Nobody Knows (19 page)

The men were enjoying the ride, probably imagining
themselves as sailors of long ago, bravely facing the elements. They shouted and laughed as water sprayed their faces. “I’m getting great stuff,” Felix called from behind his camera.

Cassie had some vague memory about instructions to pick a spot on the horizon and focus on it. She tried, but it did no good. The feeling grew more intense.

“How you doing back there?” Harry shouted over his shoulder.

“Not great,” she managed to call back.

“Seasick?”

She couldn’t get an answer out. She swung her head and hung it over the side. It was either that or vomit all over the floor of the pristine sailboat.

Cassie turned back to see Leroy trying to keep a smirk off his face.
Macho man
.

The doctor was far more solicitous. “You feel any better now?” he asked.

“Not really.” She wanted to die.

“There are some pills down in the head. Why don’t you go and get them?”

Anything for some relief. She had a story to cover and a script to write. She had to feel better. Cassie eased herself down the ladder.

Inside the tiny bathroom she pulled open the drawer. Beneath a tube of toothpaste, a few toothbrushes, a bottle of mouthwash, and a container of aspirin she recognized an amber pharmacy bottle. She read the typed instructions and popped the prescribed amount in her mouth, washing it down with a sip of water from the miniature faucet over the sink.

As she fastened the cap back onto the container, Cassie noticed the name of the person for whom the medicine had been prescribed.

Merilee Quiñones.

Hurricane or no hurricane, Webb planned to stop for his Krispy Kreme fix on the way to the studio. Between the loss of Merilee and the abysmal shoot with Gloria and Van yesterday, he was under a lot of stress. He deserved the treat.

When he reached the gas station that sold the addictive donuts, the lot was full of cars gassing up in preparation for the storm, and motorists waited in a line that stretched down the highway for their turns at the pumps. Even for a Krispy Kreme he wasn’t going to wait in that mess. His ill temper increased as he battled the traffic that inched along the road, giving him more time to think and stew. He tapped impatiently on the steering wheel as he mentally scrolled through his list of problems.

The police wanted to talk to him about Merilee.

Lou-Anne was apoplectic at the likelihood that publicity about the porn star’s death would lead investigators to Web of Desire Productions and that her friends
would come to know what her husband really did for a living.

He needed
Velvet Nights in Venice
to be a success. His lifestyle and his ego demanded it. But if what they had shot yesterday was any indication, the industry reviews of this video were going to suck.

The windshield wipers swept back and forth. Webb switched on the radio and listened to the announcer’s voice listing local evacuation centers. This damn hurricane was another freakin’ bummer. Even if the house and studio survived the ripping winds and pounding rain, you weren’t out of the woods. The storm surge afterward could do the most savage damage of all, flooding out structures and ruining furnishings and equipment.

Webb pulled into the studio parking lot thinking how, in the end, it always was about money. Even his precious Merilee, whom he had so carefully cultivated, got greedy, demanding a cut of the profits. He had tried to string her along for as long as he could, promising her the world but never delivering.

Now, he didn’t have to.

Harry held Cassie’s arm, helping her off
The Eyes Have It
. “There you go. Back on solid ground.”

Cassie managed a wan smile.

“Thanks a lot, Doc,” said Leroy extending his hand. “Watch
KEY Evening Headlines
tonight and you’ll see the fruits of your labors.”

“If I’m home, I’ll do that.” He shook the producer’s hand. “I’m hoping I can avoid evacuating.”

Leroy and Felix started down the dock ahead of her. Cassie, though she felt too rotten to do it, knew she should seize the opportunity to learn anything she could about the potential story she had pitched to Range on the phone this morning. She held back to talk to the boat’s skipper. “I’d like to ask you about something totally unrelated to the hurricane,” she began.

“Shoot.” Lewis looked happy to oblige.

“I noticed the motion sickness prescription had the name Merilee Quiñones on it, the woman whose hand was found on the beach.”

The pleasant expression changed.

“Yes. I knew Merilee.”

