Bimini Twist Read online

“Like Cinderella?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking how far off that comparison was, yet impressed that Wally had made it. As I opened the door to leave I heard Wally’s faint protest about the missing shoe being one of Mrs. V’s favorites.

  I wanted to collapse on the couch when I got into my apartment. But I knew better. I needed to shower, clean and disinfect my head wound, and then get a catnap. I peeled off the still-damp cocktail dress, kicked off the single shoe, and hobbled, sore, into the shower. I could see fresh scrapes and bruises on my thighs and shins. But they were superficial. I could endure stinging and searing, I thought. But the pounding in my head would be impossible to ignore. I watched the drain between my feet as red tinted water gradually grew clear. I toweled off, carefully slipped a nightdress over my head, gulped down three aspirins with a glass of water, and went to bed with the frozen peas on my lump. I didn’t set an alarm, as I knew that my internal clock would wake me up at precisely 5:30.

  One hour and forty-five minutes later, I was awake. I hadn’t slept long or soundly enough to be out of it. I was fully alert and ready to go. I flipped my pillow over to hide the bloodstained case. I tossed the thawed peas into my freezer, hoping to get a chill back into them before I left the house. I knew that the more I iced my head, the less swelling and discoloration I would have. I took a deep breath and entered the bathroom to inspect myself in the small mirror over the vanity. The beginnings of the inevitable black eye would be easily concealed with sunglasses, I thought. And my hair was fairly lumpy from sleeping with it wet, so the hematoma over my temple would play well in my bad hair day. The bump was extremely tender to the touch. But the aspirin had taken care of the headache. I popped three more for maintenance, and tucked the bottle into my bag along with a number of other items I might need in Rockland today, not the least of which was my loaded Glock.

  Twenty minutes in my freezer hadn’t firmed up the peas. But they were cold enough to help a bit, I thought as I held the bag on my injury with one hand while I shut off lights and closed the apartment door behind me. I realized how hungry I was when I left the driveway. The café had always been part of my daily routine. I needed to make a quick decision. Do I face Audrey with her questions and smart-ass commentary, and get much-needed food? Or do I avoid the whole scene and go hungry until I find an open restaurant where nobody knows me? My stomach growled, tipping the balance to the café for a quick bite and a short barrage from the sassy waitress.

  I tossed the peas into my bag and slipped through the café door, being extra careful to not jingle the cowbells. I was relieved to be the only customer. I took my usual stool at the counter and waited for Audrey to appear from within the kitchen where I could hear her kibitzing with the cook. She quickly excused herself saying that she had a customer. I had never been able to sneak in undetected and could not figure out how Audrey always knew I was there. She called it her seventh sense, the sixth sense being her ability to read minds—her words, not mine.

  Audrey made an entrance. She hit the swinging doors in her usual self-assured way that I suspected was her style even when nobody was around. Her special, personal panache set her apart from the crowd in her mundane world of the café. She took one look at me, placed her hands on her hips, and said, “Okay, you can lose the sunglasses. Too much to drink last night? I’ll whip up my never-fail hangover remedy.” She grabbed a glass from under the counter and pulled tomato juice from the fridge. “You can talk while I mix,” she said as she gathered various ingredients for her concoction. “Start with what you wore. And end with who took what off.”

  While her back was to me, I removed the sunglasses and placed them on the counter. She turned and served me the glass of juiced up juice and said, “What the hell? Did he hit you? Oh my God. Put the glasses back on.”

  I put the shades back on and forced a smile. I chugged down the juice and ordered two muffins to go. Audrey stood her ground, not making any move toward obliging my request for breakfast to go. She cocked her head to one side and scowled in disapproval, I supposed from my lack of disclosure about my date. I glanced at the clock, and knew that I should hustle. I sighed and said, “Coffee?” Audrey snapped two mugs onto the counter and splashed them full of hot, black coffee, indicating that she was joining me. She remained silent, waiting for me to speak. And I finally did. I figured the fastest way out of the café was to play to Audrey’s feminine side, getting sympathy for my humiliation at the soiree. “He never showed up. I waited until guests were leaving. And he didn’t show up.” I tried to sound pathetic. I expected a hug of reassurance or something in the way of what a jerk Pete was. But Audrey remained silent. So I continued. “I have never been so embarrassed. I even wore makeup. I thought he was special.” I grabbed a napkin and faked wiping a tear from under my shades.

