Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (8 page)

“Let’s take a walk down the dock.” I turned to Max who napped on the salon sofa. “Hold down the fort. If ole Joe the cat comes near, try not to be too inhospitable.”

***

I could hear the Friday night entertainment at the Tiki Bar before Dave and I reached the end of L dock and opened the locked gate leading away from the boats. We walked around a deserted fish-cleaning station that featured a weathered and knife-scarred wooden table, stainless steel sink, and a thatched roof made from dried palm fronds tarnished in splashes of black and white pelican poop. The smell of fish scales and dried blood mixed with the drifting scent of deep-fried hushpuppies and blackened grouper coming from the bar grill.

The Tiki Bar was filling up with salty regulars and sunburned tourists, a combination that created a culture club of opposites. A solo singer wearing a Panama hat and a surfer’s shirt sat on a stool in a corner, guitar in one hand, the crowd in the other as he led them in a rousing chorus of Irish ballads and Jimmy Buffett songs. After a few drinks and sing-along songs, the drawbridges of class distinctions lowered and the yellow brick road to Margaritaville, by way of Dublin, became a festive group journey. The fishing captains swapped stories of great catches and beating storms in open waters. One middle-aged vacationer grinned and admitted how he’d love to trade places away from the predictable, the office politics—the mundane, to fish for a life of adventure. “We have half-day and full-day rates to get you started,” bellowed a gray-bearded charter captain, lifting a bottle of beer in a toast to the promise of a personal quest.

The entertainer told the crowd he was taking a short break. Kim Davis finished pouring a tall glass of dark beer and handed it to a shiny, red-faced customer wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Kim turned toward Dave as we sat down at the only two open bar stools. “Dave, did you have to round up a posse to find Sean? Nick has been more anxious than I’ve seen him in a long time.”

Dave grunted. “Sean had his phone turned down.”

“Where’s Nick?” I asked.

She glanced over my right shoulder. “Looks like he’s returning from a bathroom break.”

Nick approached the bar, shaking his head, his dark eyes animated. “Kim, can you send a Corona my way?” He turned to me. “Sean, man, I’m glad Dave found you. I was sitting at a table in the corner, doing my monthly accounting, when I overheard these two half-drunk dudes at another table, talkin’ about someone dying—a murder.” Nick took a long pull from an icy bottle, his face blooming in color, the center of his moustache wet from beer foam.

“Are they still here?” I asked.

“No. They left when the music started.”

“Describe them.”

“Hell, Sean, they looked like most of the deck hands around here. Like they’d been sleepin’ in their clothes. Kinda like I look after I have been at sea for a couple of weeks. One guy was about twenty, I guess. Blond. Tryin’ to grow whiskers. Wore a Yankees’ hat backwards and a blue Orlando Magic jersey. The other due was older, maybe forty. Heavyset fella. He was wearin’ a black T-shirt with the words Harley-Davidson on the front. He had a tattoo of a naked mermaid on his arm. Big damn tits—” He cut his eyes over to Kim. “Sorry, Kimberly.” She smiled and Nick said, “Both left with barbecue sauce in the corners of their mouths ‘cause they must have eaten a few dozen wings between them. The older guy called the younger one Smitty.”

Dave nodded. “Your powers of observation are improving. Maybe it’s because you’ve spent quality time with Sean.”

“Nick, what exactly did you hear?” I asked.

“They were goin’ through a few pitchers of Miller Beer during the happy hour. Before they left, I overheard some crazy shit. Stuff like how the dead guy at the fair got what was comin’ to him ‘cause he was markin’ the deck.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kim asked. “A payback for a cheating a poker bet?”

“Could mean just about anything,” I said. “Sounds like he was taking a cut of some kind of action.”

Dave nodded. “Carnivals can be a backdrop, true moveable feasts, for crime and those who commit crimes.”

Nick looked around the bar for a moment. “Sean, maybe this means the girl didn’t kill the guy, unless she does hits for hire.”

“It means that the police need to question these two. I’ll put in a call to Detective Grant. Nick, tell him what you told us. Describe the men to him.” I punched in Grant’s number. Nick flexed both hands into fists, relieving tension. Thirty seconds later, Grant answered. “Sean O’Brien. I’m glad you called. Did the girl, Courtney Burke, happen to return to your boat?”

“No, why?”

