Eye Sleuth (23 page)

“Got to give you some weight.” He pulled my jacket zipper down and began wedging in bricks.

“Ow,” I mumbled round the leather gag.

The jacket’s thin material ripped. Too bad. I was banking on that happening when I was in the water so the bricks would fall out and I’d keep myself afloat till a boat came by. On to Plan B. Slate Eyes muttered angrily and fumbled at my ankles. I strained to see what he was doing. He threaded the cord of a canvas bag through the rope around my ankles and started shoving bricks into the bag.

“Say your prayers,” he said, ignoring the mumble and stood cautiously, waiting for the boat to steady. Bending, he grabbed me under the arm, starting to lift me. Time for Plan B. I lashed out with my legs and the bag of bricks shifted, rolling against his feet. Slate Eyes cursed and staggered sideways but didn’t let go of me. The boat tilted and he pushed me to its edge and stuck one foot on the far side of the center seat to prevent us capsizing. My breathing was ragged as I dangled over the side of the boat. One more heave and I’d be in the water. The boat wallowed then steadied. I heard an engine. It got louder. Would they notice us?

“Ahoy, coastguard here,” someone called.

Our small rowboat rocked in the waves from the motorboat as it puttered close. A searchlight slid across the water, chasing away the dark. We were hailed again. Slate Eyes ignored the call. Grabbing my legs he launched me into wicked cold water. I wriggled like crazy, trying to free myself of the bag of bricks. Suddenly, a windmill of arms and legs landed heavily on me, forcing me down deeper. Had Horrie been thrown on top of me? What the hell was going on?

I struggled to get out from under the various limbs thrashing around on top of me. It couldn’t be Horrie, he’d been trussed as tightly as me. All at once, the windmilling stopped and strong arms gripped me. Up we went, surfacing into glorious air. Lightheaded and limp, I was pushed by my rescuer and pulled up by two men leaning over the side of the coastguard’s boat. I landed on the deck spluttering feebly around the gag in my mouth. A circle of faces looked down at me, their expressions a mix of surprise and outrage. Quick hands undid the gag and my bonds.

“Stark raving mad,” someone said.

“Too damn true,” I said and managed a weak grin.

The coastguard, I discovered later, had been alerted by a fisherman who’d been surprised to see his brother’s rowboat slipping out of the harbor. His brother was in the hospital and no one else ever used his boat. When the coastguard saw me heaved overboard, one of the crew jumped in to retrieve me. Slate Eyes immediately leaped over the side of the rowboat, landing on the crewman, who was propelled onto me. The would-be murderer did his best to prevent my rescue, fighting underwater like a maniac. Another crewmember jumped in to help.

“Between us, we managed to overcome him,” one of the men told me. I nodded cheerfully, on a euphoric high, convinced the end of a horrendous rollercoaster ride had been reached, that danger was over. It didn’t matter that I was a sodden mess.

Someone went over to the rowboat to check on Horrie.

“His pulse is strong and he’s breathing steadily, let’s get him on board.”

Anger had me gritting my teeth as I watched the crew send a hammock over to the rowboat. Horrie was swung to safety and willing hands swiftly cut his bonds. One of the crew brought a first-aid kit and dabbed antiseptic on the dried blood on the back of Horrie’s head. Horrie groaned and opened his eyes.

“We’ll get him to the hospital,” the crewman said as he put away the first-aid kit. “They’ll keep him for observation, see if he has a concussion.”

Revulsion filled me at the brutality of that vicious blow to Horrie’s head. The boat turned in a tight circle and headed back into the harbor. Someone tapped my shoulder.

“Come below, Miss, we’ll find you some dry clothes and take a look at any scrapes you may have.” I followed the crewman, trailing drips. It didn’t take long to climb into dry trousers and a thick sweater, both baggy but warm and comfortable and then I sat quietly while my bruises were gently cleaned with antiseptic.

Stuffing my wet things into the plastic bag I was given, I followed the crewman up on deck and my anger flared again at the sight of the man who’d first attacked Lanny then vented his spleen on Horrie and me. He was stubbornly silent, avoiding the crew’s curious stares. He gazed into the distance, face blank. We neared land and the crew got busy, preparing to dock the boat.

Slate Eyes erupted into violent action, seizing a tiny window of opportunity, precious seconds when no one’s attention was on him. He rammed the man next to him and scrambling to the shore side of the motorboat, took a daring leap onto the dock, staggered but caught his balance and sprinted off into the dark. In the confusion of a crowded cockpit where we’d been sent sprawling like dominoes, it was a long minute before someone took off after him. Racing clouds sped across the moon and soon a veil of misty rain made it hard to see. We could hear feet thudding on the wooden dock. The sounds changed as they reached what was probably a pathway. Two more crew jumped ashore and joined in the chase, shouting to the first man that they were coming. Then the air filled with the screeching of brakes followed by the ominous sound of the impact when flesh meets metal. By now we were securely docked but when I went to clamber ashore, firm hands held me back.

“Best not to go yet, Miss.” Unable to move, I waited.

The men who’d taken off in pursuit of the runaway came back, faces grim. The van coming to meet the coastguards’ boat had collided with Slate Eyes. He’d been running so fast neither had time to swerve.

At Christchurch police station, my story was heard with assiduous attention and a certain level of puzzlement that bordered on disbelief. Admittedly, the explanation of why I’d been bound and sent to play with the fishes was fractured. It sounded strange, even to me, especially when I backed up and gave them a thorough rundown of the bizarre events in New York and explained that the man who’d jumped off the boat and run to his death was the man who’d attacked my godmother. The wallet found on the body had a name I didn’t know and a New Jersey address.

