Brigands Key Read online

  “I figure you’re about to tell me.”

  “Eleven out of a staff of twenty-eight. Bet that’s the highest absenteeism you’ve ever had.”

  Johnson’s eyes narrowed with quick defensiveness. “We’re keeping an eye on them. We look after our own down here, Doctor.”

  Kyoko looked at him evenly, feeling a tinge of anger. “I’m sure you do. Nevertheless, I need to review all your cases, Dr. Hammond. I’ll need the files in thirty minutes.”

  Hammond glared. “Hold it right there. There’s such a thing as confidentiality.”

  “When national security is in question, confidentiality has limits. Very definite limits.” She couldn’t believe the words actually came from her mouth. She’d make quite a good Nazi.

  “Jesus. Help me out here, Randy,” Hammond said.

  Sanborn leaned close. “Jerry, give her the damned files. Dr. Nakamura, you’ve done your homework and you know how to bullshit. You come in here like gangbusters and put us on the defensive. Good for you. We won’t be called obstructionists during an emergency. You’ve got exactly twenty-four hours to read Jerry’s case files. Then you’ll return them to him, not a minute late. If you don’t, we can play games, too. The Tampa Tribune would love an opinion on the usurpation of state’s rights by the federal government with your name all over it. I’m sure your bosses in Atlanta would love reading that. Now I suggest we start over and play nice. Happy, sunny faces. The model of governmental cooperation. What do you say?”

  Kyoko studied him. “Dr. Hammond will have his files back in eighteen hours, Chief. And I’ll expect you to keep me in the loop on your investigation into John Doe.”

  A smile ghosted across Sanborn’s face. “Are you also FBI? Because I doubt CDC throws much weight around in criminal investigations.”

  Kyoko nodded carefully. He was right; she had no real claim of authority. “In the spirit of cooperation, I humbly request to be kept up on any developments.” She decided, what the hell, might as well push her luck. “But please be aware; the FBI can be brought in at a moment’s notice. One phone call will do it.”

  His eyes let her know he wasn’t buying it. But all he said was, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ellie June rounded the north end of the island and left the smooth water of the inland side for the choppy Gulf. A lighthouse came into view above the windswept, stunted trees. The lighthouse tower was concrete and cylindrical, painted a gorgeous orange-red that glowed in the late morning sun. Topping it, the actual light room was black steel and glass, a dark clear eye watching over the island.

  “Hammond Lighthouse,” Johnson said.

  Kyoko looked inquisitively at Gerald Hammond.

  Hammond cast a possessive glance at the lighthouse. “My great-great-grandfather built it. He was the best and settled here when he finished construction. The lighthouse has been here since 1868, through good years and bad, and six hurricanes. A hundred and sixty-eight feet tall. Visible at sea for over twenty miles. Best damn lighthouse in the Southeast.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Hammond’s scowl evaporated. “Still operational, too. On automatic timer. The original Fresnel lens is a real work of art. It’s still up there, still intact, but no longer in use. We run a couple of blinking lights now. City can’t afford to stick a codger in there to do nothing but draw a check. It’s our landmark, and it pretty much shaped the history of Brigands Key. Know how we got our name? Way back when, about 1850, our growth industry was ship salvage. The waters offshore are shallow for a ways out and ships were always running aground. Local entrepreneurs figured grounded vessels were fair game and would race to them and plunder what they could. A few souls got quite wealthy and it was a lot more fun than fishing. Of course, the merchant marine and their insurers disapproved. They labeled the salvagers “robbers and brigands” and pressured the government to shut them down. But salvage continued unabated until 1866, when the first lighthouse, a wood tower some thirty feet tall, was built on this same spot. It was only visible for a few miles out to sea but was loved by mariners, including most of the local fishermen. And hated by the salvage industry. It lasted a year until it mysteriously burned to the ground one night. It was replaced by this tower and they added two armed sentries. The salvage guys couldn’t burn it down and didn’t like getting shot at, so business quickly died off.”

  “You’re a marvelous historian, Dr. Hammond.”

  Hammond blushed.

