chapter twenty-four

Despite her exhaustion, Robin hadn’t thought she could sleep.

She’d suffered that kind of wakefulness before. When she was just too tired to sleep. Too many questions in her head.

But the moment she laid her head on the pillow, she knew nothing else until light streamed through the cheap curtains.

It took her a moment to remember where she was. Then it all came flooding back in terrifying detail. The fires. The threats. The grand jury hearing.

Most of all she saw Ben Taylor in her mind. He would be angry. Puzzled. Frustrated.

Because he’d lost her.

She went to the window and searched around the parking lot. Nothing looked suspicious. In fact, it was mostly empty now that it was daylight. She took a quick shower, then pulled on a pair of jeans and the shell she’d worn yesterday.

It felt good walking without the brace. The exercises she’d done religiously had made her left knee as flexible as the right one, but it didn’t yet have the strength. Or perhaps it was her caution.

She longed for coffee, but there was no little coffeemaker in the room. Probably wouldn’t be any in the so-called lobby, either. In any event, she didn’t want anyone to remember her face.

She looked at the photos again, praying that she was right, that the answer to her questions lay somewhere in them. Sandy had said Brunswick. Would the boat still be there? Could she find the registration or had it been registered someplace else?

If it was in Brunswick. If she was lucky.

She looked out the motel window again before opening the door. Still nothing. Clutching her purse and duffle, she left. She would get some coffee and breakfast somewhere, then head for Savannah. She was certain she could purchase a weapon there. Then she would drive to Brunswick. Anyone who owned a boat like that would probably be a member of a yacht club, or at the very least be moored at one of the marinas.

That first. Then she would start looking for ownership records of the condos on the beach. Sooner or later, she would find a common denominator.

The question was how long she could search without being noticed and becoming the hunted rather than the hunter. Again.

She reached Savannah at midmorning.

First order of business was a weapon. She found a gun shop, showed her permit, and paid for the pistol in cash. She spent another hour at a shooting range, recapturing long-ago skills her father had drilled into her.

She found a discount store and purchased some underwear and a few other items she needed. She also purchased a prepaid credit card for a thousand dollars. No name necessary.

She desperately missed her laptop, but she hadn’t figured out a way to put that in her purse and she couldn’t afford a new one. Instead, she stopped at a Kinko’s in Savannah, and used one of their computers to log on to the Internet, then she linked to the city of Brunswick.

In minutes she had a list of fourteen marinas in the Brunswick area. What she didn’t know was whether the boat was docked in Brunswick permanently or merely sailed there for the various outings. But it would have had to be docked there at least temporarily.

She wished she had a name for the boat. But it could be easily changed in any event. It was the registration number that might lead to the owner.

She used a public telephone to call her attorney friend in California. He’d heard from Star’s husband, who reported they were all safe. They didn’t say where, but it didn’t matter. It was enough that they had evidently gotten away.

Then she checked her voice mail service, since she’d turned off her cell phone when she left Atlanta. She didn’t know if someone could trace cell phone signals even when she wasn’t making a call. She made a mental note to propose doing a story for the paper on the traceability of cell phones when her life returned to normal. If she still had a job.

There were ten calls, including two from Ben Taylor, three from her editor, and others by various friends indicating concern. She wished she could call them all back, but she couldn’t risk it. Wade would ask too many questions and probably tell her to return.

And Ben …

She thought how safe she’d felt in his arms, in his presence after the attack in Meredith County. Could it have been fool’s gold? Could she have been that wrong? Were her instincts that awry?

Forget it! Even if he was gold of the purest kind, his superiors may not be. The result could be just as deadly.

The list of marinas in hand, she got back into her car and turned south.

Ben arrived at the office at eight the morning after Robin’s disappearance. He’d tried to grab some sleep. There had been none the night of the fire, and precious little the night before that, and he knew he couldn’t function any longer without some. He slept a little, but it had been restless sleep, and he woke early. He ran a mile, trying to clear his head. The only clue he had to Robin’s whereabouts was that photo. A boat. Some men. He had no idea where it was docked or why it was important.

The fishermen in the photo. He thought one had seemed familiar last night but he hadn’t been able to place it. When he returned to his apartment, he looked at it again. Now it tumbled into place. Ben had seen him at the press conference. He’d been standing at the side of the sheriff.

He had a place to start. Mahoney and several other agents were already doing extensive investigations on every deputy in the Meredith County Sheriff’s office. They would have photos of them. He wanted to see if more officers were in that photo. Then he could learn where the boat was.

