Break No Bones (36 page)

"Daniels doesn't explain Marshal's ties to Rodriguez. Or Marshal dumping his boat. Marshal was a shel colector. A shel from his desk matched a shel found with Wilie Helms's body. Let's not waste our time. Marshal's dirty and that lash wil prove it. Good thinking on this Pinckney thing, but I've got to go deal with an army of journalists camped on my doorstep."

"Any news on Rodriguez?"

"No."

"Found any connection to a pilot or plane?"

"No. It's the DA's baby now. Your job's done."

Gulet left me listening to dead air.

===OO=OOO=OO===

At nine o'clock Friday morning Lester Marshal and Walter Tuckerman appeared before a judge. Tuckerman argued that his client was a physician and a respected member of the community. The prosecution argued that he was a flight risk. The judge ordered Marshal to turn in his passport and set bail at one milion dolars. Tuckerman was arranging bond. Marshal would be out before nightfal.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Gulet was right. I was through. What remained was detective work and assembling the pieces for a prosecution. It was up to deputies, the crime lab, and the DA. Phone records. Patient files. Hard drives. Time lines. Flight plans. Witness accounts. Television portrays police investigation and criminal prosecution as metiers of heart-stopping exhilaration, joie de vivre glamour, and slicker-than-snot technology. They're not. Solid cases are built upon hours and hours of mind-numbing thoroughness. Folow every angle. Sift through mounds of data. Miss nothing.

My contribution had been made. Nevertheless, I couldn't let it rest. The same thought kept winging through my brain: What if Marshal was on the level? What if we had the wrong man?

I should have been happy that the murders had stopped, more relaxed than I'd been in weeks. Instead, I was wired as a hophead on a ful load. I couldn't read, nap, sit stil.

The same doubts kept slamming me again and again. What if Marshal is teling the truth? Is there a kiler stil at large and planning a sudden holiday in Mexico?

I ran Boyd on the beach. Showered. Made a sandwich. Ate a bowl of Chunky Monkey. Turned on the news. Listened to an anchorman breathlessly report Marshal's bail hearing.

Agitated, I clicked off and tossed the remote onto the couch. Dear God! What if we'd made a mistake?

At one, I gave up. After rechecking Daniels's address in the white pages, I grabbed my keys and was out the door. I didn't know what I expected to learn. Something from his manner, something from his expression?

Apparently Daniels wasn't into sand and surf. His condo was in a golf course complex complete with overgroomed foliage, tennis courts, lagoon, and pool. Each unit looked like its roof had been sliced lengthwise, with the surviving half left pointing skyward. Trés avant-garde.

Daniels lived in 4-B. Leaving my car, I slipped on shades and a sun hat. Now who'd seen too many
Columbo
episodes?

I checked a few numbers, decided I was headed for a cluster of vilas to my left. The path wound through beds mounded with pine needles and planted with marigolds and crepe myrtle bushes that would one day be trees. Water sprayed from unseen spigots, sparking sunlight and magnifying the scent of flowers and earth.

Traversing the grounds, I noticed Beemers, Benzes, and high-end SUVs nosed up to individual units. Oiled bodies tanned on poolside chaises. Though not oceanfront, Daniels obviously wasn't sitting in the cheap seats. My reaction was the same as when I'd first found Daniels's Seabrook address in the telephone directory. How does a poverty clinic nurse afford such digs?

I had no plan. When I found Daniels's unit I would do what felt right.

What felt right was to knock. So much for
Columbo
.

No answer.

I tried again, with the same result. Leaning in, I peeked through a tal, thin window paraleling the door.

Daniels liked white. White wals, white wicker mirror, white bar stools, white kitchen cabinets and countertops. A white staircase shotgunned straight to a second floor.

That's al I could see.

"Looking for Corey?"

I spun at the sound of the voice.

Red suspenders. Straw hat. Bermuda shorts. U.S. Postal Service shirt.

"Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am."

"No," I said, my heart settling back down. "I mean yes. Is Corey here?"

"Pretty predictable, that one. If he's not working, he's out fishing." The postman smiled up at me, one hand on his pouch, the other holding a folded magazine. "You a friend?

"

"Mmm." Fishing? Boat? I did a little fishing of my own. "Corey does love his boat."

