Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (3 page)

“He can’t have gone far,” Richard said reasonably, but we spent the next fifteen minutes wandering around the marina calling the kid’s name with no results.

“Brenda is going to kill me if I lose him,” Richard groused. He looked all around the area. “Do you think he could have gone back to the car?”

“Maybe. Why don’t you go look. If he’s there, blast the horn a few times to let me know. I’ll keep looking around here.”

“Right,” he said, and we split up.

I went back to Easy Breezin’, but Da-Marr hadn’t gone back there. I stopped in and asked the marina manager, but he said he hadn’t seen the kid since we’d first arrived. I was ready to abandon the search when I saw Da-Marr step onto the dock from one of the few boats that were still in their slips.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

“Checking out the competition. They got nothing on Richard’s boat.”

“You could get arrested for trespassing.”

“Bullshit.”

An urban kid in a very white marina? What planet did this kid live on?

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Since Richard hadn’t had good luck at the car, he met us half way down the dock where Da-Marr gave him the same song and dance routine about checking out the other boats.

“I met the guy at the Coke machine. He wanted to show off his boat. I was just leavin’ when pussy showed up.”

If I’d been close enough, I’d have kicked that son of a bitch in the balls.

“Please don’t do it again. If something happened, you might be falsely accused,” Richard said reasonably.

“Hey, I’m from the city. I can take care of myself,” Da-Marr bluffed and took off for the car.

“Famous last words,” I grumbled, and glanced at my watch. I had fifteen minutes to get to the Whole Nine Yards. I estimated I’d be at least fifteen minutes late.

Richard hadn’t moved. “What is your problem?”

“I’m going to be fucking late for work because of that asshole.”

Richard shoved his index finger in my face, his expression livid. “You will
not
insult my houseguest and you
will
behave like an adult.

Damn, Da-Marr. At that moment I felt sure I could kill the little bastard.

I looked away and stalked off in the direction of the parking lot.

Da-Marr was already sitting in the passenger seat, looking triumphant as I climbed into the Mercedes’ back seat. Richard got in and started the engine. “So you made a friend?” he said as he steered out of the parking lot.

“I guess,” Da-Marr muttered. “The guy said the boat belonged to his father. I don’t go round askin’ people for proof.” He reached over and switched on the radio once again, cranking up the volume.

I saw Richard look back at me via the rearview mirror.

If what Da-Marr said was true, then I looked like a jerk for tattling. But what if he was lying? There was no way I could prove it, so I kept my mouth shut. I looked at my watch and fumed. I pulled out my cell phone to call the bar. “Can you turn that down,” I shouted.

Instead, Da-Marr pressed the button and the decibel level rose exponentially.

Richard reached over and hit the off switch. “Jeff’s got to make a call,” he said reasonably, but Da-Marr glanced over his shoulder and glared at me.

As I punched up the number for the bar, I had a feeling I was going to pay for the exchange that had just taken place.

But how?

The wheels on Jeff’s car spun madly as it launched like a rocket down the drive and turned right onto LeBrun Road. Richard sighed — angry, and yet sympathetic at the emotion that had precipitated the childish act of defiance.

He shoved the keys to his own car into his pocket and stood staring at the now-empty drive, hesitant to return to the warmth of the house and the cold reception he was likely to receive from at least one person in residence.

It was with great reluctance that he entered the house and dawdled as he hung up his jacket on one of the pegs in the home’s expansive butler’s pantry. He could hear voices in the kitchen: one domineering and one almost quavering. God, his feet felt heavy as he plodded into what was supposed to be the heart of his home.

“I’m back,” he called cheerfully as he entered the kitchen. Brenda sat at her usual seat at the maple table, looking small despite her swollen belly, while a commanding Evelyn stood in front of the stove, stirring something in a big stainless steel pot. “Something smells good.”

“Evie’s making bean soup. It’s our grandmother’s recipe,” Brenda said, her voice sounding unnaturally high. That only happened when she was stressed — really stressed. It wasn’t like her, either. He met her gaze, about to ask if she was okay, but her penetrating — almost imploring — gaze told him not to inquire.

“How did things go at the marina?” Brenda asked instead.

“Fine.”

Her eyes narrowed. She knew. She always knew when he stretched the truth.

“It’s a great boat. We’ll have a lot of good times on it.”