  Kyoko turned to Johnson. “Mayor, I haven’t gotten settled in yet. Would you advise me on the best accommodations in town?”

  “The best and the worst. They’re the same. There’s only one motel, the Morrison.”

  Sanborn’s police radio squawked statically. He picked it up, pressed the button. “Sanborn.”

  “Randy, this is Tommy. Better get back right away. We got another death.”

  “Roger.” He nodded to the mayor, who began to swing the boat about. “Got a name and place?”

  “Susan Walsh, Morrison Motel.”

  Sanborn shot a glance at Hammond. “Christ,” he mumbled, raising the radio. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.” He set the radio down. “Well, Dr. Nakamura. Your motel is now a player in this drama.”

  Chapter Ten

  The medical examiner’s office left a lot to be desired. Kyoko reminded herself she wasn’t in Atlanta anymore. CDC was state-of-the-art. Brigands Key was state-of-the-boondocks. She shouldn’t expect CDC kinds of gear, CDC kinds of budgets, out in the provinces. But this place underwhelmed even her least expectations. Hard to believe it was an official institution.

  She divided her time between quietly watching Hammond perform the autopsy and reading and rereading the case files he’d turned over. With each page, a sense of dread grew in her. Something exceedingly strange was going on here. Hammond’s notes and speculations were thorough but they just couldn’t be right.

  He went through his paces. She watched each movement, each turn of hand, waiting for flaws to expose themselves. She hadn’t spotted a single one.

  Maybe Hammond was better than his facilities. Maybe. She wasn’t going to concede that just yet.

  Hours crept by. At last, Hammond concluded his work on the subject.

  The subject. Kyoko caught herself.

  Susan Walsh lay there, naked, opened, wet. Not a subject. A woman that had been.

  Hammond walked past her and punched an intercom button. “Tommy, send Chief Sanborn over, can you?”

  “He’s been waiting for your call.”

  Hammond took a seat, leaned back. “Well, Dr. Nakamura. I’ve got results. Afraid they’re not what you wanted.”

  A tinge of heat rose in her face. “I’m not looking for specific results, Doctor. Just honest results.”

  Hammond bit his lower lip, a tiny smirk turning his mouth. “Perhaps I misunderstood your mission. Let’s just wait for Sanborn, shall we?” He laced his fingers behind his head and put his feet up on his desk and stared defiantly at her.

  Not at all sanitary, the little prick.

  A short rap came at the door and Sanborn entered. “Dr. Nakamura,” he said with a small, indifferent nod. “Jerry, what you got for me?”

  Hammond rose from his chair, his smirk blossoming into a tight-lipped smile.

  “Results are preliminary, of course, but Susan Walsh exhibits some symptoms our other recent deaths and illnesses have shown.”

  Kyoko leaned forward, nodding. “She contracted the same illness? Then that confirms a virulent contagion.”

  “My, my. CDC sure closes cases in a hurry.”

  Kyoko fixed her eyes upon him. “Don’t play games, Doctor.”

  “Games? Uh-uh. You’ve got an agenda. Quick score in the boonies, back to Atlanta for the kudos. I’m here to keep you from getting egg on your face.”

  Kyoko waited, her irritation growing. “I’m here to assist, as you well know.”

  “Right. You’ve been perched on my shoulder all day like a buzzard, watching my every m
ove.”

  “CDC takes contagion very seriously. I’m sorry that you—”

  “The deceased, Susan Patrice Walsh,” Hammond interrupted, turning his back to Kyoko. “Caucasian, female, age 45, found this morning in her motel room in bed. In a pool of vomit. Bile present in the victim’s mouth. No sign of alcohol or drug use. No bruising, lacerations, or other obvious signs of physical abuse.”

  “All suggesting contagion.”

  “She was made to look like she’d died of the Brigands Key Plague. But I saw Susan Walsh just the night before. She was out having dinner. We chatted a bit. As I’ve been prone to do lately, I studied her for any signs of illness. There were none. Yet hours later, she turns up dead. Our other victims have shown obvious symptoms in a long, slow buildup before death. They did not get sick and die within a few hours.”

  “Poisoning?” Sanborn asked.

  “She wasn’t poisoned and she wasn’t sick.”

