Sand Sharks (17 page)

“No, but I could have gotten his license plate,” I fumed. “Last night, we watched them film a hit-and-run for that TV show.”

“
Port City Blues
,” Chelsea Ann murmured, daintily adding creamer to her coffee.

“The script called for someone to yell, ‘Did you get the license number?’ and nobody had. I thought that surely in real life
someone would at least get the first few letters. But when Fitz and Martha went down, it drove everything else out of my head.
Why—why—
why
didn’t I at least whip out my cell phone and take a picture?”

“Someone did,” Edwards said, “but it’s blurry and the car was too far away to get a good fix on it. Our computer techs are
trying to enhance it enough to get a partial plate, but I’m not counting on it. Someone thought it was a two-door Geo Metro
and at least ten years old. That sound about right to y’all?”

Chelsea Ann and I looked at each other and shrugged. Neither of us cares enough about cars to tell a Toyota from a Nissan.

I took a swallow of the coffee and tried to concentrate. “A hatchback for sure,” I said, at last, “and yes, just two doors.
Bright red and shiny like it’d been waxed recently, but I sort of think it had some serious dings.”

“What about the driver?”

We both shook our heads. We had an impression that it was a man behind the wheel, yet couldn’t say for sure. We were both
too focused on Fitz and Martha.

“I think he was wearing a ball cap,” Chelsea Ann said.

“I couldn’t see him at all,” I said. “He was driving into the sun when he came at us and it glinted off the windshield. Maybe
he really didn’t see Fitz and then was too scared to stop.”

“Maybe,” Edwards said. “Or maybe somebody’s got it in for a bunch of you guys. Is there a connection between Fitzhume and
Jeffreys?”

We couldn’t think of one. “They’re in totally different districts. Fitz has been on the bench for twenty-five years and Jeffreys
only for a year or two.”

Edwards sighed and downed the rest of his coffee. “Well if you think of anything…”

We assured him we would.

Throughout the whole session, the Wrightsville officer had remained silent. Now he told Edwards that it looked to him as if
the hit and run was related to the murder, so Wilmington could have it. “Just keeps us informed, okay?”

When he was gone, Edwards looked around the cafeteria. “You know, the food’s not half bad here. I think I might as well grab
a bite to eat while I have a chance. What about y’all?”

Chelsea Ann looked torn and I realized that his ‘y’all’ was only for politeness. Even though there was a hollow space in my
stomach, I stood up and told her to stay. “I won’t leave without you.”

“You sure? ’Cause I can wait.”

It only took one more “I’m sure” from me to convince her it was okay to do what she wanted, which was stay there and get to
know Detective Edwards on a nonprofessional basis.

Nothing had changed in the ICU waiting room except that a dispirited lethargy seemed to have settled over those who remained.
I picked the pepperoni off of a slice of cold pizza and ate part of it.

Martha’s son arrived just before nine. A few minutes later, a surgeon came to the waiting room in bloodstained scrubs and
asked to speak to them privately.

“Whatever you have to say can be said before my friends,” Martha told him. She held herself erect as if braced for the worst.
“Don’t sugarcoat it, Doctor. Is he going to be all right? Yes or no?”

“We don’t know. There was internal bleeding. A rib punctured his right lung and his hip was fractured. We had to remove his
spleen. He took a serious blow to the head but luckily there doesn’t seem to be much swelling of his brain. We’ll monitor
for blood clots, of course. He’ll probably be in and out of consciousness for the next couple of days. After that?” The surgeon
shook his head. “We just don’t know. His age is against him, but if he makes it through the next few days, then his chances
improve.”

She took it like the stoic she is. “Can we see him now?”

“It’ll take them another fifteen or twenty minutes to get him hooked up to the monitors, and we’ve put him on a ventilator
to help with his breathing,” the surgeon said. “I’ll tell the nurses to call you when they’ve finished.”

Martha reached out and touched his arm. “We’ve been married forty-two years, Doctor. Thank you for giving him back to me.”

He started to say not to thank him yet, but Martha’s eyes held his in such fierce determination that he squeezed her hand.
“I hope I have, ma’am. I hope I have.”

