Dead Days of Summer Page 8

  Annie stared. Other end?

  Emma’s tone was brisk. “The victim. We have to find out who the victim is. So far, if Billy knows, he’s staying mum. I don’t suppose you know?”

  Annie would have shuddered if she’d had the energy. She was too weary, too sick at heart to push away the immediate image that popped into her mind, the bloodied battered head, the inert body in the dramatic sarong. “I didn’t see her face. But I’m sure it’s not anyone we knew. Max would have told me when he called if his client was someone we knew.”

  “All right. I’ll keep after it.” Emma always expected success. “As soon as we know, I’ll come out to—well, in case we are being overheard—”

  Annie understood. Cell phone conversations were subject to interception.

  “—I’ll meet you where you are going. For now, rest, eat, get ready to fight.”

  Billy Cameron took a deep gulp from the icy cold can of Dr Pepper, courtesy of the cooler Mavis always carried in the crime van, and waited for the air-conditioning to cool the cruiser. Although the sky was brassy and cloudless, he felt as he did when a hurricane was churning north toward the island—apprehensive, pressed on all sides, much to do, little time in which to do it. Since he was a kid, he’d had a trick to help when he was overwhelmed. He said the mantra aloud. “One thing at a time. One thing at a time.” He punched the windows, heard the whirr as they lifted. It was maybe a little cooler now inside than out, though sweat rolled from his face, trickled down his chest and back and legs.

  “Rock Around the Clock” pealed from the cell phone. Billy picked it up, checked the caller ID. The mayor. This wasn’t a call Billy intended to answer. Not now. Not until he knew more. He pictured portly Mayor Cosgrove, plump as a pig, green eyes glistening with irritation. The Broward’s Rock Police Department had been on the mayor’s blacklist ever since Pete Garrett refused to hire the mayor’s nephew. As far as the mayor was concerned, Pete’s call-up to his National Guard unit was reason to celebrate. Billy had been acting chief ever since and now was in line to become chief, since Pete had sent word he wouldn’t be returning. But Billy had also turned down the nephew’s application, instead had hired Hyla Harrison, an experienced cop from Atlanta who’d returned to the island to live with her ailing mother. Now the mayor’s ire was aimed at Billy. The mayor could wait.

  Billy waited until the call ended, ignored the ping indicating messages, punched the number of the Gazette. “Yeah, Vince. Need some help. We got an ID on the victim, one Vanessa Taylor. That’s off the record for now. I’m not releasing anything until I’ve notified next of kin. Here’s the address on her driver’s license: 211 Tree Swallow Lane. Ran a check. House belongs to—” Billy found the notes, “a Lillian Whitman Dodd. Do you know anything about Taylor or Dodd?” Billy could navigate the island in a dense fog, but he didn’t know every resident, especially not those who lived in the island’s posh gated community, which definitely included 211 Tree Swallow Lane. Vince Ellis moved in those circles.

  Vince’s reply was quick. “I know a little about both of them. Vanessa Taylor. Damn. She was young.”

  Billy lifted the can of Dr Pepper, welcomed the biting tang. Even though a mountain of tasks loomed over him, he could enjoy this moment’s respite and be grateful for any help Vince could offer.

  Vince took a breath, then talked fast. “I met Vanessa at a party there last Christmas. She’s—she was Mrs. Dodd’s secretary. Lillian Dodd’s from Chicago originally. She and her first husband, Howard Whitman, retired here about twenty years ago. He was a lot older than she and he died about ten years ago. About four years ago, she married Jon Dodd. He has an advertising agency. She’s very active in island charities. Nice woman.”

  “Vanessa Taylor lived there?” Billy knew there was a world in which rich women had secretaries, but it wasn’t a world he inhabited. What did some rich woman without a job need a secretary for?

  “Oh, sure. That’s part of the attraction, getting to live the life of Riley until something better comes along. The secretaries are never long term. Lillian hires a young woman, gives her a luxurious home, good salary, lots of fancy trips, and an expensive gift when she moves on. I’d guess it’s a fun job. Seems to me Vanessa had been there a couple of years.”

  “How about her family?” Billy shifted into drive and the cruiser swung away from the cabin.