And he planned to do it fast.

He took a cold shower, the icy water thoroughly waking him as his mind raced ahead.

Once dried and dressed, he tried to call Robin again, but her cell phone was off. He didn’t try to leave a number this time. It was his third call. He grabbed the photo and drove downtown to the office.

Mahoney was already there. “The U.S. attorney called. Wants to see you at his office.”

“He’s in this early?”

“Apparently.”

“Me alone? Not us?”

Mahoney shrugged. “You’ve been the Lone Ranger lately. I don’t think he’s happy.”

“What about Holland?”

“Holland wants what Joseph Ames wants. And Ames is feeling the heat. He doesn’t really want to send a reporter to jail. Bad press might hurt his chances on his climb to the top.”

“I’ll call him later,” Ben said. “I have something that might help the case.” He pulled out the photograph. “I don’t want Holland to know about this yet,” he said. “Not until we know if it pans out.”

Mahoney glanced at the photo, then looked puzzled.

“You’ve been going over the backgrounds of the deputies,” Ben said. “Do any of the men in this picture look familiar?”

Mahoney looked again and slowly nodded. He picked up a file on his desk which included photos and information on members of the sheriff’s department. Twenty minutes later, they had matched all five of the men in Robin’s photo to photos in the file.

Four were currently with the department. The fifth had been killed at a traffic stop seven months ago.

Ben seized on that information. “Did they catch the perp?”

“I checked on that. No. It’s a cold case. The officer—Mark Boatright—he called in to report he was stopping a car. Gave a license number that later turned out to be stolen. There was nothing else.”

“Another death in Meredith law enforcement. Obviously not a good place to be a cop,” Ben said. “Was he married?”

“Yep.”

“I think someone should talk to the widow.”

Not just someone. He damned well was going to do it. He wanted to know whether she remembered a fishing trip, and where it was.

“Do you have an address?”

Mahoney went back to work and came up with both an address and a phone number.

Ben debated calling or visiting. He decided a call would forewarn her. Surprise always trumped warning. If she wasn’t there, they should be able to find out from neighbors where she worked.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“What about Ames?”

Ben shrugged. “That can wait.”

“You know what you’re doing?”

“I know we have a missing witness who might be running hellbent into trouble.”

Mahoney groaned. “My pension …” But he got up and followed Ben out the door.

Fifty minutes later, Ben drove up in front of a modest frame house. A bicycle leaned against the porch and a tricycle was nearby. The grass looked ragged and untended, but the house was newly painted.

He and Mahoney went together to the door. He took out his badge and held it in his hand, then rang the bell.

A dog barked inside, but no one answered.

He rang a few more times, then Mahoney went to the left and he to the nearest house on the right. Two homes down Ben found a woman home. She stood behind a locked door while he showed his badge, then she opened it.

“I’m Special Agent Ben Taylor. Mrs.…”

“Allen. Jean Allen.” She paused as she opened the door wider, inviting him in. “Wouldn’t have been this cautious two weeks ago,” she said. “This was always a real peaceful place.”

“We’re looking for Amy Boatright.”

“No. We’re just following up on her husband’s death. Do you know where she might be?”

“She works at the school cafeteria. I’m keeping her youngest now. She should be home at two.”

He looked at his watch. Almost eleven. He didn’t want to wait until two. Every minute counted. Robin Stuart was out there on her own, probably thinking she was smarter than the perps. Always a big mistake. He’d disabused himself of that a long time ago. Despite the television programs, there were smart bad guys out there, and he’d discovered that whoever led Hydra was very smart indeed.

He didn’t want to show the woman the photo. He didn’t know where Robin had received it, and he couldn’t be sure that her source wasn’t in it. He sure didn’t want to get someone killed because of carelessness. Instead, he planned to ask Amy Boatright details surrounding her husband’s death, his moods prior to the attack and activities around that time. He wanted to throw in the fishing trip as an aside. Something unimportant.

His gut was telling him there were entirely too many accidents around the Meredith County sheriff’s department.

He asked the neighbor a few more questions. How long had Boatright lived in this home? What had she thought of him?

The woman looked at him shrewdly. “Does this have anything to do with those murders?”

“I can’t really say, ma’am.”

“I hope you find whoever did it. Mark was a good man. A real good man. Helped everyone. Took care of all the single women in the neighborhood. Fixed their plumbing. Repaired roofs. Mowed their lawns. His death broke Amy’s heart. Sheriff’s department gave her a good settlement, though. That was a godsend.”

“But she works at the school?”

