Deceived (8 page)

“So Lee found out about this from Deloris, and he wanted to get to Tripp…but Tripp got a heads-up somewhere along the line and pulled a fast one on Lee,” Sam finished Molly’s sentence.

Molly tapped the tip of her nose. The silence that followed the revelation was pierced only by the wind as it whistled through the rigging.

“Mind if I take the helm?” She moved in front of the wheel, and Sam slid off the seat.

“What does this have to do with Navassa?” Sam moved to sit on the port side.

“Well, it’s all tied together, somehow. That’s probably what your buddy was working on, too. Now whoever got him is after you.” Molly pointed her finger at Sam.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Now it’s your turn to share. What were you doing on the road back from Southport last night?”

Sam trimmed the sails, stalling a bit. “I ate at Provision’s, then drove home.”

“Did you see anything? Talk to anybody? Play detective?”

“No, no, and no. I just went for a ride. Didn’t tell anybody where I was going; I just went.”

“And so you checked your car for a tracking bug, right? It was just coincidence that somebody tried to run you off the road, right?” Molly sat back and crossed her arms like a disapproving school marm.

“Just coincidence.” Sam mentally kicked himself for not checking. The Altima he was driving was a loaner from the department. If there was a tracking device on it, Sam almost didn’t want to know. “Come on. We’re heading back in now.” Sam pulled the wheel hard to port, and released the Genoa’s furling line as they headed back to the dock.

. . .

While securing the boat, Sam’s cell phone rang. “Hello. Yes, this is Sam McClellan.” Sam clenched his teeth as he listened to the caller on the other end, repeating what was said for Molly’s benefit. “You found a gizmo attached to the underside of my car? You don’t say? Well, hang on to it. I’ll be by for it later today. And don’t call anyone else about this.” His face gave away the sinking feeling he had.

“Another coincidence?” Molly ribbed.

“Another bug.”

Chapter eighteen

“What’s our next move?”

“
Your
next move is to go home and stay out of trouble.”

“What? Dude, there’s no way you’re cutting me off like this. I need to help.”

“You need to stay away from me and this mess, Mol. I can work faster if I don’t have to worry about you.”

“Worry about little ol’ me? How sweet. Totally unnecessary, but sweet.” Molly stood tall, her hands firmly on her hips. “I can take care of myself.”

Sam didn’t doubt that for a second. “Sure. But I don’t have anything for you to do right now. Go home. Wait. I’ll call you.”

“I’ve heard that line before. And anyway, I don’t have a phone, so you can’t call me. Nope, I will have to check in on you a little later.”

“No phone?” Sam was incredulous.

“No television, either. It rots the mind.”

“How do you find your hot tips and leads, then?”

“Newspaper, and word-on-the-street news. And I go to the public library when I need to use the computer.” Molly patted her shirt pocket, indicating the article print-out.

“Come on; I’ll walk with you to the car.”

“No car, either.”

“How did you get here, then? I’m a long way from Fourth Street.”

“A friend gave me a lift. You could offer to give me a ride home, if you’re feeling charitable.”

Once in Sam’s truck, Molly gave him directions to Wilmington’s Second Street.

“Just drop me off here. I need to get a few things in town, and this way, it’s a one-way walk.”

Sam did as he was told, leaving Molly in front of a small, antiquated, and rare city market. It was no bigger than many of the neighboring restaurants, but holding its own against encroaching development.

Sam headed to the station’s impound to look for the Camaro.

“Sam, hey, I am sorry about Lee,” George Alston called out as Sam entered the squatty warehouse. “He was a good man. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at his funeral, but I want you to know we all stand with you.”

“Thanks, George,” Sam said sincerely. George was true-blue, and in Sam’s estimation, had seen it all over his long career with the force. Closing in on retirement, George was content to mind the evidence warehouse, tracking everything that came in, day after day after long, boring day.

“What can I help you with today, Sam?”

“I’m on the fire at Golden Sun. Wanted to take a look at the car that nose-dived into the ocean.”

“Oh, that’s already been taken to Wally’s.” George checked his log and nodded like a fake Chihuahua in the back of an Oldsmobile.

“When did it come in?”

“That same night. Ah, here it is,” George pointed to his log. “Two in the morning. But it didn’t stay long. Wally’s guys came and got it.”

“But the case is still open! Why are we disposing of evidence before the case is closed?”

“I don’t know anything about that.” George rarely wanted to know about any of it. He stayed content that way. “You better check with Chief. I’m sure he had all he needed on it.”

“Thanks, George.”

