“Do you enjoy sneaking up on me, playing dress-up?”
He cast his head to the side with a small, amused smile. “I often worked undercover when I was in New Orleans and, quite frankly, I used disguises in my work as a private investigator. As a matter of fact, Jackson Crow actually mentioned that some members of his unit have found their acting talents to be of use. In a way, acting is part of human behavior. I’m sure you’ve learned that criminals, especially psychopaths, have a tendency to act incredibly sane and rational. We need to be able to play certain parts, as well. And while you’re busy commenting on me, you might take a look in a mirror. I think you’re dressed up, too?”
“Not to make a fool of anyone,” she muttered.
He frowned. “I wasn’t trying to make a fool of you, Ms. Anderson. I was trying to take a ride on the high seas—or river, as it may be—and get a take on the man who owns the ship. A man you might not see with open eyes because he’s been a friend for so long,” Malachi said.
Abby gasped. “Dirk? You think Dirk could be guilty of...this? Of...of anything?” she asked.
Malachi caught her arm and walked her down the dock toward the street. “Ms. Anderson, as I told you, the first thing I did this morning was meet with my friend, David Caswell. And I discovered several things about the deaths. The victims had marks at their wrists that indicated they’d been bound, probably with heavy rope, according to the medical examiner. They all showed signs of blunt force trauma. In other words, they were hit on the head. But in all three cases, the actual cause of death was drowning. So, Ms. Anderson, it looks as if they were held captive, knocked out—and then forced into the water. Water...hmm. That could mean a ship. Look at it this way. They’d been bound and—metaphorically, at least—forced to walk the plank. That kind of implies a ‘pirate’ might have wanted them dead, or they might have met their end off the deck of a pirate ship.”
Abby stared at him. “Oh, no! All right—maybe. But they could’ve gone off a rowboat or...or an oil tanker just as easily.”
“Yes,” Malachi said, “they could have. But how likely is that?”
She shook her head. “I’ve known Dirk most of my life. This is his livelihood. Why would he suddenly go insane and start killing people off his ship—especially without any of us seeing a change in him?”
“No one ever really knows another human being,” Malachi said simply.
“Oh, I think I would’ve noticed bodies popping up in my city over the years!”
“People sometimes crack, Ms. Anderson. Strain, pressure. All the same, no one completely understands the human brain. It’s the most wonderful computer in the world—but just like a computer it can short-circuit. And I didn’t say your friend was the killer. I merely thought it prudent to investigate. Under the circumstances.”
“And you knew I was on that ship.”
“I’m not trying to fight you, Ms. Anderson. I’m not trying to go against you. Look!” he said with exasperation. “I’m here because you wrote to Jackson Crow. I’m here to help you.”
“If you’re going to stalk me, you can quit calling me Ms. Anderson. It’s Abby,” she said. “And—”
She broke off suddenly, blue eyes growing large as saucers as she stared past him.
“Abby?” he said.
She didn’t respond. She was still staring.
“Helen?” she whispered, her voice thick.
Malachi spun around to see where she was pointing.
She was looking at the water, to the far side of the dock. They’d done a good job in the past years, cleaning up the river, but it was impossible to stop a certain amount of natural growth and unnatural garbage from cresting the water and drifting up against the embankment.
There was sea grass or fungus, a plastic soda bottle someone had tossed away and a few cigarette butts. Oil slick covered the water right at the docks, creating little curlicues of blue and purple on the water.
And caught there, just by one of the pilings for the dock, was a body.
Facedown, it appeared to be a woman—long strands of river-sodden hair fanned out from the head. And it appeared that she’d just washed up.
On the slim chance that she might be alive, Malachi took his phone out of his pocket and let it fall on the deck before he dove into the river. Surfacing by the body, he quickly turned her over.
It was indeed a woman. That was all he could really tell as he looked at her face.
And she was dead. River life had already been eating at her flesh. The tip of her nose was gone and her flesh was icy cold and a grotesque shade of gray.
He looked up the five or six feet from the water to where Abby stood on the dock. She was almost as gray as the corpse.
“Call 9-1-1,” he told her.
Despite her pallor, she was functioning. “I already did.”
“Is it Helen?” he asked her.
“I wouldn’t begin to know,” she said, “she doesn’t even look...real.”