The Mermaid Murders

Chapter Six

“We hope you’ll be very comfortable here at the General Warren Inn. Just ask for Charlotte—that’s me—if you need anything.” The lanky blonde at the motel front desk slid a keycard across the scratched maple counter.

“Thanks.” Jason picked up the plastic card and glanced back at Kennedy, who had already finished checking in and was walking out the sliding lobby doors into the dark courtyard.

It was eight o’clock on Saturday night. After the search for Rebecca had been placed on hold, he and Kennedy had continued to work their way through the remaining statements. They had come up as empty-handed as the volunteers scouring the woods and hills.

Sometimes no news was good news.

The search—both on foot and on paper—would start again at first light.

Charlotte was watching Kennedy too, and as the doors slid shut behind him, she said, “I remember him from the last time. He stayed here then too.”

She looked to be about eighteen, which would have put her around age eight when Kennedy had been in Kingsfield working the Huntsman case. Jason didn’t doubt her though. Kennedy would always leave an impression.

“Did he leave a nice tip?”

Charlotte looked surprised. “He did, yeah.”

Jason winked at her and started to turn away, but she said quickly, “Do you—do you think you’ll find her? Rebecca?”

“Is she a good friend?”

Charlotte shook her head but then nodded. So which was it? Yes or no? Maybe Charlotte wasn’t sure. “I know her. We hang out sometimes. A bunch of us, I mean. What I wanted to tell you—”

When she didn’t continue, Jason asked, “What?”

“You’re wrong about Tony. He didn’t do anything to Rebecca. He wouldn’t have any reason.”

“No?”

“It’s over between them. On both sides; Rebecca just doesn’t want to admit it yet because she likes using Tony to piss her parents off.”

Charlotte was a cute girl. She had wide blue eyes, expertly lined in black, and shiny hair bound in two braids. Not Little House on the Prairie braids, but chic fashion-magazine-style braids. Jason said, “And you know this because you and Tony…?”

She blushed. Nodded.

“I see.” Good news for Rebecca’s parents and bad news for Charlotte’s, in Jason’s opinion.

She raised her chin. “Everyone knows what’s going on here. Nobody wants to say it out loud, but everyone knows.”

“What do they know?”

Charlotte’s voice dropped. “The Huntsman is back.”

“No.” Jason wanted to be very clear about this. He knew only too well how fast rumor spread in a small town. “Martin Pink is sitting in solitary confinement in a supermax prison right this minute.”

Charlotte was not impressed. “Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—” She broke off as a tall, sandy-haired man of about fifty stepped out of the back office. He wore glasses and a mustache so bushy it looked fake.

“Charlotte, can I see you in here?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Charlotte left the front desk at once, throwing Jason an apologetic look.

The man studied Jason, nodded politely, and turned away.

The General Warren Inn was not actually an inn. It was a motel and a pretty basic one. The Bureau did not typically spring for five star accommodations. Jason’s room appeared clean and functional, and there was a shiny, solid deadbolt on the door—which was not something he’d used to think a lot about, but appreciated these days.

Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—

Great. Thanks for that thought, Charlotte.

A pair of Homer Winslow watercolor marine prints adorned the walls—nice choice—and the queen-size bed was covered by a navy chintz bedspread that had lost its sheen a few years back. So long as there was a mattress under the chintz, he didn’t care.

As tired as he was, he was even hungrier. He’d skipped breakfast, intending to grab something at the airport, and then there had never been another opportunity to eat. It all felt like a million years ago—which was probably the last time he’d had a real meal. You didn’t join the FBI if you were looking for eight hours a night and regular meal times.

He unpacked his carryall, stared at the ball of wrinkled shirts, and realized he’d have to see about finding a laundromat, assuming this case didn’t wind up tomorrow. What were the chances of that?

Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—

What the hell had she meant?