“Because now a warrant’s been issued for her arrest. Forensics matched. Blood. Prints on ice pick. Her story of a hooded assailant is iffy at best. A witness came forth and said he’d heard them arguing. Seems like Ms. Burke is the jealous type. Sounds like a typical case of hell has no fury like—”

“Sounds like supposition to me, Dan. Listen, I’m standing here at the Tiki Bar at the marina. A friend of mine overheard two men talking. Carnival workers, most likely. They were drinking heavily, and one was telling the other that the murder was a hit—a payback or revenge killing for something.”

“Can your friend ID these men?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but before I speak with your friend, unless the men he overheard were eye witnesses to a murder, most likely they’ll deny having said anything in the bar, and it’ll be circumstantial at best.”

“Dan, just listen to what Nick has to say.”

I handed the phone to Nick, who took a long swallow from the bottle, blew out a breath and said, “Hello.” He placed one hand over his open ear and stepped out on the dock to tell his story.

I turned toward Kim. “Can you remember what these men looked like?”

“Nothing beyond what Nick said. Judy was the server. She left as the night servers came to work.”

“How’d they pay the bill, cash or credit?”

“Hold on, I’ll look at Judy’s tickets.” Kim licked her thumb and leafed through a few dozen receipts. “Looks like this is it. Three platters of wings and four pitchers of beer, table fourteen. Paid half with a credit card, the other half in cash.”

“What’s the guy’s name on the card?”

“Randal Barnes.”

Nick returned. He handed the phone to me. “He wants to speak to you.”

Detective Grant said, “Sean, I’m heading back to the fair. If you hear from Ms. Burke, let me know. Three killings at three fairs, that spells serial.”

“Can you place her at each of the carnivals?”

“Don’t know yet. Shouldn’t be hard to find out.”

“Dan, I have a name for one of the carnies who Nick overheard. The name on the charge receipt is Randal Barnes.”

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’d find that quickly? Maybe you still have cop in your DNA, or maybe you just give a damn more than most do.”

“Good luck, Dan.” I disconnected.

Nick said, “Detective Grant didn’t sound too promising to me. Said he’d question the dudes if he could find them.”

“Well, now he has a name,” Dave said.

Kim leaned her elbows on the bar, the lights from a car in the lot sweeping across her face. She said, “I just met the girl briefly when she stopped in here asking directions to your boat, but I got the feeling that Courtney isn’t what she appears.”

“What do you mean?” Dave asked, sipping a vodka over ice.

“I can’t put my finger on it. Working a bar, you develop a pretty good feel for people. I call it the bullshit meter. She seemed real, but somehow cloaked in … I don’t know exactly … she has a mysterious presence about her. Like she’s out of sync with people around here, and so saddened by something.”

“Murder can have that influence on people,” Nick said.

Dave nodded. “The carnival is at the county fairgrounds through Sunday. Maybe Grant will find one or both of them before the carnival pulls out.”

Kim sighed. “I wonder where the girl is right now.”

“Probably returned to the carnival,” I said.

Nick shook his head and reached for the Corona. “Why the hell would she go back there? Back to a place where evil rides the merry-go-round.”

I remembered the look in the girl’s eye as the police officers escorted her away. “She returned because she didn’t kill that guy, but she might know who did … she’s just not certain of that yet. Nick, when was the last time you were at a carnival?”

“Been years, man. Why?”

“Let’s see what Detective Dan Grant and his colleagues can find. They have Randal Barnes’ name. That’s a good start.”

“What if they go on and arrest the girl for murder?”

“If that happens, we can take in a night at the carnival and play a few games of chance.”

Nick sipped his beer and said, “Oh boy. I wonder if any shrimpers are here tonight.”

“Why?” Dave asked.

“Because, as my man Forrest Bubba Gump said—shit’s about to happen.”

Dave said, “I don’t recall that exact line.”

“Close enough,” Nick said, draining the last of his beer and looking straight at me.

The Bandini Brother’s Amusement office was in a million dollar, custom-made bus. It was parked less than one hundred yards from the midway, in a gravel lot, generators purring, the smell of diesel fumes acrid in the night air. Light spilled from all of the windows, venetian blinds pulled down behind the glass.