“It seems like an unnecessary extravagance,” Evelyn said gravely. “Frivolous,” she added.

“Da-Marr said he got to drive it,” Brenda said, her cheerful tone sounding forced.

“That he did,” Richard said, his eyes wandering to the cabinet where he kept the single malt Scotch. Evelyn would not approve of him pouring a shot this early in the day — but about now he felt as though he could use one. Was there a chance he could sneak off to his study to grab a neat glass of the store he kept there?

“I’m just about ready to serve,” Evelyn said, as though reading his mind. “If you’ll call Da-Marr, I’ll dish up.

Brenda made to stand, but Evelyn leveled her right index finger at her younger sister. “Stay where you are. I’ll take care of everything. I’m used to doing that in this family,” she said, eyeing them both over the top of her glasses.

Richard bit his tongue to keep from speaking. His gaze shifted to Brenda, who looked about to cry. Oh, how he wished they could be alone to share in what was supposed to be one of the most joyful times of their lives, the birth of their daughter. Jeff coming into their lives had been terribly stressful, but ultimately a rewarding experience. He had to hope that Brenda reconnecting with her oldest sibling would ultimately prove as gratifying. Still, Jeff had never sought to impose his opinions on them … probably because he was half a generation younger than Evelyn and felt no sense of entitlement.

“I’ll find Da-Marr and then we can eat,” Richard said and forced a smile.

Evelyn’s laser-like gaze seemed to cut through him, and he escaped the kitchen.

Da-Marr was not in the living room. Richard was about to head up the stairs to check out the guest room when he heard a noise from down the hall — from his study. He turned and headed in that direction.

Da-Marr sat in the leather chair behind his desk, hunched over the computer. The sight made Richard’s heart sink. He did not like anyone messing with his computer. If Da-Marr felt comfortable commandeering the car radio, what would he do to the computer?

“Lunch is served.”

“I’m not hungry,” Da-Marr said, not taking his eyes from the computer screen. “You ever think of getting a tablet ’stead of a desktop?”

“I’ve got one … somewhere,” Richard added vaguely.

“Let me borrow it.”

So he could mess that up, too? On the other hand, Richard figured it might be less of a hassle to let the kid use it — even if he lost or broke it.

“I’ll look for it after lunch. You’d better come to the kitchen. You know Evelyn doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Da-Marr closed the browser and rose from the chair. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Richard fought the urge to check the computer’s history and instead followed the kid back to the kitchen. During the short time he’d been gone, Evelyn had set the table and was waiting for them, looking stern. “I was about to call you both.”

“We’re here now, Aunt Evelyn,” Da-Marr said sweetly, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. It was the first time Richard had seen Evelyn smile since she’d arrived.

“Now sit down. The soup’s getting cold. Da-Marr sat in Richard’s customary seat, but a look from Brenda told Richard he would have to be satisfied with another chair at the table.

Anything to maintain a sense of peace and harmony
, he thought. Still, as he grabbed the napkin at his place setting and shook it out over his lap, he wondered if he’d be able to get back to the computer before Da-Marr could get there, and hoped the history would still be available to check.

I made it to the bar twenty minutes late. Luckily, my boss, Tom, had called his doctor’s office to find they were running half an hour behind. He got there in time for his appointment. Just in time. Still, I felt like a shit for having caused his blood pressure to rise. The poor man already suffered from white coat syndrome, and driving across town like a maniac to get there on time hadn’t helped.

I’d worked off most of my angry mood by the time the dinner doldrums rolled around. I didn’t often work double shifts, and trade was slow, meaning it would be a long evening.

A few of the regulars arrived about seven, and it wasn’t long afterward that I looked up to see my former high school acquaintance and now sort-of friend, Sam Nielsen, enter The Whole Nine Yards. Sam had been an acquaintance of mine back at Amherst High School. He was the editor of the school newspaper, and I was its photographer. I wouldn’t call us friends now, but we had an understanding when it came to certain potentially newsworthy subjects. I brought him tips and he shared information. Thanks to me, a couple of times he’d actually broken stories before the local TV news crews even knew what was happening.

He was dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, still wearing a work tie, and holding onto something tucked under his right arm. He sat down at the bar and I wandered over to stand before him.

“What are you doing here on a Monday evening?”

