Things thawed considerably over the next hour as Bruce, Bob, and Nick were escorted to a conference room and served coffee and doughnuts. As they waited, Bob griped at Bruce for being so gung ho.
“You could’ve at least asked me if I wanted to chat with the cops,” he growled.
“Oh, you’re talking to the cops, Bob, now knock it off. You’re a key witness whether you like it or not.”
Nick snorted and chimed in, “You knew the killer and had been sleeping with her for days before the murder. You’ll be the first witness called at trial.”
“What do you know about trials?”
“Tons. They’re in all the crime novels.”
“Well, I’ve sat through one, okay, and I’ve heard the jury say ‘guilty as charged,’ so I’m not afraid of the courtroom.”
“You did nothing wrong, Bob, relax,” Bruce said. “Don’t you want to find the killer?”
“I don’t know, maybe not. If she’s a professional, then some very nasty people paid her. Maybe we should leave them alone.”
“Not going to happen,” Bruce said. “You’re in up to your ears.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
The door eventually opened and an officer in a suit strutted in. He introduced himself as Captain Butler, and passed around business cards. WESLEY BUTLER, FLORIDA STATE POLICE. He found the coffee and joined them at the table. Without removing a pen he asked, “Now who’s who? Who have we got here?”
“I’m Bruce Cable, friend of Nelson Kerr. Same for Bob Cobb, who’s a writer on the island.”
“And I’m Nick Sutton, senior at Wake Forest, summer flunky at the bookstore. Also a friend of Nelson’s.”
“Okay. I just saw the autopsy report. Looks like your friend got banged up pretty good. I’ve talked to the police chief on the island and he’s described the evidence at the crime scene. We’ll get there as soon as we can, hopefully in the morning. I understand it’s pretty crazy down there.”
All three nodded.
“But the crime scene is intact, as far as you know?”
“As far as we know,” Bruce said. “There is no one around. In the spirit of full disclosure, the three of us have been in the apartment more than once. Nick here noticed the stains on the wall and in the downstairs bathroom. I walked around upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Well, at first we were looking for Nelson’s dog. Didn’t find him. We were not suspicious until Nick saw the stains.”
Bob said, “Then Nick noticed more than one head wound and we became suspicious.”
Bruce said, “And just so you’ll know, we borrowed his car two days ago to return to my home, and we cleaned out his refrigerator and liquor cabinet. Didn’t think he would mind.”
“A bunch of looters,” Butler said with a grin.
“Book us. We’re guilty. But rules change after a storm when you’re worried about survival.”
“Okay. You think your prints are in the house?”
“I’m sure they are.”
Nick said, “We thought about wiping things down but didn’t want to wipe off too much.”
“Good move. Not sure I’ve ever investigated a murder in the middle of a hurricane.”
“It’s my first and last,” Bruce said.
Butler sipped some coffee and said, “Now, the Director says there’s more to the story.”
“It’s likely,” Bruce said.
“Okay, let’s just have a chat without recording anything. We can do that later. I’m fresh on the case and know nothing. Tell me what happened.”
Bruce and Nick looked at Bob, who cleared his throat and began, “Well, there was this woman, said her name was Ingrid.”
Halfway through Bob’s narrative, Butler began taking notes. The story was too rich not to. He never interrupted, but was obviously intrigued by the details. When Bob finished, Butler asked, “And what day did you meet her?”
“What’s today?”
“Friday, August ninth.”
Bruce said, “The storm hit late Monday night, August fifth.”
Bob stared at his phone and said, “I met her a week ago today, Friday the second.”
“In the bar at the Hilton?”
“The outdoor bar. There’s a big pool scene with a couple of bars.”
“And you hang out there?”
“I do indeed. Plenty of action.”
“Any discernible accent?”
“Not really. Nothing that I noticed, and, being a writer, we usually notice accents.”
“No accent at all?”
“No sir. Flat, Middle America. Could’ve been Kansas or California, not the Bronx or East Texas. Definitely nothing foreign.”
“How much time did you spend with her?”
“Too much, I suppose. We met Friday afternoon, had drinks, then retired to my condo, it’s a five-minute walk, and had leftover lobster salad. Went to bed, did our thing, and she slept over. We were having coffee Saturday morning, and that’s when Nelson’s name came up. She saw one of his books on the shelf and claimed to be a big fan. I had her pegged as a nonreader or a chick-lit fan at best, and I thought it odd that she would enjoy his books, but I said nothing. The conversation went on and she said she would like to meet him. She suggested the Shack, a dive out by the bridge with really good food.”
