Deceived (7 page)

Chapter fifteen

The firehouse’s white stucco siding gleamed in the midday sun. Sam didn’t make it over here very often despite its same-block proximity to the police station, but he knew everyone on the roster. Paul Martin, the fire chief, often held cookouts for the firemen and policemen at the end of the summer, as if to say, “We survived another year.” The Golden Sun fire was the first apparent arson the town had seen in years, and the resulting commotion at the station was unusual.

“Hey, Jill, what’s cooking today?” Sam called out to the dispatcher as he walked into the open bay.

Jill’s office was just to the side of the station’s two engines. To the right of her office were worn couches Sam guessed to be from the early 1970s, but they were comfortably positioned around a coffee table and high definition television.

Jill pulled off her earpiece and called back to Sam. “Hi, yourself. The guys are out back shooting hoops. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to visit a minute with Eddie. Is he around?” Sam approached the small dispatch room, stopping to lean against the doorjamb.

“He’s in the kitchen getting some lunch on. Help yourself—and bring me a plate when you come back through.” Jill winked as she put her headset back on.

Only then did Sam realize she was listening to something good and groovy by Earth, Wind, and Fire. Sam picked up on the tune and headed through a screened door to a small but tidy kitchen filled with a commercial-grade stove and a refrigerator. Eddie was pulling the last of the sodas out of the refrigerator.

“What’s for lunch?”

“Hey, man, your timing is great. The guys just took the burgers off the grill, and I’m getting the fixings out. Grab a plate.” Eddie pointed to a dark-paneled cupboard, his thick arms and barrel chest filling his light blue T-shirt to capacity. Of all the guys at the firehouse, Eddie Sherman was the one Sam called most when there was a pickup game of basketball after hours. Eddie had been an all-star player in college, but a fall on the court, resulting in a bum knee, had forced him to choose another activity. Before he graduated, he started volunteering at the fire station, and he joined the crew when he finished his training program. Eddie was the station’s technical guru, computer whiz, and all-around good guy. He had helped Sam out of a jam or two before, and Sam was betting he’d do it again.

“Thanks, Eddie, but I really came for some information. I wonder what you know about the contents of the file drawer or the hard drive that came out of the Golden Sun.”

Eddie twisted the ends of his blond handlebar mustache for a moment. “Well, there wasn’t much left of the stuff in the drawer. The hard drive, though, might still be salvageable. I haven’t had a chance to turn it over to your guys yet because we haven’t determined who gets it.”

“It’s evidence.”

“You’re assuming the fire was arson. So far, we’re treading lightly on that. The manager and assistant manager are both smokers, and while neither of them claimed to have been in there, there was evidence of cigarettes. We’re just checking out everything we can before we turn things over.”

“That’s not like you, Eddie. Come on; can’t you give me a hint?” Sam was irritated. Why was Eddie holding out on him?

“Man, it’s not my doing. Chief says we need to keep a lid on things now. I will promise you one thing, though—when I can release what I find out, you’ll be the first to know.” Eddie smiled sincerely, then hoisted a hefty cooler on his shoulder. “Sure you won’t join us for lunch?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” Sam watched as Eddie strode to the back of the fire station. Sam could hear a basketball being dribbled, then a clang of a rim being hit. “Thanks anyway,” he muttered as he walked out to his truck.
What’s he up to?
Sam wondered as he headed back to his marina.

Chapter sixteen

“Hey, there,” Molly Monroe called to Sam when he was still 200 feet away on the dock. “I like your duck.” She casually pointed to the persistent Mallard that was contently pruning herself on Sam’s bimini despite Sam’s heavy-footed approach.

“It’s not my duck, and how did you find me?” Sam wasn’t sure who to be more annoyed with—the fowl or the girl. He stepped aboard and tried to shoo the duck away from her roost.

“Well, it sure thinks your boat is home.” Molly slipped off her red Keds and climbed aboard without waiting for an invitation. She watched as Sam tried in vain to shoo the duck away, then opened hatches to let some air in. “You know, there’s an easier way to do that,” she called as he moved forward to pop open the forward hatch.

“You an expert on ducks?”

“I grew up on a farm near Mount Airy—you know, Mayberry—and we had ducks all over the place. My brother and I used to throw rocks at them to get them to move, but Mom stopped that. Said it was mean. So we had to come up with a different plan.”

“Yeah? What’d you do?”

“Stare at them. They thought we were choosing which one we wanted for dinner.” With that, Molly stepped up on the raised coaming surrounding the cockpit and looked eye-to-eye at the duck. After a little mild quacking and some hissing, the bird moved off the bimini to the aft rail.

