Erica Spindler - Dead Run

Wednesday, November 21

3:30 p.m.

“Is this Detective Carla Chapman?”

The voice was a man’s, one she didn’t recognize. “Yes,” she answered. “How can I help you?”

“It’s Jonathan Bell. The Sunset Key ferryboat captain. I ferried you across-”

“To Larry Bernhardt’s place,” she filled in, that afternoon seeming a lifetime ago now. “I remember.”

“You told me to call if I remembered anything about that night, anything I’d forgotten to tell the police.”

“Go on.”

“That night, I ferried over a mother and her two daughters, real attractive, all of them. They said they were going to the restaurant…you know, Latitudes. But I remembered this morning that when they got off the boat they headed toward the other side of the island. Toward Bernhardt’s place.”

Carla digested that. “You think they were hookers?”

“No way. They looked real…fresh-scrubbed. The mother was real classy. Gorgeous.”

Carla narrowed her eyes. Bernhardt’s housekeeper had claimed he had liked young girls. She had found photographs of them performing sexual acts with him. Carla thought of the man’s bedroom, of the mirrors placed strategically on all sides of the bed.

“How old do you think these girls were?”

He was silent a moment, as if thinking. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen at the most.”

“The ferry’s still crossing?”

“Yeah, it’s a little rough ’cause of Rebekah, but we’re still doing it.”

Carla thanked him and hung up. Sounded to her like a quick trip out to Sunset Key was in order.

Larry Bernhardt’s children had begun getting the house ready to sell. The furnishings they hadn’t already taken could be sold with the house or would be auctioned. Or so the receptionist at Sunset Key Realty told Carla as she handed her the key to the property.

“I thought the investigation was complete,” the woman murmured.

“You know police work,” Carla replied with what she hoped was just the right note of professional boredom. “Some new little thing pops up and we have to investigate it.”

“Bummer.” The young woman peered out the window at the threatening sky. “You’re not going to be long, are you? My boss gives the okay, and I’m out of here.”

“A few minutes, fifteen or twenty, tops.” She smiled again and held up the key. “I’ll have it back on your desk in no time.”

Minutes later, Carla let herself into Bernhardt’s house. She headed directly up to his bedroom and flipped on the light.

The bedroom was empty.

With a sound of disappointment, she made her way into the room. The massive four-poster bed and matching dresser, highboy and nightstands were gone. Only the mirrors remained.

She wasn’t certain what she had hoped to find, but this wasn’t it. She brought her hands to her head. Think, Carla. Think. There are answers here.

We have one dead teenager. A girl supposedly a member of a weird sex club.

We have a dead banker, one with a fondness for teenage girls. A man who liked to watch, evidenced by the mirrors surrounding the bed and the photographs the housekeeper had found.

The night he supposedly killed himself, two teenage girls and a woman paid him a visit.

It hit her then. If Bernhardt liked the live action the mirrors provided, he would like videotapes even more. Sick self-gratification anytime, day or night. And considering his moral fiber, Bernhardt was one hundred percent capable of secretly videotaping the action taking place on his bed.

Secretly being the operative word here.

So where would the camera-or cameras-be?

Carla moved to the spot the bed had occupied. She stood quietly, listening, putting herself in Bernhardt’s head. She moved her gaze over the room, imagining herself making love, wanting to watch. Now. And later. One mirror to the right of the bed. One to the left. One at the head. Nothing on the wall at the foot of the bed. She lifted her gaze. No mirror above, just a crystal chandelier.

She frowned. No mirror above? It seemed to her, the ceiling would have provided Bernhardt with one of his best, consistently reliable views.

She narrowed her eyes, studying the chandelier, its crystal teardrops. They sparkled like diamonds. Not all of them, she realized. The bottom teardrop didn’t refract the light the way the others did.

She stood on tiptoe. Once she knew what she was looking for, it was easy to find. There in the bottom crystal, a pinhole lense, no more than an eighth of an inch across. A wide angle, no doubt. Wired up the light fixture and through the ceiling.

Excited by the find, she turned to the mirrors. A guy with Bernhardt’s addiction and funds wouldn’t stop with one camera. No way. When the action was live, he had three views to enjoy; he would settle for no less from his video action.

She crossed to the mirror mounted where the head of the bed had been. She carefully examined the ornately carved, antiqued-gold frame inch by inch. She found what she was looking for imbedded in the top center of the frame, wired through the wall. An inspection of the two remaining mirrors revealed the same, those imbedded at bed height.

So where was the system? Carla wondered. She eased her gaze slowly over the room once more. Bernhardt had a mirror on every wall but one. The windowless wall directly across from the bed. On her previous visits it had sported a large abstract painting.

A false wall, she would bet her life on it.

She crossed to the wall and began a search for a spring or pressure release button. After nearly ten minutes, she admitted she wasn’t going to find one.

Frustrated, she swung away. Her gaze landed on the doorway to the master bath. The television in the master bathroom, mounted in the wall above the garden tub. Of course.

She made her way there. Not just a television, she saw, but a VCR as well. She climbed into the tub and lay down, placing her head in the spot Bernhardt had most likely placed his. Sure enough, the television had been angled slightly for optimum viewing from the bath. Sick prick, she thought. Probably lay in the tub and jacked off while he watched himself committing carnal crimes with these…children. Fifteen? Sixteen. Jesus. It made her sick.

Carla stood, climbed on to the edge of the tub, flipped on the VCR and pressed eject. The machine proved empty. She ran her hand over the top and sides of the unit. Her fingers closed over not one remote, but two.

Her heartbeat quickened. One of the remotes possessed only a single button, much like a garage-door opener would.

Excited, she jumped down and hurried back to the bedroom. There, she faced the blank wall, pointed the remote and pressed the button. The corner of the wall popped free. She crossed to it and swung it the rest of the way open, revealing a two-foot-deep storage area.

Recorder. Amplifier. Video library. Hands shaking, Carla opened the recorder.

And found a tape. A tape most probably recorded the last night of Bernhardt’s life.

She snatched it out, ran to the bathroom and inserted the tape in the VCR. She rewound it, then hit play-and struck pay dirt. The tape was time and date stamped: Thursday, November 1, 11:18 p.m.

The small screen filled with naked bodies, the room with the sound of their sex. There were three people involved-two teenage girls and Bernhardt. Bernhardt was on his knees, skewering one of them from behind. The other girl was behind him, fondling and sucking.

So, where was the mama Jonathan Bell had told her about?

The cameras must have been on timers because every three minutes the view switched. When it did, Carla had the answer to her question. The breath hissed past her teeth. Heather Ferguson, she realized. Observing the action. Directing it. Feeding the participants a liquid, most probably laced with drugs.