Sam drove to the tidy fenced-in lot of Wally’s just a few miles away. Everything was close in Carolina Beach, though summer beach traffic sometimes made it feel as if everything were miles apart. Wally’s sat on prime real estate; it’d been there forever and wasn’t caving into developers who wanted his location for their own designs.

Wally Ebertson had passed the shop on to his daughter, Stella. In her late sixties, Stella ran a tight ship, with everything where it should be and everything accounted for. But Stella, Sam learned from her less-than-stellar employee, John Henry, was on vacation all week.

“She’s gone to visit an uncle in Minnesota,” John offered. “Something about cancer, she said.” John was a fat, hairy man, one step removed from gorillahood, right down to his knuckles dragging on the sandy patch underneath his latest pickup: a shiny red corvette, probably towed for sport, knowing John.

“Where’s the Camaro that came in a few nights ago?” Sam’s eyes were scanning the neatly stacked rows of car remnants in search of the car. He wondered why Stella kept John around.

“She was ruined, for one thing. No way anybody ever gonna get that car back to running. Sand, grit, mud, water….” John marked off the offenses on his fat, grimy fingers.

“Where is it? I’d like to look at it.”

“Stack twenty-five, Row B.” John didn’t bother to point it out, but he graciously waved his hand toward the general direction of the rear lot. Sam walked in that direction, counting off the stacks, then the ten-foot rows, as he passed them. There, one away from the top of the stack, was the crushed carcass of a car Sam could only guess was the Camaro.

Sam fumed as he jogged back to the gorilla-man. “Who gave the order to crush it? The case is still open; it’s still evidence.”

“Look, pal; if you don’t like the procedure, talk to your boss. I just do as I’m told.” John didn’t bother to stand up this time.

“Who told you?”

“Chief.”

Sam stormed back to his car without a word. Procedure. Evidence. He rolled it over in his mind like a Rubik’s Cube as he drove to the police station. It didn’t make sense.

Chapter nineteen

“What’s going on, Chief?” Sam stormed into Chief Singleton’s office at full speed, ignoring the growl Singleton made as he whirled around in his desk chair, the phone glued to one ear. “Put the damn phone down and give me some answers!” Sam grabbed the phone away from Chief and slammed it down on the receiver; then he glared at a startled Chief from across his own desk.

“What’s gotten into you, Sam?” Chief shot back. He moved around to close his office door so the department wouldn’t hear the ensuing shouting match; then he warily walked back to his chair and slowly sat. His desk phone rang again. This time, he answered it with a short, “I’ll call you back,” before hanging up.

“Me? I am just looking for some answers.” Sam’s hands balled into fists as he leaned on the desk. “I just learned that my old truck’s bugged. Then, I see with my own two eyes a suspect’s car that was lifted from the dunes at the Golden Sun has already been crushed beyond recognition over at Wally’s. Whatever happened to proper procedures? I thought you assigned me to the fire case because you thought I could find some answers. But now I think you put me there to keep me out of the way or something. I am guessing my loaner car was bugged too, which means somebody was tracking me the night I ran into a tree. Help me out, here, Chief. What the hell is going on?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest as he stared at Singleton.

“First off,” said Chief, taking a deep breath apparently to control his temper, “the car has been in the warehouse for close to a week. We dusted it inside and out, and it was clean. There’s no room in there for ghosts, so we talked with Commissioner Martin, who signed the order. Next, we sent it to Wally’s Wrecking to be crushed.
That’s
standard operating procedure.” Chief shifted forward in his chair and thumped a thick stack of papers on a corner of his desk. “Second, I have a caseload here like none I’ve seen before. Your piddly-assed attempt to find some answers at Golden Sun means nothing to me. I’ve got me a suspect, and I was on the phone trying to round up some more information to make it stick. Meanwhile, Andy tells me you are out sailing with some chickie. That’s really being
on
the case, I’d say. And you are being watched because you are a suspect in Lee’s murder. So shut your loud mouth and get your skinny ass out of my office. You are suspended, and I don’t want to see you lurking around here until we get this solved!” Chief stood up with such force that his chair tipped over behind him as he pushed away from the desk. “I want your gun and your badge on the main desk on your way out the door.”

“Suspended? You think I had something to do with Lee’s murder? What are you, nuts?”

“Out! Now!”

“But I…. Shit!”

Sam nearly ripped the door off its hinges on his way out, and he shouted obscenities all the way to the street. Before he got in his truck, he dropped to his hands and knees to search the underside. Not seeing what he was expecting, Sam peeled out of the parking lot and headed toward the marina.

Before he reached his dock, Sam heard someone shout his name.

“Sam! Hey, Sam, can you wait up?”