“Well, I’ll be….” Sam was impressed.

“You got a beerrrr?” Molly asked, emphasizing the “r”.

“Little early, don’t you think?” Sam reached for a cold one and tossed it up to her as she made herself comfortable in the cockpit.

“Nice cushion design. Is there a patent pending?” She pointed to the cuts in the fabric.

“Something like that.” Sam joined her in a drink, but he made his own water instead of beer. “How did you find out where I lived?”

“Friends in low places. Most everyone knows where cops live in a town this size. Your address isn’t too hard to discover, if you know who to ask.”

“And you, of course, do.”

“Yep. I know lots of things. My brother was always in a bit of trouble, so I had to bail him out from time to time. Knowing the right person to help was a big deal when I needed it.”

“Where is he now?”

“Davy Jones’ locker, I guess. His body was never recovered, so I can only take the story for what it’s worth.” Molly took a long drink, clutching her green bottle tightly. “Still, I sometimes wonder. He was a good kid at heart; just not too bright about certain things.”

“What was he into?”

“Drug-running for the big boys. I tried to get him to come work for me delivering boats, and he did it a couple of times, but I guess he thought he had to earn more.”

“Big boys?”

“Dude, for a cop, you sure are dumb. That isn’t your beat, is it?”

Sam felt his face grow hot. “My ‘beat’ is special investigations. I am a detective, not a beat cop. And beat cops don’t deal with ‘big boys,’ anyway. What do you know?”

“Well, I got to thinking while I was drinking at the Barbary Coast. Maybe I got in your way that night because of karma.”

“What?”

“I was supposed to be there. You were coming up from Southport, and I was too. Karma is what brings people together for a purpose. You said you thought you were in the way, and I started to think about what you might have been getting in the way of—what I might be able to help you with. And besides, maybe you could help me.”

“Depends. What do you want help with?”

“I want to know more about my brother’s death. If he was in somebody’s way, then maybe we could work toget—”

“No.” Sam cut her off. “I don’t want a partner. I don’t need a partner. The last one I had got his head blown off.”

“Now see? You do care. I was beginning to think you didn’t.” Molly batted her eyes at Sam in an exaggerated fashion. “I asked around a little last night and got the word that your partner was killed not too long ago. Sorry, man; what a horrible way to go. Did he have family?”

Sam was silent for one full minute. “Why were you checking out my story, Molly?”

“Actually, I just wanted to know if there was something on you. I mean, if anyone knew anything about why somebody might be running you down on purpose. When I started talking, so did my friends.” Molly fidgeted in her seat under the weight of Sam’s stare.

“And what did you learn?”

“What you just told me, about your partner. Sorry about that.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, that’s why I came to find you today. I think you’re getting into something deep, and I think my brother might have been sucked into the same trap. So I thought if you learned anything, you could, you know, share.”

“If I find out anything, it’s police information, not for public consumption, especially not for a vigilante sister.”

“Even if it’s your buddies on the force who are setting you up?” Molly’s question hung in the air like Spanish moss on a live oak, its full gray length apparent, but not the many chiggers it contained.

“Talk,” Sam said, leaning forward.

“There’s this guy I know. He was a friend of my brother’s, and he said there’s something going on that your partner got messed up with. He didn’t say how, but he had seen him around a few times down there.”

“Down where?”

“Navassa. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but he got in the way, so he was taken care of promptly. Anyway, my friend started putting two and two together, and he saw that the same folks involved with my brother’s death were the bozos who got your partner. I suspect they’re the same ones who have your number, now.” Molly watched Sam’s face cloud over.

“We’re going sailing,” Sam said quietly. He went forward to secure things and then called back up to the cockpit, “The key is on the hook in the aft cabin. Fire her up.”

Without questioning him, Molly handed her empty bottle to Sam as he moved around the galley, then looked down the aft companionway where she saw a tarnished bronze hook with a key hanging on it. Sam watched as she took the wheel cover off, double-checked the position of the throttle and gear shifter, and then started the engine. He watched her check aft overboard to see what was coming out, take note of the wind’s direction, and head for the lines on the port side. Sam could hear Molly working her way around the boat, removing lines in confidence.

Feeling the boat move, Sam glanced up from his task of storing all loose items below in the galley and watched Molly as she slowly backed out of the slip, casting the last line to the top of the starboard-side piling as the boat moved past it like a rodeo champ. He came topside in time to see her push the engine’s gear shift forward slightly, nudging the throttle to get some forward momentum as
Angel
glided out of the marina’s narrow fairway. She turned north toward the Myrtle Grove Sound, a thin channel of water between the mainland and Outer Banks lined with posh homes on one side and dredge spoil islands on the other.