A judge who takes money [for a decision] against the life or property of a man is deprived of his property and deported to
an island.

—Paulus (early 3rd century AD)

E
ven though Fitz could not respond, once Martha had seen him and touched him, she let their son Chad persuade her to return
to the hotel for the night. She planned to transfer to a hotel nearer the hospital the next day.

As we waited with her at the entrance for Chad to bring the car around, I said, “You have my number, so call if there’s anything
at all that we can do.”

Martha’s not normally a physically demonstrative person, but I got a warm hug and a “Thanks, sugar” before her son whisked
her away.

Chelsea Ann was silent on our drive through Wilmington’s dark tree-lined streets. Away from the center of town, all was quiet
until after we crossed the causeway that led over to the beach where vacationers were hanging out at the main intersection,
spilling out into the street from the clubs.

“So what’s the verdict?” I asked her as we maneuvered around the cars full of vacationing teenagers that were cruising back
and forth.

She didn’t pretend not to understand. “I don’t know, Deborah. Another lawman?”

Her ex-husband was an ATF agent.

“I’ve been down that road before. Gary Edwards seems like a real sweetie. Cute, smart. But I’m in Raleigh and he’s down here.
When would we really get to know each other?”

“It’s only a ninety-minute drive,” I reminded her.

“And we both know that a lawman’s life is not his own. Look how often Dwight has to bail on you and he’s right there in Dobbs.”

“Sam’s erratic schedule wasn’t why y’all split up,” I said.

“No, but it certainly didn’t help that he never seemed to be around when I wanted him,” she argued. “Oh, well, why am I even
talking like this? It’s not as if Gary’s even asked me out yet.”

“And if he does?”

She grinned. “Oh, what the heck? I’ll probably go. Why not? How I Spent My Summer Vacation. Better a summer fling with him
than with a married judge, right?”

Which led us back to earlier speculations about a pair of fifty-something colleagues. He is from the mountains, she’s from
the Triangle. Both married, yet they never bring their spouses to the conferences. They discovered each other three years
ago when they sat together during the sessions and talked animatedly during the breaks. At every conference since, they sit
on opposite sides of the room, they don’t speak during the morning breaks, and they don’t go out to lunch together; but it’s
been noticed that they don’t stay at the conference hotels and that one car pulls into the parking lot within minutes of the
other. They both plead poverty and kids in college as a reason to book somewhere cheaper, yet somehow it’s never at the motel
where all the other budget-minded judges stay.

“
Like judges have more personal judgment than ordinary mortals,
” my internal preacher murmured.

The pragmatist nodded.
“And like nobody noticed when you and Chuck Teach—”

“
Never mind,
” I told them firmly.

“It’s not Sam I miss so much,” Chelsea Ann said, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s having someone put his arms around me and
kiss me like I’m special and necessary to him that I miss. I miss being in love, Deborah. Forty-two years. That’s what Martha
and Fitz have had. That’s what I want.”

Me, too
, I thought and patted the hand-carved knob on my gear shift that Dwight had given me so I’d always have a handy piece of
wood to touch for luck.

When we reached the hotel, the moon was a huge silvery blue disc playing hide-and-seek with fluffy white clouds that barely
dimmed its brightness.

I was feeling the need for some fresh air after our hours in the hospital. “Want to take a walk on the beach?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m really tired. And Rosemary’s probably going to want to talk.”

We rode up in the elevator together and I went straight to my room, but all I had to do was open the French doors and step
out into that amazing moonlight and it was too much to resist. I quickly changed into a long-sleeved tee, slacks, and sneakers,
and was soon back downstairs.

Although the bar was now closed, out on the terrace there were still people seated at the small tables or in rocking chairs.
Nursing their final drinks, they spoke in low tones, as if equally reluctant to go inside and end this lovely night. One or
two spoke to me when I passed but I wasn’t looking for company and cut across the pool area and down the planked walkway to
the steps that led to the beach. A young couple—honeymooners?—were making out in one of the hot tubs, oblivious to the world
and certainly to me.

