimes. A bunch of us, I mean. What I wanted to tell you—”

  When she didn’t continue, Jason asked, “What?”

  “You’re wrong about Tony. He didn’t do anything to Rebecca. He wouldn’t have any reason.”

  “No?”

  “It’s over between them. On both sides; Rebecca just doesn’t want to admit it yet because she likes using Tony to piss her parents off.”

  Charlotte was a cute girl. She had wide blue eyes, expertly lined in black, and shiny hair bound in two braids. Not Little House on the Prairie braids, but chic fashion-magazine-style braids. Jason said, “And you know this because you and Tony…?”

  She blushed. Nodded.

  “I see.” Good news for Rebecca’s parents and bad news for Charlotte’s, in Jason’s opinion.

  She raised her chin. “Everyone knows what’s going on here. Nobody wants to say it out loud, but everyone knows.”

  “What do they know?”

  Charlotte’s voice dropped. “The Huntsman is back.”

  “No.” Jason wanted to be very clear about this. He knew only too well how fast rumor spread in a small town. “Martin Pink is sitting in solitary confinement in a supermax prison right this minute.”

  Charlotte was not impressed. “Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—” She broke off as a tall, sandy-haired man of about fifty stepped out of the back office. He wore glasses and a mustache so bushy it looked fake.

  “Charlotte, can I see you in here?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Charlotte left the front desk at once, throwing Jason an apologetic look.

  The man studied Jason, nodded politely, and turned away.

  The General Warren Inn was not actually an inn. It was a motel and a pretty basic one. The Bureau did not typically spring for five star accommodations. Jason’s room appeared clean and functional, and there was a shiny, solid deadbolt on the door—which was not something he’d used to think a lot about, but appreciated these days.

  Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—

  Great. Thanks for that thought, Charlotte.

  A pair of Homer Winslow watercolor marine prints adorned the walls—nice choice—and the queen-size bed was covered by a navy chintz bedspread that had lost its sheen a few years back. So long as there was a mattress under the chintz, he didn’t care.

  As tired as he was, he was even hungrier. He’d skipped breakfast, intending to grab something at the airport, and then there had never been another opportunity to eat. It all felt like a million years ago—which was probably the last time he’d had a real meal. You didn’t join the FBI if you were looking for eight hours a night and regular meal times.

  He unpacked his carryall, stared at the ball of wrinkled shirts, and realized he’d have to see about finding a laundromat, assuming this case didn’t wind up tomorrow. What were the chances of that?

  Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—

  What the hell had she meant?

  He washed up in the tiny bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until he was gasping for air. Drying off with one of the bleach-scented towels, he eyed his reflection. Unsurprisingly, he looked haggard: green eyes shadowed, face drawn. Too many memories—and the good memories were just as painful as the bad memories. Which is why he had never wanted to come back to Kingsfield.

  Anyway. He was here, and he’d have to make the best of it. He had bigger problems to worry about. Like his reaction to finding himself at the wrong end of a semi-automatic. Just remembering turned him cold and then hot with humiliation.

  Jesus Christ. What a total, fucking disaster that had nearly been. What had happened to him?

  The eyes staring back from the mirror were wide with horror.

  It was okay. McEnroe was safely behind bars, and Jason’s weapon was safely stowed in its holster. Everything was okay. Everything was fine. He would never make that mistake again.

  He changed his shirt—only noticing for the first time the bruises and scratches he’d collected in his tussle with McEnroe—shoved his wallet in his jeans, and stepped outside his room.

  Two doors down, Kennedy, a tall shadow in the gloom, was locking his own door. Jason’s heart sank.

  Kennedy glanced over at Jason. “You want to grab something to eat?” he asked after a couple of beats.

  He was clearly as thrilled about the idea of breaking bread with Jason as Jason was at the thought of spending another hour in Kennedy’s dour presence, but since they were both obviously on their way out to eat, it would be too pointed to refuse.

  “Sure,” Jason said politely.

  “There’s a Chinese place within walking distance. It’s pretty good. They stay open late.”

  Staying open late being one of the main things LEO looked for in a restaurant.

  “I like Chinese.” Jason fell into step with Kennedy as they walked down the exterior hallway.

  Most of the rooms were dark. Below them, the brightly lit pool was an empty aqua rectangle. Kingsfield held few if any tourist attractions. The kind of clientele interested in what Kingsfield was best known for—a series of grisly killings—were not people you wanted to attract.

  Kennedy smelled of shampoo and aftershave, so he must have taken time for a quick shower and shave. In contrast, and despite the clean shirt, Jason felt grubby and rumpled.

  He followed Kennedy down the open stairs to the courtyard, and they went out through the white iron arches.

  Jason didn’t feel like talking about the case, and he couldn’t seem to think of anything neutral to say. Kennedy, seemingly immune to social pressures, strode briskly, aloof as usual.

  The streets of Kingsfield were quiet. There was no traffic and very few pedestrians. Lights glowed behind curtained windows and old-fashioned streetlamps were haloed in golden haze. The spearpoint tips of wrought iron railing fences cast militant silhouettes on the pavement as Jason and Kennedy walked past the tidy rose gardens and venerable houses. This did not look like a town where anything bad could ever happen, and yet behind all those shining Kinkadeian windows the topic of conversation tonight would be the latest terrible thing to befall them.

  “Now that’s a full moon,” Jason said. “It almost looks like…” He was going to say it looked like Julius Grimm’s 1888 study in oil of the moon and its surface, but realized in time how that would sound to Kennedy, and finished with, “unreal.”

  Kennedy glanced at the silver ball slowly rising behind the church steeple, as though verifying for himself that Jason had not g
ot this wrong too.

  He grunted.

  What had happened in Wisconsin? Kennedy didn’t wear a ring. Was there a Mrs. Kennedy? Did he have kids? A cat? A home? Or did he just live on the road, traveling from scene of horror to scene of horror, trying to make sense of the senseless?

  He seemed so completely and coldly self-contained. Had he always been like that, or had the job made him so?

  “Charlotte Simpson, the girl who checked us in at the motel, says she and Tony McEnroe are seeing each other.”

  Kennedy stared at him. “Now there’s a piece of information. Did she offer to alibi him?”

  “No. Was she at the party? Her statement wasn’t in my stack.”

  “Mine neither. But we don’t have statements from everyone at the party yet. Here we are.” Kennedy abruptly turned down a small alleyway. It smelled dank. Moss grew along the walls. They went up a short flight of stone steps, and there sat the Jade Empress.

  Despite its grand name, the Jade Empress was a modest establishment. In fact, it was downright tiny. It hadn’t existed sixteen years ago; that, Jason was sure of.

  There were no more than six linen-covered tables in the dining room, two of them filled with Asian patrons enjoying deliciously aromatic meals.

  Jason’s stomach growled so loudly the petite hostess leading them to their table laughed.

  They were seated by a window overlooking the dark alley. Kennedy’s chair squeaked loudly as he lowered his weight onto it, but that was as much about the fragility of the old furniture as Kennedy’s size. The table seemed small too, and Jason wondered if he and his dinner companion would spend their meal knocking knees. He had to swallow a smile at the thought.

  He picked up the menu and studied it. The Good Fortune Special. The Little Empress Special. The Laughing Samurai Special. Safe to say there would be no genial sharing of plates and exotic flavors with Kennedy. That idea also struck Jason as funny, and he decided he must be suffering from low blood sugar.