Sam moved aft to take off the canvas cover from the mizzen. A random spider fell as he readied the sail and lines, then moved to the center of the cockpit coaming where he could reach the pull-cord on the StackPack containing the main. The engine’s noise droned until they reached the shallow chop of Carolina Beach Inlet. Once in open water, Molly pointed the boat into the northeasterly wind. Starting aft, Sam raised the mizzen, then unfurled the Genoa. The wind pushing, urging, Sam raised the mainsail and returned to the cockpit. Molly pulled the air choke to stop the engine, refusing Sam’s offer to take the helm.

“No, thanks; I’ll take it on the reach; you work it back.” Molly looked content at the helm to be on the water.

She looks different from the person who tried to pick my pocket,
Sam thought. With her wavy hair, freckled skin that made her look more youthful than Sam guessed her to be, and her piercing green eyes, Molly was not unattractive. She’d never be mistaken for a beauty queen, but she was clever. She knew more than she was telling.

They sailed in silence for a while, Molly getting the feel for
Angel
as she steered slightly first to port, then to starboard, catching the wind in the sails. The Genoa’s luffing soon subsided as Molly got it right, and the boat danced through slight waves, free from her marina slip’s tethers, and doing what she was built for after a long absence from the waves. Light winds of ten knots made for a pleasant, easy sail. Sam was glad to be away from the slip, too.

Chapter seventeen

“Start from the beginning,” Sam said over his shoulder, as he tightened the mizzen’s halyard, and inspected the sails, which were long overdue for a cleaning. Brown spots left from mud daubers’ nests created a polka-dot pattern on the sail, and Sam vowed silently to clean them all before taking the boat out again.

“Well, a lot of this is hearsay, but I think it’s reliable,” said Molly, keeping an eye on the two short pieces of fluttering yarn that hung from the bimini’s metal frames, one on each side of the boat. The solid bimini blocked her view from the sails’ luff tapes directly overhead, so these would do well to tell her when she veered too much off the wind.

“My friend Jimbo is a good guy. He and my brother did some things together when they were kids, and neither of them really ever grew up. But I think when my brother died, well, Jimbo got scared. Now, he wants to do right. So he started talking, hoping that word would get to somebody who could do something about it. I’m trying to do what I can to help him, see, and as it turns out, your partner was, too.”

“What’s this about?”

“Drugs. There are some big boys who run them up the coast. Drugs come in from Costa Rica, sometimes spending time in the islands, and sometimes coming into Southport. Word is that a fishery down there is the distribution point for the States.”

“I can see that. Lots of trucking going on,” Sam ventured.

“It’s not just the trucks. There are a lot of ‘tourists’ who come through, and the guy who runs the place, Tripp Johnson, he fills their orders, so to speak, before they get to town. He lets the runners know what he needs. Then they go fetch the order. Jimbo was a runner with my brother.”

“What about the Coast Guard? Don’t they suspect something?” Sam thought for a minute about his own son. Was he facing the same stuff in his work?

“Sure; they stop a lot of boats, but they really are outnumbered to do any good. There are an awful lot of boats buzzing around. And it’s not just the go-fast boats, or the shrimpers, though that’s what most people think. Anybody can be a runner: kayakers, fishermen in small craft, even sailboats, though that’s a different angle, better used for long-distance hauls.”

“I’m all ears,” Sam said as he leaned back.

“Well, it’s not as difficult as it looks,” Molly started. “I mean, anybody can be a mule, and the haul can vary, depending on the size of the boat. For instance, a twelve-foot Boston Whaler could bring in several hundred pounds, and that’s the way it’s always been. Probably won’t change, either. The water is like the highway; anything goes. You know those huge cargo ships you see out there on the horizon? Some of the big dudes use those. Others, well, they’ll hire guys like my brother to run it in. Even kayakers can do the job; it’s just a question of dollars and risk, and like realtors are fond of saying, ‘location, location, location’.”

“Location?”

“Yep. Location can add to the variety. You know scuba divers sometimes have those extra tanks? Let me tell you, it’s not extra air they are carrying. They dive down to a particular location, pick up what they need, bring it to the boat, and place it in a false bottom on the underside of the vessel without even breaking the water’s surface. Pretty imaginative, right?”