“May I ask how well?”

“Well enough to have her on my boat.”

“Do you have any theories about what happened to her?”

Harry paused, as if trying to choose just the right words. “Merilee was a gorgeous young woman, and she could be a lot of fun. We had some great times together. But she wanted a future and I wasn’t going to give her one.”

Cassie waited. He still hadn’t answered her question.

“I don’t know what happened to Merilee, but I’ll tell you this: she ran with a fast crowd and was into a lot of different things.” He hesitated before continuing. “The porn didn’t sit well with me, but she didn’t want to give it up. That tells you something about her, doesn’t it? A girl like that is destined for trouble.”

HARRY WATCHED
Cassie’s back as she walked down the dock.

How incredibly stupid of him not to have remembered that Merilee’s name was on the prescription bottle. He had been so damned eager to play the shining knight coming to the aid of the beautiful television reporter.

He hoped his responses to Cassie’s questions had hit the right chord. It was obvious to the reporter that Merilee had been on his boat. There was no use denying it. The television and newspaper reports already had revealed the way Merilee made her living, so there was no sense in avoiding the topic.

For the sake of his public and professional life, Harrison Lewis, M.D., had gone to great lengths to keep his relationship with Merilee Quiñones a secret. Now, Cassie Sheridan knew about it.

Merilee was gone, and she was never coming back. On the one hand, that was a relief. On the other, it was a real worry. It wouldn’t take long for the police to find their way to his door.

Van paced the living room of his condo, oblivious to the pounding rain outside. The porn awards he’d won in his salad days seemed to mock him from his bookcase. Pictures of a swarthy, muscular, glowering youth haunted him from their frames. No longer would he have to suffer Merilee’s snide comments about his prowess, her taunts reminding him that his best days were behind him. The things that were truest hurt the most. For Van, hurt equaled rage.

He’d always had a problem controlling himself, even as a little kid. His mother, if he had to call the bitch that, was forever sending him to his room. At first, only when he answered her back or talked in church. Later, when she caught him in lies or got calls from school about his cutting up in class and cheating on tests.

His mother was the guilt queen, always crying and pleading and begging him to tell her where she had gone wrong. How the hell was he supposed to know? He just did what came naturally. But she couldn’t accept the way he was. She kept dragging him to church to pray for his soul.

At sixteen, he finally made his escape. But not before he hauled off and hit her. It was just one good swipe across her pious face, but God, did it feel right. Years of frustration and rage culminated in that hard swat. Van left her weeping on the kitchen floor, and he never looked back.

At first, it had been rough for a teenager on his own. With no high school diploma and no one to look out for him, he’d gotten a job flipping burgers and slept at a homeless shelter that was run, ironically, by a church. But that place had too many rules and regs. Residents had to be in by ten o’clock each night. It was as bad as being at home.

He took to hanging around a local gym, eventually getting a job as a towel boy. The owner let him work out when things were slow. Within a couple of months, Van’s body was hard, his muscles well defined.

Van lied about his age when he went for his next job, a performer at Ladies Night, one of those joints where women came to ogle and cackle as oiled studs danced and thrust themselves in their faces. It didn’t take long before Van became the club’s most popular attraction.

He enjoyed the adulation. Unlike his mother, those women adored him, and they showed it in the bills they stuffed in his low-slung belt. He could afford the rent on a small place of his own.

For a couple of years he danced his ass off, until the owner of the club approached Van with a proposition. He knew a guy who shot adult films. He was always looking for new talent. The owner would introduce Van to Webb Morelle, and if it worked out, Van could throw a couple of bucks the owner’s way. For Van, one of the best reasons for giving it a go was the knowledge that his mother would hate the idea so much.

Van sat back in his leather recliner and surveyed his surroundings. Twenty years of filmmaking wasn’t a bad run. It had paid for this condo, the boat docked down at the marina, the late-model cars he liked to drive fast, and the trips he liked to take. He had some money in the bank. But not enough to live on for long if he lost his source of income.