He set whatever he’d been holding onto the seat next to him and rested his arms on the bar. “Just thought I’d drop by to see how you’re doing.”

“A lie if ever I heard one. What can I get you?”

“A Molson Canadian — in a dirty glass.”

“No can do. The health department would close us down.”

“How’s a guy supposed to look tough?”

I eyed the jacket. “Work out more at the gym?”

He shrugged. “Then how about a Molson in a bottle.”

I turned for the cooler and grabbed one, setting it front of him. “What else brought you here tonight?”

Sam reached to his right and grabbed what looked like a big Kraft envelope but turned out to be four of them. He moved his beer aside and spread them out before him on the bar. Each was sealed, with no writing to indicate what was inside. “I was hoping you could help me choose my next big exposé.”

“How?”

“Each of these envelopes has my notes for what could be a hot story. I’m just not sure which to work on.”

“And what am I supposed to do; read the notes and chose?”

Sam shook his head. “Nothing that complicated. Just pick them up and tell me if you get any of your funny vibes.”

“Funny they aren’t,” I said sourly.

“Humor me,” he said and grabbed his bottle of beer, taking a swig.

I stared down at the plain brown envelopes. None of them called to me.

“Touch them — one at a time,” he encouraged me.

I looked around the bar, but no one was paying attention to us. I picked up the first envelope and held it with fingers from both hands. I waited, not knowing what — if anything — to expect. Sam’s gaze was riveted on my face.

“So?” he challenged.

“I’m not getting a damn thing,” I said just loud enough for him to hear.

“Try another one.”

I set down the first envelope and picked up another, which seemed to make my fingertips tingle. Something flashed in my mind — but too quickly for me to make sense of it.

Sam’s eyebrows went up and he looked expectant. “That got a rise out of you.”

“You could tell?”

“Yeah, your eyes went real wide.”

I glared at him and put the envelope down, then picked up the next. Like the first, I got no funny feelings. In fact, nothing at all. I put it down and picked up the last one and got a jolt like an electric shock. I dropped the envelope on the bar.

“Whoa — what happened?”

“I’d say I found your next story,” I said, eyeing the envelope warily.

Sam scooped up the other three envelopes and set them aside on the empty stool once more. “Pick it up again.”

“No.”

“Why? Are you chicken?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, go on,” he chided, taking another swig of his beer.

Instead of picking up the envelope, I placed the tip of my index finger on it. No jolt, but a familiar — unwelcome — face flashed before my mind’s eye: Da-Marr.

I pulled back my finger.

“You don’t look happy. What did you see?”

“What’s in this envelope?” I said, looking down at the offensive thing.

Sam picked it up and tore open the top, taking out a wad of hand written and typed notes that had been paper clipped together. He scanned the top page, which had several yellow Post-It notes attached. “Ah, Jack Morrow.”

“The financier Jack Morrow? Who was recently murdered? The one who was on trial for masterminding a Ponzi scheme, as well as racketeering and tax fraud?” I asked.

Sam nodded. “One and the same.”

What in God’s name could Jack Morrow, a shady financier and Buffalo native, have to do with Da-Marr, who hailed from Philadelphia and had never — to my knowledge — left that city until he’d arrived on Richard’s doorstep the day before?

“So, what kind of vibes did you get?” he asked again.

“It doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What?” he persisted.

“I saw a kid’s face.”

“He’s got a son and a daughter.”

“How old?”

He shrugged. “Twenties. Maybe thirties. I’m not sure. I haven’t done much research on him yet.”

“Then who wrote the stories for the paper during the trial and after the murder?”

“Alison Kiefer.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of her.”

“You will. She’s vying for my job.”

“So that’s why you want a hot story.”

He took a swig of his beer, looking grim. “You got it.”

Was Sam really worried about losing his job to the competition? Newspapers all over the country seemed to be hemorrhaging staff, and more and more of them were carrying stories from the Associated Press and other news agencies. I admit I didn’t pay that much attention to the local section of the daily rag. I preferred to read the comics, the editorials, and the letters to the editor.

Sam shoved the envelope toward me once again. “Why don’t you read the summary? Maybe you’ll get some additional insight.”

