One bad thing, p.9
One Bad Thing, page 9
Dressed in a clean pair of shorts and a tee shirt, he felt more normal. Even though he was still logy from the blow on the head, he didn’t feel as confused as before. He went about rinsing the boat below with fresh water, and then came up on the deck, which was largely dry now, and went about polishing all the handrails and rubbing down the mast, and any other surface where Cain may have left fingerprints. McKenna found relief in the mindlessness of the tasks. After putting in an hour and a half on the deck, he took out the wood polish, and went back below. After an hour of steady work, the wood gleamed in a way it hadn’t for months. He washed and scrubbed the bilges with soap and fresh water, and then ran the pump with the clean water until he felt sure the coppery smell of blood was finally out of the close cabin.
Then he went back on deck and leaned over the rail and washed the sides of the boat as best he could, struck by an image that the bloody water flowing out of the scuppers and through the bilge pump may have stained the Wanderer for anyone to see at a mere glance.
McKenna removed the drain plates and washed them on both sides, then he plunged a soap covered wad of cloth down each drain valve as far as he could reach—and he still knew that wasn’t enough if he were ever truly investigated.
McKenna found himself considering sinking the Wanderer. Maybe rigging an explosion.
It made him feel crazy, and he thought maybe the concussion was still affecting him.
And it made him taste just how different he had become.
Thinking of destroying the boat he loved.
What next?
McKenna came across Cain’s duffel bag. Immediately, he began looking for something to weigh it down, anxious to get it off his boat. He decided upon the big wrench and just as he was slipping it into the bag, he saw Cain’s passport—and the soap bottle.
McKenna gave a short little laugh.
Just an exhalation, as much a gasp as anything.
He’d almost thrown the diamonds overboard.
He swallowed carefully. Maybe he still should. He certainly hadn’t killed Cain and Gleason for the diamonds. Hadn’t done any of what he’d done in the past few hours for the money.
McKenna sorted through his limited supply of pots and pans until he found the colander. He opened the bottle and squirted about half the soap into the colander, and then ran cold water over the milky goop. Moments later, he was looking at a dazzling yield of precious stones, spinning and glittering under the rush of the water.
Rich, he thought. I’m rich.
He gave the short little laugh again. Laughing alone in the cabin. I’m a rich killer.
What a difference a day makes.
Around two, McKenna made himself a pot of coffee and opened a can of soup. He ate a package of crackers waiting for the soup to get hot, and then sat down with the small pot and ate the soup at the nav station. He was ravenous. Some of the shaking in his hands subsided when he was full, and even after a couple of cups of hot coffee, he felt sleepy and drained.
He went back on deck and saw the fog had entirely burned off. As far as he could remember from the conversation he overheard between Cain and Gleason, Cain well may have been running from someone, but it seemed as if he’d been successful at getting away. So McKenna couldn’t see how anyone would find his way to him.
McKenna closed his eyes, feeling the sun. Maybe he was all right. He was so exhausted at the moment, he felt like he could fall asleep right there on deck. In the sunshine.
He told himself he was safe.
CHAPTER 14
LANGDON DAWDLED AT THE BACK OF THE STORE UNTIL THE ONLY OTHER customer left, and the young woman was alone.
This was one of the few grocery stores on Tortola within walking distance of the main docks and marina. The store carried just about everything: basic foodstuffs with an emphasis on the nonperishable. Canned goods, freeze-dried vegetables. Rows and. rows of marine parts: lines, chain, cleats, turnbuckles, fishing gear, outboard motors, charts, a wall of electronics equipment.
The girl—early twenties—had a young child behind the counter. About two years old, maybe a little more. Whining, of course.
Langdon had good eyes, a requirement of the job. And he picked up that the girl wore no wedding ring. She was friendly with the last customer, but seemed tired. When she stepped around the counter to rearrange a display, he saw that her figure was good, not great. Little leather anklet, boat shoes, khaki shorts, and well-washed blue shirt. Honey blond hair in a single loose braid. Face looking rather pale behind her tan.
“Help you?” she called to him.
Langdon took her for an exhausted single parent and planned accordingly. He strolled up to the counter and picked up a copy of the local newspaper. “Good God,” he said. On the cover was a picture of Vincent’s crying wife and children, highlighted in the harsh white of a flash. Behind them, two grim-faced black men carried a stretcher laden with a body bag.
“Awful, isn’t it?” The girl stood beside him, looking at the paper.
She was an American.
He sighed. “People come here on vacation to get away from this sort of thing.”
“Tell me about it,” the girl said, and rolled her eyes. “I’m from New York.”
He smiled. “Well, awful as this is, you’ve still picked a better place to raise your child.”
“Hmmn,” she said. But he saw her looking at his hand quickly, also noticing the lack of ring, perhaps. She glanced at him appraisingly, but he smiled in a fatherly way. Better for what he was after.
“Well …” she said. “How can I help you?”
He put the picture of Cain on the counter. “I’m a private detective.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding?”