He washed up in the tiny bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until he was gasping for air. Drying off with one of the bleach-scented towels, he eyed his reflection. Unsurprisingly, he looked haggard: green eyes shadowed, face drawn. Too many memories—and the good memories were just as painful as the bad memories. Which is why he had never wanted to come back to Kingsfield.

Anyway. He was here, and he’d have to make the best of it. He had bigger problems to worry about. Like his reaction to finding himself at the wrong end of a semi-automatic. Just remembering turned him cold and then hot with humiliation.

Jesus Christ. What a total, fucking disaster that had nearly been. What had happened to him?

The eyes staring back from the mirror were wide with horror.

It was okay. McEnroe was safely behind bars, and Jason’s weapon was safely stowed in its holster. Everything was okay. Everything was fine. He would never make that mistake again.

He changed his shirt—only noticing for the first time the bruises and scratches he’d collected in his tussle with McEnroe—shoved his wallet in his jeans, and stepped outside his room.

Two doors down, Kennedy, a tall shadow in the gloom, was locking his own door. Jason’s heart sank.

Kennedy glanced over at Jason. “You want to grab something to eat?” he asked after a couple of beats.

He was clearly as thrilled about the idea of breaking bread with Jason as Jason was at the thought of spending another hour in Kennedy’s dour presence, but since they were both obviously on their way out to eat, it would be too pointed to refuse.

“Sure,” Jason said politely.

“There’s a Chinese place within walking distance. It’s pretty good. They stay open late.”

Staying open late being one of the main things LEO looked for in a restaurant.

“I like Chinese.” Jason fell into step with Kennedy as they walked down the exterior hallway.

Most of the rooms were dark. Below them, the brightly lit pool was an empty aqua rectangle. Kingsfield held few if any tourist attractions. The kind of clientele interested in what Kingsfield was best known for—a series of grisly killings—were not people you wanted to attract.

Kennedy smelled of shampoo and aftershave, so he must have taken time for a quick shower and shave. In contrast, and despite the clean shirt, Jason felt grubby and rumpled.

He followed Kennedy down the open stairs to the courtyard, and they went out through the white iron arches.

Jason didn’t feel like talking about the case, and he couldn’t seem to think of anything neutral to say. Kennedy, seemingly immune to social pressures, strode briskly, aloof as usual.

The streets of Kingsfield were quiet. There was no traffic and very few pedestrians. Lights glowed behind curtained windows and old-fashioned streetlamps were haloed in golden haze. The spearpoint tips of wrought iron railing fences cast militant silhouettes on the pavement as Jason and Kennedy walked past the tidy rose gardens and venerable houses. This did not look like a town where anything bad could ever happen, and yet behind all those shining Kinkadeian windows the topic of conversation tonight would be the latest terrible thing to befall them.

“Now that’s a full moon,” Jason said. “It almost looks like…” He was going to say it looked like Julius Grimm’s 1888 study in oil of the moon and its surface, but realized in time how that would sound to Kennedy, and finished with, “unreal.”

Kennedy glanced at the silver ball slowly rising behind the church steeple, as though verifying for himself that Jason had not got this wrong too.

He grunted.

What had happened in Wisconsin? Kennedy didn’t wear a ring. Was there a Mrs. Kennedy? Did he have kids? A cat? A home? Or did he just live on the road, traveling from scene of horror to scene of horror, trying to make sense of the senseless?

He seemed so completely and coldly self-contained. Had he always been like that, or had the job made him so?

“Charlotte Simpson, the girl who checked us in at the motel, says she and Tony McEnroe are seeing each other.”

Kennedy stared at him. “Now there’s a piece of information. Did she offer to alibi him?”

“No. Was she at the party? Her statement wasn’t in my stack.”

“Mine neither. But we don’t have statements from everyone at the party yet. Here we are.” Kennedy abruptly turned down a small alleyway. It smelled dank. Moss grew along the walls. They went up a short flight of stone steps, and there sat the Jade Empress.

Despite its grand name, the Jade Empress was a modest establishment. In fact, it was downright tiny. It hadn’t existed sixteen years ago; that, Jason was sure of.