“And then, of course, there’s the shrimpers. Most people suspect them, and while lots of honest guys are out there, just as many are looking for a different kind of catch. They can stay offshore for long hauls, and then bring it in close enough for the little guys to get in on the action, so they act as middlemen and jack the prices. On the left coast and in the Gulf of Mexico, you got oil rigs, and they make for nice landmarks and drop-offs. Their pipes are good places to store stuff, too. Depending on their depths, divers can go get their loads, which are usually packaged in waterproof bags. Nice work for a diver.”

“What about the Coast Guard?”

“Well, they are around, of course. But frankly, there’s just too much of it going on for them to do anything about it. And there’s so much water out there!” Molly made a sweeping gesture with her hand, pointing out the immensity of the task.

“I’ve talked to a few from time to time, and they sigh and shake their heads. They tell me that it’s like the fishing story of the big one that got away: they might catch a little one, but the vast majority go unnoticed. It’s a losing battle, and the chain of command knows it. Trying to catch the real punks is a drain on the Coasties. Their equipment is too slow and antiquated, and their manpower is insufficient. One Coastie told me he guessed that their catch-rate was one per one hundred. The press gets all excited, and our fearless governmental leaders start frothing at the mouth about one catch, but in reality, that’s just the very tip of the iceberg. Besides, there’s so much money to be made at the trade that there’s always that temptation looming larger than life. That’s what got my brother, and probably Lee.”

“How did Lee get involved?”

“He just got in the way. He was helping some kids stay out of trouble by taking them sailing, so he had a reputation for being a good guy. One of the kids he was looking out for was the son of a reformed hooker in Navassa. He’d helped her get off the street, so when her own child started getting into trouble, she called Lee, and he stepped up to the plate to help this kid stay clean. He did a good job, too. That kid’s now doing well in school, I hear.

“Anyway, when Tommy was killed, his girlfriend leaned pretty heavy on this woman for emotional support. She wasn’t sure what to do, taking care of a little girl all alone in this mess. She’s a cutie, my little niece is. I try to help Emily and—”

“Deloris?”

“How’d you know?”

“She sought me out at Lee’s funeral. Your story was beginning to sound familiar,” Sam said. “I told her to get out of town. She said something about Florida.”

“Yeah, she has relatives down there. She and Tommy talked about opening a dive shop. Sounds pretty cool, you know?” Molly pulled the Genoa in a bit as she let the boat steer itself. “Hydraulic steering?”

“Yes. It’s pretty good on the wind. The mizzen makes her sail to weather. Watch her fall off.” As he spoke, the boat started to slow as she turned into the wind slightly, and the wind luffed the sail.

Molly righted the course and
Angel
picked up speed again. “I was thinking I might join them in Florida before this all happened. When did you talk to her?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Um-hum,” said Molly softly. “Did she give you any leads as to what happened?”

“She suggested Lee knew. That’s about all she had to offer.” Sam thought about the notes and numbers he’d stashed away. “Does 211-8717 mean anything to you?”

Molly repeated them. “That’s not a local prefix. No, I don’t recognize it. Did you see that scrawled on a bathroom wall or something? ‘Looking for a good time?’” Molly did her best Mae West impersonation.

“Something like that. Here; let me take the helm.” Sam slid over toward the helmsman’s seat. “You want some lunch? There’s stuff below. Help yourself to whatever you can find.”

Molly took the hint and headed below. She found a half-eaten bag of chips, some pretzels, and an apple. She also pulled two waters out of the refrigerator before coming topside and offering the lot to Sam.

“So what do you think Lee found out?” It was Molly’s turn to fish for information.

“Whatever it was, it was hot. His desk at home got searched, and whoever was after it must have thought I got it because my boat got tossed on the same night Lee was killed.” Sam pointed to the slashed cushion covers. “He was making a matrix of some kind. I just haven’t had a chance to sift through it yet. That may have something to do with this mess.”

“Where is it?”

“Tucked away,” Sam said as he stuffed a handful of chips in his mouth. “What do you know about the fire at the Golden Sun Hotel?”

“What makes you think I know anything about that?” Molly sounded defensive.

“Because you seem to know a lot about what goes on in this town. Your friends, you know.”

“I don’t know all that much. I just focus on stuff that matters.” She turned away and watched the horizon.

Seeing that he’d hit a nerve, Sam apologized. “Were you and your brother close?”

“Yep.”

“Look, Molly; I think we got off on the wrong foot. We obviously have common information about certain things. Your brother and Lee were both into something they shouldn’t have been into, and they both got waxed. Assuming it was a set-up, we might be looking for the same person.”

“We?” Molly looked directly at Sam, her eyes flashing, but her mouth curling into a smile. “You mean ‘we’ should work together on this case? Like partners?”

