Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“Okay, pretty boy. Let’s get something straight.” His tone was cold and clipped. “We both know your role here is to run interference between me and everybody else. All you need to do is stay out of my way and smooth the feathers when needed. And in return you’ll be the guy who gets to pose in front of the cameras with Chief Gervase. Fair enough?”

“The hell,” Jason said. “I’ve been asked to try and make sure you don’t step in it again, sure, but I’m not here to hold your cape, Batman. I’m your partner on this case whether either of us likes it or not. And, for the record, I don’t like it—any more than you do.”

“Then make it easy on both of us,” Kennedy said. “You stay out of my murder investigation, and I’ll let you know if I hear about any paintings getting stolen.”

He didn’t wait for Jason’s answer. He turned and followed Boxner down the hallway.

Chapter Two

“Ithought they discontinued that model,” the officer behind the reception desk remarked as Jason followed Kennedy out of the incident room. Her name badge read A. Courtney.

Kennedy, several strides ahead, was already disappearing through the glass doors. He had kept his voice down, but it was a carrying kind of voice. Or maybe Officer A. Courtney had ears like a bat.

Jason said, “The engine still runs. But we’ll never find replacement parts for that carburetor.”

She gave a snort of amusement, though all traces of humor disappeared as the phone rang and she reached to answer it.

“No. No news,” she was saying as Jason followed Kennedy outside.

Jason would not have been entirely surprised to find Kennedy had left him at the station house—but no. The black and white idled in front of the portico, spilling exhaust into the sultry summer air.

Jason climbed into the backseat behind the cage partition—which was probably exactly where Kennedy believed he belonged. The too-warm interior smelled of drunks and dogs. Or possibly drunken dogs.

Anyway, he and Kennedy needed to work together long enough to bring this kid safely home, and then he’d never have to deal with Kennedy again. He wasn’t sure who he was more irritated with: Kennedy, SAC Manning for talking Jason into this, or himself for agreeing to join an investigation where he was not going to be able to add a whole hell of a lot of value. The “pretty boy” comment had stung more than he wanted to admit.

Boxner hung up his radio and put the vehicle in motion. “Rebecca’s a wild girl, but she wouldn’t take off in the middle of her own party. She was only wearing her bathing suit, for one thing. Her car is sitting in the garage. The housekeeper says none of her clothes are missing. Her purse is still at the house. Her cell phone was left on a table on the deck.”

Kennedy grunted, which could have meant yes , no , or don’t talk when I’m trying to think .

Jason asked, “How wild is wild?”

Boxner shrugged. Once again his dark eyes studied Jason in the rearview mirror as though trying to place him. Unlike in Boxner’s case, those sixteen intervening years had made a big difference to Jason. He’d filled out, lost the braces, and cut his formerly shoulder-length dark hair. Nobody who’d known him then would have expected to find him working for the FBI. Including Jason.

“Nothing that required jail time.”

The Madigans were a wealthy local family, so what did that really mean? Did it matter? In most cases the character of the victim determined the initial focus and direction of investigation. If the Madigan girl was the randomly chosen prey of a psychopath, which is what Kennedy and everyone else around here suspected, then character was irrelevant. Victimology was immaterial. Rebecca was just a pawn in a gruesome game of chess.

“Are the Madigans longtime residents?” Jason didn’t recognize the name.

“They moved here from New York about four years ago. Mr. Madigan is a big deal in commercial real estate.”

So Rebecca had moved to Kingsfield right around the time she started high school. New social dynamics. New friends. New enemies. “How did Rebecca fit in?”

“She fit in okay.”

“Is she an only child?”

“No. There’s a younger brother. He’s away at summer camp. They both fit in okay. Her problem is too much money.”

“That’s not such a bad problem to have.”

“No. It sure as shit isn’t,” Boxner said with feeling.

* * * * *

Crime scenes were always chaotic, but the volunteers behind the New Dominion housing development had accidentally stirred up a wasps’ nest, which added to the furor. A dust storm of stinging insects was moving across the ragged field like a small and irate tornado, and the searchers had temporarily retreated to cars and the porches of neighboring houses.

Kennedy observed the situation with his usual deadpan expression and went to seek out the police chief. Judging by the variety of uniforms, it looked like law enforcement personnel from at least two other townships as well the State Police had shown up to aid in the search.

Seeing the number of people gathered—so many tense and tired faces—reminded Jason of the search for Honey sixteen years earlier. He’d done his best to forget, but it was all coming back now. Of course he and Kennedy needed to be here. They needed to understand the scope of what they were dealing with. And if they could see and get a feel for all the players, it gave them an added advantage. He probably should have kept his mouth shut back at the station. If he was going to lock horns with Kennedy, it needed to be over something that really mattered.

He scanned the row of expensive new homes that hadn’t existed sixteen years ago. They were all of the McMansion school of architecture. Oversized and bastardized Colonials or Casa del Huhs .

Between each house stretched a discreet square of landscaping, wide enough to foster the illusion of privacy without eating up too much acreage. Behind the row of houses to the east was a large empty meadow and then the woods. Kingsfield was surrounded by both state parks and wilderness areas, and despite the uptown airs of New Dominion, this was rural Massachusetts with ten percent of the population living below the poverty line. Some people in these remote areas went entire weeks without seeing another human. The deep woods provided home to deer, bobcats, otters, raccoons, and occasionally larger critters like bear and moose. Jason even remembered stories of a local hunter bagging a Russian boar one autumn.

The real predator haunting these woodlands had not been four-footed.

“Chief Gervase,” Kennedy called.

A man in uniform—medium height, trim and fit as a career soldier—turned from the insignia-decorated circle of men he was speaking to. Just for an instant his weary, strained expression relaxed into surprised relief. “Special Agent Kennedy. You came.”

Until that moment, the only face Jason had recognized had been Boxner’s, but he remembered Police Chief Gervase.

Back then he had been Officer Gervase, not Chief. The then-Chief of Kingsfield, Rudy Kowalski, had been a bluff and beefy man, well-suited to appeasing the town fathers and keeping rowdy teenagers in line. He had been completely out of his depth when the slaughter began. But that had come later. When Honey had been murdered, everybody believed it was a lightning strike. It could never happen twice.

Then Theresa Nolan had been killed. Then Ginny Chapin and Jody Escobar. And so it had gone. Seven girls in all. Jason’s understanding was Kowalski had voluntarily resigned and the village council had promptly filled his shoes with able and ambitious Officer Gervase. Sixteen years later Gervase was a well-preserved sixty, looking forward to his own retirement. He had gray eyes, a tidy Van Dyke beard, and the perpetual tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.