There were no more than six linen-covered tables in the dining room, two of them filled with Asian patrons enjoying deliciously aromatic meals.

Jason’s stomach growled so loudly the petite hostess leading them to their table laughed.

They were seated by a window overlooking the dark alley. Kennedy’s chair squeaked loudly as he lowered his weight onto it, but that was as much about the fragility of the old furniture as Kennedy’s size. The table seemed small too, and Jason wondered if he and his dinner companion would spend their meal knocking knees. He had to swallow a smile at the thought.

He picked up the menu and studied it. The Good Fortune Special. The Little Empress Special. The Laughing Samurai Special. Safe to say there would be no genial sharing of plates and exotic flavors with Kennedy. That idea also struck Jason as funny, and he decided he must be suffering from low blood sugar.

Kennedy laid his menu aside and gazed out the window.

Jason made his selection—how could you resist something called Bang Bang Chicken?—and put his own menu down.

Kennedy’s profile did not invite conversation, so Jason studied the restaurant décor. Jewel-colored paper lanterns, oversized folding fans, and subtly tinted Sansebiao hanging scrolls that looked like they might actually be contemporary originals.

Asian art was not his area of expertise—that would be twentieth century California Impressionism—but he knew a little. Everybody on the ACT knew a little about a lot of art. And they were always learning more. With only sixteen agents to cover the entire country, they could never possibly know enough.

The waiter—short, chubby, and jovial—arrived, and they placed their orders. Jason also ordered a Tsingtao—he felt sure he was going to need a drink to get through this meal—and Kennedy ordered something called Naale Stoutbeer.

The waiter departed, and Kennedy went back to staring out the window.

It began to irk Jason.

They were never going to be pals, but did that mean they couldn’t be polite? It wasn’t like Jason had begged to be put on this case. He had been tired after Boston—his first real investigation since returning from sick leave—and had been looking forward to a few days off. It was taking him longer than he’d expected to get back to full speed, and he wasn’t sure why. He was trying to be a team player.

A concept clearly foreign to Kennedy.

Jason said, “Gervase wants to believe McEnroe is his guy. I just don’t buy it.”

Kennedy glanced his way, and Jason once again had the impression he’d been all but forgotten. Kennedy seemed to consider. “He pulled a gun on you.”

“Yes.” Jason was not likely to forget it. “I could see McEnroe killing someone by accident or lashing out with fatal consequences. I have trouble picturing him premeditating murder.”

He was surprised when Kennedy said, “I agree. If he’s our unsub, Madigan’s murder was not premeditated. It would have been an accident or a violent impulse aggravated by drugs and alcohol.”

“Gervase views McEnroe as an undesirable. That might be behind his push to have McEnroe go down for this. He’d like to get rid of McEnroe on general principles.”

“Nobody’s a model citizen one hundred percent of the time.”

The waiter brought their beers. Jason picked his glass up. “Cheers.” Kennedy eyes flickered. Jason continued, “I don’t see McEnroe as someone capable of successfully concealing his crime for any length of time. I think he’d panic. I think he’d make one dumb mistake after another.”

Kennedy’s lips curved in a wintry smile. “Probably.”

“You don’t think he’s guilty either.”

Kennedy did not agree or disagree. “I’m having trouble with the timeline. McEnroe left the Madigans’ around ten thirty. Witnesses corroborate that. And we’ve got it on record Rebecca continued to party for the next two and a half hours as though she hadn’t a care in the world. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t fuming inside and that she didn’t eventually storm over to have it out with McEnroe, but there are no calls to him on her cell phone, and there wouldn’t have been time for him to return her car to the garage before people noticed she was missing. One of the first things her friends did was check whether her car was still there.”

“Assuming the witnesses are telling the truth.”

“There’s always that.”

“It’s also hard to picture somebody snatching her out of her own backyard in front of how many witnesses without someone seeing something. There are about two cleared acres separating the Madigan property line from the woods. Not a single tree in that stretch of land. There wouldn’t be any place to hide.”