I walked down the steps to the sand. A whiff of cigarette smoke drifted past on the warm night air and I looked around for
the source, but the beach was deserted so far as I could tell.

I took off my sneakers and tucked them under the steps beside the lifeguard stand. The tide was low again and a wide band
of hard sand made walking easy. Not that I was out to do a marathon or anything. Although the moon was so near full that nothing
could completely blot out its light, more clouds had drifted in from the west and they hid its face for minutes at a time.

As I walked, I thought about how complicated it all was. Life. Love. Why some marriages worked and others failed. Chelsea
Ann was a funny, impulsively warm-hearted friend and I still liked her ex-husband Sam. I had known them both long enough to
remember when they had genuinely loved each other. Where had their love gone?

And Rosemary and Dave. Almost twenty years down the drain. But that I could understand. She had thanked her sister for not
saying “I told you so,” after Chelsea Ann berated her for telling that cute little waitress that Dave could give her the names
of some SBI agents, but
sheesh
! It’s all very noble to forgive your cheating husband, but you don’t immediately turn around and give him the contact numbers
of a Playboy bunny, do you?

And dear Martha and Fitz. If she should lose him, it would be through no fault of her own.

I paused to wait for the moon to come back out from behind a cloud that was as dark as my worry for Fitz. There wasn’t a mean
bone in his body, so why the hell would anyone deliberately try to kill him? And could Pete Jeffreys’s death possibly be linked?

By now, pleasantly tired, I had retraced my steps until I was almost back in front of the lifeguard stand. I sat down on the
dry sand and rested my chin on my knees as I stared out at the slow-rolling waves and rewound the tape on Saturday night.

I saw Jeffreys’s run-in with Stone Hamilton’s dog, I saw Martha’s refusal to shake his hand coupled with Fitz’s amiable clasp,
I watched him speak to Allen Stancil, then introduce Cynthia Blankenthorpe to Allen. I saw Reid and his friend Bill’s distaste
for Jeffreys and the way Jeffreys snubbed me after I’d shared a drink with those two. I heard Blankenthorpe’s annoyance at
being stuck with his bill when she knew he’d just made a cash withdrawal of three hundred dollars at an ATM.

So where was the connection to the hit-and-run, assuming there was a connection?

No one admitted seeing Jeffreys after Fitz saw him entering the men’s room alone and—

“
Hey, wait a minute!
” cried the pragmatist.
“Quick! Hit the pause button.”

“
Those were not Fitz’s exact words,
” the preacher agreed, peering at the screen.

Before I could figure out what had snagged my subconscious attention, a voice said, “Deborah? Deborah Knott?” and I jumped
three feet.

“Sorry,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

The moon had once again emerged from the clouds, and there was plenty of light to recognize Judge Will Blackstone, who continued
to apologize for startling me.

“That’s okay. I just didn’t hear you come up.”

“Somebody told me you were here and I’ve spent all day looking you. You’re not avoiding me, are you?” he asked.

“Of course not. Good to see you,” I murmured inanely, the automatic pleasantry out of my mouth before I could stop it. At
the moment, he was the last person it’d be good to see.

I started to stand, but he sat down heavily, clutching at my arm as he went so that I was unbalanced and almost landed on
top of him, which set off another flurry of apologies from both of us.

“And I wanted to be so cool,” he laughed. He got to his feet and helped me up. “I hoped to see you at the fall conference
so I could apologize for what happened last spring. I guess I came on too strong, too fast.”

“Yeah, well, I think we both misjudged the situation.”

He laughed at my unintended pun and held out his hand. “No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

We shook on it and Blackstone said, “Good. This conference is weird enough without that. First Pete Jeffreys and now Judge
Fitzhume.”

“That’s right. You’re over there near the Triad. Did you know Jeffreys?”

“We were at a new-judges school together, but I can’t say we were friends or anything. I thought he was rather lightweight
and, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, a little bent.”

“Yeah, that does seem to be the consensus, doesn’t it?”

“Fitzhume, on the other hand—you were there, weren’t you? When someone ran him down?”