  “So what’s with the black eye? Failed suicide attempt? Get a grip, for Christ’s sake.” Audrey was disgusted with me. “Since when are you such a … a … girl?”

  “The black eye was in the line of duty. Late night. Muffins?”

  “Well since you are thinking about your stomach, I’ll assume that your psyche is fine. But you’ll have to do better with some details,” Audrey said as she placed a couple of what appeared to be blueberry muffins in a paper bag and handed them to me. “So, Pete is not Prince Charming. Big deal. What are you working on that resulted in the gash on your head? This story has to be juicier than your stunted sex life.”

  I felt the bump and realized that it was bleeding. Audrey wetted a clean cloth and handed it to me. “Thanks. You know I can’t discuss a case in progress,” I advised, giving my usual reply when asked about work. “No, not even with you,” I added, knowing that Audrey was about to start pleading. She would normally bring up the fact that she had helped me solve a case one time.

  “Yup. I get it. But when should I worry about you? That cut is serious. Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

  “Head wounds bleed. I’m fine, and I have to go. I promise you’ll be the first to know what’s up as soon as I can talk about it.” I plunked some cash on the counter, grabbed the bag of muffins, and left holding the wet dish towel on my head.

  “Good. Get out of here before my customers show up. Git. Scram. Shoo. Scat.” She didn’t say “Loser,” but it was there. “And be careful!” This seemed heartfelt, I thought as I closed the door behind me. Audrey had no idea how much I wanted to confide in her. I had relied on and benefitted from her insight and local knowledge on many occasions. But giving her the scoop at this point would be unprofessional, unwise, and unfair. I could live with unwise, but not the other two-thirds of the equation that added up to my reticence. Besides, I didn’t have much to share even if I could talk with Audrey about the case. Or cases.

  I pressed the wet cloth on my head until the bleeding stopped again. I devoured both muffins, gnawing at them like a mouse, since opening my mouth for a true bite sent pain through my temple. The drive to the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department was uneventful, which was appreciated as I am sure that my driving was slightly distracted. I found Deloris at her desk in the main lobby. The printer was cranking out pages, and the fax machine beeped repeatedly while Deloris furiously tapped keyboards, working on two laptops simultaneously. “It’s only a quarter of,” Deloris said without looking up from her work. “I have fifteen more minutes to produce another miracle.” I loved the fact that Deloris was so confident in her abilities. And deservedly so. She was good.

  “Do you need all fifteen?” I asked as I pulled a chair from the opposite wall and sat across the desk from her.

  “Nope. I’m—” Deloris hesitated when she looked up from a monitor. “Okay, how bad is it? Take off the sunglasses and let me have a look.” I pulled the aviator-style glasses off gingerly, avoiding contact with my right cheekbone and temple. “Whoa.” Deloris grabbed her stomach and grimaced. “Oh, Jane. That makes me sick. You should go to the ER.” Deloris literally squinted her eyes up as if doing so would lessen the horror of my face, distorted
from swelling and discolored from bruising. “Keep the glasses on.”

  “I’ll be fine. Good thing I have a thick skull,” I said in an attempt to lighten the conversation. “What do you have for me?”

  “Well, I hope I’m not overreaching here,” Deloris said, raising both eyebrows. “But are you thinking serial killer?”

  “I am thinking drugs, which I know from experience can leave a trail of dead bodies. I hadn’t thought about a serial killer because there is no consistent MO and the victims are too dissimilar. Serial killers generally have a type and a signature. And serial killers typically have an inactive period between strikes,” I quoted from memory what I had learned in a textbook. Truth was, serial killers were not my expertise. I had spent the bulk of my highly decorated career as a detective in Dade County, Florida, fighting drugs. “What did you find that suggests I am looking for a psycho?” I asked, thinking that I had no reason to believe any of the four deaths had been premeditated. They all appeared to have been straightforward homicides that I had intuitively thought were to cover up whatever the killer was up to. And in the case of Ron Thomas, he had actually died from a heart attack—yes, directly related to the ramming and near drowning. And his blood was on the hands of Larry Vigue, who was the next victim. “No, there’s no serial killer.”