“Been there too.”
“So, I called Nelson and we met him there for a late lunch on Saturday. They hit it off okay and we had a nice visit. Later that afternoon, she and I hung around the beach, then had dinner again. Back to my place. She wanted to have a go Sunday morning but I needed a break. She left and said she was going back to the hotel.”
“Any chance she slept with Nelson?”
“Oh, sure, always the chance. Hell, I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about marriage. Tried that twice.”
“Did you see her Sunday?”
Bob sipped coffee, scratched his chin, thought hard for a moment. “Yep, we set up on the beach near the hotel and enjoyed the sun. That night I had dinner at Bruce’s but didn’t take the woman. Nelson was there. Then the hurricane changed its course and all hell broke loose.”
“What about a physical description.”
“Five-ten, one-thirty, helluva body. She’s about forty years old, likes string bikinis, and on the beach got more looks than eighteen-year-olds. Said she lives in the gym and has a black belt. I believe her. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Brown eyes, long fake blond hair, no tattoos, scars, birthmarks, and I saw it all.”
“I don’t suppose you took a photo of her. Maybe a selfie?”
“No, I don’t do selfies and I don’t run around snapping photos. Nor did she.”
“Can you think of a spot where she may have been captured on surveillance?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot. I’m sure the Hilton has cameras all over the place, including the outdoor bars and pool area. There’s probably some footage, if it still exists. Right now the Hilton is a mess. It took at least eight feet of storm surge and the ground floor is gutted. The decks, restaurants, patios, terraces were all blown away. Most of its windows are gone. If there were outdoor cameras they were probably ripped off by the wind. The place is barely standing.”
“What about the Shack?”
“That’s a possibility. I don’t know if it survived but it’s on the water, the back bay.”
Butler reviewed his notes and sipped coffee. He looked at Bruce, then Bob, and asked, “And you think this gal did a number on Mr. Kerr?”
Bob grunted and said, “That’s your job, sir.”
Bruce nodded at Nick and said, “He has an interesting theory.”
“And you’re Mr. Sutton?” Butler asked.
“Nick Sutton, rising senior at Wake, summer intern here on the island where I house-sit for my grandparents. I hang around the bookstore, where Bruce pays me minimum wage to haul stock.”
“You’re overpaid,” Bruce said.
“Anyway, I live in the underbelly because I read five or six crime novels a week. As an employee I get a twenty-percent discount, even on paperbacks. At Barnes and Noble I’d get forty off. My entire paycheck, meager as it is, goes for my library.”
“Okay, and your theory?”
“She’s a professional, hired by big money to knock off Nelson because of something he has written or is writing or planning to write. He has a ‘checkered past,’ to use a badly overworked cliché. She arrived on the island with a pal, probably a man, who rented a condo near the scene, and they waited. She knew about Bob and Nelson. Easy research. She bumped into Bob, a pushover, and through him met Nelson, her prey. The hurricane presented a unique moment to strike, which she did, and then she and her pal got off the island. Or maybe they’re still around, though I doubt it.”
“Not bad,” Butler said with a smile, but it was blatantly obvious he was just humoring the kid. They can say the darnedest things. “Nice imagination.”
“Thanks. I read a lot.”
“Any ideas about a murder weapon?”
“Nelson’s golf clubs are in the garage. I’d start there.”
“Golf clubs?”
“She had to use something from the house. I doubt she showed up with a baseball bat.”
“Interesting,” Butler said, playing along. “I guess you watch a lot of movies too.”
“Not really. I’m too busy reading.”
Bruce cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Butler, I have to call Nelson Kerr’s parents and tell them something. Should I mention murder?”
“They know he’s dead, right?”
“Right, and they know about the autopsy and the involvement by the police.”
“I can’t tell you what to say, but I would tell them that he died from blunt force trauma to the head, looks suspicious, and the state police have opened an investigation.”
“Okay. And how do they get the body to California? I’ve never dealt with this before.”
“Most folks haven’t. Hire a local funeral home. They do it all the time.”
Butler walked them out of the building and to the parking lot where he lit a cigarette and seemed in no hurry. As they said goodbye and shook hands, Bruce remembered something. “Nelson had just finished his latest novel, or at least an early draft. I was about to read it. The book is not under contract, so no one in New York has seen it. I’m almost certain that it’s still in his computer, and that file is pretty valuable to his estate.”
