Damaged (12 page)

The crowd thinned out, finally replaced by a young guy—no more than thirty. Neat, short-cropped hair. Dressed in khaki walking shorts, a purple polo shirt—though Walter’s wife would have corrected him and called it lavender—and Sperry deck shoes. Walter’s wife had taught him how to dress. After thirty-five years of wearing a uniform he had no idea who Ralph Lauren was. But now he did and recognized the logo on the lavender shirt. He noticed other details, too—like the gold Rolex and Ray-Bans—without showing that he noticed. The guy was probably not a tourist. Maybe a businessman. He didn’t look like he knew anything about boats, though Walter had seen better-dressed amateurs step off some of the yachts in the marina. It was ridiculous what people thought they needed to wear these days, even for recreation.

“What can I get on it?” the guy asked.

“Just about anything you want.”

“Green peppers?”

“Sure. Green peppers, kraut, onions.”

Walter thought he recognized the guy but couldn’t place him.

“All of that sounds good. Add some mustard and relish. So what’s with the Coney Island getup? You from New York?”

“Nope. Pennsylvania. But my daddy took us to Coney Island a couple of times for vacation. Those were some of the best days. You been to Coney Island?”

“No. But my dad talked about it. Where in Pennsylvania?”

“Upper Darby.”

“Get out. Really?”

Walter stopped with a forkful of kraut to look at the guy. “You know Upper Darby?”

“My dad grew up in Philadelphia. He talked about Upper Darby.”

“Is that right?” Walter finished, wrapped the hot dog in a napkin, nestled it into a paper dish, and handed it to the guy. “Would I know him? Where’d he go to high school?”

“You know, I’m not sure. He died a few years ago. Cancer. His name was Phillip Norris. He didn’t stay in Philadelphia. Joined the navy.”

“Retired navy,” Walter said, pointing a thumb to his chest.

“No kidding?” The guy took a careful bite of the hot dog, nodded, and smiled. “This is one good dog.”

“One hundred percent beef.”

“Hey, Mr. B,” a scrawny kid interrupted.

“Danny, my boy. Ready for your regular?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Danny here is quite the entrepreneur.” Walter always tried to bring his customers together.

“Is that right?”

“Working on the beach cleanup crew and living out of his car to save money.”

“And to surf,” Danny added.

“His surfboard is worth more than his car.”

Danny shrugged and smiled. Walter knew the boy enjoyed the attention. He wasn’t sure what the kid’s story was. He looked about fifteen but Walter had seen his driver’s license and it listed him at eighteen and from someplace in Kansas. Maybe the kid really did just want to surf.

Danny had the routine down. Worked the cleanup crew in the evenings till about eleven, slept in his car, surfed all day, used the outdoor showers on the beach and the public restrooms on the boardwalk, ate hot dogs with mustard, onion, and kraut with a Coke. Not a bad life, Walter supposed.

He handed the kid his hot dog and poured an extra-large Coke, then accepted the boy’s two bucks. Their agreement. Walter figured this was the kid’s only real meal of the day, so he cut him a deal.

Another line started forming. A bunch of college kids, pushing and shoving at one another.

While handing Walter a ten-dollar bill, Norris was watching Danny get into his faded red Impala. Maybe the kid reminded him of himself.

“On the house,” Walter said.

That got his attention.

“I can’t let you do that.” The guy looked stunned like no one had ever said that to him before. “Besides, I can more than afford it,” he said, swinging his head and his eyes back in Danny’s direction.

“I know you can. Come back and buy one tomorrow. That one’s on me. For your daddy—one vet to another. Now go enjoy. You’re holding up my traffic.”

Norris wandered off to the side, glancing at the people behind him. The ten-dollar bill stayed in his hand like he didn’t know what
to do with it. He thought he might have offended the guy. That he might stick around and try to pay him again.

Walter wished he could figure out what was so familiar about him though even the name Phillip Norris didn’t ring any bells. He realized he should ask where his dad was stationed in the navy. But when he looked up the guy was gone.

CHAPTER 23

Scott Larsen ignored his ringing cell phone. It was either a grieving family calling to nag or it was Trish, and he didn’t want to talk to her, either. After a quick glance he continued through the hotel lobby. It was Trish. She didn’t appreciate him leaving again even if it was for business. She’d gotten herself worked up about this frickin’ hurricane. He was getting so tired of everybody worrying about this storm when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Trish had probably remembered one more thing to harangue him about. Something else her daddy had done for her.

“Daddy brought us some gasoline,” she had told him earlier.

“Wow. He spent his entire week’s hot-dog money.”

“That’s rude. He was being gracious.”

“Taking care of his little girl.”

“Maybe he thought he had to because her husband wasn’t doing a very good job.”

“I’m off making a living. Paying the bills.”

“If this hurricane hits, none of that will matter.”

And by this time she had worked herself into angry tears, which automatically clicked Scott into his professional comforter role.
He’d put an arm around her shoulder, instigated the combination hand pat while whispering a series of soothing words and phrases.

By the time she spoke again the hitch in her voice was gone.

“I guess we just have to hope our insurance covers everything.”

That knocked Scott cold. No way he could tell her now that he hadn’t taken out insurance on their new place, the dream house that had already skyrocketed over their budget and would almost be finished if his wife would quit changing and adding.

“Daddy said we can stay with him during the hurricane. We can’t stay here on the bay. We’ll be safe at Daddy’s.”