  “Well, something is up. The Princess of the Seas started coming to Maine ports five years ago. And every time that cruise ship has entered Bar Harbor, Camden, and Rockland, there have been missing persons reported—all young girls—all of whom have been in Maine from foreign countries, working on J-1 visas. And because the ship is flagged in the Bahamas, local law enforcement can’t get aboard to investigate.”

  “How many girls are we talking about?” I asked.

  “Including Bianca Chiriac, fourteen.”

  “And none of them have ever been found?”

  “Well, they haven’t been looked for very thoroughly. Like Bianca, everyone assumes the girls are simply AWOL and will resurface. But there’s never been any follow-through from what I have found. I think the psycho is a crewmember of the ship. And I think he has gotten away with thirteen murders. Who knows what he’s doing with them before he kills them. And he probably dumps the bodies in the middle of the ocean.”

  “Well, you might be onto something. But how do The Rat, Larry Vigue, and Ron Thomas fit in?” I asked, humoring Deloris. She had clearly dug something up that needed to be looked into, I knew. But other than the Bianca connection, her theory didn’t do much to solve the majority of my problems.

  “Witnesses?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “What did you find on Pete Alfond?”

  “Nothing. He’s like a ghost. Clean slate, to the point of weird. Not even a traffic violation. Would have been a very boring date, in my opinion. And, so you know, he wasn’t in Maine when the first three young women went missing.”

  “So, he’s not a serial killer?”

  “Hey, you asked me to dig. I dug. And now I have voiced my opinion, which I know was neither requested nor appreciated. What else can I do for you, boss?”

  I had clearly hurt Deloris’s feelings, which was not my intention. I just needed her to stick to her part of what worked well for us as a team. I would not apologize for expecting her to simply do her job. “What about The Rat? Real name? Rap sheet?”

  “I’ll need more than fifteen minutes for that.” Deloris took a breath, clearly deciding to let me slide on what she perceived as my insensitivity to or lack of appreciation for her. “Without a name, I can’t do much. And until a body is found and ID’d, I won’t have a name. The State Police should be on scene now, with the diver.”

  “Okay, good work,” I said as I stood to leave. “Keep me posted. I’m on my way to Rockland to investigate the death of Franklin Avery.”

  “Awww, it was nothin’,” Deloris said sarcastically. I knew Deloris was ultra-sensitive to what she considered being talked down to. But I didn’t have time to treat her with kid gloves, or to figure out an alternative way of expressing that she had done a good job that would not insult her. Deloris wanted badly to get out from behind the desk and join me in the field. But the one time that I had allowed her an assignment, she ended up with two broken heels. Since then, she hadn’t been overly pushy about another chance. But I sensed that her next suggestion was coming. “I should go with you.”

  “I need you here. Too many loose ends hanging for us to team up. We’ll cover more ground on separate paths this morning,” I said honestly.

  “I know, I know,” Deloris complained. “I’m a spoke on the wheel, right?”

  I smiled. “Not just any spoke. I rely on your wizardry! You are good at the things where I am lacking, as you know. I need you here.”

  “By the looks of your face, you need someone to watch your back. Be careful,” Deloris called as I ducked into my office and grabbed the search warrant she had obtained for me.

  Rockland was a forty-five minute drive south, making the Green Haven and Ellsworth area the middle ground sandwiched between it and Bar Harbor. It was a beautiful morning to be on the road. Route 1 bustled in spurts with local morning commuters as I drove through a number of main street villages comprised of small shops. As I crested a hill at the Rockland town line, I drove into a thick wall of fog. I knew the harbor was ahead and to the left, but I couldn’t see a thing. I slowed the Duster to below the speed limit as I was unfamiliar with the road. The fog collected in droplets on the windshield.