  “I don’t think she was local. Lillian will know. Hey, Billy, I’ll get a story ready but I’ll hold it until I hear from you.” There was a pause. “The island’s swarming with media. You ready for it?”

  Billy didn’t have to ask what Vince meant. Was he ready for the incessant clink of flashes, the shouted questions, the mikes poked toward his face? “I’ll manage.” He wasn’t sure that he would but he would try. Most of all, he was determined not to let the news hysteria interfere with his investigation. “Thanks, Vince.”

  As he came around the curve, Hyla Harrison gave a sharp salute, pulled aside the crime scene tape. Billy nodded and edged past the sideways cruiser. Bars of “Rock Around the Clock” continued to boom, the mayor again, CNN, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.…There were more calls than he could possibly answer. Billy turned off his cell. He needed to concentrate. He had to remember he was a cop and a good one. He would follow evidence where it led. But Max…No, make it Suspect. Think about the Suspect he was seeking and the old checklist: Means, motive, opportunity.

  Means: Tire tool. Tests would soon prove whether the stains and hair and skin matched the victim’s wounds and what fingerprints were on the tool.

  Motive: It looked a lot like an illicit relationship gone wrong.

  Opportunity: If the victim was the woman observed with Suspect at Dooley’s Mine, Suspect was in the company of the victim shortly before her death.

  Means, motive, opportunity.

  If Max turned out to be a murderer, Billy knew he would never again look into a friend’s face with confidence. Billy pushed away the swirl of discomfiting facts interlaced with memories: Max drunk according to a bar owner who should know, Max looking toward Annie with his heart in his face, an angry Max at a cheap bar with a woman who wasn’t his wife, Max laughing as he picked up Lily…. Instead, Billy marshaled his thoughts. He needed to monitor the search for Max, file reports on the status of the investigation to date, coordinate with other state investigators, prepare a release for the press, seek information about the victim.

  The victim was his first responsibility after securing the crime scene. He’d considered calling the Dodd house and asking about Vanessa Taylor, then decided he’d go in person. In the best of all possible worlds, he would have another officer with him as he made this call, but the office was too short on personnel. Every hand was occupied, Mavis completing the transfer of evidence to the crime van, Hyla Harrison arranging for Max’s car to be hauled to the station, Lou Pirelli manning the station. So it was up to him to find out everything possible about the dead woman. Would he get confirmation of the Suspect as her boyfriend?

  Cicadas rasped. Frogs rumbled. Birds chirruped as they settled into the trees for the night. The final crimson streaks of the setting sun streaked the marsh. The spartina grass rippled in the offshore breeze. Annie huddled at the end of the pier. Nightingale Courts stretched behind her, all the cabins brightly lit. This was high season. Many of the cabins were monthly rentals, only a few available for tourists. It was a stroke of luck that there had been a cancellation that made a cabin available for Annie.

  She’d tried to gulp down the sandwich Ingrid had brought her. It was as if her throat had congealed. She’d managed a portion, pushed away the rest, drank the Coke. Normally she didn’t like soda, disliking the sweetness. Normally…

  She rested her head against her bent knees, wrapped her arms around her legs. The search for Max continued, but it had been so long now. More than twenty-four hours since she’d heard his voice. How could she hope?

  Because…She lifted her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Because he was the lig
ht of her life. Because if he were dead, the world would be cold and barren forevermore. Because…

  Agonizing pain pulsed in Max’s head. Nothing existed but pain. Pain encompassed him, enveloped him. He lay still, unable to move. If he moved, his head might swell and explode. Nothing could ever hurt more…. As consciousness returned, Max felt the bubble of nausea in his throat. His eyes burned. His arm stung. He swallowed, opened his eyes, opened them to darkness and suffocating heat. Abruptly, despite the brutal rocking in his head, he struggled over onto his side and was wretchedly sick. Weak and shaking, he crawled away from the vomit, slumped facedown on the floor.

  Dark. He grappled with the darkness. He couldn’t see anything. He was on a floor. He felt grit against his skin. It was dark and silent and hot. The silence was oppressive. No people, no voices, nothing but him. The musty air was suffocatingly hot and stale. His clothes were damp with sweat. His arm stung. His throat ached with dryness. With enormous effort, he lifted his head and slowly looked around. Moonlight spilled through a window.