“I agree it would be nearly impossible to drag someone kicking and screaming across that distance without attracting notice. But someone walking quietly on her own might make it to the woods unnoticed.”

“You think Rebecca slipped out to meet someone?”

“I think it’s one possibility.”

“I think she’d have taken her phone. Girls her age always have their phones.”

“You know a lot about teenage girls?” Kennedy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I have a thirteen-year-old niece. She never goes anywhere without her phone.”

Kennedy made a sound of acknowledgment. Or maybe that was as close as he got to amusement.

Their meals arrived. Hot and fragrant food on oversized blue and orange plates that looked like Qing Dynasty knock-offs. Jason was surprised when Kennedy tore open the paper-wrapped chopsticks and attacked his dinner with efficient dexterity.

Jason said tentatively, “The Simpson kid said something to the effect that everyone knows the Huntsman didn’t act alone.”

“That was one theory for a time,” Kennedy replied. “We never found any evidence to support it.”

“Was anyone suspected of being Pink’s accomplice?”

“Pink’s brother Dwayne. Deceased.” Kennedy expertly manipulated his chopsticks and popped a shrimp into his mouth. Golden sauce wetted his full lower lip.

“Why do you think the rumors of Pink having an accomplice have persisted?”

“Because it took us—law enforcement—way too long to figure out what was happening, and then to catch the offender. People want to convince themselves that wasn’t a failure on the part of the law, but that law enforcement was up against multiple villains.”

“Hm.” Jason didn’t buy it. He wasn’t sure even Kennedy bought it, but it seemed to be Kennedy’s last word on the topic.

They continued their meal in silence. The food was good, and Jason was very hungry. He had no complaints.

When their chopsticks finally scraped porcelain, Kennedy pulled his credit card out and signaled for the check. “This will go on my expense report.”

Jason nodded. Obviously their meals were going on one expense report or the other. Was Kennedy afraid Jason might view dinner as a friendly overture? No fear of that.

“How long have you been with the Bureau?” he asked as the portly waiter departed after returning Kennedy’s card and the leather guest-bill presenter.

Kennedy signed the receipt and gave Jason one of those direct blue glances. “Seventeen years.”

“That’s…”

“A long time.”

“Did you start out in law enforcement?”

“No.” Kennedy reached for his wallet. His smile was sardonic. “I started out with the Bureau. Why the sudden curiosity? I thought you were the guy with all the answers.”

Which meant what?

“No. I don’t think I have all the answers.”

“I know damn well you don’t have all the answers, Agent West.” Kennedy gave him a slightly derisive smile. He pushed back his chair with a force that rocked the small table and rose. “I’m going to turn in. See you in the a.m.”

That was clear enough. For a second or two Jason toyed with the comedic possibilities of walking a respectful two paces behind Kennedy all the way back to their motel, but Kennedy would not be amused, and anyway, Jason wasn’t quite ready for bed.

He watched Kennedy, a long, pale shadow, descend the narrow stairs to the alley and then stride through the gloom until he vanished from sight. Jason ate the two fortune cookies that had arrived with the bill.

One fortune read: Love for a person must extend to the crows on his roof.

That would be Kennedy’s, clearly. If ever a guy had a permanent case of crows on the roof, it was he.

The other slip of paper read: The happiest life ends before death.

Great.

Jason drained the last of his beer and left the restaurant, retracing his steps through the alley and heading back toward the General Warren Inn. As tired as he was, he was also restless, uneasy. Partly it was just the weirdness of being back in Kingsfield after all this time and under these circumstances. Partly…he wasn’t sure.

When he reached the motel, he glanced through the arches and saw the lamp shining behind the curtains in Kennedy’s hotel room. Maybe Kennedy was working late—or maybe he slept with the lights on.

Jason kept walking.

A block up the street he came to the Blue Mermaid pub. He recognized the flirtatiously smiling mermaid on the retro-style hand-painted sign, grinned inwardly, and pushed open the heavy door.

