The River Killings (26 page)

No, she wasn’t. “But Tim’s right. There really isn’t anything we can do. And you said yourself we don’t want to mess with these people—”

“No, but at least we should protect ourselves. Look, Zoe. Face it. Every single person we’ve met who’s been connected to the slave traffickers has been either shot or killed—”

“Wait, hold on.” She was jumping to conclusions. I told her what Nick had said. That he’d been rowing and heard someone on Peters Island calling for help. “Nick’s shooting wasn’t because of slaves or traffickers. He got shot because he interrupted somebody killing Coach Everett.” I pictured Tony. Tony on the dock, nerves frayed, arguing with the coach. Tony in the foyer of the boathouse, hair wet, wearing only a towel.

Susan frowned, fiddling with her rings. “But who would want to kill Coach Everett?”

She had a point; Tony wasn’t the only one. “Are you serious? Who wouldn’t? Susan, even you make a decent suspect after the way you cursed him out. Probably anyone he’s ever coached would want to—” I stopped midsentence, picturing Coach Everett in his launch, always wearing a Humberton hat. Just like the one found floating with the dead women. Could that hat have belonged to the coach? Had the coach been involved with the slave smugglers, too? Is that why he’d been shot?

Stop it, I told myself. The hat didn’t have to belong to the coach; there were hundreds of Humberton hats around and as many ways for one to end up in the river.

“I don’t know, Zoe. There are too many coincidences. The fact remains that, of all the people we know who were directly connected to the slave case, we’re the only ones still walking. And I’ll be honest. That worries me.”

“Susan. According to you, everyone’s involved with the slave smugglers. That just can’t be true.” But I wondered. Coach Everett had been acting pretty shady when he’d been fighting with Tony. For all I knew, that fight could have been about slave trafficking.

Susan looked grave. “I have no idea who’s working with anybody, Zoe. All I know is we need to be careful. I think these people
are methodically wiping out anyone who knows or even suspects anything about them—”

“Stop it, Susan.” I didn’t want to hear it.

“No. You need to hear this.”

“Well, fine. I heard. You can stop now.”

“No, because you still don’t get it.”

“Yes, I do. We’ve run into some very nasty people and we need to be careful.”

“But not just us, Zoe.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Who knows what happened last night? Who was that Gordo guy that Molly saw? What was he doing in the boathouse in the middle of the night?”

“No. Stop it.” I wasn’t going to hear her tell me that Molly was in danger, too, even though I knew.

“Showing up just coincidentally about the time that Nick was getting shot? Don’t you think that if he knows Molly saw him—”

“Susan, stop!” My voice was too loud; Nick’s eyelids fluttered, and he thrashed around in his morphine haze. When he settled down, I continued quietly. “Molly’s fine. Even if she saw him, he didn’t see her. She’s safe. She’s with Tim and the girls.” I wasn’t willing to consider any other possibility. “If there even is a guy named Gordo, he was probably just some guy looking for Tony—”

“Really. And how did he get into the boathouse?”

I stopped. “What?”

“The doors were locked. How did he get in?” I shrugged. “Maybe he’s a member and has a key.” “But Tony said he doesn’t know him. If he were a member, Tony would know him.”

“So? What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe Tony’s lying. Tony knows who this Gordo person is but he’s pretending not to.” “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he’s scared. Because maybe the Gordo is somebody Tony doesn’t want to see. Maybe the Gordo is the bad guy.”

The bad guy? My eyes ached. My body hurt. Nick lay oblivious
and asleep, only half alive. And Susan was trying to tell me that Molly was in danger, too. I couldn’t listen anymore.

“I think it’s far-fetched, Susan.” At least I hoped it was.

“Maybe. But, just in case, be careful. Especially with Nick laid up. Let Tim get you a gun—”

“No. No gun. No weapons.”

Brows furrowed, she stared at me. “Then at least use what I gave you. Keep it with you, in a pocket or your purse.”

She sat back in her chair, waiting for me to look. I reached for the brown paper bag and looked inside, saw a small but serious can of pepper spray.

“Be careful with it.” Susan showed me how to hold the thing. “You want to grip it right; otherwise, in the panic of the moment, you might shoot yourself in the face. Sort of defeating the purpose.”

