Death Comes Silently (2 page)

Blood rushed to his head. He pushed up from his desk, strode across the room. Trey was a thin version of his late father, sandy haired, brown eyed, always moving like a man in a hurry. His late father’s firm resolve was evident in the tough set of his face. Now was the time for a showdown. His uncle shut him out of everything, made stupid decisions, missed deadlines, and royally screwed up old accounts and new. Trey was eager to take over. He loved planning campaigns. He’d do whatever he needed to do to make the agency tops again, sought out by big companies all over the South. He’d had a great idea for tourist promotion for the Broward’s Rock Chamber of Commerce:

He’d make the letters big, bright, shiny, maybe emerald green, surround them with a montage of holiday shots, golfing, kayaking, surfing, sunset beach strolls, the island’s ferry since Broward’s Rock was a good forty minutes from the mainland.

As per usual, all outgoing material passed over Everett’s desk. Everett had called him in, advised Trey in his pompous manner that he was glad Trey had some ideas but this sort of thing was better handled by a more mature approach, and the project was shelved.

Trey reached the door, one lean hand on the knob, when he remembered. Everett usually left early on Fridays. He played backgammon at the club in the winter, golfed in good weather.

Trey’s thin face hardened. When Everett was in the office, he lounged in his late brother’s oversized red leather chair and played with his iPad. A few more months of “work” by Everett would spell an ignominious end for Hathaway Advertising, its reputation shot. It shouldn’t be this way. Dad had built a great agency. After his mother’s death so long ago, Dad had focused on the agency. Sometimes Trey thought the agency gave his dad something to love after their mom died. He’d worked furiously. When he’d died, Trey wanted more than anything to keep the agency going, keep his dad’s dream alive. His cousin, Leslie, thought he was a sap to work. The only reason she came to the office was to get out early from school, claiming an internship at the family business. She did her nails and surfed the Net. Why work when you were rich? Not that either he or Leslie controlled their inheritances yet. Everett was their guardian until they were twenty-five. He paid their bills and provided a monthly stipend. That was infuriating, too. Worst of all had been Everett taking over the house. Until his dad’s death, Everett had lived on the mainland. The house ultimately would belong to Trey. Now he had to share it with Everett and his wife and his cousin. There was
plenty of room, but the house should have been his. Instead, he had to live like he was a teenager in somebody else’s home.

Was Everett taking revenge on his older, handsomer, successful brother, destroying the business Edward Marlow Hathaway II built by sweat and effort? It wasn’t about money. There was plenty of money from the estate of Edward M. Hathaway, his grandfather, for Everett and the grandchildren to live on. They didn’t need income from the agency, but it wasn’t a matter of money for Trey. His dad had been a man with charm and brains and energy. Hathaway Advertising had been the joy of his too-short life.

Trey turned away from the door, jammed his hands in his trouser pockets, walked to the window that overlooked the harbor, and stared moodily out at white-flecked swells. He had to do something. Time was running out for Dad’s dream and for his. He couldn’t even start a new agency until he had control of his inheritance at twenty-five.

Everett blocked him any way he tried to turn.

S
gt. Hyla Harrison, as always, wore a crisp, fresh uniform. Her auburn hair was drawn back in a bun beneath her cap. She zipped her dark blue uniform jacket against the biting chill of the breeze off the Sound as she studied the white fiberglass hull of the empty MasterCraft ProStar 197. She noted the uneven tilt of the boat where it had been run aground. A sweet boat. She liked its name,
Sunny Daze.
The empty boat moved ever so slightly in the rising tide. She pulled a printout from the pocket of her uniform. A bird-watcher found the obviously abandoned craft and notified police, who traced it to owners who were very surprised that it had been taken from its mooring. She gazed at the mushy ground and broken cordgrass where the bow had come to rest.

Hyla knew the island well. This cove abutted a picnic area, deserted on this raw New Year’s Day. The boat might have rested here for weeks except for a hardy bird-watcher surveying the area with binoculars because a friend had spotted a rare snowy owl the previous day. The boat had been taken sometime after dark yesterday, according to the owner.

