T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril (31 page)

“Theresa had a drug in her system when she got shot through the window,” Brad told me. “A long-sounding name I can’t pronounce, but it’s one of those psychoactive drugs used for interrogation. People call them truth serums. There’s not an accepted medical use, except some psychiatrists may use such drugs in conjunction with hypnosis, with the patient’s consent.”

“You think Jonathan injected her to make her talk about Denny?”

“The woman seemed perfectly sober when she showed up looking for the money.” Brad frowned. “This is a drug that’s relatively fast-acting, I’m told. So, yeah, I think the doctor injected her. And I have a hunch that he got something pertinent out of her before the shooting.”

“Jonathan is still MIA?”

“Nobody has seen or heard from him since we decided to let him have a go at Theresa in his office. He’s not using his credit cards or cell phone. Driving a vintage Chevy Corvette. Fully restored. A ‘69, I think. Anyway, there’s no GPS tracking on that baby.”

We stopped to let Cracker sniff the base of a tree. He seemed to enjoy it. “If Jonathan did get anything out of Theresa, why didn’t he share it with us? Why did he take off?” I pulled on Cracker’s leash. If I didn’t, he’d hang out at the tree all day. “Unless he’s out there, toting a shotgun, playing vigilante.”

“He was sober and sincere when he convinced us to let him have a private talk with Theresa,” Brad said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I agreed. “But not in hindsight, I guess. We shouldn’t have left him alone with her, especially since he blames himself for the doctors’ predicament with Denny.”

“We’ve got to find Ray Donnell Castello and do it soon.”

We stopped at The George, a popular dock-and-dine restaurant on the Riverwalk. I tied Cracker to a shaded bench, and we found an outside table where we could keep an eye on the dog. Brad pulled stapled papers out of his hip pocket. “This is a list of everything found on Theresa’s person and in her purse. The other pages are copies of wallet contents.”

Still full from my late breakfast, I didn’t want more food. Brad ordered a soft-shell crab po-boy. We both opted for sweet iced tea. “You have an address on her yet?”

He shook his head. “Turns out that she gave us a bogus last name. The old Chrysler van she drove isn’t registered. Stolen tag.”

I went over the list of Theresa’s belongings: makeup, cigarettes, loose change, prepaid cell phone, hairbrush, tampons, key chain with a car key and two unidentified house keys. Nothing unusual, except for an aspirin bottle that contained a variety of yet-to-be-identified pills. Brad took a bowl of water to Cracker. I turned my attention to the photocopied stuff. No driver’s license or other ID. No credit cards, insurance cards, or even preferred customer discount cards for the grocery or drugstore. Sixteen dollars and change in cash. And several receipts. Brad returned to find me studying the receipts.

I pointed to one. “You notice anything odd about this one?”

“No. Pay-at-the-pump, date and time stamped. It’s a mom-and-pop convenience store. They don’t have any exterior security video. And the employee working at the time didn’t recognize Theresa’s photo. Which means that it’s a useless gas receipt.”

“She bought premium,” I said. “Why would she put premium gasoline in an old Chrysler van?”

“She wouldn’t,” Brad said. “Which means that either she has another car or she was putting gas in Denny’s car. Good catch.”

“Maybe he’s trying to enjoy all the finer things in life that he couldn’t get in prison. A sports car. And fresh seafood.” I pointed to a generic cash register receipt with a printed message at the bottom: “We like to get fresh!” “There’s not a business name on here, but I recognize this receipt. I’ve been there. It’s from Akel’s Seafood Market, near Carolina Beach.”

“So she eats seafood.”

Brad’s sandwich arrived and he dug in.

“They
eat seafood,” I said. “This receipt is for three items, and at twenty-four dollars, I’m guessing it was food for more than one person.”

“And?” Brad said.

“The area around Carolina Beach is low-key, right? Lots of cottages and beach rentals. Relatively quiet. It’s a perfect place for Denny to hide.” I snagged one of his French fries. “Your people have been showing his photo at extended-stay hotels and businesses in Wilmington. What if he’s living somewhere else?”

Brad ate, drank, wiped. “We don’t have the manpower to encompass a larger radius.”