To his surprise the bar was busy. Not packed, but definitely doing a brisk trade.

Jason went to the bar. “What have you got on tap?” he asked the pretty blonde bartender. She had long, pale hair rippling in waves to her shoulders and glittery blue eye shadow. Her lipstick was a neutral color with a hint of gold. It was startling but effective.

She rattled off, “Anchor, Bell’s, Blue Moon, Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors Light, Corona, Miller Lite, Sam Adams—”

“Sam Adams.”

“You got it.”

Jason leaned back against the bar. Talk about memories. Back in the day they had served a decent lunch, and his parents had occasionally come for the burgers and kitschy charm. He had loved this place as a kid. In fact, he couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one so he could come in here and drink.

The motif was pure ahoy-thar-be-a-shipwreck! relying heavily on clunky wrought iron, broken trunks, and splintered kegs filled with sand and topped with paste junk jewelry. The walls were adorned with pirate flags, fiberglass fish, and kitschy 1950s mermaid memorabilia. The main attraction for his younger self—the pièce de résistance—had been the retro mermaid “tank” complete with plastic seaweed and a giant conch shell.

In actuality the tank was just an ornately framed plate glass window set into the wall and covered with blue cellophane. Once upon a time a succession of scantily clad mermaids had reclined on the glittering blue sand in the room behind the glass, entertaining patrons by genteelly waving their giant rubber fish tails while sipping drinks and reading fashion magazines.

The mermaids had fallen out of favor in the eighties, which Jason always thought was a shame although at seventeen his own taste had run more to mermen.

The black curtains drawn across the front of the tank window cast a slightly funereal air over the former exhibit.

The bartender set his moisture-beaded glass on a fish-shaped coaster. “Did you want to run a tab?”

Jason shook his head. “What do I owe you?”

She told him, and he pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re with the FBI, right?”

He smiled. “Is it my haircut?”

She laughed. “No. It’s your suit.”

“I’m not wearing a suit.”

“Yes you are. Only it doesn’t have anything to do with your clothes.”

It was Jason’s turn to laugh.

She offered a hand. “Candy Davies.”

“Jason West.” They shook.

“You think you’re going to find her? Rebecca?”

Jason said, “I think we’re all going to do our best. Were you at the party at the Madigans’?”

“Me?” Candy looked taken aback. “How old do you think I am? No, I wasn’t at that party. Getting drunk with a bunch of high-schoolers isn’t my idea of how to spend a Friday night.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She tossed her hair in a dismissive gesture. “It’s terrible for her family. Terrible for the whole town. I hope whatever happened, it’s not like…”

“The last time?” Jason finished.

She nodded.

“Do you know Rebecca well?” He sipped his Sam Adams.

Candy’s smile was dry. “I know her. Not well. If you want the truth, I think she’s a spoiled brat. Or at least I sure don’t remember feeling that sense of entitlement at that age. Of course, my parents weren’t rich. Anyway. I’m sorry about what’s happened. She doesn’t deserve to be kidnapped. Or whatever.”

Not kidnapped. There would have been a ransom demand by now. Rebecca had either walked away under her own steam or she had been taken. If she had been abducted, it wasn’t for money.

“I mean, you guys did get the right guy last time?” Candy was only half-joking. A lot of people in Kingsfield were probably asking the same question.

Don’t look at me.

“Yes,” Jason said firmly. “We got the right guy. Whatever has happened to Rebecca, the Huntsman is behind bars.”

One of the patrons at the other end of the bar waved to Candy, and she smiled apologetically to Jason and moved off.

Jason studied the room and revised his original impression. The bar was busy, but the mood was not convivial. In fact, it was a little somber.

The front door swung open, and Boyd Boxner walked in.

Jason considered turning his back to the room, but Boxner would spot him eventually, and what did it matter anyway? He wasn’t afraid to face Boyd. Whatever he had felt, it was a long time ago.

