Fatal Disclosure (4 page)

Mark shook his head. “I think I’ll pass. Maybe I’ll get some later. I need to talk to my superiors and see where we go from here.”

Scott nodded. “See you later.”

Mark nodded to Lisa, who glanced up as he strode toward the door, exited the police station and hurried to his car. Once inside he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the DEA office in Raleigh. Moments later he was connected with his superior and related the account of John Draper’s death.

“What about this girl who was with him?” the special agent in charge asked.

Mark hesitated before he answered. “She’s a local artist. She says he didn’t give her anything, and I’ve told you what she said were his last words.”

“I don’t know, Mark. There may be something she’s forgotten. I think you need to question her again.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I believed her.”

“Nevertheless, I’m telling you to talk to her. Don’t give up until you know for sure. Understand?” The voice vibrated with authority, and Mark knew it would no good to argue.

He sighed. “Okay, whatever you say. I’ll keep you posted.”

Mark ended the call and started the engine. Where was it Betsy said she was going? Some cemetery, but where?

He pulled into the street and spotted Grady Teach standing on the sidewalk outside the Coffee Cup. Mark pulled to the curb and rolled down his window. “Hey, Grady. I met you over at the sheriff’s office a few minutes ago, and I wondered if you can help me.”

Grady sauntered over to the car and leaned against the door. “What with?”

“A friend of mine was going to some special cemetery this morning, but I’ve forgotten the name.”

“Oh, that’s easy. All the tourists want to see the British Cemetery. Take Highway 12 until you come to British Cemetery Road and turn left. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, Grady.” Mark waved and rolled the window up.

Taking a deep breath, Mark eased down on the accelerator. His boss was right. He needed to question Betsy more and see if there was something she’d forgotten. He didn’t want to intrude into her life, but a DEA agent had been killed. She might know something that would help them find the killer. Another thought struck him. She also might know something that would put her in danger. If so, he needed to find the killer as quickly as possible.

* * *

His fingers tightened on the cell phone when the name flashed on the caller ID. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Do you have it?”

“No. There was a problem.”

He sank down in his desk chair and wiped at the perspiration that popped out on his forehead. “What do you mean there was a problem?”

“Draper is dead, but he got out of the forest before we could reach him. We followed his trail out to the Point, but there was a woman with him. I had her in my sights and was about to shoot when this guy ran out of the forest. We heard her say the police were on their way. We couldn’t risk sticking around.”

He jumped to his feet, and the chair tipped backward and landed on the floor. “But you could risk the police finding what Draper had?”

The sigh that answered his question chilled his blood. “What Draper had is your problem. We were only trying to help you out. Our friends sent us here to make sure this next shipment gets to the mainland. After that, you’re the one who’s going to have to answer to why you couldn’t stop a DEA agent when you found him rifling through your office files.”

His heart slammed against his chest. “You don’t have to remind me. I need to recover whatever Draper found out. I’ll make it well worth your while if you can get it for me.”

Silence greeted his offer. He waited and finally his caller spoke. “We’ll see what we can do. We have information that there was nothing on his body when he was brought in. We also know the woman at the Point is an artist named Betsy Michaels. We think Draper probably gave the item to her, and the police may already have it. Want us to put some pressure on her to tell us where it is?”

A smile pulled at his lips, and he reached down and set the chair upright. “Yes, but be careful. Everybody in her family works for the sheriff’s department.”

“In that case, this could be trickier. It’s going to cost you twice what we usually get paid.”

“No problem. Just get it back for me before that shipment leaves.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

He disconnected the call and tossed the cell phone on his desk. “Betsy,” he muttered, “why did you have to get mixed up in this? It would have been better if you had stayed home this morning.”

He sat at his desk for a few moments thinking about John Draper and wishing he had killed him when he’d caught him snooping. Instead the man’s escape had put the entire drug cartel in jeopardy. When the bosses on the mainland looked for the weak link in their organization, he knew they would look to him for answers. He had to do whatever was necessary to protect himself, even sending those hired assassins after Betsy Michaels.