"Man's got to get away sometimes. Funny world, isn't it? Big boy like that's a nurse while tiny little girls are fighting in Iraq."

"Funny world," I agreed, my mind fixing on what I'd just learned. Daniels owned a boat!

Climbing three steps, the postman held up the magazine bundle. "Stick that in the slot?"

"Sure."

"Good day, ma'am."

I waited until the postman was moving down the path, then re-crossed the porch and rifled through Daniel's mail.
Boating
magazine.
PowerBoat.
The rest of the stack consisted of envelopes and fliers, al addressed to Corey R. Daniels. With one exception. A standard white envelope with a frosty little window. Probably a bil. The addressee was Corey Reynolds Daniels.

Shoving the mail into the slot, I headed back to the car.

The boat slips nearest to Daniels's condo were at Bohicket Marina, just past the entrance to Seabrook Island. Seemed like a good place to start.

I was there in minutes. A woman leatherized by way too much sun and wearing way too little swimsuit directed me to a sportfish cruiser on pier four.

Lines ticked masts as I walked out onto the dock. Or was it sheets? Sheets to the wind? My mind was realy on a rip.

Daniels's boat wasn't one of the largest, maybe a thirty-five-footer. It had a pointy bow with a metal rail shooting to midship, a covered center console, a platform off the stern, and a cabin that looked like it could probably sleep four.

My eyes roved, taking in detail. Fighting chairs. Outriggers. Rod holders. Fish box. Bait station. Live wel. The craft was definitely outfitted for fishing. But not today.

Everything was secured and Daniels was nowhere to be seen.

Condo minimaly a half milion. Boat probably another three hundred thousand. How did he do it? The guy had to be dirty.

Sometimes it's a sight, a smel, a spoken word. Sometimes there's no trigger at al. Something just goes
boing!
and that cartoon strip bulb goes on.

My eyes fel on the boat's name.

Boing!

37

THE
HUNNEY CHILD
.

Some great-great-grand-something picking up the tab.

My nephew's living here now and he's got a dandy of a boat.

Corey Reynolds Daniels.

Althea Hunneycut Youngblood. Honey.

Honey had married into the Reynolds family. She had a nephew who'd returned to Charleston. She had given that nephew her boat.

Honey lived on Dewees Island.

Wilie Helms had been buried on Dewees Island.

Corey Daniels was Honey Youngblood's nephew. He knew Dewees Island.

Was Marshal right? Had we realy arrested the wrong man? Did Daniels have the ruthlessness and brainpower to be the main guy?

Cal Gulet?

No. I needed more.

I needed to get to a different marina. Throwing myself behind the wheel, I headed to Isle of Palms.

The
Aggie Gray
took ten minutes to chug in. The crossing back to Dewees Island took another twenty. It seemed a lifetime.

Luck was with me. There was an unattended golf cart at the ferry dock. Jumping in, I sped toward the administrative center.

Miss Honey was in the nature museum, cleaning an aquarium at the sink. A box of fist-size shels rested at her elbow.

"Miss Honey, I'm so glad I caught you."

"Caught me? Land's sake, girl, where else on the Lord's green earth might I be?"

"I—"

"Cleaning house for the hermit crabs." Honey nodded toward the box. Here and there I could see a curled appendage cautiously testing the outside world.

"Miss Honey, you mentioned your nephew last time we spoke."

The gnarled hands slowed, but continued scrubbing the tank. "Corey being mischievous again?" She gave the second of four sylables a very hard
e.

"We're looking into some patient care questions at the GMC clinics and how they are staffed and al, and I'm curious about Corey's training."

"Being a nurse doesn't mean he" — the old woman hesitated — "isn't right."

"Of course not. Such stereotypes are absurd."

Honey was scouring so hard her curls were bouncing.

"Corey was going to be a doctor. Folowed his heart instead. Boys grow up. What can you do?"

"Corey trained in Texas?"

"He did."

"Where?"

"University of Texas. He caled it UTEP."
Pfft.
"What kind of name is that for a school? Sounds like a spray for foot fungus."

Honey ran water into the aquarium.

"What caused him to return to Charleston?" I asked.

"Got into trouble, lost his job, got hurt, got broke."

