Damaged (24 page)

Charlotte took a long, hot shower, knowing it might be her last for a week. She put on comfy clothes, tied her short gray hair into a stubby ponytail. She checked her list as she placed new batteries in a variety of flashlights. She filled the bathtub, all the sinks, and the washing machine with water. She stuffed extra bottled water into the freezer. The latter was a small trick she’d learned during the last hurricane threat. It meant having ice to keep things cool and water to drink later.

With the windows and patio door boarded up the house was dark, reminding her that she’d need to put the candles and matches in a plastic bag and have them somewhere she could grab when the electricity went off. Same for the extra batteries.

Her master bathroom was the only true inside room and she had set it up as her refuge. The counter was arranged with the necessities: a battery-operated radio, several flashlights, a telephone already plugged into a landline, a cooler filled with sandwiches, her prescription meds, and even a pickax almost too large for her small frame to lift. Everything she would need for a ten- to twelve-hour stay.

She was on her way back upstairs when a knock at the front door stopped her. The sheriff’s department had come by earlier. Her neighbors had already left. She checked the peephole. Saw the patch
on the man’s sleeve and she let out a groan. Was this the county or the federal government’s last-ditch effort?

“I already told the sheriff’s deputy that I was staying,” she insisted as she opened the door only to the security chain’s length.

“Hi, Mrs. Mills,” the young man said with a smile. “I met you at Mr. B’s yesterday. Joe. Joe Black.”

CHAPTER 53

Walter parked the canteen as close to the marina as possible. That’s where all the action was this morning. They warned him at the tollbooth that the bridge would be closing at one o’clock. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper in the opposite direction. He realized he probably should have stayed home, found something to occupy his time, but he had everything ready and there was only so much you could prepare. He didn’t want to sit at home and wait. There’d be enough waiting while the storm raged on for hours.

The marina was crowded with last-minute boaters trying to tether their boats—big and small—as best as possible. Some were loading their crafts onto trailers. A few brave souls—or stupid, Walter decided—were venturing out into the swell in an attempt to get their boats out of the storm’s path.

Tension filled the air along with diesel fumes. Arguments edged close to fistfights. The waiting and watching of the last several days ended with the inevitable realization that Isaac was, indeed, heading directly for them. There was no more predicting. No more hope for a last-minute turn. There was no more escaping. Now it was only a matter of battening down the hatches as best as possible.

Walter parked in a corner of the marina lot where the boaters could see him and he could chat with them. Howard Johnson, the owner of the marina and a deep-sea fishing shop, had invited Walter to set up here anytime he wanted. In exchange Walter kept a special bottle of cognac so at the end of a hard day he and Howard could sip and share stories.

Walter decided that today he’d only stay an hour. He’d serve up whatever he had on board for free until the food or the hour ran out.

At first he didn’t pay attention to the panel van that pulled up next to the sidewalk leading to the docks. He noticed the owner struggling with a huge bag, yanking it out of the van then dragging it. Not an unusual scene down here. Walter had seen this type of bag before. Someone had pointed one out, calling it a “tuna bag.” Fishermen used them for the big catches that didn’t fit in a cooler. The bags were tough, huge, waterproof, and insulated. About six feet by three feet it looked like a giant-size tote bag with a washable lining that could be removed.

Walter thought it was a bit odd that someone would be hauling a fish to his boat. Usually it was the other way around. The guy wore a blue baseball cap, shorts, deck shoes, and a khaki button-down shirt with the tails untucked. Walter caught a glimpse of the chevron patch on the shirt sleeve. What the hell was some navy petty officer doing here in his service uniform, dragging a tuna bag? Then Walter recognized the guy.

“Hey, Joe.”

Too much noise. Joe didn’t hear him.

That bag looked awful heavy.

Walter glanced around inside the canteen. He hadn’t turned on
any appliances yet. He left a tray with hot dogs and condiments out. He’d be right back. Then he locked all the doors and headed over to the sidewalk to help.

“Hey, Noms.”

This time Joe looked over his shoulder and did a double take. His face was red and dripping sweat. His eyes darted around the marina like he hadn’t expected to be recognized.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” Walter said, grabbing one end of the bag.

“No, that’s okay, Mr. B. I’ve got it.”

Joe tried to pull away but Walter didn’t surrender his end. Instead, he asked, “You got a boat out here?” He really wanted to ask why Joe was wearing what was probably one of his father’s old shirts. Even his ball cap had the U.S. Navy insignia embroidered on the front. Walter waited till Joe gave up and let him help.

“Cabin cruiser.” Joe nodded at the boat in the second slip to their right.

Walter whistled. “She’s a beauty.” He smiled at the name, bold and black, written across the stern:
Restless Sole
.

“My dad left it to me. Thought I’d take it over to Biloxi.”

“Now? You’re kidding, right?”

“The eye of the storm’s probably going to come over Pensacola. Maybe swing a bit to the east of here. Hurricane-force winds stretch about a hundred miles out from the eye.” He wasn’t out of breath. Walter was. He found himself thinking that this kid’s in good shape.