“Mainly because she wants to keep near Mark Junior. MJ is the image of his father and I think she’s terrified of losing him too.”

“What about her daughter?”

“Merry? Bright and sunny. A real joy to be around. Both are good kids.”

“A good marriage then?”

“I wish mine had been one-tenth as good. I wouldn’t be keeping other people’s children to support my own.”

“Was he from Meredith County?”

“Sure was. Grew up not far from here.”

“Ex-military?”

“Yeah. Think so. How did you know?”

“Lot of cops come from the military.”

She looked at him curiously.

“Thank you, Mrs. Allen.”

“I hope you find his killer, but general opinion is he’s long gone from here.”

“General opinion could be right,” Ben acknowledged. “Thank you, ma’am.” Ben handed her his card. “If you think of anything that might help, call anytime. That’s my cell number.”

Mrs. Allen walked to the door with him. As he reached it, he asked for directions to the school where Amy Boatright worked. She gave them to him.

He hesitated, then said, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this visit.”

She looked surprised but nodded her agreement. “Anything that will help catch the killer. It would ease Amy.”

Once in Brunswick, Robin rented a room in an inexpensive motel on the outskirts, this time paying with the recently purchased credit card. She tried not to take offense at the leering look of the proprietor.

Then another shopping expedition. She’d decided during the trip from Savannah to Brunswick that she couldn’t just wander around asking questions without attracting attention.

But if she was a freelance writer researching a story on the Georgia coast, she would have reason to be snapping photos and asking questions, especially if she was researching a story for a yachting magazine.

She went to the local library and found a phone book from Chicago. She turned to the middle, to Murphy, found a phone number and address. Then she made a trip to a small printing company where she ordered business cards that should be ready in an hour.

While waiting, she bought a camera and notebooks, then matched the locations of local marinas to a map of the area. She hoped she would be lucky enough to spot the boat. If not, she would start asking questions.

Start with the small ones. If the owners were trying to escape notice they would dock in the smaller marinas. At least that was one theory. Another could be to hide in plain sight in the largest ones.

Time was at a premium.

Flip a coin. Heads.

Smaller ones first.

Ben decided against going to the school. He was only too aware of what happened to those who might be conceived as a danger to Hydra, or whoever was involved in the killings of the deputies. He didn’t want to put Amy Boatright in danger.

Instead, he and Mahoney grabbed some lunch, then discussed what Mrs. Allen had told Ben.

They compared the records of deputies. There were very few women in the department, and those were dispatchers and support personnel. Nearly all the deputies were lifelong residents of the county. Some were second-and third-generation members of the department. That wouldn’t be odd in a smaller department. But this one was large enough that it rang some major bells. There had also been an unusual number of fatalities, most of them automobile accidents. One a hunting accident.

Ben looked again at the photo. How many more fishermen had been in the original photo? Probably another five.

Camaraderie was obvious. Several of them had arms slung around shoulders. Big grins on faces.

Robin Stuart had found something in that photo. What in the hell was it? And was one of the men her source?

He tried to call her cell phone. Received another “out of service” message. He left another message, even knowing—or at least suspecting—she would ignore that one as well.

“We should tell Holland about this photograph.”

“Robin Stuart changed toward me in the past day or two. I think she met with the source Sunday night, and he told her something that made her stop trusting us.”

Mahoney’s brows drew together. “You think he told her someone with our office is involved?”

“Or implied it.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“It happened in Boston. I can’t see any of the people in our office being involved, but … hell, I guess you never know.”

“We can’t keep vital evidence quiet,” Mahoney objected. “Holland will want to know where we’ve been.”

“Just checking out recent deaths in the sheriff’s department.”

“You know what you’re asking me to do? Withholding information from my boss?”

“That photo could possibly point to Ms. Stuart’s source. I don’t want to be responsible for his death if we don’t get to him before the perps do. And if someone in our office leaks it …”

Mahoney didn’t give him a promise, and Ben wondered if he should have told his partner about the photo. But he needed Mahoney’s help. Time was too important right now, and he needed another mind to reason. He didn’t want to think he was too involved with Robin Stuart to make sound decisions but neither could he preclude it.

He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly two. Let’s go back to the Boatright house.”

They were parked in front of her house when she drove up. She looked at them curiously as she drove into the driveway, and a boy jumped out and ran inside. The woman took more time in getting out.

He and Mahoney walked up to her and introduced themselves.

She was a pretty woman with tired eyes. Her smile was more automatic than real.