  “But the vomit… you said she had bile in her mouth.”

  “Not hers.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I examined her mouth. She indeed had vomit in her mouth. Quite a bit. But I also examined her throat. Not a trace of vomit there, not even microscopically.”

  “That makes no sense!”

  “I think I see,” Sanborn said. “She was stripped, placed in bed. Her murderer induced his or her own vomiting, then placed Susan in such a position as to make it appear that she died in her own vomit. The killer even smeared some in her mouth to make it obvious.”

  “Exactly.”

  Kyoko shook her head. “Why would someone do that?”

  “To buy time. To throw us off. The killer knows we have a growing body count and hoped this one violent murder might get lost in the shuffle of all the other deaths.”

  “Then what killed her?”

  “My guess, an ice pick.”

  Sanborn leaned forward. “Not your everyday murder weapon.”

  Hammond nodded. “Walsh was stabbed right here.” Hammond motioned them closer and pointed to Walsh’s exposed right breast. He moved the breast aside.

  “I don’t see anything,” Kyoko said.

  “That was the idea.” He handed her a magnifying glass.

  She took the magnifier and leaned in. A tiny mark, barely visible, was hidden in the crease of flesh below the breast.

  “The external wound is practically invisible,” Hammond said, “suggesting a finely pointed instrument. Like an ice pick. Internally, the damage is far greater. The killer punctured her, twice, then worked the needle around inside her before withdrawing it. It’s not a random act of violence. It’s stealthy and deliberate.”

  “I’m a disease expert,” Kyoko said. “I’d have missed this.”

  “I’ve seen it once before.” He glanced at Sanborn.

  She looked from Hammond to Sanborn. “The John Doe?”

  “Yep. John Doe was killed the same way.”

  “A serial killer?”

  “No,” Sanborn said. “A copycat.”

  She stared at him, confused. “But if the murders are almost identical...”

  “Yeah. Almost. John Doe was stabbed from behind into his left breast, cleanly into the heart. Death was mercifully swift. Very professional. Susan’s murderer also stabbed from behind, but took a couple of tries to do it, in the right breast. No heart puncture there. Lethal, sure, but not nearly as sure as the first. The first was the work of a pro. This was the work of an amateur.” Sanborn rubbed his chin. “Got the time of death, Jerry?”

  “Somewhere between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.”

  “I like it. For once, you’re not giving me a range of hours to years.” Sanborn was silent for a moment. “Grant’s room is two doors down from Walsh’s in the same motel. Funny how such distinctive murders keep turning up so close to him. I wonder if he happened to be out and about late last night.”

  * * *

  Currents of air high above the earth dipped and shifted. Hot dry air massed over Texas and drifted east. The summer sun beat down on a listless Gulf of Mexico after a warm winter, heating it to seldom seen extremes, a warm bath. The swirling low pressure that was Hurricane Celeste rounded the western tip of Cuba and turned northwest, gunning for Galveston. Weather satellites picked up the jog immediately and within minutes, huddling close to their computers, the citizens of a hundred communities encircling the Gulf of Mexico knew of it. The Internet is a wonderful thing.

  The warm waters of the gulf embraced the storm. The pressure dropped. The wind grew. The sea grew.

  * * *

  Grant came out of a restless sleep, heaved out of it by the pounding in his head. He kicked off his covers and lay in the chilly, dark motel room. His guts twitched and calmed and the pounding grew.

  The pounding wasn’t in his head. It was on the door.

  “Professor! Hey, Dr. Grant, get up!”

  It was that kid.

  Grant sat upright, rubbed his temples, and headed for the door. The afternoon light burst in uninvited, followed by the kid, also uninvited. “Charley. What a surprise.”

  “Professor, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks so much. What do you want?”

  “You got the flu?”

  “I’ve got something.”

  “Everybody’s getting it. My Old Man. My neighbors. Everybody.”

  “It’ll pass. It’s a twenty-four-hour bug or something.”

  “Wow, you have been out of touch. There’s talk of three dead already from it.”

  “Three?”