That decision should bother him, but it didn’t. He had too much riding on this last shipment to worry about Betsy. The Michaels family had a reputation as protectors of the island and its residents. Too bad they wouldn’t be able to do anything to help their sister. She had just come on the radar of the wrong people, and they never stopped until they got what they wanted.

THREE

A
fter an hour of weeding the British Cemetery, Betsy began to feel more relaxed. Her time spent in the small plot the island residents held in high esteem always made her misty-eyed and thankful for patriotic men like those buried here. They’d given the ultimate sacrifice in the pursuit of freedom. Her brother, Scott, had almost met the same fate, and she thanked God every day for his life.

Kneeling beside the sign that identified the small cemetery as a piece of English soil, she patted the last pansy into the flower bed and sat back on her heels to admire her handiwork. She glanced over her shoulder at the four graves and scanned them in search of an elusive weed she had missed.

“That’s a beautiful flower bed.” The lilting drawl drifted from the edge of the street.

Betsy glanced up and into the face of two smiling women. The brims of straw hats shaded their faces, but wisps of gray hair stuck out over their ears. Sunglasses perched on their noses, and they each held one of the information pamphlets from the Island Visitors Center.

Betsy pushed to her feet and brushed the dirt from the gardening gloves she wore. “Thank you. May I help you?”

One of them pointed to the pamphlet she held. “We’re vacationing on the island and wanted to get a look at the British Cemetery. We didn’t expect to find someone working here.”

Betsy walked to where they stood and smiled. “The Coast Guard is in charge of keeping the grounds in order. I know the guys stationed on the island, so I volunteer to help them out every once in a while. My name is Betsy Michaels.”

The woman who had spoken pointed to the woman beside her. “This is my friend Miranda Walton, and I’m Lizzy Nichols. We’re retired teachers from Florida, and we’re vacationing on your beautiful island.”

“I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”

Miranda nodded. “It’s been wonderful, but this is the first time we’ve gotten over here to see the cemetery. We understand there’s quite a story behind it.”

“There is.” Betsy pointed to the pamphlets they held. “Does it tell about it there?”

Lizzy held hers up and scanned it. “A little, but there must be more.”

Miranda inched closer. “Do you know what happened to the men buried here? If you do, I’d love to hear the story.”

“I’d like to hear it, too.” The familiar voice sent shock waves rippling through Betsy’s body, and she looked past Miranda and Lizzy to Mark who stood in the street behind the women.

The visitors glanced at him and turned back to her with big smiles on their faces. “It sounds like you’ve been chosen to serve as a tour guide for us. Please tell us what happened.”

Betsy licked her lips and watched Mark stroll up to stand behind Lizzy. Her heart pounded so she didn’t know if she could speak. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “All right.”

Miranda motioned to Mark. “Young man, step up here beside us so you can hear.”

He moved closer, and Betsy cleared her throat. “During the early days of World War II, German U-boats attacked merchant ships off the eastern coast of the United States. From January to June of 1942, almost four hundred ships were sunk off our coast. That’s when the area first became known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic.”

Lizzy nodded. “My class studied about that when we covered World War II.”

“England sent a fleet of ships to patrol the shipping lanes, and the HMS
Bedfordshire,
was one of them. On the morning of May 14, 1942, two bodies washed up on Ocracoke, and their papers identified them as crewman on the
Bedfordshire.
Several more bodies as well as wreckage from the torpedoed ship followed. The island residents buried them in a spot they designated as the British Cemetery. They later ceded the land to England for all time.”

Miranda stared at the graves. “I was just a baby when my father died in the war. My mother never recovered. It’s sad to think of the families whose loved ones didn’t come home.”

“It is. But each year,” Betsy said, “representatives from England and members of our military come together for a ceremony to honor the men who gave their lives in the pursuit of freedom.”

Lizzy wiped at a tear in the corner of her eye. “What a touching story, and you tell it so well.”