“There’s already nine-, ten-foot swells,” Walter told him, trying not to gasp like an old man.

“I’ve been out in worse. Northeast quadrant gets the worst part of the storm. Traveling west I’ll be driving away from it. Got a little delayed. I’m getting a later start than I wanted.”

Walter helped Joe lift the bag onto the boat deck. By now, Walter’s jumpsuit was soaked at his back and chest. Sweat poured down his forehead and dripped off his nose, but he needed both hands to lift his end of the tuna bag down the steps into the cabin.

Joe dropped his end of the bag. Something inside moved and groaned. Walter’s eyes shot up to meet Joe’s. He was still holding his end of the bag when Joe shoved the snub nose of a revolver into Walter’s gut and said, “Guess you’re coming along for the ride, Mr. B.”

CHAPTER 54

Maggie knew if she waited until after the hurricane to ask questions no one would remember a white stainless-steel cooler with a bright yellow-and-blue tie-down or its owner, a guy named Joe, who might have a boat docked at the marina. Memories of before the hurricane would be eclipsed by the chaos of the storm. Besides, she had promised Liz Bailey that she would meet her on the marina. While she waited, she might just as well ask some questions.

The condition of the body parts suggested they hadn’t been in the cooler for long. Decomposition had only begun. From past experience—an unfortunate piece of trivia to have in one’s repertoire—Maggie knew it took about four to five hours to thaw an average-size frozen torso. There had been no ice left in the cooler when it was found. Considering the warm water of the Gulf and the hot sun, she estimated the packages had been inside the cooler two days. Three at the most.

Even if the body parts had been destined for one of Lawrence Piper’s surgical conferences, it still didn’t explain how Vince Coffland ended up as an unwilling body donor.

Before Maggie had left the comfort of her hotel room she had done a quick search of Advanced Medical Educational Technology
on her laptop. The company advertised educational seminars at a variety of Florida resorts, providing a venue for medical-device makers to showcase their latest technologies to surgeons from across the country. They promised hands-on experience while upholding donor confidentiality by not disclosing their procurement procedure.

After viewing competitors’ Web sites, Maggie realized AMET was only one of several legitimate companies buying “precut and frozen body parts” from brokers like Joe. From her quick analysis, Maggie understood that demand was high and supply limited. She couldn’t help wondering if Platt had been right when he asked if this killer might be taking advantage of hurricanes in order to find victims. Now Maggie realized that might be exactly what this killer was doing, using the storms as a cover to fill his growing orders. Was Vince Coffland murdered out of cold-blooded greed?

The marina was crowded and the shops were busy, trying to accommodate the desperate boat owners. In between sales Maggie struck up a conversation with the owner of Howard’s Deep Sea Fishing Shop. A huge, barrel-chested man, Howard Johnson towered over Maggie. His thick white hair was the only indication of his age. Somewhere in his sixties, Maggie guessed. However, his neatly trimmed goatee had streaks of blond, hinting at the golden-haired surfer that appeared in the photos along the walls. He wore a bright orange-and-blue button-down shirt with a fish pattern, the hem hanging over his khaki cargo shorts.

His shop was kept neat, with unusual and colorful gear. A railed shelf ran along the upper quarter of the four walls, filled with models of various boats and ships. Maggie found herself mesmerized by all the paraphernalia.

Her eyes were still darting about as she absently flipped open
her FBI badge to show Howard. His entire demeanor changed. He nodded politely but his eyes flashed with suspicion. One large hand ducked into his pocket, the other dropped palm-flat onto the counter as if bracing himself for what was coming. Okay, so he didn’t trust FBI agents. He wouldn’t be the first. Maggie showed him photos of the cooler. The last one was a close-up of the yellow-and-blue rope tie-down.

He shrugged. “Looks like a dozen other coolers I see every day. In fact, I have this same make, only the larger version, on my deep-sea fishing rig.”

“What about the tie-down?”

“I use a metal one.”

“Ever see one like this?”

Another shrug but he looked at the photo again. She could see he was still suspicious. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. Guarded. An impatient frown.

“People use all sorts of things to personalize their equipment,” he said. “Makes it easier to pick it out when everybody’s unloading their stuff on the dock at the same time. Kind of like baggage claim. You know what I mean? People tag their bags with ribbons or bright straps so they can see them coming down the conveyor belt.”

Maggie hadn’t thought of that. Using the rope to track down the killer started looking like a million-to-one shot.

“Any ideas how a cooler this size would end up overboard?”

“You mean by accident?”

She nodded.

Howard’s frown screwed up his face and he scratched his head like he was giving it considerable thought.

“Sometimes guys will pull them behind the boat when they’re a bit crowded on board. They float no matter what they have in them.
You tether them real good to the back of the boat. I suppose one could break loose. Might not notice until you’ve gone a ways.”

“Maggie.”

It was Liz Bailey. They’d planned to meet on the marina, but Liz came into the shop in a rush.

“Howard, have you seen my dad?”

CHAPTER 55