CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We were gathered around my dining room table, the Dulcimer file spread out among the remains of the several pizzas we’d ordered from Oma’s on Anna Maria Island, the ones delivered by a teenager driving a new Jaguar, an island oddity that amused me and ensured a generous tip. I liked the boy’s chutzpah.
We’d been at it for a couple of hours. The day was dying. There would be no sunset this evening, at least not one that we could see. Dark clouds blanketed our island, hanging low and menacing, giving us a slight and unformed sense of dread, a feeling that evil was in the wind that blew from the mainland, a disconnected pathos that often comes on dismal days when the sun stays hidden and our little world is blighted by the grayness of it all. Perhaps it was only I who felt the small depression working up from my gut, the blackness of mood that I knew from experience could engulf me without warning and turn a merely bleak day into a dark abyss from which I was never sure I could escape.
I shook it off, mentally relegating the negative emotions to the oblivion that lurks somewhere deep in our minds where we banish thoughts that can overwhelm and ruin us. But I knew that dark tendrils of dread, like black wisps of some evil cloud, would play for hours at the edges of my consciousness, beckoning me into the pit. Maybe it was only the sequela of my brush with death beside a rain-swept beach on an island paradise that should not countenance violence, but was subject to it because the key was after all connected to the real world by substantial bridges that did not discriminate between predators and prey.
We’d gone over all the documents in the file, including a copy of the Coast Guard accident investigation. Each of us had read the statements of witnesses and the survivors of the dead. Jock put down the last statement, shaking his head. “Nothing much here that makes sense. How many of the passengers did you talk to?”
J.D. said, “As many as we could. There was no passenger list, but we did get the credit card receipts of those who paid that way. If they paid with cash, we had no way of finding them.”
“I don’t see but a few of the passengers’ statements here,” said Jock.
“There weren’t many,” J.D. said. “We talked to each one of the ones we could find, but most didn’t see anything or know anything. We transcribed the statements of those who had anything of value, no matter how small the nugget of information. They’re all in the file.”
Jock held up a handful of statements. “It doesn’t look like any of these people ever saw the Hooters girl and the lawyer together.”
“No,” J.D. said. “All we have is a few people who think they remember seeing them on the boat. We had pictures of both victims and we e-mailed them to the people we talked to if they’d already left the area.”
“Were you able to find any kind of connection between the girl and the lawyer?” asked Logan.
“Nothing. Nada. Zip,” said J.D. “The lawyer and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Garrison, were staying at the Colony Beach and decided on the spur of the moment to take the boat. Katherine Brewster was at a B and B on Anna Maria and was following the suggestion of the owner, a Mrs. Jeanette Deen.”
“I’d like to talk to Mrs. Deen,” I said. “I wonder if she knows more than was in the statement.”
“You think she was lying?” asked Logan. “No. But there aresome questions that I’d like to ask. We know more now than the officer who took the statement did at the time.”
“What about Katherine’s parents?” asked Jock. “Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to talk to them, too. I don’t know if there is a connection between the Dulcimer killing and Jim Desmond’s murder, but that was not part of the thinking when J.D. took their statements.”
“You’re right,” said J.D. “And I took them over the phone. I’ve never met them.”
I was a bit surprised. “They never came down here?”
“No. The body was shipped back to Charlotte for the funeral. There really was no need for them to come here.”
Logan said, “Let’s think this through for a minute. As I understand it, the only thing we have that might possibly tie the Dulcimer events and the Desmond murder together is the fact that the guy who came after Matt this morning was using a knife that was similar to the one that killed Garrison and Brewster on Dulcimer. And the only way to tie the attempt on Matt to the Desmond murder is that there may be a connection to some Laotian guy named Soupy who grows poppies for heroin dealers and who may still be pissed off at Jim Desmond for kicking his ass five years ago. That’s pretty thin, Counselor.”
“Well,” I said, “when you put it that way—”
“Logan’s right,” said J.D. “There’s a lot of supposition going on here.”
“The fact that the murders all took place on the same day may be important,” said Jock.
“How?” asked Logan.
“Don’t know,” said Jock.
“Coincidence?” asked J.D.
“Doubtful,” I said.
“Why?” asked J.D. “I don’t like coincidence,”I said. “Another one of those famous Royal gut feelings?” asked J.D.
“You scoff,” I said, “but that gut has kept me out of some bad scrapes.”
“And got shot full of shrapnel, too,” said J.D.
“Matt been showing his scars around again?” asked Jock.
“Yeah,” said J.D. “Just about took my breath away.”
“Sarcasm is not healthy,” I said.
“Has he shown you the one on his ass?” asked Logan.
“Not yet,” said J.D.
“I don’t have a scar on my ass,” I said.
“Pooh,” said J.D. “I thought I had something to look forward to.”
“If you’re finished having sport with me,” I said, “let’s get back to the matters at hand.”
“Are all lawyers such stuffed shirts?” asked Logan.
“Pretty much,” I said.
“I think I’d like to talk to Mrs. Deen and then make a trip up to Jacksonville and talk to Mrs. Garrison and on to Charlotte to meet with the Brewsters.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” said J.D. “I’ll make some calls. Pave the way with the witnesses.”
“When do we start?” asked Jock.
“I’ll go see Mrs. Deen tomorrow,” I said.