A police surgeon arrived to examine me.

“You’re lucky, it’s not serious,” he said as he finished his thorough exam. He’d already seen Horrie, who was being kept at the hospital overnight for observation. “I believe Dr. Humphreys will be able to leave in the morning,” the police surgeon said, reassuringly.

Then it was back to police questioning. It was repetitive but overlaid with British politeness that took the sting out of it. The detective who first interviewed me was a young man with bright red hair and a habit of blushing scarlet when I asked him to repeat questions. I didn’t have the heart to explain I had a hard time following his accent. The chief inspector, a walrus of a man, radiated calm even though I knew he’d been called out of a sick bed.

“A heavy cold,” he said pleasantly, waving a hand dismissively at my apologies. “I’ll live.” He turned serious. “Let me be frank. Your account is, ah, somewhat unusual. An autopsy will show if the man was on drugs. He certainly behaved as if he was deranged. It would be helpful to talk to the New York police, try to get a full picture.”

That way you can check on my story.

The chief inspector didn’t want to contact anyone at the Swedish consulate, he wanted to talk to his U.S. counterpart on the police force. Happy to oblige, I gave him the number for the Thirteenth Precinct.

“Detective Riley has a file on everything that happened up to when I left New York,” I explained.

It was 11 PM in England, 6 PM in New York. I waited, nursing a mug of hot chocolate. The chief inspector returned to let me know he’d spoken with Riley’s boss.

“It was quite useful,” he said in his ultra-correct voice. He didn’t say he’d checked up on me but his manner switched from cool to cordial. “I have a message from Detective Riley for you. He’d appreciate it if you’d e-mail him, here’s the e-address.” He passed me a slip of paper.

“Thanks,” was all I said, though as I took the paper, I relished the thought that finally I had something to tell Riley, something that wasn’t just a suspicion.

“I’ll have you driven to your hotel,” the chief inspector said. “In the morning, if the police surgeon is correct, Dr. Humphreys will be able to leave hospital. We’ll make sure he is taken back to where he’s staying. We’ll be in touch.”

I nodded gratefully. I couldn’t wait to telephone Lars and tell him that Lanny’s attacker wouldn’t bother anyone again. Life would be peaceful now, right?

The front desk clerk at the Royal Bath was too polite to raise even one eyebrow at my overlarge clothing or the soggy bundle under my arm.

“I trust everything is all right?” he asked.

“Yes, it really is,” I said and went upstairs to dial long distance. It was extravagant but I had to let Lars know the danger was over. E-mail wouldn’t do for this particular call. Lars answered almost instantly and the story poured out of me. Shaken as I was by the attacker’s gruesome end, I felt safer than I had for weeks.

“His driver’s license is in the name of Lou Kralle but he looked so like Matt Wahr, he must be related in some way, it can’t be a coincidence.”

“Wahr is the financial manager at the college charged with fraud?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was with Horrie Humphreys when I saw the man and Horrie said the guy is a rep with a company that sells vision therapy equipment, which explains why he was at the conference in England.”

“I’m not sure it fully explains the attack on Lanny, even if this man had some sort of vendetta against Dr. Forkiotis,” Lars said.

After the phone call, I hurried down to use the hotel’s computer. My e-mail to Detective Riley was brief and I felt almost virtuous that I was communicating with him.

“Lanny’s attacker is dead. I survived his attempt to drown me. I believe this is the end of all the trouble. I telephoned Lars, he’ll fill you in. British police talk funny but are very pleasant.” I resisted adding, “…and the Brits didn’t make me feel like a suspect.”

Riley couldn’t have known my reaction to that first interview at the 13
^th
Precinct and by now I was way past the sense of outrage I’d felt back then. I’d been deeply shaken by Mary Sakamoto’s death and worried about the warning of danger. Now that I’d survived more than one dangerous scene and several encounters with Dan Riley, I knew he wasn’t such a pain after all––just a guy doing a tough job.

The police surgeon’s prediction was accurate, Horrie Humphreys was well enough to travel. We were lucky, Horrie and I got to go home. Lou Kralle would not. Now I was free of the fear of the last few weeks. Lanny had paid a terrible price for reasons still not totally clear. Would they ever be known? But emotional scars can heal and her rehabilitation from TBI would happen, even if it took time. The British police asked me not to discuss Lou Kralle’s death with anyone and I had no problem following that request. If the British media picked up on the gory details, I never knew. Soon I was winging my way home across the Atlantic.

Lars and Lanny met me at the airport, looking happy and relaxed. Words weren’t necessary for me to know she was making good progress. I promised to visit soon and they dropped me off at home. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, glad to be back in New York. It was the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend and I wanted to catch up, get my conference notes in order. My brother cats gave me a cool reception but mellowed when I opened a can of tuna. I’d almost finished unpacking when the phone rang. It was Riley.

“I’m on duty at the moment, but thanks for your e-mail. Do you have time to talk to me about what happened in England? It’s probably a major piece of the puzzle. Be helpful to slot it in to place. Perhaps we could meet for a drink or a meal?”

Was this a good idea? I heard my voice say, “Yes.”

Since when do the police invite you out for a meal or a drink to talk about a case? Truth really is stranger than fiction. We settled on lunch at the Elephant & Castle the next day. It felt strange, the prospect of a meal with Dan Riley although I was way past any irritation I’d ever felt with him. The fact that my boss looked on him favorably said a lot. Besides, my social life had been nonexistent for months––OK, maybe it was over a year. No wonder I often worked late.

“By the way, Matt Wahr has officially skipped. His wife says he’s not been home for days. He missed a preliminary court hearing and his wife is upset because bail was set and it’s forfeit if he’s a no show.”