The old woman looked up, and the pale eyes crimped into the tiniest of frowns.

"My nephew would have made a fine doctor."

"I'm sure he would have. What were his nursing specialties?"

"ER at first, then neurology." New-rology. "Before he came back he'd worked his way into the OR. Did surgical nursing for two years. Mite messy for my taste. But you can't tel me slicing and sewing folks is an easy job. Yep. For my money, Corey turned out just fine."

I was barely listening. Two more disparate facts had clicked into place.

I was now concerned that we realy had arrested the wrong man. The kiler was looking more like Daniels.

And Daniels was stil out there.

I felt cold al over.

I had to phone Gulet. No. I had to speak to Gulet. Against al logic, I was coming to believe Marshal's story that Daniels was setting him up. Persuading the sheriff to consider the idea would require face-to-face effort.

Friday afternoon traffic was bloated by weekenders pouring into the city. The drive to North Charleston took almost forty minutes.

Gulet was in his office. He looked as tense as I'd ever seen him.

"I want you to hear me out on something very important," I said, positioning a chair directly opposite the sheriff's desk.

Gulet checked his watch, then exhaled in resignation. The message was clear. This better be good. And short.

"Marshal claims he's been set up by Daniels."

Gulet studied me. "Everyone from the governor on down is using me for a dartboard. You teling me you think I've jailed the wrong man?"

"I'm teling you it's a possibility."

"We've got enough to fry Marshal three times and back."

"Marshal says our evidence is al circumstantial."

Gulet started to object. I forged ahead.

"To an extent, he's right. The evidence colected so far proves that patients were murdered at that clinic. The wire noose could have been stashed by anyone. The shel could have been planted in Marshal's desk. You know that's what the defense wil argue."

"What they'l argue and what a jury wil believe may differ considerably."

"You said yourself there's a problem with the phone records," I pressed on. "Someone caled Noble Cruikshank from Marshal's office on a night Marshal wasn't even there."

"Cruikshank was investigating. Someone could have been snitching."

I could see Gulet didn't want to believe. He'd arrested a man, a physician. He wanted his case to be airtight. I'd urged him to that conclusion. The DA had agreed. Now I was waffling.

"Daniels's ful name is Corey Reynolds Daniels, but I'm sure you already know that. What you may not know is that Daniels has an aunt living on Dewees Island. That aunt gave Daniels a boat."

"Having a boat and knowing Dewees doesn't make him a kiler."

"Folowing nursing school, Daniels was employed by a hospital for three years. He didn't always work in a public service clinic."

"Not enough." The chair puffed as Gulet dropped back against the leather.

"He was a surgical nurse. For two years he scrubbed in, watched operations, had plenty of opportunity to learn procedure."

"Handing out instruments is a long way from being a surgeon."

"It wouldn't have taken a surgeon on this end. There was no concern with keeping patients alive. Al that was needed was a knowledge of how to remove organs so as to preserve them.

"Think about timing. Daniels arrived back in Charleston in 2000, started working at the clinic in 2001. Wilie Helms disappeared in September of 2001."

Seeing the first glimmer of doubt in Gulet's eyes, I hammered home the last nail.

"Cruikshank was downloading articles on organ trafficking. I read quite a few when I was checking his hard drive, but didn't realize the relevance of one in particular. Until now.

"Since 1993 almost four hundred women and girls are known to have been kiled in Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua, Mexico, another seventy have been reported missing.

Students, store clerks, assembly plant workers, some as young as ten years. Bodies have been found buried in shalow graves in the desert, and at construction sites and railroad yards around the city.

"In 2003 the Mexican attorney general's office took over several cases. Federal investigators said they had evidence some victims may have been kiled by an international organ trafficking ring. One AP article Cruikshank found quoted an organized crime prosecutor as saying a witness had identified an American man as part of that ring."

I driled Gulet with a look.

"Daniels trained and worked in El Paso, Texas. Ciudad Juarez is directly across the border from El Paso."

"You saying Daniels was involved?"

"I'm saying he
could
have been involved. Even if he wasn't involved, he was in El Paso. He'd have heard about the kilings. He might have made contacts. Or he might have taken the idea and come here to set up his own franchise."