Sure enough, Boxner’s tawny gaze scanned the room and lit on Jason. A weird expression crossed his face. He sauntered over to the bar.

“Jason West,” Boxner said. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

“I assumed you did recognize me. I recognized you.”

This momentarily nonplussed Boxner. He recovered quickly. “So you’re in the FBI.”

“I am.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“It’s a surprising kind of world.”

Boxner was a handsome enough guy, but not the young god he’d been at eighteen. His face was fuller, his waist thicker, his shoulders burly. There was a touch of premature gray in his sideburns. His aftershave was nice though. Something light and herbal and overtly masculine.

He was studying Jason with equal curiosity. His lip curled. “I thought you were going to be the next Jackson Pollock?”

Jackson Pollock? Did Boxner actually know who Jackson Pollock was?

“Nope,” Jason said. “It turns out I wasn’t good enough.”

If he thought self-deprecation would divert Boxner, he was wrong.

“No shit. Somehow the girls always fell for it.” Boxner’s expression screwed up into what he maybe imagined was a soulful look. “The sensitive artiste. Girls always go for that. Which is pretty funny in your case.”

Right. Because Boxner had been one of the first to figure out that Jason was gay. In fact, he’d probably realized the truth before Jason had. Definitely a late bloomer, Jason.

“I gotta confess,” Jason said mildly, “you remember a lot more about me than I do about you.”

Even in the blue-tinged light, he could see Boxner changed color. Score. But it wasn’t true. Jason had had a crush on Boxner for several years. Talk about misguided affections. That was adolescence for you. Boxner had had a thing for Honey and Honey had a thing for Jason and Jason had a thing for Boxner.

Anyway.

Ancient history.

Boxner ordered a beer from Candy. He greeted some of the other patrons at the bar and drank his beer.

Jason could feel they weren’t done though, and sure enough, after a few minutes, Boxner turned back to him.

“I didn’t realize the FBI allowed gays in.”

One thing about training for law enforcement. It taught you to control your temper. And your face. Plus, Jason knew a wide smile was more effective with the Boxners of the world than any amount of huffing and puffing. He grinned and, for good measure, gave Boxner a knowing wink. “Yes. They do.”

Boxner’s face turned red. This time it was irritation, not embarrassment. He wasn’t smart enough to be easily embarrassed. “I would think being gay would make it hard to do your job.”

“Not that I’ve noticed.” What part of his job did good old Boyd imagine he would have trouble with? He almost asked, but really, he didn’t want to hear it. He said, “So, how’ve you been?”

Boxner, however, would not be distracted by chitchat. He sipped his beer and gave Jason a long, brooding look.

“Are you married?” Jason asked. He figured that question coming from him would probably fluster Boxner.

“No,” Boxner said. “Are you?”

Oh, touché.

“No.”

Studying Boxner now, Jason felt rueful amusement at how very wrong his younger self had got it. Boxner was still attractive enough in a blunt, blond way—a bit like a budget brand version of Sam Kennedy—but other than his looks, it was difficult to recall what had been so fascinating about him. Maybe in the end it just came down to Boxner’s certainty, his assurance. Those were mighty rare commodities on the stock exchange of teenage masculinity. Jason, self-conscious and insecure—however well he managed to conceal it—had greatly admired those qualities in Boxner. As an adult he had learned to appreciate men who didn’t assume they were always right or always knew the answer. The adult Jason no longer misread arrogance for confidence.

Boxner said slowly, “It’s kind of a weird coincidence you being back here the same time we’ve got a copycat killer running around.”

That took Jason aback. Both that Boxner took it for granted they were dealing with a copycat killer and that he’d have the balls to imply whatever it was he seemed to be implying.

Or maybe he wasn’t implying anything. Maybe he was just being his normal jerk self.

Jason said, “Yeah, it’s hardly a coincidence since I’m here specifically to investigate.”

“Yep. That’s what’s so weird about it,” Boxner said with grim satisfaction.