That was why Merilee had gotten to him with her barbs. She had struck him where he lived, where he was most vulnerable. Once you’ve lived in a homeless shelter, you don’t want to go back.

His mistake was that he had hit her.

While Webb had convinced Merilee to drop the charges, somewhere the sheriff’s department would still have a record of her complaint.

He rose from the chair and walked to the bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a small envelope and a fresh razor blade. He made the preparations on a hand mirror and sniffed the line of white powder.

Immediately, Van felt better. More powerful, more invincible. Younger. He grabbed his keys and went out for a little ride in the rain.

How many shots of backed-up traffic could you get? Brian knew he had more than enough pictures of bumper-to-bumper cars heading off Siesta Key. He had parked the WSBC-TV microwave van at the side of Ocean Boulevard and stationed himself in the rain, shooting while Tony Whitcomb interviewed motorists who had nothing to do but wait and complain.

“It’s a good thing we got an early start. I’d hate to see what this will be like later in the day.”

“This is a nightmare. There should be more ways to get off this island.”

“I hope all these people aren’t going to the same evacuation center. There won’t be enough room.”

The plan was for Tony to write a short script that would be fed back to the station from the van via microwave, along with all the video Brian had gotten. The piece would be edited at the studio. To make their slot on the noon news, they should feed their material in by eleven o’clock.

“The desk wants us to see if we can get some pictures
at the house of that missing kid,” Tony reminded Brian as he began to scribble out his script on a notepad.

“Oh yeah, right.” Brian hoped his queasy stomach wouldn’t get the better of him.

The van traveled against the heavy traffic.

“The cops better let us use our press passes on the way back,” said Tony. “There’s no way I’m going to wait in all this traffic.”

Their lane was deserted, and within minutes they drove through the heart of Siesta Village and onto Calle de Peru.

“It never ceases to amaze me how well you know this area,” said the reporter. “I’ve been living here for years and I wouldn’t have found this street.”

“I checked a map before we left the station,” Brian muttered. “I like to know where I’m going.”

The street was quiet. Many of the houses’ windows were boarded up, but not those at 603. It was as if the owner didn’t think there was anything worth protecting in the shabby bungalow.

“You want to knock on the door and see if you can get somebody to talk to you?” asked Brian.

Tony glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time. I’ve got to get this piece written. Let them voice-over the pictures of the house for the noon show. If we get a chance, we can come back later.”

Brian nodded. He got out of the van, unloaded his camera, and got to business. He was ready to put the camera back in the truck when the front door of the house opened.

A boy carrying a cardboard box under his arm
walked down the front steps. He paused when he spotted the conspicuous news van.

Tony saw the boy, too. The reporter rolled down his window and called to Brian. “Hey, that’s the kid from the beach the other day. The one who found the hand!”

They both knew what to do. Tony bounded from the truck, Brian got up to speed, and they descended on the kid.

But Vincent would have none of it. He refused to answer the questions the reporter threw at him. He walked on toward the beach having learned his lesson. Talking to the television people could get you in trouble.

Leroy snapped his cell phone closed after his conversation with New York. “We should have all the pictures of evacuation traffic we need from WSBC. They’ve booked a window to feed in that material directly from the station this afternoon.”

“So New York’s going to edit?” asked Felix.

“Yep.”

“Fine with me.” Not having to edit the piece gave the cameraman one less big thing to worry about.

Leroy turned to Cassie, who sat alone in the backseat. “So we’ve got the marina stuff and the evacuations. New York is also going to do a telex interview with someone from the National Hurricane Center that we can throw in. It would be nice to have another element. Any suggestions?”

Cassie’s mind hadn’t been on Giselle. She was thinking of her conversation with Harrison Lewis, which led to Merilee, which led to Vincent and his missing brother. She had made sure her cell phone was on, hoping Vincent would call her back, but he hadn’t.
She hesitated to call the Bayler house again. If Mark hadn’t turned up, Cassie didn’t want to put Wendy in the position of having to say it another time.