Jill Sorenson: Crash Into Me

“Sand is obvious enough, but petroleum jelly?”

“Hardcore surfers get contact dermatitis from wearing a wetsuit all day. They put Vaseline around their necks, where the fabric tends to rub.”

“What about titanium?”

“A component of high-quality wetsuits. The kind you buy when money is no object. They keep you warm in the winter, but rub the hell out of your neck.”

“Are you saying that he was wearing a wetsuit when he perpetrated the killings?”

“Perhaps. A wetsuit would inhibit movement, but it would also be good protection against defensive injuries.”

She frowned down at the photo in her lap, finding the idea difficult to wrap her mind around. Ben Fortune was the stuff dreams were made of, and she wasn’t just considering female fantasies. Boys of all ages aspired to be like him. “Surfers are a dime a dozen in Torrey Pines,” she argued. “La Jolla is crawling with trust fund babies who have nothing better to do than ride waves all day. What links Fortune to these crimes?”

Grant deliberated for a moment. “There are some unusual circumstances surrounding his wife’s death.”

Sonny remembered the incident well. Before the culprit was arrested, Fortune had gone through a lengthy, much-publicized interrogation. Since then, he’d all but disappeared, shunning the contest circuit and retreating from the limelight. “She was murdered by a drifter,” she recalled. “Darrius O’Shea. He made a full confession.”

“Which he recanted.”

“When?”

“Yesterday,” Grant said, sliding a sheet of paper across his desk, “in his suicide note.”

She picked up the copy of the note. It was poorly spelled but painstakingly executed, stating only that he hadn’t killed Olivia Fortune, and in his final moment of clarity, wished to leave this world unencumbered.

People rarely lied in suicide notes. If anything, they used the opportunity to come clean. Even so, cynicism had her asking, “Does he have family?”

Grant smiled. “Not a soul. O’Shea was a veteran and a loner. His parents, estranged wife, and brother are all dead.”

“Hmm.” Not much reason to prevaricate, with no surviving relatives. “Why would he confess to a crime he didn’t commit?”

He leaned back in his chair again. “Who knows? Mental illness. Unresolved guilt over a separate incident. The lure of a warm bed and three square meals a day.”

It wasn’t unheard of for interviewees, especially the young and weak-minded, to make a false confession under duress. “He had the murder weapon,” she pointed out.

“That he did,” Grant agreed. “Fortune’s wife was strangled with electrical cord, just like the recent victims. And although the incidents could be unrelated, there are enough similarities to warrant further investigation.”

“Was Fortune considered a suspect before O’Shea was arrested?”

“Yes, but due to lack of evidence…or because of his family’s connections with local law enforcement, he was never formally charged.”

“What connections?”

“Mr. Fortune, senior, is a retired criminal court judge, and a very powerful man. He could have called in a few favors.”

She closed the files in her lap, satisfied. “Where do I come in?”

Grant removed his glasses and massaged his tired eyes. “I want you to go undercover. Hang around, make yourself visible. Some of the victims were beach bunnies, surf groupies, and you’re from the area.”

She quirked a brow. “I’m from the other side of the tracks. Last Chance Trailer Park is not La Jolla Cove.”

“An undercover assignment implies playing a role, Sonny.”

“Grant, I’m twenty-eight. The eldest victim was twenty-two.”

He studied her appearance. “You could look younger, if you wanted to. And wear sunglasses. Your eyes give you away.”

Sonny shifted in her chair, bothered by the notion that anyone could see through her. “Why are you sending me?”

On this point, he leveled with her. “I need an attractive female whose looks garner attention, and you fit the bill. You’re also familiar with the area, the laid-back attitude. I can’t send a surveillance team with you, so you’d be on your own, for the most part, but I know you can handle yourself.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. Grant was flattering her, and more importantly, enticing her with a challenging, high-profile assignment. Getting close to Fortune wouldn’t be easy, and having free reign, with little or no interference, also sounded appealing. Of course, there were drawbacks. She was no sexpot beach bunny.

He read her mind. “I can offer you a limited wardrobe budget.”

She smiled. “I’ll take it.”

“Fine,” he said, replacing his glasses. “You’ll go tomorrow.”

Sonny rearranged the files on her lap, her mind on getting into character for a peach assignment. Returning to Torrey Pines would almost be like going back to high school, with new clothes, ten years of life experience, and the security of knowing she could kick the ass of anyone who got in her way.

After a week of observation, Sonny knew Grant’s plan for her to infiltrate the ranks of a very close-knit society would fail.

She’d been set up in a small but costly coastal apartment less than a block from Windansea Beach in southern La Jolla. The location was choice for wave-, babe-, or boy-watching, all of which Sonny had been doing her fair share.

Ben Fortune was spectacular eye candy.

Fortune no longer competed professionally, but he was still on top of his game and in peak physical condition. He did things on the water other men only dreamed about. Sonny spent entire afternoons in wide-eyed amazement as he cut his board through curls of wave as sleek as glass, glided on the edge of breakers the size of thunderheads, and emerged from the pipe in a gusty mist, as if the ocean had breathed him in, and finding him worthy to ride another day, exhaled him back out.

The sport was so varied in its execution that she could pick Ben out from a crowd of dark wetsuits and light-colored surfboards. Each surfer was unique, in the way he held himself, almost crouching, or standing fully upright; in the movement of his arms, reaching out to touch the curl, fingers splayed, or hands clenched tight, as if he could grasp each exhilarating moment and hang on to it like a fistful of sand.

Fortune, in particular, had a style that was just plain beautiful to behold. At times he was electric, all sharp edges, quick drop-offs, and wicked cutbacks. He could also make his movements appear effortless, fluid, organic, as if his surfboard were an extension of his body, a living, breathing thing. Watching him was like communing with God; his easy grace was nothing less than transcendent.

As assignments went, it was tops. Sonny fell in love with the Pacific all over again, and could have observed wave after unadorned wave break upon the sandy beach, delighting only in the joy of indefatigable Mother Nature. Studying handsome athletes in their prime, perfectly muscled bodies encased in slick black wetsuits that left little to the imagination-perhaps it wasn’t exactly a spiritual pursuit, but it was a great perk.

The problem was neither spiritual nor physical, but professional: the subject did nothing but surf. He didn’t sign autographs, give interviews, or pose for photos, even with hardcore fans, and he certainly didn’t condescend to acknowledge novice surfers. He might nod to his comrades or exchange a combination of words only they could understand, but even this level of communication was rare.

If still waters ran deep, Ben Fortune went fathoms.

His rejection of tourists, newcomers, and inexperienced surfers was rude, but his general attitude toward women was downright weird. Bikini girls were as assiduously avoided as the dank, lice-infested piles of seaweed that frequently washed ashore.