Wonderful. If I ever tried to use it, I’d probably end up blinding myself. Or Molly. I put the can of spray back in the bag, laid the bag beside a potted chrysanthemum.

“It’s small, so you can carry it with you all the time.” Susan meant well, but I wanted nothing to do with her miniature chemical weapon. Molly might see it and think it was hairspray or cologne, might aim it at herself. It made me nervous. So, as soon as she left, I tossed it into the trash.

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hospital staff that I was fine walking home alone. It was only a few blocks and I desperately needed the air. But as I left the hospital I felt enervated, sorry I’d turned down offers for rides. I stood at the cabstand amazed that the heat hadn’t broken even with sunset, hoping my wait wouldn’t be long, going over Susan’s comments yet another time. Were we in danger? Were slave traffickers really eliminating everyone even remotely connected to the nineteen deaths? If so, did that include us?

For the zillionth time, I told myself it couldn’t. We didn’t know anything. At least, we didn’t know that we knew anything. Which was just as good.

Exhausted, I waited in front of the hospital for a cab. And I kept thinking about Tony. Every day, he’d looked more haunted, more stressed. What had he and the coach been arguing about that day? I tried to remember. What had I heard? Tony warning the coach that they could both get hammered. Hammered? How? By whom? For what? And the coach had wanted money. Why? Had he been selling Tony something? Or blackmailing him? I replayed what I’d heard of their fight. “You want it?” the coach had said. “Pay for it.”

I was stumped. What could “it” have been? Again I remembered the night Nick got shot, how Tony had come downstairs wet, smelling of soap, wearing only a towel. It had been after five in the morning, and he’d just showered. Why? Was it because
he’d just come back from Peters Island, grimy and sweaty, maybe even bloody from shooting Nick and the coach?

I shuddered, recalling Nick’s blood-soaked chest, the screaming and flapping of maddened geese. The rocks and branches ripping at my skin as I ran through the blackness back to the boat. Had Tony been the man in the launch? The man who’d smacked my head with an oar?

I had to know, kept going back over snippets of the argument. But all I remembered was Tony’s panic and Coach Everett’s flat demands for money. “Pay for it,” he’d insisted. For what? What did the coach have that Tony needed? My head throbbed; my brain felt swollen and overloaded, unable to think.

“Lady, you want a cab or not?” Sweat dripped over his bushy eyebrows as the driver leaned out the window.

Climbing in, my skin stuck to the hot leather seat. I closed the door, cursing my luck; probably every other cab in the city had its air-conditioning on.

“Where to?”

I started to give Susan’s address, but stopped halfway. No, it wasn’t time yet to get Molly and go home. I was too wound up; I had to try to find out what had happened, even though I wasn’t sure how. Molly had been at Susan’s all day; she could stay a little longer. I leaned back on the hot worn-out seats, trying to get comfortable.

“Boathouse Row,” I told the driver. “Humberton Barge.”

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already come off the water. Just a few pairs of shoes littered the dock; a couple of people moved around the bays, putting away boats and oars. I looked around, feeling conspicuous, but nobody noticed me climbing the stairs to Tony’s attic apartment. And nobody answered when I knocked on his door. I stood there motionless, listening, half expecting the door to fly open and arms to grab me, but nothing happened. Slowly, silently, I tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge. The door was locked. No surprise. But I wasn’t about to give up. There had to be a way to get in. If not through the door, then how? A window? I leaned out the window outside Tony’s door and saw another window, just a yard away. The window of Tony’s apartment was open wide. Not stopping to consider dangers or legalities, I climbed out onto the ledge, clutched the drainpipe for support, and swung first one, then the other leg over Tony’s windowsill. Before I had time to think about what I was doing, I’d slid under the raised sash and, with a graceless thunk, I was in.