She studied the interior of the boat that was visible from the bank. There appeared to be no damage. She reached into a pocket for a slim digital camera. She worked slowly, always patient, always thorough, taking photographs that made clear the boat’s location, then moving nearer for a series of shots. When done, the camera in a zipped pocket of her jacket, she pulled plastic gloves from another pocket, slipped them on, and picked up a black vinyl fingerprint kit.

She reached across a couple of feet of marsh water to the transom and stiff-armed to vault lightly into the boat, the kit in her free hand. She walked slowly forward, eyes scanning the cushions. All were in place. At the front, the key was in the ignition. The owner had been defensive. “Sure the key was in the boat. We’ve never had a problem. We never worried about the boat.” Officer Harrison’s smile was sardonic. Broward’s Rock wasn’t immune to crime.

She placed the kit in the captain’s seat, lifted the lid, retrieved powder, and dusted the steering wheel. When the coat had been applied, she stared down in surprise. No fingerprints. None. Not a single whorl or line. Last night the driver might likely have worn gloves as well as a thick jacket to ward off the cold. Even so, there should have been traces of smudged prints. Instead, the grey plastic wheel was clean and shiny. Obviously the wheel had been carefully polished. No gloves? Or simply great care?

The latter seemed out of character for a joy ride.

Joy ride…

The police officer’s thin, freckled face squeezed in a frown. Kids did nutty things for sure, but a late-night jaunt on a low-forties December night, even colder out on the water with the wind, made no sense. On a hot July night, “borrowed” boats, skinny-dipping, smoking pot behind a sand dune came as no surprise.

Again her probing gaze moved slowly over the boat. No bottles. No trash. If kids took the boat, there should have been some trace. She felt a prickle up her back. Something was off-kilter here. She studied the railing, moved nearer the transom. A scratch on the near gunwale marked the fiberglass. She bent closer, saw a greenish streak. Possibly something metal had struck the fiberglass, left particles of paint. She again used the camera. She almost turned to leave, then stopped. That green streak bothered her. It wouldn’t do any harm to get a sample. She picked up the evidence kit. She carefully lifted green paint particles to a transparent rubber-backed gelatin layer. As she removed the layer, she saw a tuft of material adhering to the railing. She methodically finished her task, then used a magnifying glass to look more closely. Her eyes narrowed. The scrap might be black cotton or wool snagged by a cracked spot in the plastic. She visualized a dark figure, moving fast, possibly swinging out of the boat to jump to shore, a gloved hand gripping the rail. Had a jacketed arm grazed the railing and a scrap torn free? She hesitated, then once again used the kit, bagged the scrap, applied a label. Whoever took the boat had tried not to leave a single trace, but that was hard to do in a physical world. Sometimes a tiny scrap would be enough to electrocute a man. Anyway, she’d turn in a complete report. Lou Pirelli would ask when was she going to stop trying to be a super cop, then grin and toss her a jelly donut, like a treat to a retriever. Sure, this wasn’t a big-deal heist, no harm done, but she liked to be meticulous. If there
was evidence, she would gather every scrap. Never taking anything for granted was her way of keeping a structured world even though she well knew life could turn dangerous in a heartbeat. She swallowed, pushed away a memory that would never leave her, the night she called in from patrol in Miami,
officer down,
as her partner died from gunshots to his chest.

She closed the evidence kit and focused on the slight rock of the boat and the chill breeze, anything to fill her mind.

J
eremiah Young handled the axe easily. He was chunky with big shoulders and sturdy legs. He liked to feel the ripple of his muscles as he chopped kindling. Poor folks in real need of firewood came by Better Tomorrow now that the temperature dipped into the forties at night. Not that a sea island was ever real cold, not like Minnesota. Bad days up there. He swallowed hard. He’d been stupid. Stolen a car and tried to get away when a siren sounded. They told him he was lucky. Two years in jail. His mind shied away like a horse smelling a snake. Lucky… He’d never told anybody how bad the nights had been. That guy named… His mind shied again. Remembering made him feel sick, made him want to cry. He’d rather die than ever go to jail again. He’d been like a whipped dog when he made it back to the island. His aunt took him in, helped him get the job here at Better Tomorrow. He paused, wiped sweat from his face. Despite the cool day, the chopping made him hot, but he savored the sweat and the freedom. It was good to feel hot, to be outside, free.

