The King Tides

Chapter 14 Dark Territory

Boston’s in Delray Beach was Lancaster’s idea of a bar. Fifty different draft beers on tap, clams on the half shell, and a clear view of the ocean. The four-lane road in front was ankle deep in water from the King Tides, and he parked several blocks away.

It was nearly three o’clock. Karissa Clement had agreed to meet up at the bar and answer his questions concerning Zack Kenny. Over the phone she’d sounded willing to talk about her ex-boyfriend, which he took as an encouraging sign. Getting victims of abuse to relive difficult memories was never easy.

He was running late and started to hurry. First impressions were important when interviewing victims, and he didn’t want Karissa not to like him. Kicking off his Topsiders, he crossed the flooded street and hustled down the sidewalk toward Boston’s.

At the front door, he put his shoes back on and entered. The interior walls were covered in framed memorabilia of all the good things that Beantown had to offer. Happy hour didn’t start until four o’clock, and the place was quiet.

He took a chair at the bar and cased the room. Two seats away, a drunk sipped rum and chatted to a cockatiel perched on his shoulder picking at his beard. Three seats from him, a teenager in cutoffs drank a Coke, her feet barely touching the floor. There was no sign of Karissa, and he wondered if she’d gotten cold feet.

“Looking for someone?” the female bartender asked.

“I’m supposed to be meeting a woman at three,” he said. “She’s named Karissa, lives in town. Has she been in?”

“That depends. Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Were you once a cop?”

“I was. Don’t tell me I once ran you in.”

“Hardly. I knew from the way you scanned the bar when you sat down. Most customers stare at the TV first. You didn’t. That was a tell.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I see a lot. If a person walks into a room and there’s a TV on, their eyes will go to it first. I read that ninety-nine percent of the population does that.”

“What does the other one percent do?”

“Nothing. They’re blind. What’s your pleasure?”

“Give me a Corona, no fruit.”

“You got it.”

While she poured his beer, he checked his cell phone for messages and found none. He’d hit a dead end, and he decided not to let the trip go to waste.

“What’s the best thing on the menu?” he asked.

“I’m partial to the lobster bisque,” she said, serving him.

“Give me a bowl and some crackers.”

“Coming right up.”

He sipped beer and watched the soccer match on the TV. The best part of living in Florida was that it didn’t take very long to feel like you were on vacation. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the bartender talking with the teenager in a hushed voice. The teenager hopped off her stool and came toward him.

“You must be Jon,” she said.

He hated to be wrong. This girl was too young to be Karissa. Then he noticed the crow’s-feet around her eyes and realized she was much older than he’d thought.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he said, unable to hide his surprise.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened,” she said. “Let’s get a table in the restaurant so we can have some privacy.”

He threw down money for the bisque and the beer, and they went into the adjacent restaurant, which had old black-and-white photographs of commercial fishermen and the Red Sox adorning the walls. They picked a table in the rear of the otherwise empty room.

“I realize it’s none of my business, but how old are you?” he asked.

“I’m thirty-one, soon to turn thirty-two,” she said. “I know, I don’t look it. You said over the phone that you wanted to talk about Zack. Is he up to his old tricks?”

She had turned the conversation to her ex-boyfriend without prompting. That was unusual, and it made him wonder if she had an ax to grind.

“Your ex-boyfriend is stalking my client, who happens to be fifteen years old,” he said. “I did a background search, and saw that you slapped a restraining order on him. I was hoping you might tell me why you did that.”

“I was afraid he was going to hurt me.”

“Was he violent?”

“Our relationship was moving in that direction. He was texting me every half hour, and when I didn’t answer him right away, he’d call me. I work in a hospital ER as a nurse, and we’re not allowed to keep our cell phones powered up. Zack started showing up when he didn’t hear from me, demanding that I stop what I was doing so he could see me. He got escorted off the hospital grounds a few times.”

“Were the police called?”

“No. The hospital handled it internally.”

“Is that normal procedure where you work?”

“I asked them to.”

She frowned at the memory, and he could tell that the conversation was starting to hurt. She eyed his glass of beer sitting on the table. He pushed it toward her, and she picked it up and took a long swallow. It left a foam mustache on her upper lip. She wiped it away and then took a deep breath to get her courage up.

“I would have bought you a beer, but I didn’t think you were old enough,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it. I used to like Zack. A lot. I asked the hospital not to call the cops because I didn’t want him getting in trouble.”

“So the relationship was good at the beginning. Do you still care for him?”

“Hell no. If I saw him, I’d take off running.”

“How did you meet?”

“eHarmony. At first, we exchanged emails, and later we talked on the phone. He seemed nice, and he had a great job. Most of the guys on the dating sites are losers. Zack was different, and had class. Our first date was amazing. Can I have the rest?”

He said sure, and she downed the rest of his beer.

“Zack showed up at my apartment complex in a chauffeured limousine stocked with champagne and caviar,” she said. “We had this amazing meal at Monkitail and then went to the Hard Rock and saw Usher. We had front-row seats that cost a small fortune.”

“That’s some first date.”

“It was way over the top. He swept me off my feet and made me feel like a princess. We started seeing each other, and he didn’t let up. It felt too good to be true. After a month, the bubble burst, and things turned to shit. Do you mind if I vape?”

“Not at all.”

She pulled out a vape and began sucking on it. It had a hypnotic smell that he realized was dope. It calmed her down, and she said, “That’s better. Where was I?”