I wanted to touch those papers like I wanted to grow a third leg — yet I did it anyway. An unpleasant sensation bubbled up within me as I read the terse paragraphs. Jack Morrow was bad news, and yet I couldn’t quite connect the sensations I experienced with anything specific I was learning about him.

I set the papers back on the bar and pushed them toward Sam. “Your notes alone aren’t enough. If you want more, you’ve got to give me something the guy touched. Maybe take me some place he used to go. And I’m not even sure that will give me anything you can use in an article. What is it you want to write about, anyway?”

“I’m not looking to find his killer. But before the cops arrested him, Morrow cashed in a lot of his securities. He had millions of dollars in assets that the regulators were never able to trace. I want to be the one who can lead them to his hidden fortune.”

“And you expect me to be able to find them for you?”

“Yeah, if you can.”

“Would you like me to gift wrap the moon and give that to you, too?”

Sam grinned. “I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“And what if I
could
help you with all that? What would I get out of it?”

Sam sobered. “Morrow cheated a lot of people out of their life savings. You lost just about everything when you were mugged and they robbed your home. Wouldn’t you like to help others who suffered a similar fate?”

Yeah, but I wasn’t about to be suckered in so easily. “Except that I was physically robbed. A lot of Morrow’s marks were just greedy, making risky investments because they let the guy blow smoke up their asses — promising them whatever they wanted to hear. The guy had to have some kind of charisma to pull that off with so many people.”

“That he did. But can you blame people with kids who’ve got substantial college debt — or people who were looking to have a carefree retirement? It’s human nature to want as much as you can get.”

And Sam wanted to cement his job and reputation by nailing a story and looking like a hero. He had a slew of awards to his credit, but he was still worried about staying on top. If he felt this way in his late thirties, what was the next decade likely to bring? And how could I turn him down? He’d saved my ass by loaning me his gun not six months before. It had saved me, Richard, and Maggie, and he’d asked no questions when the gun wasn’t returned.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, resigned.

His mouth quirked into a smile. He knew he had me right where he wanted me. “I haven’t figured that out yet, but now that I know you’re on board, I’ll think about it and get back to you.” He took another sip of his beer. “So, anything interesting going on in your life?”

I shrugged. “Richard bought a boat.” God, my life was so friggin’ boring the most exciting thing going on didn’t even have much to do with me.

Sam’s eyes lit up.

“A Slipstream 9000,” I went on.

He nodded, impressed. “Not the top of the line, but not far from it, either. Kinda late in the season, isn’t it?”

“He picked it up for a song at a government sale. And how do you know so much about boats?”

“Who do you think writes the yearly feature on the subject for the
Buffalo News
?”

“Have you got a boat?”

“Yeah, and not nearly as nice. I sure hope you’re going to invite me onboard sometime.”

“I haven’t even driven the damn thing,” I said, still smarting from the morning’s non-adventure. “We’ve got the week to play with it before it goes into storage for the winter.”

He shook his head. “The summer is far too short for those of us who enjoy the water.”

“I don’t swim and I don’t fish — but I’m not immune to the pleasure of a sunset cruise with a beer in my hand, either.”

“Well, don’t count on it happening this week. The forecast is for cold, rain, and wind for the next few days. But believe me, on a frigid winter’s night you’ll be counting the days until the fair weather hits late next spring. If nothing else, it gives you hope,” he said, tipped back his bottle and drained it.

“So now that you have a story to work on, what’s next on your agenda?”

“Interviews. Would you be interested in coming along on a few of them?”

“What for? Do you want me to act as a human lie detector or something?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“I dunno. There’s a lot going on right now.” Then again, tagging along with Sam might give me an excuse to avoid the company at Richard’s house. Again, I shrugged. “Call me,” I said, leaving the acceptance of the invitation open.

“I’ll do that.” Sam grabbed his wallet, left a five on the bar, and gathered his envelopes. “Talk to you soon.”

I watched him leave, and then picked up the money, put it in the till, and gave myself the change as a tip. I had a feeling that chump change would be a small price for Sam to pay for whatever we learned about Jack Morrow, since I had a feeling that that information wasn’t going to be good.

I grabbed a damp rag and wiped down the bar, thinking about the envelope that had given me a jolt. Why had I thought about Da-Marr when touching it?

Jack Morrow had been a felon. Was Da-Marr destined to walk a similar path?

At that moment, I didn’t doubt it.