Dillon Bates, the marina’s smug young dockmaster, trotted toward him from the covered porch of the dock office. His pressed white polo shirt and khaki shorts were his personal uniform, even though the marina had no formal dress code for its four employees. His cropped blond hair was swooped and gooped up in the front, seeming to blow in a nonexistent breeze.

“What’s up, Dillon?” Sam didn’t slow his gait, forcing the young prepster into a run to catch up.

“Apparently, your lease.” Dillon seemed pleased to be giving Sam the boot.

“What now?” Sam stopped to face Dillon. He was a full six inches taller than Dillon, and he noticed that the upturned swoop of hair helped to hide an encroaching bald spot.

“Your contract clearly states, ‘No pets.’ Sorry, man, but you got to get rid of the pet, or we have to get rid of you.”

“I don’t have a pet.”

“Birds count, Sam.”

“Bir…you mean the duck?” Sam couldn’t hold back his laugh. “That’s not a pet; that’s a duck that likes to hang around on the pilings. I don’t feed it, I don’t cuddle it, and I don’t pick up after it. Thus, it is
not
my pet.”

“That’s really not our concern. Besides, you are five days late in paying your slip fee, giving the marina owner another reason to turn it over to someone else who can pay. You have to go, Sam, and you have to take your
pet
with you.”

“But it’s not my pet! It’s a duck. A wild duck. I can’t take it with me because it’s not mine!” No longer amused, Sam was agitated at this little runt of a guy telling him to leave.

“You signed the agreement. Right here, see? N-O P-E-T-S!” Dillon was having way too much fun with this as he held up the agreement with the clause highlighted in yellow for Sam’s benefit.

Sam stomped toward his boat, and sure enough, there sat Kathy the duck, cozy on
her
seat in the cockpit. As he approached the boat, Sam tried to shoo her away, but she wouldn’t budge. He grabbed a cushion and swung at her, missing as she flapped her wings and flew to the top of the aft rail. Sam didn’t think; he just reached for the key and started the engine. The duck stayed put, and Sam started untying lines. Without a word to anyone, he motored out of his slip and headed out of the marina.

Chapter twenty

For the next two hours, Sam motored his way toward the Wrightsville Beach Causeway. The scenery varied from Myrtle Grove Sound to Masonboro Sound, from soaring hotel towers to glitzy McMansions to verdant wild wax myrtle trees and open sand dunes. At the causeway near the only bridge to Wrightsville Beach, Sam found a mooring field with a few open spots. It wouldn’t be this way in a few hours, Sam knew, as the snowbird boaters made their boats fast for the evening. On either side of the causeway’s protected waters were places to eat and shop, making it an ideal stopping place. Best of all, there was no fee to pick up a mooring ball there.

Sam had to hitch a ride with a passing dinghy to get to shore. Though the ride was short, by the time the battered motoring dinghy arrived, Sam was drenched.

Next, he thumbed it back to Carolina Beach to retrieve his truck parked at the marina. He thanked the driver for the ride and headed for his truck. Not knowing how to get back aboard since he didn’t own a dinghy, Sam drove to the nearest Target store and bought a dry shirt and jeans. He’d have to figure out another place to dock, or buy a dinghy, an expense he really couldn’t afford now that he was suspended from the force. A quick dinner at the Three Sisters’ Café and a Bass Ale had Sam feeling a bit like Scarlett O’Hara: he decided he would deal with finding a new slip tomorrow.

It didn’t take long to reach the Navassa exit from Highway 17. Not knowing where to look exactly, Sam decided to cruise the main street, which was all of four blocks long. He didn’t know where to start, but he felt sure he had to trace Lee’s steps to fill in the missing pieces that would help him figure out what had happened. Navassa was part of the puzzle. He just didn’t know which part.

Navassa is little more than a crossroads, with all the amenities that stopping travelers need—fast food, gas, and a few sundries for the road—plus, an expanding belt of homes for Wilmington’s commuters. The area was considered by some to be blight on the coast’s otherwise glowing reputation until developers saw a golden opportunity. Despite the community’s best efforts to present a clean, well-ordered community of look-alike houses, drugs were still abundant and easily had. Prostitution was a new one to Sam, but if Deloris were right, it was a booming business. Sam was vaguely aware of the kinds of kids Lee took out sailing from time to time. He silently praised Lee for his efforts. Sam felt selfish for not looking beyond his own little world, for not reaching out to someone else in need. He vowed to improve his track record.

Canvassing the streets, Sam headed into a dubious area of town. Even though it was early in the evening, Sam knew that
workers
didn’t pay attention to clocks. They paid attention to dollars. After driving a few streets, he noticed a house that was better cared for than others on the block of dilapidated 1970s ranch-style houses. The grass was cut, the shutters neatly painted turquoise, and lights shining brightly on the young landscaping.