“You were about to tell me how things went sour.”

“It was a Saturday night. He came to pick me up, and I met him at the front door. I’d bought this leather outfit that was really sharp, and he looked at me and said, ‘No.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ and he said no again, only louder. I said, ‘You don’t like my new outfit?’ and he says, ‘It’s horrible. It makes you look old. Take it off.’ I thought he was kidding, so I said, ‘Should I wear something else?’ and he takes out his cell phone and pulls up a photo of me wearing a sundress and says, ‘Wear this. I love this outfit. And put a ribbon in your hair.’ I asked him if he was serious, and he said yes, so I changed. But it bothered me. I’ve never had a guy ask me to change my clothes before. We went to eat at the Capital Grille, and Zack went to the restroom and forgot to take his cell phone. I wasn’t feeling good about things, so I picked up his phone and saw that the screen was on and hadn’t timed out. I searched the photo gallery and found hundreds of photographs of me, including a bunch that he’d taken when I was asleep after we had sex. In one of the photos, he’d put a pair of handcuffs on the pillow next to my head. It was nasty.”

“Did he ever put the handcuffs on you?”

“That came later.”

“Did he do it against your will?”

“Uh-huh. We were in his condo having sex, and I dozed off. When I opened my eyes, one of my wrists was handcuffed to the headboard. I started screaming, and Zack picked up a pillow like he was going to smother me. He got too close, and I kicked him in the nuts. That woke him up, and he let me go.”

“What do you mean that woke him up?”

“Zack got weird during sex. His eyes would gloss over, and he’d make all sorts of demands. He’d never done anything violent, until the handcuffs.”

“Is that when you had the restraining order put on him?”

She stared at the floor, ashamed. “I wish.”

“You didn’t break it off?”

“No. Zack begged for another chance, so I gave it to him. Stupid me. I guess I liked the fancy restaurants and concerts too much.”

They took a break so Karissa could suck on her vape. Lancaster went back into the bar and got his glass refilled and bought a beer for Karissa. The bisque sat on the bar, growing cold. The drunk was eyeing it, and he pushed the bowl toward him. Back inside the restaurant, he handed the beer to her. She thanked him and took a long swallow.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“That’s a relative term,” she said. “I never feel good talking about Zack. I’m talking to you because I hope you can get him locked up.”

“Would that make you feel better?”

“No, just safer.”

“Got it. What led to the restraining order?”

“A month after the handcuffs, Zack went crazy on me. We were having dinner at Coconuts and I showed him the drawing of a rose tattoo I wanted to get on my wrist. It’s hard being a nurse when you look as young as I do. Some patients think I’m a candy striper and won’t let me treat them. One of the other nurses suggested the tattoo to make me look older. I thought it was a good idea. Zack didn’t.”

She became quiet and stared at the floor. They were entering dark territory, and he treaded cautiously. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He kept saying, ‘No, no, no, you can’t do that.’ I asked him, ‘What’s the big deal?’ and he said that a tattoo would ruin his image of me. I said, ‘What image is that?’ Zack said he wanted me to stay a little girl. I said, ‘Is that all you care about?’ And he said yes. I got so pissed off I threw a glass of water in his face and ran out. There was a couple getting out of a cab, and I jumped in and went home. That night Zack sent me a threatening text, so I went to the police and got the restraining order.”

“They should have locked him up,” he said.

“The detective in charge wanted to. Problem was, I stayed with him after he handcuffed me to the bed, which made the whole thing look consensual. My bad.”

The retelling had emotionally drained her, and she shut her eyes.

“Want me to get you something?” he asked.

“A shot of tequila,” she said.

His chair scraped the floor as he started to rise.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

“Sure.”

A minute turned to two before Lancaster spoke again. “I appreciate your telling me these things. I know it’s tough.”

Her eyes slowly opened. “I think about Zack every day. I think about going into my apartment and finding him there. Or getting in my car and having him jump me. I can’t scrub him from my memory no matter how hard I try.” Her open purse lay on the floor between her feet. She picked it up and showed him its contents. Inside was a can of Mace, a pair of brass knuckles, and a handgun. She was carrying around a small arsenal, and it still hadn’t made her feel safe. Only locking Zack up would do that.

“I went and got a concealed-weapon permit,” she said. “I go to the range three times a week. It’s expensive, but what other choice do I have?”

“None,” he said. “I’m sorry he hurt you.”

“I know you are. So were the cops when I spoke to them. Everyone’s sorry, and no one does anything. You told me that he’s stalking your client. Want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Zack took hundreds of photographs of me and kept them on his cell phone. He was obsessed with me, and looking at those photographs fueled his obsession. That’s the opinion of a psychiatrist at the hospital where I work. If Zack hadn’t had those photographs to look at, he wouldn’t have gotten so crazy on me.”

“Was that the psychiatrist’s opinion?”

“Yes. She said that Zack was a sexual deviant, and that deviants fantasize over images and become slaves to them. When I told Zack about the tattoo, he saw the image of me changing, and his twisted psyche couldn’t handle it.”

“What’s your advice?”

“Don’t let him photograph your client.”

Her words gave him pause. The thread that connected the Hispanic in the pickup and the Canadian tourist on Los Olas and Zack Kenny was that each man had alternated looking at his cell phone and staring at Nicki. Were there images of Nicki on their phones that were fueling their obsession? And if so, where had they come from?

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”