  Inside. It took his mind a moment to make the connection. It was night and he was in a room. Somehow he knew he was alone. There was no sense of any other human presence. It was not so much thought as instinct that got him to his hands and knees. His breaths were shallow. Laboriously he crawled toward the window. Windows were in walls. Walls had light switches. He found the wall, eased himself, trembling, to his feet. One hand swept the wall.

  Lights blazed. He squinted and surveyed the room—a lumpy brown sofa, fake leather recliner, double bed with a brown chenille spread, kitchenette, wooden table with three chairs. He didn’t know where he was. Or why.

  Dizziness forced him to lean against the wall. He fought another wave of nausea. As it subsided, he became aware again of the discomfort on his right arm. He looked down. Ants swarmed on his skin, stinging. He brushed the ants away, felt something sticky on his arm. Something nasty.

  What had happened to him? Where was he? Annie…Alarm flared in his mind, made his aching head worse. Annie…This room held no echo of Annie. He didn’t know this dirty, ill-furnished room. He was certain he’d never been here in his life. How had he gotten here? Why was he here? Why was he sick? He grasped after tendrils of memory, but there was darkness in his mind and uncertainty and something dreadful, something he didn’t want to remember.

  He leaned against the wall, sick and shaken. He had to get help. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him or what he was going to do, but he had to find help. He was weak and sick. Maybe if he got a drink of water…Water. God, yes. He needed water.

  He took two steps, used the back of a sofa for support. He waited several minutes, then started across the room, his steps unsteady. He stopped to brace himself on the top of the recliner, rested for a moment, made it to a kitchen chair, held to the back.

  He reached the small bathroom, turned on the light. He planted his hands on the sides of the sink, closed his eyes until dizziness passed. When he opened them, he looked into the dingy mirror. Bloodshot eyes stared out of a pale face grimed with dirt. Uncombed hair bunched in tangles. He needed a shave. The bristle on his cheeks was odd. He’d shaved when he got up. When was that? He couldn’t pull a picture of his day. He couldn’t remember…Thirsty. God, he was thirsty. His throat was parched.

  A sudden sharp recollection bloomed. He was standing in a dusty parking lot, walking with the blaze of the sun on him, sweating, irritated, desperate for something to drink. The image faded.

  Water…

  He turned on the cold tap. The water came in uneven spurts, a rusty orange. When it ran clear, he cupped his hands, lifted water to his dry lips, fuzz-coated mouth, parched throat. The water wasn’t cold and it tasted metallic, but he didn’t care. He drank, fought a wave of queasiness, drank again. His pounding head felt better. He lifted another handful of water to splash against his burning eyes and dirty face. With his right arm close to his face, his nose wrinkled at a fetid odor. He looked at his skin. Water ran down his forearm toward his elbow, water stained a faint coppery color.

  The smell of blood.

  He traced a finger on his skin, held it up, saw unmistakable pinkness. He turned his hands up, stared at them, tried to understand. Had he bled? His hands were dirty but he didn’t find a cut or scratch. His arms were unmarked. He was shaky and confused, his head hurt and he was disoriented, but he didn’t have the pain of an injury. Where had blood come from?

  Panic swept over him. He ran his hands, fingers spread wide, down his shirt and felt a crusty patch near his belt. He yanked the shirt loose, held it and his T-shirt away, stared down at his chest. Not a mark. But the heel of his hand grazed that sticky substance. He didn’t think. He didn’t reason. In a rough twist he pulled and the polo shirt came over his head. He turned it in his hands. Navy blue didn’t show stains, but he saw the irregular darkness on the front of the shirt.

  Water splashed into the basin, still running full force. Max thrust the shirt beneath the faucet. He squeezed the sodden cloth. Pinkish water rose in the bowl.

  Max’s heart thudded. Blood. A lot of blood. On his shirt. But he wasn’t hurt. Where had the blood come from? He hated the smell that swirled around him, clogged his nose. He flung the shirt onto the floor, washed and washed and washed his hands until finally they felt clean.