  I followed signs to the waterfront and found a parking spot adjacent to the public dock. I could see the edge of the water, but the fog concealed anything beyond the immediate shore. As ridiculous as the sunglasses were in these conditions, I kept them on to avoid questions or assumptions. I stood with the car door open and prepared. I tucked my loaded Glock into the holster and strung it onto my belt at my left side with the butt of the grip forward, then untucked my shirttail to cover it. I pushed my head and right arm through the strap of my messenger-style bag, allowing it to rest on my right hip. I checked the status of my cell phone, and was happy to see full service and charge. I silenced the ringer and pushed the phone into my hip pocket. I shut the car door and took a deep breath.

  It was time to pull out all of the stops, I thought as I walked purposefully toward the docks. Unfortunately, it had taken getting clocked on the head and left for dead to realize that I had penetrated something more serious than I had originally assumed. I felt that Deloris had missed the mark with her theory of a serial killer. But there was a killer involved—no doubt about that now, in light of The Rat’s situation. Sure, even The Rat’s death could have appeared to have been accidental, I reasoned, if I hadn’t been whacked while trying to revive him.

  I had been investigating and busting drug lords for more years than I liked to admit, and therefore recognized their work. Sometimes cops follow the money trail to the kingpin. In this case, I was following dead bodies. The only difference I saw now was in the non-brutal killings, if there is such a thing. Normally, drug-related murder was overkill and gory beyond explanation. Maybe the druggies of Down East Maine had not graduated to that height of torturous savagery of which I had admittedly too much knowledge from my work in Miami. The culprits had made efforts to disguise their work as accidental deaths. The drug-cartel hit men that I had dealt with would never have wasted time and energy on that, preferring to leave their mark and escalate fear. Whatever the reason for the relatively tame killings, I needed to get ahead of the drug ring’s next move before another “accident” was committed.

  And the missing girls? Well, I had never met a drug baron who didn’t have a taste for young, innocent women. It made perfect sense for the underlings to provide their boss with foreign students on visas, I thought. Especially when the deals were conducted aboard the foreign-flagged cruise ship. It was clear that law enforcement hadn’t or couldn’t investigate. And with local law enforcement’s hands being tied until the end of tourist season, the outlaws had free rein. Well
, that was about to change.

  I didn’t have to guess where passengers of The Princess boarded the launch for transport back and forth to the ship. There was large sign on a post above a double-wide ramp that announced “Boarding for The Princess of the Seas” in bold red lettering. A young man sat in the only launch tied to the float, looking at his cell phone. I ascended the ramp quickly and asked, “Can you take me to the ship?”

  “I could if they were receiving guests. But they are preparing to weigh anchor. Takes them about an hour to get disconnected,” he said as he politely slipped his phone into a pocket.

  I pulled out my wallet and flashed my badge. Stepping aboard the launch I said, “Hancock County Sheriff. I have a warrant to search The Princess of the Seas.”

  The launch captain’s face grew red. He started stammering about something that made no sense to me. “I knew it. I knew it. Am I in trouble, too? Here, take the twenty bucks.” He was so nervous his hand shook uncontrollably as he withdrew a crisp twenty-dollar bill from a shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  “Save it for the judge,” I said as I pointed to the boat’s outboard motor and said, “Start it up.”

  “I’ll make a deal. I’ll talk if it saves my job. Will my name be in the paper? This will kill my mother. I’m still in high school.” He started the outboard with a single pull on the cord. He allowed it to idle as he cast off a line. “I knew it.”

  “Are you sure the ship is weighing anchor? Didn’t they just arrive this morning?”

  “No, they got in last night. My boss called and asked me to work late. Too foggy offshore for the whale watching trip. And I don’t know why they’re leaving already, but they are.”

  “Why don’t you tell me everything on the way to the ship? It will be better for you if you cooperate,” I said, still not knowing what exactly he had been paid to do. I suspected that it was simply to keep his mouth shut. Little did he know that he would likely have been found facedown before nightfall had he not been confessing something to me. “Start at the beginning,” I said as I wiped a seat with the sleeve of my shirt and sat down facing the man.