I found a second Akel’s receipt. Both were dated within the past week. “Why would she drive all the way to this market, unless it’s near Denny’s nest? Wilmington has plenty of fresh seafood everywhere. Why not buy it around here, closer to where the network has been doing business?” I answered my own question. “Because she wanted to wait until she got closer to his house, so the fish wouldn’t spoil in a hot car.”

“I guess we’re taking a trip to Akel’s, then,” Brad said.

He finished his lunch, and we walked Cracker back to the Block.
A big A-frame menu board had been set up at the hostess stand to peddle a lunch special: “Grilled salmon on a couscous salad with a zesty orange glaze and sautéed asparagus.”

“Crap,” I griped, scanning the restaurant to see a bigger than usual lunch crowd. Garland was at it again.

Chef’s hat towering over his head, Spud hustled over to us and waved his walking cane at the people. “We’ve got a lot of the same regulars who ate the booey-base last night, for crying out loud. This cooking thing is fun!”

Brad’s gaze wandered toward the kitchen.

“Spud is taking a cooking course,” I said, and led Brad outside. “Let’s get on over to the seafood market, shall we?” I threw Spud a warning glance over my shoulder on our way out. I didn’t want my customers getting too used to Garland’s creations.

Rubbing the scab
behind his ear, Jonathan drove steadily toward the beach, doing the speed limit. The cut from flying glass probably should have been stitched up, but as long as it didn’t get infected, he’d be fine.

Theresa didn’t know the actual house address where Denny lived, but she had described the general area and given Jonathan a detailed description of the beach cottage, including the fully fenced backyard and the single dead palmetto tree in the front yard. It was a third-row rental in need of repairs, she’d said, but it was quaint. Perfect for another month, until they left North Carolina and headed south.

The drug Jonathan injected had performed beautifully. He’d pilfered helpful details about Denny, such as the fact that the ex-con loved fresh seafood, which Theresa prepared on a charcoal grill. He liked to take early morning swims in the ocean, just as the sun came up. He often hung out at the docks, talking to the fishermen, and would sometimes help unload and sort their day’s catch.

Jonathan learned that Denny had several prison contacts who would be joining him in the network once they moved to a new location. And Denny owned three or four handguns, Theresa had said, right before she was shot through the window. Jonathan wasn’t too worried about the guns. He planned to incapacitate Denny before the man had a chance to go for a gun. With an injection. He’d hold Denny at bay with his shotgun if he had to, while he waited for the drugs to take effect and the police to come. With Jonathan’s eyewitness testimony of Theresa’s murder and whatever the DEA had on Denny, the man would end up in prison. Hopefully for life this time.

Dressed in shorts and boat shoes, windows down on his vintage Corvette, Jonathan cruised the streets for half an hour, stopping periodically to snap digital photos with his cell phone. He paid special attention to the cottages on the third row back from the beach, looking for a fenced backyard and a dead palm. People injected with “truth serum” drugs sometimes confused fantasy with reality, so he didn’t place too much emphasis on the fenced yard. Perhaps Theresa’s dream house had a fenced backyard and Denny’s rental didn’t. The dead palmetto tree, on the other hand, had to be an accurate detail. He took photos of one in particular that looked promising, as the dead tree with dried-up brown palms was just in front of the front door, as Theresa had described. Unfortunately, though, he spotted dead palms in the front yards of several beach rentals, and he couldn’t go barging into every one of them.

Taking a break, Jonathan found an oceanfront snack bar and ate a hand-dipped ice-cream cone while he studied scattered clumps of people spread out on the beach. He watched a father help his two young daughters build a sand castle while their mom took pictures. A woman jogged by with a beautiful Dalmatian. An elderly couple napped beneath a flapping umbrella. Jonathan took more pictures using his cell phone, capturing the shoreline and the rows of beach houses beyond. Finishing the last bites of his crunchy waffle cone,
Jonathan decided right then and there—standing on a patch of Atlantic near Carolina Beach—that it was time for a change. He used to believe that his work made a difference in his patients’ lives. Now he’d become weary of listening to people yak on and on about their problems. He’d begun to loathe going to the office.
Everybody
had problems. Hell, he had his own problems. More precisely, one main problem. As soon as he cleared up the mess with Denny, he would notify his partners of his departure from the Divine Image Group. Leo and Michael would understand. They’d probably be glad for him.