Butler nodded confidently. “We’ll secure it.”
Driving away, Nick said, “I don’t trust him. He’s cocky, smug, and not very bright. He and Hoppy will make quite a team.”
“He didn’t care for your postulating, did he?” Bob said with a laugh.
“No, he thinks I’m a nut. You see his type all the time, at least in good crime novels. These guys who’ve been around think they can look at a crime scene and name the killer. It’s called tunnel vision. They embrace their own theory, then march off in the wrong direction. They ignore facts to the contrary and embrace anything that supports their ideas. Happens all the time, especially in real-life wrongful conviction cases where they nail some poor dude while the real killer keeps on killing.”
Bruce said, “I didn’t think he was that bad.”
“He’s not too bright, Bruce,” Bob said. “Nick’s right, for a change.”
“It’s almost noon,” Nick said. “Is anybody else hungry around here?”
“Always,” Bruce said. “And thirsty. How many cold beers are left?”
“Plenty,” Nick said from the back. “Where are we going?”
“I’m tired of driving and tired of both of you,” Bruce said. “I say we go home and end this little road trip.”
“Amen,” Bob said.
Nick opened one of the coolers, passed out sandwiches and beers, and they enjoyed lunch as they sped around the Jacksonville bypass. Half an hour later they exited Interstate 95 onto the four-lane that ran twenty miles to the bridge and the island. They immediately noticed a caravan of dump trucks loaded with debris headed farther west to the county landfill. They passed a field where hundreds of FEMA trailers were parked. Eastbound traffic was heavy but moving well, at first. But after five miles it slowed, then practically stopped. Most were cars but there were dozens of trailers with backhoes, bulldozers, and loaders headed for the cleanup.
They inched along, sipping beer, listening to 1980s golden hits because they could agree on nothing else. Nick said, “Okay, you want my latest theory?”
Bruce slowly reached over and turned down the volume. He was intrigued by the deft workings of Nick’s criminal mind. Bob nodded and asked, “Are you going to tell us regardless of whether we want to hear it?”
“Yes. The real killer is the guy with the cash. Nelson published three novels about arms dealers, drug dealers, money launderers, gun runners, corporate crooks, shady defense contractors, and so on. Right, Bruce?”
“For the most part.”
“He seemed to really know his subject matter. Let’s assume he pissed off some folks along the way. If so, why would they rub him out now? The books have been published. Most have sold well. It’s all fiction, all make-believe anyway, so why get upset?”
“Your point?” Bob asked.
“My point is that what’s been said has been said, and Nelson is certainly not the first novelist to write about arms dealers. My point is that the next book, the unfinished novel, is what got him killed. Somebody out there didn’t want it published.”
Bruce and Bob nodded along.
Nick went on, “Maybe they knew his subject matter. It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out, since he always did quite a bit of research. Word got out that Nelson Kerr was writing about their business or their crimes. Or maybe they hacked him, read it, and felt threatened.”
Bruce said, “Nelson was afraid of getting hacked and worked offline. His desktop was secure. Other writers have had their stuff stolen. He was a fanatic about keeping his material protected.”
Bob asked, “How did he back up his work? The cloud?”
“Don’t know, but I doubt if he used the cloud.”
“How did he communicate?” Nick asked.
“He used a laptop for emails, but even then he never said much. He was almost paranoid. No social media at all. He changed his phone number every few months.”
“So. He was still an amateur and he could get hacked. There’s always somebody smarter. If the Russians and Chinese can hack the CIA, then our late buddy Nelson could be hacked. Wouldn’t he have sent his manuscript to his agent, maybe his editor?”
“His agent died last year and he was in the process of finding a new one. He and I talked about it at length. A month ago he told me the book was almost finished and no one had read it. He wanted me to have a look and make notes. I’ll bet the manuscript is still in his computer. Where else would it be?”
Bob said, “So after she killed him, she took his hard drive?”
“Don’t know, yet,” Nick said. “But if his hard drive is missing, then one part of the mystery is solved.”
“Why didn’t you think of this sooner?” Bruce asked. “We could’ve checked his computer.”
“We weren’t touching anything,” Nick said. “I got the impression that Butler back there sort of suspects us of something anyway.”
“I’m glad you said that,” Bob replied. “I had the same impression. What will he do when they find our fingerprints?”