  The shock of the stained shirt pierced the dull fog in his mind. He had to remember what had happened to him. Why was he here? Why was there blood on his shirt?

  He stared into the mirror, saw the gauntness of his tired face. He lifted a shaking hand, ran his fingers over the bristle on his cheeks, tried to remember…. A happy morning. That was how his day started. With happiness. With Annie’s quick words and cheerful smile and eager plans. An ordinary, everyday kind of morning. Memories came then, walking hand in hand with Annie along the boardwalk, Barb out of town so his office was unnaturally quiet, lunch with Annie at Parotti’s, her obvious distress when he’d offered to come help unpack books, the quiet in his office and savoring once again the circular about the Franklin house, and then a new client. Dark haired. A missing brother. Blackbeard Beach.

  That’s where his memory stopped. He could feel the warmth of the sun on the boardwalk, hear the grunts and thuds of the volleyball game, see the lifeguards. Beyond that moment there was nothing but blackness. He felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a chasm and knew he was going to fall into inconceivable emptiness. He’d gone to the beach looking for his client’s brother. Funny. He remembered the brother’s name. Danny. He couldn’t recall her name, the attractive, seductive woman who’d hired him. He scowled and his image in the mirror was suddenly angry. She’d done something he didn’t like. What was it? Once again he had the sensation of helplessness. Then relief swept him. He’d made a file. Her name would be there and whatever else she’d told him. He needed to get to his office, get in touch with her. Maybe he’d fallen down, banged his head. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t remember anything. He smoothed back his tangled hair, didn’t find a lump, no trace of sticky dried blood. Something had happened. He had to find her. The sense of urgency built inside. He had to find her. That would solve everything. Or at least begin an effort to corral the time he’d lost. How much time? Once again he swiped at his face, felt the bristle of beard.

  He turned, walked unsteadily toward the front door. He patted his pocket for his car keys. No keys…

  Another brief memory flared, a hand sliding into his pocket and his sense of helpless fury. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to think past that instant. Someone took his keys. Why? When? But the black curtain wouldn’t lift. He opened his eyes. Maybe in time he would remember.

  He stumbled to the front door, turned the knob. At least the door wasn’t locked. Thoughts caromed like billiard balls. Dumb. Of course he could open the front door. The lock was on the inside. Maybe he was crazy. This was all crazy….

  He came out on a rickety front porch. The cabin overlooked the marsh. Moonlight silvered the wa
ter, bathed the clearing in cream. There was a pier but no boat. Maybe it was just a fishing dock. A rutted dirt lane snaked out of sight into the woods. Even though he’d not expected to find his car, he struggled against disappointment. If his car had been there, he could have called Annie on his cell and asked her to bring extra keys. He was assailed by sudden worry. He needed to call Annie. ASAP. She’d be wondering where he was.

  He’d told Annie—he remembered that clearly—that he was going to be late. Why was he going to be late? Something about the case. But it wasn’t late. The moon was just starting its climb into the sky. Again bleary puzzlement fogged his mind, made it hard to think. The moon was just up…why did he need a shave…the case…a kid named Danny…blood…He held to the railing, climbed down the steps, took one step, another, forced himself to keep going.

  The road had to lead somewhere.

  4

  The lights flicked on. Annie shaded her eyes. She didn’t move from her defeated huddle on the sofa of the Nightingale Courts cabin. She’d not bothered to turn on the lights as night fell. More than twenty-four hours with no word of Max.

  “Annie”—Emma was stern and determined—“look at me.”

  Emma’s voice seemed far away. Annie sat stiffly, frozen and numb. That was her only defense against the deep and pervasive pain threatening to destroy her. If she permitted herself to think and feel and know, she would disintegrate into pieces, so many pieces she’d never be whole again. It was as if she observed herself sitting at the end of the white wicker divan, wan and pinched, hunched and disheveled, in the incongruously cheerful room with pink-and-white-striped walls and white wicker furniture and gaily patterned cushions. The room wasn’t meant for misery. She closed her eyes, blotting out the present, wished she could blot out knowledge and memory and fear. Now Emma had come to Nightingale Courts. Annie wasn’t up to coping with Emma. Maybe she would go away if Annie kept her eyes shut.