Sam circled the block and parked as far away from the house as he could manage and still see the place. For two hours, he watched visitors arrive and depart, clocking their stays at an average of thirty minutes each. In the fading light, Sam tried to imagine how far into this scene an observer like Lee could have gotten without getting noticed. He was jarred from his thoughts by the sight of a woman driving past him in a little olive green convertible Jetta.

“Molly?” Sam sat upright in his truck. “What’s she doing?”

When Molly stepped out of the convertible, she was a sight to behold. She was wearing a tight sparkly purple dress that stopped at her thighs, and obviously uncomfortable high heels. Her dark hair flowed gently about her in the evening breeze, and she had on lipstick. Bright red lipstick.

Sam was out of his truck in seconds and composing a storyline in his head as he walked quickly to the house. He loudly coughed, trying to catch Molly’s attention, and reached her as she waited on the front steps of the house. Grabbing her by the elbow, he growled lowly, “What’s going on, Molly?”

Sam briskly escorted Molly away from the house, tightening his grip on her arm as they strolled down the street. He walked so close to her that if anyone were looking on, he should see a couple out for an evening walk. But Sam’s ruse was unsuccessful.

Two guys jumped out of a battered black minivan and approached Sam and Molly with alarming speed. Pulling Molly tightly to his side, Sam whispered, “Not a word,” and then looked straight ahead.

“Nice night for a walk,” the one who looked like a defensive lineman sang out, without lessening his pace. He turned and in an instant was walking closely beside Sam.

“Come with us,” the other one said as he maneuvered around to Molly’s side, thereby steering Sam and Molly toward the van. “You from the Southport force? I know I seen your face somewhere; just can’t place you.”

Sam was confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re just lost.”

“No, man, I seen you. You ain’t visiting. You’re a cop.”

Walking slower as they reached the van doors, Sam grabbed Molly’s arm so tightly that she yelped.

“Well, I am a cop, but I’m not here on official business. My girlfriend and I were on our way to a party, and we got the address confused. I realized our mistake just before she rang the doorbell.”

“It’s okay, man. But we don’t do it that way here. If you want in, all you have to do is say so. Come into the van and we’ll talk about it. Your…uh,
girlfriend
can come too.” The defensive lineman planted himself behind Sam and Molly while the other slid the van’s door open.

“Look; I don’t know what you bozos are talking about!” Molly shouted. “My college roommate invited us to come to her party, and I read the directions wrong! This is where we were to meet, I thought…and now we are going to be late! Now if you don’t mind, I have to find a bathroom real quick, or I am going to ruin my new dress. Excuse me, Mister. Honey, are you coming?” Molly called over her shoulder as she scooted past a surprised linebacker.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and trotted after Molly, who was walking as fast as she could manage in her ill-fitting outfit. A second after they both hopped into her car parked a few houses away, Molly hit the gas and the car took off with a jolt before Sam had his door completely shut.

The minivan’s engine sputtered and coughed, then finally came to life, and its frame filled the rearview mirror of Molly’s car as she headed for the highway. A string of green traffic lights increased the distance between the two cars, but the last traffic light before the highway ramp was yellow. Molly floored it. The linebacker tried to do the same, but a river of cars flowed with the opposing green light, sufficiently separating Molly from the minivan as she merged onto the highway, heading north toward the historic port town of Wilmington.

“What were you thinking?” Sam shouted when they reached the highway.

“Apparently the same thing you were!” Molly shot back at him. “May their alternator fall apart just as they reach the bridge, and their tires fall off too—which may happen, curse or no curse!”

Deftly swerving between cars at a speed that would frighten most drivers, Molly exited the highway at the entrance to the permanently-docked
USS
North Carolina
battleship. At the end of the road, past the last parking lot for the battleship-turned-museum, lay the river and a full view of Wilmington’s downtown waterfront on the opposing bank. Partially hidden under low-growing shrubs a few yards away was an old beat-up dinghy with chipped paint on its hull and a sack of clothes under a tarp. Kicking off her shoes, Molly ducked behind the bushes. She soon reemerged wearing jeans and a long gray cable knit turtleneck sweater. Molly quickly tucked her hair up under a blue Durham Bulls ball cap, shoved her other outfit in the dry sack, and pushed the boat out from under the bushes into the murky water.

“Coming?” she called to Sam as she jumped into the tender and took the oars in her hands.

Sam nearly missed the boat by leaping for it. He took an uneasy seat in the bow, incredulously watching Molly at the oars.

“What about your car?”

“Not mine.” Molly was so nonchalant that Sam was afraid to ask whose it was.