Courtney stood at the door marked
Office
, took a deep breath and knocked on the burnished aluminum. She could hear someone moving inside, a monotone conversation, and then the door opened wide. A man who went by the name of Johnny Johnson, someone Courtney had only seen a few times, stood in the light. He was more than six and a half feet tall, hair in a ponytail, heavy forehead, and flat nose with a faded pink scar across the bridge, shoulders and chest like a hammered armor under a black T-shirt. He wore a gold chain around his wide neck. He grunted. “What do you want?”

“To speak with Mr. Bandini.”

“He’s busy. Go away.” The man started to close the door, but paused, his leaden black eyes studying Courtney’s face in the light. “Wait a sec. You’re the chick who took an ice pick to my ride op, Lonnie Ebert. I heard you were arrested.”

“I wasn’t arrested because I didn’t do it.”

“Go on. Get the hell outta here.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I see Mr. Bandini. He hired me. If I’m fired, he needs to be the one who tells me that, too.”

“What’s going on?” came a question from behind the man blocking the door.

“Nothing, Mr. Bandini. Girl’s just leaving.”

“What girl?” Tony Bandini asked, stepping to the door. He was a foot shorter than the other man, head shaved, glossy with perspiration, lidless snake eyes that didn’t seem to blink. His narrow face was pastel, the color of old bones. He looked down and nodded when he recognized Courtney. “What do you want?”

“To talk about my job.”

“Johnny, check her.”

“Arms out,” Johnny said.

Courtney lifted her arms as he slowly patted her down, his breath reeking of marijuana and tuna. He felt around her breasts, down her waist to her buttocks, his hands moving like a serpent to her inner thighs.

Courtney looked directly in his eyes and said, “You move your hands any closer and I’ll kick in your teeth.”

“This one’s got some piss and vinegar.” Johnny grinned, his hands inching closer.

Bandini said, “That’s good enough. If she can hide a bug in there, she’s got some talent. Johnny, take a walk. Go get some smokes.”

“Sure, Boss, but you got a nut job standing here.”

Bandini gestured with his head. The man grumbled and walked away. Bandini looked at Courtney from head to toe in an appraising glance. “What do you want?”

“To talk with you.”

“About what, your job?”

“I don’t want to lose it. And I wanted a chance to explain to you what happened.”

“All I know is I got a dead worker and cops believe you stuck him. I’m gonna miss Lonnie. The kid had potential. Sounds like a hellava love fight between you two.”

“Maybe it was between you and Lonnie.”

Bandini didn’t blink. Face empty. “Didn’t know him that well. So you want to stay on here, huh?”

“Yes, I really need this job.”

He studied her for a few seconds, moistened his wet lips and said, “Never hurts to talk. Come on back to my office.”

From the shadows between the trailers, Isaac saw Courtney enter the office. As the door closed, he watched the custom bus. He could hear the screams from the townspeople riding the coasters. Then his eyes followed two bats in aerial acrobatics, flying in and out of light cast from a streetlamp. Isaac felt his scalp tighten, his skin taut as a drum across his wide forehead. He whispered a silent prayer and made the sign of the cross.

As Dave, Nick and I walked back down L dock toward our boats, I played a missed call voice message on my phone. “Sean, this is Courtney Burke. I don’t want to bother you, but when you gave me your card you said call if … look, you’d asked me if Lonnie was dealin’ drugs. A friend of mine here at the carnival says he was. Said Lonnie was a mule for Tony and Carlos Bandini, the owners of the carnival. He said Bandini may have been the one who killed Lonnie ‘cause Lonnie owned him money. Maybe you could like tell that detective, the one who knows you, Detective Grant, maybe you could tell him for me. Thank you … something else … do you have … never mind, it’s not important. Bye.”

I put my phone on speaker and replayed the message for Dave and Nick. When it concluded, Nick said, “Sounds like life is really turning to shit for the girl.”

“Maybe not,” Dave said, his eyes following a sixty-foot yacht, diesels humming, making the turn from the marina into the Halifax River, heading for Ponce Inlet and the Atlantic Ocean. “Maybe this will take the heat off Courtney and give police investigators a look into the real core of evil, the guy who slammed an icepick into the heart of the murder victim.”

I said, “She mentioned
‘something else’
and then disconnected. What was the
‘something else’
and why didn’t she leave it in her message?”

Nick shrugged. “Probably wasn’t that important.”