Jonathan climbed back in the ’vette and explored until he found boat docks that accommodated big fishing boats and shrimp boats. He parked in a dirt lot and saw exactly what Theresa had described. With the cell phone, he took more photos, figuring that he could always pass them along to Jersey Barnes if he failed to locate Denny today. As he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, a sense of déjà vu pricked at the main nerve running along Jonathan’s spine, as though he’d already experienced what was about to happen. The marina
was
Denny’s hangout. It had to be.

Jonathan didn’t smoke, but he bummed a cigarette from a dock-worker. Lighting up to blend in, he spotted a shrimp boat moored to the dock, its crew laboring to secure the boat and unload their haul.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he said to a kid who was tying a rope to a giant cleat. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine. I think he helps you guys out sometimes when you dock.”

The kid carried another thick rope to a different cleat on the dock. “What’s his name?”

Jonathan pulled a small square photo out of his pocket. Denny and Theresa were the subjects, the picture taken in an arcade photo booth. Theresa always carried it in her cigarette case, she’d said, and shown it off proudly. Stoned from the injection, she hadn’t noticed when Jonathan kept it. “Depends on what nickname he’s using at
the time,” Jonathan said through a chuckle, and held up the photograph. “When we were kids, everybody called him Denny.”

The kid scanned the parking area and pointed to a white Mazda MX-5. “That’s his car. He’s around here somewhere. Probably on the boat, shootin’ the shit with the guys.”

“Okay if I go aboard? I’ve got a big surprise for him.”

The kid checked out Jonathan’s boat shoes. “No difference to me,” he said. “Probably mess up your new treads, though.”

“They need to be broken in.” Jonathan finished his cigarette and thanked the kid, thinking he should break in the new shoes on Denny. Heading to the ramp, he captured a cell phone picture of both the shrimp boat and Denny’s Mazda. He paused to save all the recent photos in a single file, which he attached to an empty text message. He wasn’t sure if he’d have to send the photographs, much less what to write, but he’d figure that out later.

Nobody
paid much attention to Jonathan as he made his way along the finger dock and stepped aboard the boat, trying not to grimace at the overwhelming stench of fish. He came across a group of wiry men gathered around a cooler, and one instantly caught his attention. Jonathan couldn’t see the man’s face, but he knew instinctively it was Denny. The criminal who’d thrown his life into a tail-spin. The man who had crushed his heart.

“Why did you have to kill her, Denny?” Jonathan said to the man’s back. “Rosemary was
working
for you, trying to help me out. She didn’t deserve to die.”

Denny pivoted, a beer can halfway to his mouth. He was probably nearing fifty, maybe more, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His pores reeked of meanness, Jonathan thought.

“Well, looky who we’ve got here,” Denny drawled, his voice rough like a smoker’s. “Dr. John, our very own headshrinker. You
look a lot older than your photo in the medical journal. Not to mention that pimply-faced runt on your college ID.”

The blood left his extremities and Jonathan wanted to strangle the asshole. He forced himself to remain detached, like he did when talking to patients. “Honestly, Denny. I’d like to know why you felt it necessary to kill her.”

Denny’s friends sensed a disturbance and got cocky with their body language. Denny waved them off and finished his beer with one tilt of the can. “Just an old acquaintance,” he told them.

The men finished their beers with long chugs and went to work to unload their haul, damp shirts clinging to their backs, cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Seagulls circled overhead, foraging for discarded scraps. Denny retrieved a smoldering cigarette from atop a rusty ice chest, took a long drag, and flicked it overboard. So he littered, too, Jonathan thought. A murderer, a dope pusher, and a litterbug. The scum that somehow managed to float to the surface of humanity’s pond.

“Rosemary snorted some nose candy—you know, to experience the product she’d been storing for me,” Denny said. “She did line after line. Of course, I had a knife to her throat at the time. Although I probably didn’t need the blade. Hell, she was already half-wasted.”

Jonathan suddenly wished he had a gun. He wanted to kill Denny, regardless of the consequences, but the shotgun in his car wasn’t doing him a bit of good. He probably couldn’t have gotten on the commercial boat with it anyway. He should have stopped somewhere to buy a pistol. He gripped the cell phone in his pocket. Whatever happened between him and this monster, he decided, the photos needed to be sent. “Why? Why did you overdose her? You had to know it was too much!”