“Don’t get carried away, Molly. Let’s just start with what we’ve got. If I find out anything more, I will let you know, and I want you to do the same. But you don’t need to go find trouble for yourself. Understood?”

“Whatever.”

“Let’s start with why you were in Southport last night.”

“I told you, I wasn’t in Southport; I was delivering a boat for some guy on Bald Head Island from Wilmington. He got fresh with me on the ride home, so I decked him. He had a glass jaw, I guess, because when he hit the deck, he didn’t get up again. I tossed an anchor overboard for him and then jumped overboard near Brunswick. I swam ashore and was looking for a ride when the guy with the deer lights came screaming by.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, almost.”

Sam got in her face. “Look; if we’re going to work together, you have to tell me everything you know about this, or I can’t help. What’s worse, if you don’t start being honest with me, you could get us both killed!”

“Well, don’t get your boxers in a knot. I was getting around to telling you. I got to the marina on Bald Head earlier than the new boat’s owner expected me, so before I met up with him, I did a little sightseeing. I walked over to the lighthouse. I wanted to see the view, so I climbed the stairs. Pretty spectacular, if you haven’t been up there. You can see out to sea for quite a ways, something like twenty nautical miles.

“As I walked around the inside reading the signs about the structure and the history, I noticed a memorial plaque on the wall that commemorated the service of a woman cop who died on the grounds there. It reminded me of the story I had heard a few months earlier. There was little information about it in the article because, of course, it’s
the island
and nobody
ever
dies over there. Anyway, that happened about the same time my brother got involved with the wrong crowd.

“I started thinking about that, and thinking there might be a connection to the guys who killed my brother. So this morning, I dug up the article in the newspaper’s archives.” Molly pulled from her shirt pocket a computer-printed copy of the article. She read the first paragraph to Sam:

Melinda Southerby thought her new gig on Bald Head Island would be a peaceful change from her stint as a police officer in Miami, Florida, but the job cost her dearly: she lost her life while off duty. After only two months on the force of the coastal North Carolina resort island, the Florida native was found shot to death at the base of Bald Head Island’s lighthouse. She was dressed casually, and the Island police chief reported that she was not on duty at the time.

“So here’s this supposedly experienced police officer who’s joined the rent-a-cops over there. She’s out for a moonlit ride in her golf cart, just enjoying the peace and quiet, right?” Molly put the paper down, pondering the circumstances. “The story would have us believe that she just got in the way of somebody who was doing something wrong there…certainly not a resident, though. She wasn’t on duty, so she didn’t have her gun or her radio to call for backup. That’s what the story says.”

Sam smiled. “But you’ve figured out the rest of the story, right, Sherlock?”

“Look; she drove to the lighthouse where the only lighting is the dim one on top and a few accent lights pointed back onto the lighthouse from its base for ambiance. She got in the way of something. Or someone. But what was she doing there? Was she supposed to meet somebody? A lover? Did she get a tip that there would be a reason to be there at exactly that time?

“And how come nobody heard the shot? There are houses all around there. Here’s my guess: the gun was fired exactly as one of the ferries left the terminal and blew its horn! So whoever told her to come to the lighthouse and fired that fatal shot knew the boat schedule, or was watching the boat’s lights, or had some inside information about when it would blow its horn before leaving the dock to make a much-ignored racket that covered the gunfire! And how come there wasn’t a pack of dogs searching the island for a trace of dope, or a person, or something to help determine what all was involved?”

“Whoa, Monroe. You are getting a little carried away, here. Why is this story important to what happened to Tommy and Lee?”

“Because Jimbo was the lookout that night…and Tommy was in the creek behind the lighthouse, waiting for their ‘friend’ to meet the cop. If you stick with me, you see that she had connections in Miami, and she was planted on the island to ensure that the goods were going through the way they were supposed to. Jimbo said she was there to meet the locals and help make the connections with ‘tourists’ who passed through the island, then back to the mainland with their treasures.”

“What went wrong?”

“She was stepping on toes. Her boss in Miami was reaching into the North Carolina territory. Johnson and friends didn’t like it, so they sent a message to the Miami boss this way.”

“Who was the trigger?”

“Jimbo says it was Tripp Johnson. He’s scared now, and he thinks Tripp will be on to him as soon as he learns Jimbo didn’t go down with my brother. He’s been hiding out all this time, trying to get enough money to get away for good.”

“So you are thinking Tripp took out your brother and Lee?” Sam said. “Why was Johnson after Tommy? He was doing a good job running the load, wasn’t he?”

“Sure, but knowing Tripp wasted a cop—even if she was a plant—made Tommy nervous. He wanted out. Tripp wasn’t about to let that happen….”