Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“There’s always that.”

“It’s also hard to picture somebody snatching her out of her own backyard in front of how many witnesses without someone seeing something. There are about two cleared acres separating the Madigan property line from the woods. Not a single tree in that stretch of land. There wouldn’t be any place to hide.”

“I agree it would be nearly impossible to drag someone kicking and screaming across that distance without attracting notice. But someone walking quietly on her own might make it to the woods unnoticed.”

“You think Rebecca slipped out to meet someone?”

“I think it’s one possibility.”

“I think she’d have taken her phone. Girls her age always have their phones.”

“You know a lot about teenage girls?” Kennedy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I have a thirteen-year-old niece. She never goes anywhere without her phone.”

Kennedy made a sound of acknowledgment. Or maybe that was as close as he got to amusement.

Their meals arrived. Hot and fragrant food on oversized blue and orange plates that looked like Qing Dynasty knock-offs. Jason was surprised when Kennedy tore open the paper-wrapped chopsticks and attacked his dinner with efficient dexterity.

Jason said tentatively, “The Simpson kid said something to the effect that everyone knows the Huntsman didn’t act alone.”

“That was one theory for a time,” Kennedy replied. “We never found any evidence to support it.”

“Was anyone suspected of being Pink’s accomplice?”

“Pink’s brother Dwayne. Deceased.” Kennedy expertly manipulated his chopsticks and popped a shrimp into his mouth. Golden sauce wetted his full lower lip.

“Why do you think the rumors of Pink having an accomplice have persisted?”

“Because it took us—law enforcement—way too long to figure out what was happening, and then to catch the offender. People want to convince themselves that wasn’t a failure on the part of the law, but that law enforcement was up against multiple villains.”

“Hm.” Jason didn’t buy it. He wasn’t sure even Kennedy bought it, but it seemed to be Kennedy’s last word on the topic.

They continued their meal in silence. The food was good, and Jason was very hungry. He had no complaints.

When their chopsticks finally scraped porcelain, Kennedy pulled his credit card out and signaled for the check. “This will go on my expense report.”

Jason nodded. Obviously their meals were going on one expense report or the other. Was Kennedy afraid Jason might view dinner as a friendly overture? No fear of that.

“How long have you been with the Bureau?” he asked as the portly waiter departed after returning Kennedy’s card and the leather guest-bill presenter.

Kennedy signed the receipt and gave Jason one of those direct blue glances. “Seventeen years.”

“That’s…”

“A long time.”

“Did you start out in law enforcement?”

“No.” Kennedy reached for his wallet. His smile was sardonic. “I started out with the Bureau. Why the sudden curiosity? I thought you were the guy with all the answers.”

Which meant what?

“No. I don’t think I have all the answers.”

“I know damn well you don’t have all the answers, Agent West.” Kennedy gave him a slightly derisive smile. He pushed back his chair with a force that rocked the small table and rose. “I’m going to turn in. See you in the a.m.”

That was clear enough. For a second or two Jason toyed with the comedic possibilities of walking a respectful two paces behind Kennedy all the way back to their motel, but Kennedy would not be amused, and anyway, Jason wasn’t quite ready for bed.

He watched Kennedy, a long, pale shadow, descend the narrow stairs to the alley and then stride through the gloom until he vanished from sight. Jason ate the two fortune cookies that had arrived with the bill.

One fortune read: Love for a person must extend to the crows on his roof .

That would be Kennedy’s, clearly. If ever a guy had a permanent case of crows on the roof, it was he.

The other slip of paper read: The happiest life ends before death .

Great.

Jason drained the last of his beer and left the restaurant, retracing his steps through the alley and heading back toward the General Warren Inn. As tired as he was, he was also restless, uneasy. Partly it was just the weirdness of being back in Kingsfield after all this time and under these circumstances. Partly…he wasn’t sure.

When he reached the motel, he glanced through the arches and saw the lamp shining behind the curtains in Kennedy’s hotel room. Maybe Kennedy was working late—or maybe he slept with the lights on.

Jason kept walking.

A block up the street he came to the Blue Mermaid pub. He recognized the flirtatiously smiling mermaid on the retro-style hand-painted sign, grinned inwardly, and pushed open the heavy door.

To his surprise the bar was busy. Not packed, but definitely doing a brisk trade.

Jason went to the bar. “What have you got on tap?” he asked the pretty blonde bartender. She had long, pale hair rippling in waves to her shoulders and glittery blue eye shadow. Her lipstick was a neutral color with a hint of gold. It was startling but effective.

She rattled off, “Anchor, Bell’s, Blue Moon, Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors Light, Corona, Miller Lite, Sam Adams—”

“Sam Adams.”

“You got it.”

Jason leaned back against the bar. Talk about memories. Back in the day they had served a decent lunch, and his parents had occasionally come for the burgers and kitschy charm. He had loved this place as a kid. In fact, he couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one so he could come in here and drink.

The motif was pure ahoy-thar-be-a-shipwreck! relying heavily on clunky wrought iron, broken trunks, and splintered kegs filled with sand and topped with paste junk jewelry. The walls were adorned with pirate flags, fiberglass fish, and kitschy 1950s mermaid memorabilia. The main attraction for his younger self—the pièce de résistance—had been the retro mermaid “tank” complete with plastic seaweed and a giant conch shell.

In actuality the tank was just an ornately framed plate glass window set into the wall and covered with blue cellophane. Once upon a time a succession of scantily clad mermaids had reclined on the glittering blue sand in the room behind the glass, entertaining patrons by genteelly waving their giant rubber fish tails while sipping drinks and reading fashion magazines.

The mermaids had fallen out of favor in the eighties, which Jason always thought was a shame although at seventeen his own taste had run more to mermen.

The black curtains drawn across the front of the tank window cast a slightly funereal air over the former exhibit.

The bartender set his moisture-beaded glass on a fish-shaped coaster. “Did you want to run a tab?”

Jason shook his head. “What do I owe you?”

She told him, and he pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re with the FBI, right?”

He smiled. “Is it my haircut?”

She laughed. “No. It’s your suit.”

“I’m not wearing a suit.”

“Yes you are. Only it doesn’t have anything to do with your clothes.”

It was Jason’s turn to laugh.

She offered a hand. “Candy Davies.”

“Jason West.” They shook.

“You think you’re going to find her? Rebecca?”

Jason said, “I think we’re all going to do our best. Were you at the party at the Madigans’?”

“Me?” Candy looked taken aback. “How old do you think I am? No, I wasn’t at that party. Getting drunk with a bunch of high-schoolers isn’t my idea of how to spend a Friday night.”