GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 (10 page)

“Whatever you want,” he said, backing up. He held the door for her. “Lobby?”

Rez said, “Fine.”
 

* * *
   
* * *
   
* * *
   
* * *

The manager, Mr. Granderson, fidgeted behind the desk, his eyes darting thirty times a minute toward the FBI agent and the suspect sitting in his lobby. A group of tourists stood a few paces back from the sliding glass doors. They were much more intent on the rain blowing in sheets than the pair sitting in the burgundy arm chairs near the window.

“Interesting line of storms,” Ghost said. “Big one blew through yesterday. But this one’s pretty potent too.”

Rez nodded but said, “That’s an interesting suitcase.”

“You aren’t much for small talk, are you, Agent Rezvani?”

“The suitcase?”

“My equipment.”

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“I find people,” he replied. “People who are hard to find or hard to get to.”

“So, you’re like a private detective.”

“You might say that,” he replied.
 

“Tell me about the photos.”

“I was out at the beach, Grayton Beach, like I said in the email. I found the camera floating in the Gulf, just offshore.”

“May I see it?”

Ghost picked up his case, moved his hands strangely, rippling his fingers in certain places. He had the case open, the camera out, and the case closed in a flash. Rez hadn’t seen a thing except for the gleam of silver.
 

He held the burgundy camera out to her. She took it by the corner. “I’d like to dust it for fingerprints,” she said. “Would that be all right?”

“You’ll get mine,” he said, looking sideways at the camera, “and now a few of yours…but not much else.”

“How do you know that?”

“The camera was floating in the Gulf,” he said. “The camera’s got a polymer case, not metal. In hot saltwater, prints wouldn’t last for long.”

Rez blinked. The man knew his stuff. She placed the camera in a plastic evidence bag and dropped it into her purse.
 

“Mr. Spector,” she said finally, “did you post the pictures from this camera anywhere else?”

“Just the Feebs,” he said. “Sorry. FBI, I mean.”

“No blog posts or websites?”

Spector shook his head slightly.
No.

“Did you send the photos to anyone else? Even to another law enforcement agency?”

“No,” he said. “You do realize you now qualify as insane?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What?”

“Doing the same thing, the same way, and expecting a different result? That’s one definition of insanity. You keep asking me the same question.”

“But not exactly the same way,” she countered.
 

“Okay,” Spector said, the smile flattening into a grim frown. “But I am telling you, I did not send the photos ANYWHERE else. Just the FBI. And that was with pretty stiff encryption, so I don’t think anyone hacked me. Why are you asking?”

“The photos are all over the web now,” Rezvani explained. “One day after you sent them to us, they wind up on every serial killer hobbyist site, blog, Pinterest, you name it. Just like before.”

“I didn’t know that,” Spector said. He folded his hands on the table and waited. They sat without speaking for some time. His eyes never left her, and she studied him.
 

In the “Smiling Jack” photos, the killer had revealed only the bottom of his face: chin, jaw, most of his nose. Rez saw some similarities, especially the cleft in the chin. But the width of Spector’s jaw seemed wider and the general shape was more square.
 

“Agent Rezvani,” said Ghost. “The FBI has already wasted years on this case. Seems to me, you might not want to waste any more time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think I’m the killer.”
 

“I never accused—”

“You’re an honest person,” said Ghost. “I can tell. So don’t try to deny it. You didn’t fly all the way down here to look at the same pictures I already sent you. You didn’t break into my room to surprise me with flowers. And you’re packing enough heat to take down a rhino. Shoulder and small of the back, right?”

Rez laughed in spite of herself. “I didn’t think they showed.”

“So Agent Rezvani, I want to save you the trouble. Don’t waste your time or resources on me.”

“You think you’ve got me figured out?”

“I’ve been around awhile,” he said. “I know a lot. But I will never claim to have figured out a woman.”

She laughed. “Touché.”

“There is one thing I don’t understand. For a murder case this dangerous, I’m wondering why you came alone.”

“Don’t leave Destin, Mr. Spector,” Dee said. She stood and walked slowly toward motel’s exit. “I may have further questions.”

