Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

“Stop that boat!” an amplified voice boomed across the water. Somebody up there must have a bullhorn.

“Damn! They caught us!” Even as he spoke, Ken kept feverishly taking pictures.

“They probably heard the engine,” Ike told him. “This isn’t exactly a stealth boat, you know.”

“We’re sending a launch out,” the amplified voice announced. “Prepare to be boarded.”

“They have no legal right to do that,” Ken burst out, his camera still to his eye, snapping away.

Ken may have a point, Sunny thought, but it could take months in court to establish the fact, our word against theirs. Here and now, we’re facing a bunch of Kingsbury security guys who won’t be pleased to find us photographing the scene. If they grab our cameras, what are we going to do?

She put her camera on the deck at her feet, digging out her cell phone. This wasn’t going to be easy. Sunny knelt, resting her elbows on the gunwale of the boat, creating the closest thing she could to a tripod. She engaged the camera in the phone, aiming for the scene on the rocks while using all the tricks she’d learned in her photography classes. The results of a nighttime distance shot from a rocking boat wouldn’t be crystal-clear—probably too fuzzy for publishing—but she could hope that it would be legible enough to show what was going on. She kept clicking as fast as she could focus while the people on the top of the rocky prominence hauled the body up from the rocks.

As she worked, another floodlight sent a dazzling beam onto Ike’s boat. Sunny blinked her eyes, finally locating flashes against the glare. They were pretty well spaced apart.

Caleb Kingsbury’s yacht, I bet, Sunny thought, while continuing to take more pictures.

Apparently the new lighting revealed what she and Ken were doing, because the voice on the loudspeaker became more urgent. “Put those cameras down! This is invasion of privacy!”

Ken put his camera down and turned to Ike. “Can we outrun them?”

Ike shook his head.

I was afraid of that. Sunny returned to her phone, quickly scrolling through the images she’d shot. She silently blessed Ike for having a marine signal booster with all his electronics, because she saw bars on her screen. Frantically choosing the best of the harshly lit pictures, she directed them to Ken’s e-mail. “Are your interns awake?”

Ken glanced from the oncoming powerboat to Sunny. “Sure. I wanted everything ready in case we had to go to press.”

“Then call them and tell them to download these pictures,” Sunny told him. “The security guys may get us, but they won’t get them.”

They had a couple of touchy minutes as a Kingsbury powerboat approached, a black-jacketed security guy with an assault rifle in the bow, and all the other guys on the boat keeping one hand on their holstered pistols. The cameras went into their bags and onto the security launch before Sunny and Ken did. Sunny felt a little better for that, actually, realizing how easily the bag could have plopped beneath the surface of the water, an unfortunate “accident.”

Both boats headed for a small wharf on the far side of Neal’s Neck. Sunny, Ken, and Ike were ushered off their boat and up a set of rickety steps, where an additional welcoming committee of Kingsbury security people waited, surrounding the guy with the bullhorn.

Sunny wondered if he’d even needed the bullhorn in the first place—his voice was almost as loud as its amplified version when he shouted at them, “What were you doing, interfering with our operation? Mr. Quimby here says I could have you arrested for trespassing!” He gestured to a gray-haired man wearing a perfectly crisp suit and tie, notwithstanding the hour, but with deep frown lines in his face. Quimby might as well have worn a neon sign saying, “Lawyer.”

“Trespassing? Are you and Vince Quimby claiming a twelve-mile limit around Neal’s Neck these days, Trehearne?” Ken inquired. Sunny noticed he’d eased his cell phone out of his pocket, and was fiddling with the controls.

Lee Trehearne, the head of security for the Kingsbury family, choked back what he wanted to say in answer to that. Despite currently looking as though he were on the verge of a stroke, he seemed like the capable, man-in-charge type: tall, and with a commanding presence. There was maybe a little flesh softening the line of his determined chin, but no way did Trehearne give the impression of being soft.

His eyes were like chips of flint as he glared at Ken. “Mr. Howell. What did you think you were doing, lurking off private property at this time of night?”

“I had a tip,” Ken replied. “Someone saw lights on the point and gave me a call. I came to see if it was news.” He paused for a second as the local paramedics came by, trundling a gurney with an ungainly shape strapped in place and covered by a black plastic zip-up bag.

A body bag, Sunny thought.

Ken lowered his head for a moment. “Looks like sad news, I’m sorry to say.”

That didn’t cut any ice with Trehearne. “I won’t have you turning a tragic incident into some sort of vulgar media circus.” He leaned toward Ken. “The Kingsburys won’t have it.”

He broke off as a couple of state troopers approached from the edge of the cliff. Sunny recognized both of them, she’d seen them on duty at the roadblock. She also recognized the man in the rumpled suit whom they accompanied. Lieutenant Wainwright was shorter than Trehearne, his hair was thinner, and he had actual jowls rather than a mere softening of the chin. But he had sharp eyes, and Sunny knew from experience that the investigator had a sharp mind.

Wainwright’s not a guy to come out for just anything, even if it happens on the Kingsbury estate, she thought, suddenly flashing on how Trehearne had used the word “incident” rather than “accident.”

“Well, folks, let’s see if we can clear this up.” Wainwright was obviously going for the “good cop” role in this little drama. His pleasant expression congealed a little when he recognized Sunny. “You,” he said. “Miss . . .” He drew out the title, trying to recall Sunny’s name. “Miss Coolidge. I certainly didn’t expect to run into you out here.”

“This is Ken Howell, who runs the Harbor Courier ,” Sunny deflected. “Ken, this is Lieutenant Ellis Wainwright of the state police, criminal investigation division.”

Ken’s nose twitched. He might not have recognized the homicide investigator by face, but he’d certainly heard the name. “How do you do?” he said.

“Mr. Howell asked me to accompany him to follow a lead about curious activity here in this compound,” Sunny said to Wainwright. “Since he didn’t think our press credentials would get us in, Mr. Howell decided on a more indirect approach.”

Wainwright gave a sour nod, all trace of Mr. Good Cop gone. “And you couldn’t have come along at a worse moment. That poor girl deserves more dignity than you’re about to give her.”

“I think she deserves the truth.” Ken glanced over at Trehearne, who’d just been handed their camera bag by one of his flunkeys. “Instead of being swept under the rug in the name of public relations.”

Trehearne hefted the bag. “You have no proof.”

Wainwright tapped the binoculars that hung around his neck. “If you spent a little more time looking than shouting, Trehearne, you might have noticed that Miss Coolidge also used her cell phone.”

“And e-mailed the pictures on already,” Sunny added.

Ken held up his phone, too. “And I’ve been streaming everything going on here directly to my office.”

Trehearne looked like Dracula discovering he’d just taken a big bite from a loaf of garlic bread.