“We have solid alibis,” Bruce said.
They inched along in silence, at times approaching ten miles per hour, at times sitting still. Bruce’s phone buzzed and he answered it. He listened, mumbled something about dogs searching, and shook his head in disbelief. He ended the call and said, “You’re not going to believe this. The cops have the road blocked this side of the bridge and they’re searching each car with dogs. Can you please tell me why?”
Bob, the ex-felon, had little use for the police. He shook his head and said, “Because they can.”
Bruce was exasperated. “I mean, these people just had their homes and businesses blown away, so why would they want to sneak explosives onto the island? These cops are out of control.”
Bob said, “For the same reason they send SWAT teams to arrest people for bad checks. Because they can and it’s far more dramatic. These guys think they’re as tough as Navy Seals and they have to prove it. Look at all that military garb they wear. Why does every Podunk police department have a tank these days? Because the Pentagon has too much of the stuff and sells it cheap. Why do they send canine units to sniff around the county fair? Because they have the damned dogs and need to use them. Don’t get me started.”
“I think you’ve already started,” Nick observed from the backseat.
“Why does every fender bender need three cop cars and four fire trucks? Because these guys are bored, sitting around the station, and they get their jollies racing up and down the streets with sirens screaming. Tough boys in action. They like to block traffic in all directions, makes ’em feel powerful. They control the situation. Sniffing dogs. Unbelievable. It’ll be midnight before we get there.”
Bruce paused a few seconds and asked, “Do you feel better now?”
“Not really. I got chewed up by the cops, okay, so I carry a grudge. I’d feel better if this traffic was moving. Whose idea was this road trip after all?”
“Nick’s.”
“Blame me for everything,” Nick said. “I’m just the intern.”
Bruce picked up his phone and said, “Look, I’ve been putting this off, but I need to call Nelson’s father and tell him that his son is not only dead but was probably murdered. You guys want to help?”
“Sorry,” Nick said.
“He named you as his contact,” Bob said. “It’s all yours.”
The Tahoe stopped in a long curve. For miles ahead nothing was moving. Bruce found the number and punched redial.
Mr. Kerr could barely talk and handed the phone to his daughter, Polly. She introduced herself with “I’m Nelson’s sister, his only sibling. Thank you for what you’re doing.”
She sounded calm, in control. Bruce said, “I really haven’t done anything. I’m very sorry for your loss. Nelson was a friend.”
“Where is he now?”
“As far as I know, he’s in the morgue at the state crime lab. We just left there and are trying to get back onto the island. Things are a mess.”
“What happened? What can you tell me?”
Bruce hesitated and did not want to talk about the cause of death. “We met with an investigator for the state police. They have opened a case file and will send a team of technicians to Nelson’s condo tomorrow.”
“For what purpose?”
“To gather evidence to determine if a crime was committed.”
“Was my brother murdered?”
“No one knows the answer to that.”
She paused, and Bruce could almost see her gritting her teeth and trying to maintain composure. He tried to imagine their nightmare, stumbling through the dark two thousand miles away and watching the chaos on television. She said, “Okay. I’m leaving in an hour and I’ll land in Jacksonville at eight in the morning. That’s the plan, though the airline said there could be delays because of everything. I think I have a rental car. Will it be possible for me to get on the island?”
“Probably. The bridge is open and we’re trying to get there now.”
“I assume there are no hotel rooms.”
“Correct. It appears as if most of the hotels are damaged. I have a big house with plenty of room. A couple of friends are staying over and we’re sort of camping out. No electricity now but we might get hooked up tomorrow. We have food and water and we’re getting by. You’re welcome to join us.”
“That’s awfully generous, Mr. Cable.”
“It’s Bruce, and I’m not being generous. It’s called survival.”
“Thank you. This is very hard.” Her voice cracked slightly.
“I cannot imagine. I’m sorry.”
“Is there something we should be doing?”
“Have you talked to a funeral home?”
“No, not yet.”
“Okay, we have. Text me your cell number and I’ll text you the number of a reputable funeral home in Jacksonville. I chatted with the director an hour ago. Once he is hired, they will transfer the body to the funeral home and prepare it for shipment.”
He realized he sounded like they were discussing a FedEx package.
She said, “Thank you. I’ll do that right now. Will you be around in the morning?”
“Oh yes. Waiting for you. We’ll go to Nelson’s condo and have a look.”