“Aren’t you going to answer my question?” Spector called after her. “Hey, that’s not fair.”

Agent Rezvani paused, looked over her shoulder, and said, “I’m a Special Agent in the FBI. I don’t need to be fair.”

Chapter 10

Spinnaker Sales,
I thought.
Cute name for a dealership.
 

They were open until 8. Due to my unexpected meeting with Special Agent Rezvani, I got there at 7:45. The showroom was massive, the ceiling five stories up—everything glass and lights. Everywhere I looked, sleek water craft and brilliantly colored sails. Just standing in the showroom made me feel richer.
 

The manager stood at a computer behind a tall metallic blue counter. I could tell he was glad to see me when he looked up…and snarled.
 

“Do you carry Sun Odyssey?” I asked, leaning on the counter like a regular.

“This is Spinnaker Sales,” he said, licking the tip of a finger and slicking one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “We carry all the finest boats. Please don’t lean on the counter.”

I ignored him. At least he was telling the truth so far. On the way in, I’d seen Sun Odyssey, Hunter Marine, Oyster—they did carry it all. Probably ten million worth of sail craft in this one showroom. “What about the 42DS?”
 

“The 42 is one of our bestsellers,” he said. He stroked his goatee, cut immaculately to the quick. He looked like a suit model from Jos. A. Bank. Silk shirt, woven royal purple tie, gold Rolex. His hands were perfectly manicured, but he’d bitten some of the nails down. Nervous habit, probably. “You realize it’s ten minutes to closing.”

“I’m interested in the 42DS,” I said, nonchalantly placing my silver case on the counter. “What do they run? 225K? 240?”

He regarded me a little differently now, stood a little straighter. “We can talk price later,” he said, holding out his hand. We shook. He walked around the counter. “I’m G. Alonzo Vasquez, but my friends call me G. Would you like to see the 42?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “I knew I’d come to the right place.”

“Of course you did. Spinnaker Sales is the number one dealer on the Gulf. Right this way, Mister…?”

I sighed.
Forget Willoughby.
“Spector…John Spector.”

We strolled through a dizzying array of over-lit, sparkling yachts and came at last to the Sun Odyssey 42DS. It had a single mast that reached almost to the vaulted ceiling. Its twin sails formed a white isosceles triangle that looked like it could catch—and hold—hurricane force winds. The hull was held in some kind of bracket rigging that kept the fin-like rudder and keel off the ground.
 

“Would you like to go aboard, Mr. Spector?” G asked.
 

“Are you sure you have the time?”

He smiled like I’d just asked if sailboats float. “At Spinnaker Sales,” he said, flashing a million dollar smile, “we always have time for our customers.”

A moment ago he looked at me like he’d just eaten a roach sandwich.
Now it’s all grins,
I thought.
People are funny that way.

G moved the rope chain for me, and I climbed aboard the yacht. He was noticeably nonplussed when I ignored the impeccably designed deck and went straight below. But I couldn’t care less about the mast, the multiple benches, or the massive captain’s wheel. I needed to see if anything from the Sun Odyssey’s interior reminded me of the setting in Smiling Jack’s photos.
 

Ducking below the top of the hatch, I descended a few steps and found myself a little disoriented. Granted, I hadn’t walked the perimeter of the craft, but it didn’t seem possible that so much space could exist within its sleek hull. While G prattled on about things like berth, keel, and hull displacement, I absorbed the cabin. A kitchen fit snug on my right, a small bathroom on my left. Behind me, through a door, were a pair of beds—each with two pillows as if four people could sleep there. I thought maybe I’d fit if I slept horizontally across both of them.
 

Scanning fore, I noted a beautiful entertainment area with two C-shaped couches and a collapsible table between them. Beyond that was a door leading to another small bathroom and another bed. “Amazing interior space,” I said, interrupting a grand speech about lightweight polymer materials used in the couch cushions.
 

“Every inch has been maximized for comfort.”
 

“If I didn’t already know better, I would swear that this is more than forty-two feet. It feels like more.”

“Genius of design. You know this is a Lombard-Garroni design?”