An old Chevy rattled up to one side of the shabby frame building and parked in the shade of the lean-to where the mower was stored along with ladders and some of the canned and boxed groceries.

The car door slammed. He knew the driver. Mrs. Burkholt. He called her Mrs. Big-Eyes to himself. She sidled past him with a wide skittery stare like he was going to grab her. He’d opened the back door last week when she was on the phone… She spent a lot of time on the phone… chatter, chatter, chatter… Her high voice had risen and he couldn’t help hearing. “…supposed to help people who’ve been in jail, but he’s so big and he has such long straggly dirty hair and he always looks sullen. I swear, he scares me to pieces…” He’d walked inside, his steps purposefully heavy, and thumped the case of Cokes on a counter by the shelves. He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes as he passed. The old cow. He didn’t care about her. She’d be damn lucky if she never really knew what it was like to be scared.

The axe head swung up and crashed down. The log splintered.

On the back steps, Gretchen Burkholt gasped at the sharp crack. “Oooh. I hate that noise.”

B
illy Cameron’s big broad face, usually genial, was studiously inexpressive. The Broward’s Rock police chief sat with his hands planted solidly on his thighs in an office that gleamed with fine woods, a mahogany desk, oak paneling, heart pine floor, and expensive furnishings, an oriental rug, shining gold brocade drapes, a suit of armor on a pedestal. Billy’s observant blue eyes never wavered as he gazed across the room. Blond and husky, he was solidly built with massive shoulders and hands. In his crisp khaki uniform, he looked like what he was: a cop’s cop, a tough cop, a good cop. He stared impassively at a plump-cheeked, rotund man in a baby blue cashmere sweater who appeared small behind his massive desk.

Only someone who knew Billy well would realize he was coldly
angry, unblinking gaze, lines tight at the corners of his full mouth, shoulders braced.

Mayor Cosgrove’s green eyes shifted from that steady stare. However, he continued full stride, his high voice penetrating. “…expect some accommodation of distinguished visitors. I told that policewoman of yours that I could drive, but she wouldn’t listen. She made Buck Troutt get out of the car and treated him like a common criminal. Rude. Uncalled for.”

“Sergeant Harrison’s actions were appropriate.” Billy’s tone was even. “The car was driven erratically. Mr. Troutt failed the field sobriety test.”

“He’s a CEO.” The mayor’s voice was reverential. “He’s thinking of buying the Mansfield property on the beach, developing it. Do you realize what that could mean to the island? The jobs, the people, the growth!” The mayor’s voice rose to a squeak. “This matter must be dealt with immediately. None of this should have happened. Why, we just had a few drinks at the club. Nobody was on the road. He had a little trouble seeing in the dark. And there’s no reason why that unattractive woman should have had her car parked outside the country club gates.” The mayor’s eyes slitted. “Let’s be clear. If the officer filing the report doesn’t appear in court, the charge will be dropped. I expect Sergeant Harrison to be off the island that day.”

Billy slowly stood. “Sergeant Harrison will continue to perform her duties.”

The mayor bounced to his feet, his penguin-plump face malevolent. “Your contract comes up before the council in three weeks. As police chief, you are expected to make the island attractive to investors.”

Billy nodded gravely. “Anyone interested in living on Broward’s Rock can be assured that the laws are properly enforced.” He turned
and walked toward the ornate hand-carved door, a fancy office for a small—but powerful—man.

A
nnie Darling stopped on the boardwalk and leaned against the railing, drawing a deep breath of chilly sea-scented air. The marina hosted a respectable number of boats even though it was January. A crewman in a heavy wool jacket hosed down one side of an ocean-going yacht. Chugging out into the Sound was a boat with the unpretentious name
Just Plain Vanilla
. Annie liked unpretentious people and houses and belongings.