  “Maybe more. There’s this woman down from CDC in Atlanta. Tell me it’s nothing. Go ahead. CDC doesn’t bother with little stuff. Something big is going down.”

  Grant thought for a moment. “Seen your boss yet?”

  “No, sir. He’s still missing. See, the powers that be are trying to keep the plague small in tale if not in truth. It’s the Black Death, man. The princes and priests tried to manage the truth about that too but they couldn’t. The mayor’s not counting either Roscoe or John Doe or Susan Walsh in the plague deaths. So we really got six dead.”

  Surprise lit Grant’s face. “They’re not counting Susan Walsh?”

  “Not as a plague death. Hammond’s computer notes say it’s murder.”

  Grant shook his head sadly. “That’s weird. They grilled me for two hours this morning about her but I had nothing to do with it. No mention of murder. Charley, something on this island is out of control. Mayor Johnson—I hope he’s not a friend of yours—would lose his ass if it wasn’t stuck to him. But Hammond and Sanborn are sharp. And Sanborn wants to get me in the worst way.”

  “No kidding. You know what the best thing about being a geek is? Small-town computer networks have no defense against guys like me. I’ve been helping myself to confidential emails. Guess what? There’s a lot of talk about you. Not happy talk. You’re a very suspicious dude, you know. Hope you got an alibi.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Charley.”

  * * *

  Randy Sanborn finished his afternoon beat and settled into the overstuffed swivel chair at his desk to polish off a boatload of paperwork he’d gotten behind on. With so much going on, the fun stuff had slipped. Time sheets, payroll, budgets. He glanced at the clock. Ten after five, but this stuff would keep him here another three hours. He slumped deeper into the chair and began scanning the paper on the top of his growing in-box pile.

  Don Flowers came shuffling through the office. He gave Sanborn a tired smile and rooted through a file cabinet.

  Blessed distractions.

  “Don,” Sanborn said.

  Flowers looked up. He’d also just gotten off patrol, a foot walk. Pushing retirement, white-haired, paunchy, with a deeply pitted red nose. An old-school workhorse. Absolutely would not give up his beat.

  “You got a little too much sun today. You okay?”

  “Sure. A little tired.”

  Flowers was beet red. “Big Fella, why don’t you get home already?” Randy s
aid.

  “My shift goes to seven, Boss.”

  “Forget shifts. It’s after five and it’s still ninety-seven outside. Go home and have a beer with Mrs. Flowers. I need you fresh tomorrow.”

  “I am a little tired,” Flowers allowed.

  “Go. You’ll just start flapping your gums and I’ll never get anything done. Go.”

  “Maybe I will. Thanks, Boss.”

  Flowers shuffled out and quiet entered the room. Sanborn glanced at the clock again and resumed reading, a list of maintenance needs for the squad cars. He picked up a pencil and checked off a couple items.

  “Screw it,” he said. He dropped the paper in the in-box and grabbed his keys.

  He drove down US 19, cutting over to the Suncoast Parkway and following it into Tampa. The long drive was a welcome stretch of miles and solitude, at least until he hit some murderous north-side traffic as dusk gathered. Timing was good anyhow. Where he was going, you couldn’t be too early if you wanted to find anyone willing to talk.

  He worked his way over to Dale Mabry Drive, slowed to admire the topless bars, and switched onto JFK and found the neighborhood he sought, on the edge of downtown, in the shadow of the Moorish minarets of the University of Tampa. A hooker waved without enthusiasm and he waved back.

  After a few minutes, he spotted the pink and blue neon sign of The Holiday House Bar. The place Charley had mentioned. He parked, took off his uniform shirt, pulled on a Hawaiian shirt, and went inside.

  The place was dim and cool and jungly. Heavy wood and tropical plants abounded. Bob Marley was singing over the speakers, not too loudly. “Jammin.” Patrons mingled about, the joint about half full. Teens to retirees. All men.

  Sanborn took a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender. “Carl,” his nametag proclaimed.

  “What can I get for you, Sailor?”

  “Rum and coke and some information would be nice.”

  “Rum and coke I can do. I thought you looked out of place here. Hawaiian shirt indeed. You a cop?”

  “Not in Tampa.”