She invited them inside when they said they were reviewing the circumstances of her husband’s death. She asked if they would like a soft drink, and both said yes.

She introduced them to her son, then told him to go into his room and do his homework. He looked rebellious for a moment, then took one look at his mother’s face and reluctantly went down the hall. When the door closed behind him, she turned back to them.

“Why now?” she asked.

Ben didn’t pretend not to understand. “There’s too many deaths in the sheriff’s department. Your husband’s as well as a number of accidents. Could be a coincidence, but we wanted to find out why.”

“Six,” she said. “Six in two years. I’ve been to the funerals.”

“That’s high for a rural sheriff’s department,” Mahoney said.

She didn’t respond.

“How long did your husband work for the department?” Ben asked.

“Ten years.”

“And he was happy with the job?”

“I don’t think happy describes it. He’d always wanted to be a law officer. He liked helping people.”

“He enjoyed working with the sheriff’s department then?”

“Up until a few months before his … death.”

“And then?” Ben asked.

Amy Boatright’s hands clasped together tightly. Her gaze went to the door, then back to him. “In the last months before his death, he was angry about something. Retreated into himself.”

“Did he usually patrol alone?”

She nodded. “We don’t have two-officer cars. Not enough violent crime. Most of the stuff was traffic stops and domestic violence. Mark hated those most of all. He couldn’t understand how a man could hit a woman.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Boatright. But this is important.”

“You think someone in the sheriff’s department is responsible for those deaths, don’t you?” she replied.

“I think it’s a possibility.” He paused, then added, “I understand that some of the deputies took fishing trips together.”

She looked surprised, then nodded. “Usually two a year. Mark always looked forward to them. He liked most of the guys.”

“Did you ever go?”

“Boys only,” she said dryly. “I wasn’t that happy about it, but Mark said it didn’t count against his days off. And he did bring back enough fish to feed us for a month.”

“Do you remember where they went?”

She nodded. “Mark liked it so much he took me and the kids down there several months later. Jekyll Island.”

“You said he was upset before his death. Did he tell you why?”

“No, but he started having bad dreams. I thought it might have something to do with Gary’s suicide.”

Ben dredged up names in his memory. Gary Sutler. He’d shot himself three months before Mark Boatright died.

“A friend of his?”

“Got him into the department. Last man in the world you’d think of killing himself. It shook Mark terribly.”

“Can you do something for us?” Ben asked.

“I’ll try anything to get his killer caught,” Amy Boatright said.

“Draw us a time line. When he joined the department, when Gary died, when your husband started to get angry. Anything he might have said, no matter how insignificant you might have thought it was.”

Her gaze was steady. “You think all this might be connected?”

“All what?” Ben asked innocently.

“The recent murders of the police officers. Maybe Gary. Maybe even Mark.” Ben noticed the odd lack of surprise in her voice.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Boatright. We’re only asking questions.”

“If he was killed by his own …”

“We don’t know that.” Ben got up. “Mrs. Boatright, I’m asking that you don’t mention this conversation to anyone. Anyone at all. Not to your family. Not your closest friends.”

Her face paled, but she nodded.

He handed her his card. “I’ll check with you in a few days on the time line. Call me or Agent Mahoney if you think of anything you haven’t told us.”

They left.

“What now?” Mahoney asked. “Jekyll Island? We’ll have to talk to Holland about that.”

“No,” Ben said. “I’m going to take a few days’ leave.”

Mahoney got that despairing look back in place. “Never happen. Not with the investigation ongoing.”

“Never a better time. A week before the next grand jury session. We’re still not officially on the case. Not much we can do before then. Besides, Holland’s been pressing me about taking vacation time.”

“What do I tell Ames? He wanted to see you, remember?”

“You told me. It’s my problem now.”

“You really do want to end your career.”

Ben shrugged. “If I find Robin Stuart, he’ll be happy.”

“Finding her won’t be easy.”

“If that’s where she’s gone, she’ll be checking out marinas. That will take time.”

He used his cell phone to check on flights to Brunswick, the closest city to Jekyll Island. As he waited for a reservations agent, he thought about the city. He knew it well. He’d spent a few months there a while back as part of another joint task force that was investigating a drug ring.

The agent came on the line. There was a flight to Brunswick in two hours.

It would take at least ninety minutes to reach the airport but once there he could use his credentials to get through security quickly. It was worth a try. He could be in Brunswick in three hours. He made the reservation.

“What about Holland?” Mahoney asked. “What if he says no to a few days off?”

“I’ll figure that out later. Just get me to the airport. Fast.”