The room stank of sweaty sheets and stale man. And of something sour. Fear? The air hung motionless, festering, and I felt faint, almost unable to breathe. Looking for a light switch, stumbling over scattered clothes, I turned on a lamp, saw upheaval. An unmade bed, towels strewn over crumpled, graying sheets. An empty pizza box. Empty bottles from water and beer. A cluttered desk, a laptop computer, a dresser. A closet. I hurried, searching, not knowing for what. Not knowing where Tony was or when
he’d return. Quickly, listening for feet on the steps, afraid to get caught, I opened drawers, sifted through clumps of socks and underwear, finding nothing hidden among them. In the closet, I found empty luggage, a sport coat and slacks. On the desk, scattered bills for his cell phone, his credit cards. Receipts for pizza, for Chinese food. A handful of loose change. Nothing else. Maybe there was something important in the computer. But if there was, I’d never find it. As far as I could tell, Tony was guilty of nothing except being a slob.

And then, breathing the stifling claustrophobia of Tony’s room, it hit me: Of course there was nothing here. I was looking in the wrong place. Turning out the light, peeking into the hallway, I crept out of Tony’s attic apartment and down the stairs. I knocked on the door to the men’s locker room, listened for running showers or male voices. When I was sure no one was inside, I opened the door and went in, heading for the lockers, the argument between Tony and the coach echoing in my mind. “You want it?” the coach repeated. “Pay for it.”

Tony didn’t have what I was looking for. Whatever it was, the person who had it was Coach Everett.

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was. Much nicer than the women’s. Not only was it larger, there was also a lavish sauna/steam room. Towels were stacked neatly, ready for use. The showers were individual, with cream-colored tile walls separating each from the others. Women had to shower around a cluster of nozzles spraying from the center of a large single stall. Not only that. Forget urinals. Each toilet had not only its own stall, but its own entire room. The main room was lined with sinks, supplied with shaving cream, disposable razors, aftershave, deodorant—the place was a veritable spa compared to the paltry little space designated to women. Even the lockers were better; the men’s were wooden, their doors carved, each with a bronze plate naming the member assigned to it. It was outrageous. Women paid the same dues as men; we should receive at least similar amenities. But what was I thinking of? Who cared about saunas or wooden doors? I was there to search. Poised to dash into a private toilet if anyone came in, I scanned the names on the lockers. Found Nick’s. And Tony’s. Finally, near the door to the sauna room, I found the one belonging to Preston Everett.

Of course I didn’t have a key. I tried, knowing it would be futile, to pry the door open with my nails. Then I looked around, trying to find something that could help me get into the locker. Think, I told myself. This is a boathouse. It’s full of tools. There would be wrenches and screwdrivers downstairs in the boat bays. I’d run down and look. I started for the door, passing the sinks. And I saw what I needed lying on a countertop among Q-tips and
mouthwash. It wasn’t as good as a hairpin might have been, but the nail file worked perfectly, popping the lock on the very first try.

Coach Everett’s locker was jam-packed with gear for all seasons. A dozen pairs of sweats and underwear, twice as many hats. A yellow rain suit. A tool kit. Night-lights. Energy snack bars. Batteries. A few copies of
Rowing News
, a clipboard with various workout regimens. A megaphone. His shaving kit was in there, as well as a couple of polo shirts and a pair of khakis. What couldn’t be hung was folded or stacked neatly, but every inch of the locker was filled. And nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

So what had he been selling to Tony? And, if it wasn’t in his locker, where could it be? Maybe I was wasting my time. Whatever it was might be anywhere. Stashed at his house. Or in a safe-deposit box somewhere. I closed the locker, disappointed; I’d been so sure, almost certain that I’d find a clue to what Coach Everett had been up to. But if not in his locker, where?

Slowly, quietly, I peeked out the men’s locker-room door, and seeing no one, hurried into the hall and down the steps to the lounge. Think, I told myself. If you were Coach Everett and you wanted to hide something, where would you hide it? What places did the coach have access to? I began listing them, realizing how many potential hiding places Humberton had; Molly had already demonstrated that, hiding all over the boat racks. But the racks were just one possibility. The boathouse was huge, a compilation of dark corners and shadowy nooks. There might be floorboards that lifted, wall panels that came loose. Something could be tucked into a cabinet or alcove, or stuffed inside a sofa cushion or slid beneath the carpet in the lounge. Or taped under a drawer in the kitchen. Or hidden right out in the open, maybe among boat parts piled under the boat-bay stairs—invisible amid seats, shoes, oarlocks, even oars. And then there was the gasoline shed where launch fuel was kept. And inside the launches themselves.