Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“Okay.” Was Kennedy expecting to pick up psychic vibrations or something? Or did he think it would be possible to pick up some overlooked clue this long after the fact?

Some of what Jason was thinking must have shown on his face because Kennedy added, “Mostly I need to clear my thoughts. Stretch my legs.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Right.”

That was clear enough—and a relief, of course. Jason had not expected that they would spend another night together. Had not been hoping for it. Had, by maintaining a cool distance, tried to convey he would not be open to it. So it was weird to feel that jolt of letdown.

He listened to Kennedy’s footsteps die out down the hallway and then turned on his laptop and began to search the web.

No joy.

Was it possible that Pink had acquired additional mermaids?

No. They would surely have turned up at his house. They’d have been used as evidence during his trial. They’d have been too important not to use. One reason they hadn’t been placed into evidence at Pink’s trial was the uncertainty of where they fit in. Not all of the victims had been found with mermaid charms.

You never wanted to enter anything into evidence which might lead in an unpredictable direction.

Anyway, no. The mermaids had been purchased through George Simpson’s gift shop. That mysterious old stock Simpson had been unable to match to a vendor.

What if Simpson was lying? He’d come under suspicion for some reason, and it had to be for more than owning the shop where the mermaid trinkets were sold. What if he had carved the mermaids himself and lied about it?

No. If Simpson had that kind of skill, there would be physical evidence of it. Plus, Honey’s purchase of the original mermaid messed up the timeline. Right?

Jason made a mental note to check Simpson’s file for himself, see how he had first come under suspicion—and why those suspicions had been ultimately dismissed.

In the meantime…he used the office printer to scan a few of the photos and then emailed them to his list of dealer and gallery contacts.

They might get a hit right away or not at all. Probably not at all if these really were the work of a local artist or a gifted amateur.

Again, if that was the case, someone on the original taskforce should have recognized the work of a local craftsman. These carvings were exquisite.

Memorable.

Which gave him hope one of his own contacts might recognize the craftsmanship—or be able to point him in the direction of someone who would.

He felt instinctively that if they could just locate this mysterious artist, they would be one step closer to finding their killer.

Chapter Fourteen

“Goodnight,” Officer Courtney called when Jason left the quiet station house that evening.

“Night,” Jason returned.

That night the parking lot was nearly empty, an indicator Chief Gervase and his department had resigned themselves to the long haul and were trying to pace themselves.

Jason turned left and headed up Main Street, walking until he came to the General Warren Inn.

“I took your laundry up to your room,” Charlotte told him when he stopped by the lobby.

“Thanks.”

She looked like she had been crying. Her voice wobbled as she asked, “Do you know where Tony is?”

Proof of his preoccupation, it took Jason a minute to remember Tony McEnroe. “No,” he said. “Did he make bail?”

“Yes.” Charlotte started to add something, but her father called from the back office, “Charlie, can I see you for a moment?”

She threw Jason a look of frustration, but answered docilely, “Yes, Daddy.”

Jason left the lobby.

As usual no one was in the swimming pool, and most of the rooms were dark. Certainly there was no lamp shining behind the curtains in Kennedy’s room. Was he still prowling the countryside, visiting old crime scenes?

Jason let himself into his room. He was tired, and his headache was coming back, but he needed to eat and the idea of hanging around his motel room was just depressing. He showered, put on clean jeans and a fresh shirt, and headed over to the Blue Mermaid.

The first person he saw when he opened the door was Senior Special Agent Sam Kennedy eating fish and chips at the bar and watching the TV in the corner.

Jason glanced at the TV screen and caught a glimpse of the Madigans, tear-stained and enraged their daughter’s killer had not yet been brought to justice. That was followed by the image of Chief Gervase looking harassed and uncomfortable as he tried to answer the barrage of reporters’ questions. Even at that distance and with the television sound muted, Jason could see Gervase’s mouth forming the word copycat .

Briefly, Jason considered backing out of the bar, but that would be ridiculous. It wasn’t like he was trying to avoid Kennedy. He just didn’t want to look like he was fol—and right in the middle of that thought, Kennedy glanced Jason’s way.

Kennedy did not look overcome with delight. He also didn’t look disturbed to see Jason. After a moment—and it was definitely a moment—he nodded in greeting, and Jason walked over to the bar.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“How did what go?” Kennedy returned.

“Your tour of the old crime scenes.”

Kennedy lifted a shoulder in dismissal. “I can’t say I was struck by any blinding flashes of fresh insight. How did you make out?”

“Unless you have some objection, I’d like to head back to Boston tomorrow. I’ve got contacts there. I’ve worked with a couple of dealers who specialize in folk art. They might be able to help us locate the artist who carved those mermaid charms.”

“You think those charms are that distinct?”

“I do. Yeah.”

Funny how Kennedy’s eyes seemed to light up when he was interested. Like someone threw the switch on an electrical current. “Okay. Sounds good to me.”

The slender brunette behind the bar stopped moving long enough to speak to Kennedy, “Was I right? Pretty good?”

Kennedy examined the piece of fried cod he held. “Not bad.”

She nodded at his half-empty glass. “Again?”

“Thanks.”

She turned to Jason. “Sorry for the wait. Our bartender didn’t show up for her shift. What can I get you?”

“Sam Adams.”

“Were you going to order food?”

“Do you have some kind of salad?”

She laughed. “Uh, no. No salad. Fish and chips, burgers, or chicken wings.”

“Fish and chips.”

“Good choice.” She smiled and turned away.

Kennedy looked inquiringly at Jason.

“What?” Jason asked.

“Were you going to sit down, or are you planning to make a run for it?”

Jason laughed uncomfortably and sat down on the next stool. After a moment he said, “I talked to SAC Manning today.”

Kennedy took a large bite of cod. “Yeah?”

“I asked him to release me from this assignment. He said no.”

Kennedy gave a short laugh. “Are you kidding? You’re the only reason he can sleep at night.”

Funny. Almost the exact phrasing Manning had used.

Kennedy added dryly, “He’s pinning all his hopes on you and your little black notebook.”

“Do you think I’m keeping notes on you?”

Kennedy’s smile was crooked. “If you are, they ought to make for interesting reading.”

Jason looked away, his face warm.

“No,” Kennedy said. “I don’t think you’re keeping notes on me.” He swallowed the last wedge of fish and wiped his greasy fingers on his paper napkin. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”

“I just did.”

Kennedy finished with his napkin, balled it up, and dropped it on his plate. “No. You didn’t. Why did you feel the need to phone Manning?”