Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“Or she stepped out of her front yard,” Jason said.

Kennedy gave him a curious look.

“We tried that too,” Gervase said wearily. “Front or back, the dogs never picked up her scent more than a foot or so from the Madigan property.”

Jason began, “There’s no possibility—”

“No. None. Every inch of that house has been checked. Basement to attic. Tool shed to pool house. Rebecca is not on the premises.”

The chief seemed to be waiting for something from Kennedy. Kennedy said, “You’ll resume the search at first light?”

“Hell, yes.” Gervase’s mouth twisted. “By the way, your boy McEnroe is asking to take a lie-detector test.”

Kennedy’s brows rose. “Is he? Interesting.”

“You know as well as I do, the results are unreliable.”

“They are. Don’t you think his willingness to take the test is noteworthy?”

“Noteworthy?” Gervase snorted. “I guess. So what do you think?”

“I think we give him a polygraph.”

Gervase nodded, but he said, “I guess he believes he can beat the machine. I still think he knows where she is.”

Jason said. “I’m not so sure. I think he’s telling the truth.”

Kennedy’s mouth curved in that humorless smile.

Gervase said, “Did you find another viable suspect in those reports?”

“No,” Jason admitted. “Nothing yet.”

Gervase sighed. He looked very weary. “Well, she could still be alive,” he said with what sounded like forced cheer. “There’s always hope until there isn’t. We might find her tomorrow.”

Kennedy nodded, but it seemed to be at his own thoughts and not the police chief’s words.

Jason said, “If we are dealing with a copycat…”

He didn’t finish it. He didn’t have to. They all knew that if they were dealing with a copycat, Rebecca was already dead.

Chapter Six

“We hope you’ll be very comfortable here at the General Warren Inn. Just ask for Charlotte—that’s me—if you need anything.” The lanky blonde at the motel front desk slid a keycard across the scratched maple counter.

“Thanks.” Jason picked up the plastic card and glanced back at Kennedy, who had already finished checking in and was walking out the sliding lobby doors into the dark courtyard.

It was eight o’clock on Saturday night. After the search for Rebecca had been placed on hold, he and Kennedy had continued to work their way through the remaining statements. They had come up as empty-handed as the volunteers scouring the woods and hills.

Sometimes no news was good news.

The search—both on foot and on paper—would start again at first light.

Charlotte was watching Kennedy too, and as the doors slid shut behind him, she said, “I remember him from the last time. He stayed here then too.”

She looked to be about eighteen, which would have put her around age eight when Kennedy had been in Kingsfield working the Huntsman case. Jason didn’t doubt her though. Kennedy would always leave an impression.

“Did he leave a nice tip?”

Charlotte looked surprised. “He did, yeah.”

Jason winked at her and started to turn away, but she said quickly, “Do you—do you think you’ll find her? Rebecca?”

“Is she a good friend?”

Charlotte shook her head but then nodded. So which was it? Yes or no? Maybe Charlotte wasn’t sure. “I know her. We hang out sometimes. A bunch of us, I mean. What I wanted to tell you—”

When she didn’t continue, Jason asked, “What?”

“You’re wrong about Tony. He didn’t do anything to Rebecca. He wouldn’t have any reason.”

“No?”

“It’s over between them. On both sides; Rebecca just doesn’t want to admit it yet because she likes using Tony to piss her parents off.”

Charlotte was a cute girl. She had wide blue eyes, expertly lined in black, and shiny hair bound in two braids. Not Little House on the Prairie braids, but chic fashion-magazine-style braids. Jason said, “And you know this because you and Tony…?”

She blushed. Nodded.

“I see.” Good news for Rebecca’s parents and bad news for Charlotte’s, in Jason’s opinion.

She raised her chin. “Everyone knows what’s going on here. Nobody wants to say it out loud, but everyone knows.”

“What do they know?”

Charlotte’s voice dropped. “The Huntsman is back.”

“No.” Jason wanted to be very clear about this. He knew only too well how fast rumor spread in a small town. “Martin Pink is sitting in solitary confinement in a supermax prison right this minute.”

Charlotte was not impressed. “Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—” She broke off as a tall, sandy-haired man of about fifty stepped out of the back office. He wore glasses and a mustache so bushy it looked fake.

“Charlotte, can I see you in here?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Charlotte left the front desk at once, throwing Jason an apologetic look.

The man studied Jason, nodded politely, and turned away.

The General Warren Inn was not actually an inn. It was a motel and a pretty basic one. The Bureau did not typically spring for five star accommodations. Jason’s room appeared clean and functional, and there was a shiny, solid deadbolt on the door—which was not something he’d used to think a lot about, but appreciated these days.

Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—

Great. Thanks for that thought, Charlotte.

A pair of Homer Winslow watercolor marine prints adorned the walls—nice choice—and the queen-size bed was covered by a navy chintz bedspread that had lost its sheen a few years back. So long as there was a mattress under the chintz, he didn’t care.

As tired as he was, he was even hungrier. He’d skipped breakfast, intending to grab something at the airport, and then there had never been another opportunity to eat. It all felt like a million years ago—which was probably the last time he’d had a real meal. You didn’t join the FBI if you were looking for eight hours a night and regular meal times.

He unpacked his carryall, stared at the ball of wrinkled shirts, and realized he’d have to see about finding a laundromat, assuming this case didn’t wind up tomorrow. What were the chances of that?

Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsma—

What the hell had she meant?

He washed up in the tiny bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until he was gasping for air. Drying off with one of the bleach-scented towels, he eyed his reflection. Unsurprisingly, he looked haggard: green eyes shadowed, face drawn. Too many memories—and the good memories were just as painful as the bad memories. Which is why he had never wanted to come back to Kingsfield.

Anyway. He was here, and he’d have to make the best of it. He had bigger problems to worry about. Like his reaction to finding himself at the wrong end of a semi-automatic. Just remembering turned him cold and then hot with humiliation.

Jesus Christ . What a total, fucking disaster that had nearly been. What had happened to him?

The eyes staring back from the mirror were wide with horror.

It was okay. McEnroe was safely behind bars, and Jason’s weapon was safely stowed in its holster. Everything was okay. Everything was fine. He would never make that mistake again.

He changed his shirt—only noticing for the first time the bruises and scratches he’d collected in his tussle with McEnroe—shoved his wallet in his jeans, and stepped outside his room.

Two doors down, Kennedy, a tall shadow in the gloom, was locking his own door. Jason’s heart sank.

Kennedy glanced over at Jason. “You want to grab something to eat?” he asked after a couple of beats.