Dead Run

CHAPTER 31

Sunday, November 18

6:10 p.m.

A favorite with locals because of its “pets allowed” policy, Dog Beach was a sandy stretch between Waddell Avenue and the Atlantic Ocean, tucked up next to Louie’s Backyard restaurant. Naomi Pearson had been discovered by a golden retriever chasing a Frisbee. The dog’s owner had used his cell phone to call the police-after upchucking in a toy pail left behind by some kid.

Carla stood several feet from the deceased, a handkerchief doused in cologne pressed to her nose. The stench was, quite simply, unbearable.

Carla had known it would be and had come prepared. She’d been part of the team that had investigated a drowning last year. She’d gained firsthand experience that bodies decayed differently when submerged, reacting with the water to create a waxy, yellowish and rancid-smelling substance called adipocere. Over time, adipocere replaced the muscles, viscera and fatty tissues of the body, giving the corpse a bloated, nightmare appearance. The warmer the water, the faster the decomposition.

As corpses went, Naomi Pearson’s was pretty damn grotesque. Bloated beyond recognition, head half-severed, gaping wounds on her torso, the corpse looked at once human and creature brought up from the bowels of hell.

Carla glanced to the right, toward Louie’s dining veranda. No way Naomi had been here long. Even a light breeze in that direction would have shut the place down. So, where had she been all this time? Dragged back and forth by the currents? Hung up on something under the water?

From behind her came the sound of a car door slamming. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Val had arrived, thank God. Being alone with this vic was making her itch. She felt as though she should be doing something, but she didn’t know what. She was out of her depth here. Way out of her depth.

Carla signaled to Val, then waited as he crossed to where she stood. As he neared her, he brought a handkerchief to his nose. He, too, had come prepared.

“Who found her?” he asked when he came within earshot.

“Somebody’s golden retriever. Owner’s pretty shook up. Questioned him, then sent him on his way. Got his name and address, of course.”

“Scene’s secure?”

“As well as a place like this can be. Got it cordoned off. I put Reese on the north side and McKinney on the east.” She noticed a group forming on Louie’s dining veranda. “Wind must have shifted.”

Val glanced toward the restaurant, then turned his attention fully to the victim. For long moments Val simply studied her, then he moved closer, circling slowly, expression intent.

Finally, he lifted his gaze to her. Carla saw that his eyes were watering. “You know for sure this is Naomi Pearson?”

She nodded. “Her handbag washed up with her.”

“Touch anything else?”

“Are you kidding? No way.”

“She disappeared how long ago?”

“Last seen Thursday, November 1st. Seventeen days ago.”

Val frowned. “It doesn’t look like her killer tried to weight her with anything to keep her submerged. My guess is he tossed her and her belongings into the ocean. She must have gotten caught on something that kept her under. Her handbag, too. Tides changed, dislodged her and up she popped.”

“You think the same guy who killed Tara killed her?”

“Seems obvious to me. Doesn’t it to you?”

Carla always concurred with Val. Without Rick as her partner, she thought of Val as both her superior officer and her mentor. She opened her mouth to agree, but said instead, “ Tara was left where she was killed, Naomi was moved. Why’d he change his ritual?”

Val looked at her, obviously surprised. “Ritual, Chapman? Have you been doing a little reading at night?”

Her cheeks heated. She had been. She didn’t know why, but she had suddenly felt as though it was important for her to take a proactive approach to her career. Maybe she was tired of feeling like the KWPD bimbo. “Yeah, a little.”

“Good job.” He turned his gaze back to the victim. “As for your question, I don’t know the answer. Responding to his environment. Circumstances. But what I do know is, two killings on this island is two too many.”

From behind them came the sound of others arriving: the evidence-collection team, a couple of guys from the sheriff’s department and a medical technician.

Val met her eyes. “I need you to do something for me. Check out a kid named Mark Morgan. Run a priors on him. He rents a room over on Packer. Apparently he’s disappeared, but you can talk to his landlord. If you can get a legal look around, do it.”

She glanced at the approaching officers, then back at him. “What’s this about?”

“If we’re lucky, a murder suspect.” He looked at the remains of Naomi Pearson. “We sure as hell need one.”

Carla did as Val requested. Mark Morgan had no priors. No known aliases. He was twenty years old and grew up in Texas. His landlady, a Key Wester who claimed to have met Ernest Hemingway on one of his visits to Sloppy Joe’s bar during the forties, had nothing but good things to say about the young man.

“Sweet as pie, that one,” the woman said, leading Carla down the hall to Mark Morgan’s room. She stopped in front of a door and looked at Carla, squinting against the curl of smoke rising from the cigarette dangling from her bright coral lips. “Anytime I needed something, he was happy to help. Always ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ from him. I was sorry to lose him.”

“He moved out for good?”

“Don’t know for sure. He didn’t pay his rent this week, and I haven’t seen him.” Her hands, knotted with arthritis, shook as she found her master key. “That’s the way it is with these kids. They rent by the week then move on. He was here longer than most.”

Carla didn’t hide her disappointment. “The room’s been cleaned then?”

“Not yet. My girl who cleans for me, she’s been under the weather.” She smiled; the cigarette wobbled, its inch-long ash dropped to the floor. “Besides, I kinda hoped he’d come back.”

“You ever see him with other kids? A girlfriend?”

“A girl sometimes. Dark hair. Pretty.”

Tara had dark hair. “You think you could identify her from a picture?”

“Maybe.” She drew her eyebrows together as if a thought was suddenly occurring to her. “Is Mark in some sort of trouble?”

“Not necessarily, ma’am. Just following up on a couple leads.”

The landlady unlocked the door. Carla stepped inside. The unit consisted of a bedroom and kitchenette and smelled slightly stale, as if it had been closed up a while. She scanned the interior. The bed was neatly made. A Bible lay on the nightstand. She crossed to it and picked it up. The leather was soft and worn from use, the pages well thumbed. It was bookmarked in the Book of Revelation.

She returned it to the nightstand then crossed to the three-drawer chest. She opened the top drawer, found it empty, and opened the next two. They, too, were empty. She found the tiny closet the same way.

She turned to the landlady, hovering in the doorway, watching her. “What’s through there?” She pointed at the partially closed door across from the kitchenette. “Bathroom?”

“Uh-huh.”

Carla crossed to it and pushed the door open. Several pieces of dirty clothes littered the floor. It looked as if the kid had stripped, stepped into the shower and left the garments where they lay. A towel had been used and thrown over the shower ring.

Carla pushed aside the curtain and peeked at the tub. The faucet dripped. A half-empty bottle of shampoo sat on the window ledge behind the shower. A scrap of soap sat in the dish. A whisper of warm, humid air slipped through the cracked window casing.

She replaced the curtain, frowning. Mark Morgan had left without even taking the time to pack all his things.

She shifted her gaze to the clothes on the floor. They were heavily soiled, she saw. Bending, she carefully plucked a T-shirt from the pile. The light-blue fabric was marked with big, dark stains.

Blood, she realized, dropping the garment and straightening. Excitement bubbled up inside her. This nice ‘yes ma’am, no ma’am’ kid had bloodstains all over his clothes.

“You find something?” the landlady asked from the doorway behind her.

Carla swung to face her, blocking the pile of clothing. “Would you excuse me a moment? I need to make a call.”

The woman backed away to allow Carla room to pass. She closed the bathroom door behind her and dialed Val’s cell. “Make one wish,” she murmured when the man answered. “And I bet I can make it come true.”

“Mark Morgan?”

“Bingo, boss. I think we’ve got our prime suspect.”