By then Scott hadn’t been listening anymore except to the key words that irritated him. Words like “daddy.” Southern girls sure did love their daddies. Scott would never get used to that term of endearment. Not from a grown woman. Daddy was what a five-year-old called his father.

Trish had pouted a little while he changed clothes but didn’t say much more before he left. His Midwest work ethic was one characteristic she found appealing after all the deadbeats she’d dated. Besides he promised he’d help her board up the patio doors at their new house in the morning as long as they were finished by noon. He had to move up a memorial service for a stiff in his fridge. The family had originally scheduled for Wednesday but now they were all freaked about the hurricane and wanted to bury Uncle Mel before the storm hit.

Promising to help board up had seemed to satisfy Trish. So maybe she wasn’t calling just to nag at him. He pulled out his cell phone as he sat down at the hotel’s deck bar. He was just about to listen to Trish’s voice message when the blond bartender appeared in front of him.

“Your friend’s already here,” she told him with a smile. “He said to tell you to meet him inside the restaurant. He’s buying you dinner.”

“Really?” But Scott was more impressed with the attention she was paying him than the dinner invitation.

“Why don’t you guys stop out here later for a drink,” she said, then hurried across the bar to wait on another customer.

Her smile made him forget why he had his cell phone out and he simply slipped it back into his shirt pocket. As he headed into the restaurant he vowed to assuage all the stress of the day. Assuage. Yes, that was a cool word, one that Joe Black would probably use. Scott decided he’d find a way to use it in their conversation.

CHAPTER 24

Maggie’s knees felt weak. Her ears still hummed and if she looked, she knew she’d see a slight tremor in her fingers. But she was relieved to be back on the ground, away from the thumping rotors and the nerve-rattling vibration.

Escambia County sheriff Joshua Clayton was waiting for her, and everything about his tall, lanky body—from his tapping toe to his erratic gesturing—told Maggie that he wasn’t happy. But he’d promised Charlie Wurth that the DHS and FBI would have full disclosure of the evidence. Clayton didn’t seem to have a problem with allowing access. It was his time he had a problem sparing, and at one point he mumbled, “I don’t have time for this. There’s a hurricane on its way, for Christ’s sake.”

Maggie had barely peeled out of her flight suit. She thanked the aircrew and they agreed to meet later for drinks on her. Clayton stood at her elbow the entire time, twisting his wrist in an exaggerated show of checking the time. Now, in his cruiser, the man was tapping out his impatience on the steering wheel.

Back at the office he handed her a form to sign then led her to a small room at the end of a hallway. There was nothing on the walls.
Only a table and two folding chairs sat on the worn but clean linoleum. On the table was the battered white fishing cooler.

“Contents were photographed and bagged,” Clayton told her. “They’re all at the ME’s office. We haven’t processed the cooler yet,” he said as he handed her a pair of latex gloves. “We’ll dust it for prints, but with it being in the water I suspect we won’t find much.”

His cell phone rang. Clayton frowned at it.

“I’ve got to take this. You mind?”

“Go ahead.”

He was out the door in three strides. Maggie couldn’t help but notice that despite his initial frown, he looked relieved to have a reason to escape. His voice disappeared down the hallway. It was just as well. She preferred taking a close look without him standing over her shoulder.

She began opening the lid but snapped it shut after just a whiff of the rancid smell. She prepared herself, took a deep breath, and tried again. No wonder they hadn’t processed the cooler yet. About two inches of pink liquid covered the bottom, residue from melted ice and at least one leaky package.

Maggie let the lid flap open. The initial smell would be the worst. Adding some air would dilute it. She stepped away and pulled her smartphone from its holder at her waistband. She pushed a couple buttons and activated the camera.

The cooler was huge, white paint over stainless steel. A popular name brand that even Maggie recognized was stamped on the side. The inside of the lid was unusual, with an indentation of a large fish and slots of measurement alongside it. What drew her immediate attention was the tie-down, looped around the cooler’s handle.

She took several pictures, close-ups to focus on the blue-and-yellow twisted strands. The rope was made of synthetic fiber, smooth, possibly coated. One end appeared to be frayed. She took more pictures. On closer inspection it looked like the frayed end had been cut, not ripped. All the fibers, though frayed, were the exact same length.

Maggie glanced back at the door. No sight or sound of Sheriff Clayton. But just in case, she chose to text-message her partner, R. J. Tully, rather than make a phone call.

   HEY TULLY. SENDING PHOTOS. CAN U CHECK DATABASE?

   It took her less than a minute to e-mail close-ups of the rope. Tully would be able to scan or download the photos and run the information through the FBI’s database. Maybe they’d get lucky and be able to identify the manufacturer.

She remembered another case in the 1980s. An airman named John Joubert was arrested for murdering two little boys. Authorities found an unusual rope at one of the crime scenes. It had been used to bind the hands of one of the boys. This was before DNA analysis, so the unusual rope became a key piece of evidence. During a search of Joubert’s quarters, they found a length of it.

Before she sent the last photo she had a text message from Tully.

   NO PROB.

   Finished with the rope, she moved on and shot photos of the cooler and the measuring tool inside the lid. Not much to see.
She agreed with Sheriff Clayton’s speculations about fingerprints. Maybe they’d get lucky with a print inside the lid, but the salt water had probably eliminated anything on the outside.