Betsy darted a glance at Mark, and her heart thudded at the intense stare he directed at her.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, you do.”

Lizzy and Miranda stared at him, then looked at each other and smiled. Lizzy patted Miranda’s arm. “I think we need to be on our way. Maybe we’ll see you again.”

Betsy smiled. “I hope so, too. Enjoy your vacation.”

Neither she nor Mark spoke until the two women had walked some distance down the street. Then he sighed. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

The tightness in her chest kept her from speaking at first, but she took a deep breath and tried again. “How did you find me?”

He ran his hand through his hair and grinned. “I couldn’t remember where you told your brother you’d be, but I knew it was a cemetery. So I asked the one person on the island who seems to know everything, and he told me.”

She smiled. “Grady Teach?”

Mark laughed, and she remembered how that sound used to thrill her.

“That’s the guy,” he said. “It seems this is one of the most visited tourist spots on the island, and now I understand why.” He stared at the graves a moment. “Listening to you tell the story of how these men died made me think of my parents.”

His words surprised Betsy. “I don’t remember you ever talking about your parents.”

“I don’t talk about them much. They died when I was twelve years old.” He took a deep breath. “But I didn’t come here to talk about that. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Of course I’m all right. Why would you think I wasn’t?”

He glanced around as if he wanted to make sure no one was near enough to hear and then took a step closer. “A man who’d been shot collapsed and died at your feet this morning. Whoever killed him could have seen you. I think you need to be careful.” He raised his hand and swept it in a wide arc. “You’re out in the open at a tourist attraction in the middle of the day. It could be dangerous.”

She pulled the gardening gloves from her hand and tossed them in the basket that held her trowel and pruning shears. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He glanced up and down the street that ran in front of the cemetery. “This is off the beaten path from the main street of the village. I’m only concerned about your safety.”

Betsy propped her hands on her hips. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. It seems like that was what you said after Mr. Rousseau’s arrest. Your friendship with me was an attempt to keep me safe. Well, I didn’t buy it then—and I don’t now.”

“Betsy, please. What happened this morning has nothing to do with Memphis.”

“Maybe not to you, but I can’t help remembering how I felt when you thought I was a criminal.”

“Betsy…”

Before he could continue, her cell phone chimed. Betsy held up her hand to stop him. She unzipped her fanny pack and pulled it out. Mark’s lips twitched when he spotted the phone’s hard cover with its painted swirl of butterflies and flowers. “What’s wrong?” she said.

He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen a cover like that.”

“I’m an artist. I like bright colors.” She dropped her gaze to the phone’s screen. The number on the caller ID wasn’t familiar. “Hello.”

“Where is it?” the raspy voice rattled in her ear.

She pulled the phone away and stared at it for a moment before she raised it back to her ear. “Excuse me. Who is this?”

“A friend.”

Betsy frowned and cast a quick glance at Mark.

He stepped closer. “Who is it?” he whispered.

She shrugged and spoke again. “You have the wrong number.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t like prank calls, mister,” Betsy snarled. “Don’t call this number again.” She punched the end button and slipped her phone back in her fanny pack.

“Who was that?” A worried frown creased Mark’s forehead.

“Wrong number.” She gave the fanny pack’s zipper a quick tug and reached for the basket at her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going. Good luck catching whoever you’re after this time.”

She brushed past him and headed toward her truck that was parked on the opposite side of the street. Her fingers gripped the basket’s handle tighter as she stepped onto the roadway. Her mind whirled with questions. Why had Mark gone out of his way to find her? She doubted if he really had concerns about her safety. He had allowed her to continue working in the dangerous environment of the Memphis restaurant without ever warning her. Of course at the time, he had thought she was involved in the operation.

Ever since she’d first seen him this morning, her head had been spinning with all kinds of thoughts she didn’t want to remember. All she wanted was to get away from him as quickly as possible. Working on her latest painting would help her push these troubling thoughts from her head.