“Not at all.” He took out an I.D. that identified him as Stephen Cross, private detective. He’d chosen to locate Cross in Boston simply because Cain had bragged to Vincent’s daughter about his supposed Harvard days. Langdon had his secretary, Madeline, ship the I.D. to him airborne. In truth, Stephen Cross was a child who had died six years ago of entirely natural causes. Little Stephen had a social security number, so Ronnie and Ian kept him alive in both a fictitious and financial sense.
Langdon said, “I told a young lady I’d look for her husband. Ex-husband. Deadbeat dad.”
“Oh, I’m familiar with the term,” the young woman said. She stepped behind the counter and leaned over the photo. Immediately, she gave a bitter little laugh.
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. This must be your guy.”
Langdon felt a quick stir of excitement. “Why’s that?”
“ ’Cause I thought he was cute.” She bent down, kissed her son’s blond head, and said in that kind of lisp parents use when playing with their children, “I’m attracted to rascals. Right, honey?”
Attwacted. Wascals. Wight.
Langdon kept an indulgent smile on his face. It wasn’t too hard, really. The girl was cute, so was the kid.
“That would sound like our friend,” Langdon said. “I understand he’s a charmer.”
“Aren’t they all,” the girl sighed. She looked at the photo. “But he’s not dangerous, is he?”
“Only if you’re married to him,” Langdon said. Then he threw in, just for salt, “… he’s known to use his hands if he doesn’t get his way.”
“Prick,” she said. “But that shouldn’t be a problem, the boat he’s going over on.”
“Really? And why’s that?”
She made a face and didn’t answer.
That made him want to grab her and force things along a little, but he knew better. She was working at it.
“I can’t remember their names. Captain is a nice guy, early forties. Quiet. Wife’s a doll. Though I figured they were having some problems, that they weren’t getting along. That’s why she put up the little notice, looking for a crew. Yeah, she flew back to the States herself.”
“Now who would this be?”
The girl closed her eyes, thought, and then shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry.”
“You said there was a piece of paper? A notice?”
“Right.” The girl walked around the counter and led him over to a bulletin board that was near the men’s room. It was covered with fliers and little postcards, everything for sale from life jackets to sixty-foot yachts. Offers from people wanting to crew and boats offering crew positions. She looked over these carefully, and then shook her head. “It’s not here. These are newer, anyhow. That boat left a few weeks ago.”
She turned to him and raised her palms up. “Wish I could help.”
Just then, another customer came in. A young black man looking for a jam cleat for his sailboat. Langdon drifted away while she helped him. He made a point of keeping his back to the black man. No sense creating a witness in case it became necessary to get ugly in a few minutes.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He rather liked the young mother and her little boy and it would be a shame to have to hurt them. Besides, he had an idea when he saw the black man charge his purchase to his account. The girl wrote out a receipt.
After the black man left, Langdon came back to the counter. “It looks like you keep names and boats.” Langdon pointed to the metal receipt box. “Perhaps you’ll remember them if you see their name.”
She made a face. “I don’t know. I’d have to check with the owner about giving away names like that …”
Oh, you don’t want to do that, he thought.
Langdon considered offering her cash. He certainly didn’t mind the expense, but already she was looking a bit wary. She held herself well. The type to be offended by a direct bribe. Probably came from some money herself. But he had the feeling she was on her own. Maybe things weren’t so good with mommy and daddy since the little bastard was born.
Langdon said, “I understand your concern. It’s just that I promised this young lady. You see, it was easy for me to find him when he was in the U.S. Just a few calls, some clever work on the computer, and I found him. But once he started traveling the world on boats, it’s gotten a bit more difficult, but not impossible. She has one about your son’s age and …”
“I’d like to help,” the girl said. She tousled her son’s hair. “I appreciate what you’re doing… . I wish someone would do the same for me. If Billy had come through with any of what he should… .”
She shook her head, abruptly.
“Full of excuses, is he?”
“I’m sure. Wherever he is.”
“Maybe he’s sailing away with this guy,” Langdon held up Cain’s picture.
“In spirit, you bet. No, he’s back wherever his parents have stashed him. They say they haven’t seen him in years, that he just took off. More likely they’ve got him working for one of their subsidiaries someplace, but I can’t find him.”
Langdon raised his eyebrows. “Want me to make some calls when I get to the States? If he’s in the country, and if his parents are well-off and visible, I can virtually guarantee I can find my way to him. From there, it’s up to your lawyer.”
The girl looked at Langdon, thoughtfully. “You’d do that?”
“For a small fee, after you’ve made your settlement. But I do need to take care of my current client.”
“Huh.” The girl said, “Watch my little rascal, will you?”
She left him alone with the boy. Langdon reached over and stroked the kid’s head. Blond hair as soft as a puppy’s. The kid looked at him solemnly and then gave him a shy smile. Langdon smiled back but resisted the urge to turn his r’s into w’s.
Kids and dogs.
In the movies, they were supposed to have a sixth sense about who was good and who was the monster.
In Langdon’s experience, they were as clueless as everyone else.
The girl came back with a box of receipts and went through the past month’s stack. She slowed down about three weeks in, and then said, “Okay, yeah. That’s it.”