I didn’t reply. I was thinking about Smiling Jack. The 42 was certainly a similar confined space with the concave walls and the compact furniture—just like in the photos. But there wasn’t a narrow hallway, not really. Just a doorway to the master suite. And the windows were different from the 42 I’d seen out of the Gulf the morning I found the camera. “How much of the interior can be customized?”

G turned on me like I’d just suggested that his mother worked the local red light district.
 

“One does not
customize
a Lombard-Garroni design,” he said, coming dangerously close to a hiss. “Each one
is
a custom design.”

“The cat’s eye windows,” I said, pointing. “They’re a little too…nontraditional for me. I was thinking of a series of porthole type windows. Could that be done?”

G scowled like I’d just suggested that the rest of his family worked the local red light district too.
 

“Portholes? Really, Mr. Spector? No, the Sun Odyssey will not be equipped with portholes.”

I trilled my fingers on my silver case and said, “That’s too bad, really. It’s what I had in mind, G. And when I get something on my mind, I just can’t rest until I take care of it.” I turned abruptly and climbed the stairs to the deck.
 

I was back on the showroom floor before G caught up with me. “Of course, of course…once you have the boat in your possession, I’m sure you could find a craftsman willing to do the job.” G motioned for me to follow. I did.

“I might have a card,” he said, back behind his counter. “There are…rare…occasions when a customer needs to add a feature that is to his liking. Ah, here, Cecil Wright.” G handed me the business card. “Mr. Wright does good work by all accounts. But he’s very expensive.”
 

I pocketed the card. “Money’s not really a problem,” I said. And that was true. I had precisely $934 left to spend, and no intention of purchasing a boat or customizing it. No problem.

“Now, before we get down to business,” said G, flipping through a sheaf of forms, “I am curious. Most people positively adore the cat’s eye windows. Why portholes?”

“I was out at Grayton Beach the other day, and I happened to see a Sun Odyssey out on the gulf. It had portholes. I liked the look.” I put the silver case up on the counter and scratched my chin. “I wonder…Spinnaker Sales being the number one dealer on the Gulf, I wonder if perhaps you sold the Sun Odyssey I saw the other day. I wonder if you might be able to tell me who the customer was? I could then contact the customer and find out who did his portholes. Do you think you could do that for me, G?”

“That is a strict violation of customer privacy,” G said.

I tapped the silver case. “It would mean a lot to me.”

G licked his finger and did both his eyebrows. “Well, in the interest of new customer satisfaction, I suppose I could at least check if we sold the boat you saw. Of course, if you contact the owner, you could never mention where you obtained his information.”

“Of course,” I replied. “The registration number is FL 6606 KR.”

G nudged the mouse to wake his computer, clicked a few links to get to the right page, and then dutifully typed in the code. “Ah, I am sorry, Mr. Spector, but that number isn’t correct—not a craft we sold anyway.”

I leaned in and looked at the monitor. “You put a one in there, but it’s not 6616; it’s 6606.”

“Did I? Well, let’s try it again and see.” A quick glide of the mouse. The click of four digit keys. Then, the whole world changed.

G’s ubiquitous smile faltered…just a little. “Again, no luck,” he said, gesturing dramatically with his right hand. “It would seem that some other
lesser
sail craft dealer sold that boat. That is, if you yourself got the number correct.”
 

“I’m very good with numbers,” I said.
 

“Of course, of course.” G’s smile returned to full vigor. He straightened a stack of papers. “Now, then shall we discuss terms and payment for the Sun Odyssey? Spinnaker Sales offers a tremendous financing package.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

G’s eyes darted toward my silver case. “You wish to pay in cash then? Mr. Spector, I—”

“I wish to think about it,” I said, noisily sliding the silver case off the counter. “A man in my position can’t make such a purchase on a whim.”
 

I watched the dollar signs drain out of his eye sockets. He blinked, the smile returned as warm as ever. “Just so, Mr. Spector…just so. Nonetheless, Spinnaker Sales appreciates your confidence in us.” He held out a hand. The gold Rolex dangled a bit on his wrist. We shook, and then he asked, “Do you have a business card, Mr. Spector?”

“All out.”