She turned three receipts over so he could read them. “The Wanderer. That’s the boat. Rob and Caroline McKenna. Then here’s the receipt where the guy you’re looking for came in and signed his name to the Wanderer’s account. I told him that I’d let him take the stuff down, but that Mr. McKenna had to come in and settle the bill himself.”
Langdon looked closely at the signature.
Tom Cain.
Langdon said, “The McKennas … do you know where they’re from?”
“Let’s see. They arrived almost a month before this …” The girl worked her way farther back, and said, “Here we go. Their first receipt. No home address, but we hardly ever get that. The boat is probably their home.”
Langdon sighed. Still, he had names. Rob and Caroline McKenna. And he knew Cain had talked with Vincent’s daughter about Boston.
The girl pointed to a small notation at the top of the first receipt. “The Wanderer is registered out of Boston. If it was Delaware, they could’ve been from anywhere—you know, for taxes.”
Langdon didn’t know, but he nodded as if he did.
“But Boston,” she said, “Boston means most likely they live somewhere around there.”
“That would make sense,” Langdon said. “That’s where the deadbeat I’m looking for went to school, where he met my client. You’ve given me a very good lead.” He smiled his fatherly smile.
“Glad to help.”
“Now give me the vital stats on your young man,” he said. Better to leave her happily working in collusion with him rather than wondering later if she’d given too much to a smooth talker.
He took the guy’s name, description, parent’s address, and the sad facts of her circumstances. Her “good family” looks were a bit of a sham…she was actually a working-class girl from Newark who made it to Yale on scholarship, and then blew it all her junior year when she fell in love.
The young man family owned several plastic-extrusion factories, and he convinced her of the romance of chucking it all and sailing the world on his father’s yacht before getting married. They stepped aboard in New York, and for a few weeks, it was pretty much as wonderful has he had promised. She was troubled when he admitted while drunk that he was on the verge of being kicked out of school for plagiarism. Three months later they landed in Tortola. She told him that not only had she missed her period, but she was feeling sick. The day after that, he stepped onto the dock and out of her life while she was in the head throwing up. A professional crew picked the boat up a week later while she was out looking for work. They left her few possessions in a new sail bag on the dock.
“I don’t know what young men are thinking these days,” Langdon said, shaking his head.
“C’mon, you’re not that old,” she said, meeting his eyes.
My, you do have an unhealthy taste in men, he thought. He said, “I’ll call you from the States as soon as I know something.” Langdon squeezed her hand. For a moment, he considered her wish, and considered actually doing something about it. Chase the young man down and kick him around a bit. Break him, scare him down to his very marrow. Convince young Billy that if he didn’t keep sending checks, Langdon would come back. Langdon had done things like this before: acts of goodwill simply to enjoy the power to give as well as take.
The girl—Laura, her name was—said somewhat awkwardly, “Thank you. I can tell you’re the type of man who honors his commitments.”
“I am at that,” he said, dipping his head in farewell. As he stepped out into the hot sunlight, he looked down at his folded newspaper, at the crying wife of the late Vincent.
Langdon thought about his commitment to Ronnie, and he chuckled to himself. First things first. For now, he had to repay Tom Cain for what he’d done to Ronnie. Tom Cain, last seen with Rob McKenna, of the Wanderer, Boston.
Acts of goodwill would have to wait until later.
CHAPTER I5
“SO DO I SNORE?” MARIEL ASKED. “LEAVE MY STOCKINGS AROUND? Steal your boyfriends? Tell me, I’ll be a better roommate.”
Caroline drew back the curtains. “Look—the spire.”
Mariel said, “If you like churches, I suppose that’s a selling point.”
The two of them looked out as the late afternoon light bathed the Unitarian church and the Market Square skyline in gold. They were on the third floor of an old federal off State Street in Newburyport. The ceiling was low but the floors were beautifully finished wide planks, the walls freshly painted.
Mariel said, “Honestly, I don’t see why you’re moving this fast. Why don’t you wait until he gets here?”
“You’ve saved my life,” Caroline said. “Took me in, found me a job. But you and Elliot need your privacy.”
“I made some introductions,” Mariel said. “You got the job. And as for me and Elliot, we’ll close the bedroom door if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Too late,” Caroline said.
She had just taken over managing a small women’s clothing store downtown while one of Mariel’s former clients took off to live with her new husband down in Philadelphia. Mariel’s network of successful divorced woman was significant, yet a club Caroline wasn’t at all sure she wanted to join.
Caroline was operating on feelings a lot lately. And, on one level, this place felt right. The owner, Sophia Benchley, was talking about selling the place but was willing to rent out the top floor on a monthly basis.
“Well, if you do take this place, hold out for a price,” Mariel said. “I made her a fortune when her husband left her for some chickie. She can afford to be easy on you.”
Caroline looked out the-window again. Sophia was pruning her rose bushes. She was forty-nine, divorced for five years now. Still aerobic-class thin, her black-and-gray hair stylishly cut.
“You think she can hold on a decision for a while? I should wait … talk with Rob.”
Caroline felt a bittersweet dismay seep into her, saying those last three words. Words that she’d said so many times over the past nineteen years.
