Follow the Evidence (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 2) (7 page)

“How long do you estimate it had
been open?”

“Not long, sir. There was maybe
three foot of water in the bilge, maybe a little more. I started the pumps. By
the time I left her, the water was down to eight or ten inches. The pump was
doing a good job.”

“You see anything else that stood
out for you?”

“Stuff was thrown around, broken…”

“More of a mess then just being in
a hurricane?”

He thought a moment then nodded.
“It looked like there’d been a struggle in that cabin, but...”

“But what?”

He frowned and looked out the
window.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, sir…just a feeling.
I don’t have any facts or…”

“Spill it,” I said.

“Well, sir the whole thing looked
staged. It seemed like they were trying to make it appear they’d abandoned
ship.”

“How about emergency equipment,
life jackets that sort of thing, was that still there?”

“No sir, they were all there. The
flotation jackets, the flare gun-all the usual stuff was there, oh, and the
radio was working.”

“You didn’t see any flairs or hear
them on the radio, did you Petty Officer?”

He shook his head.

The young man just looked at me.
Something had happened onboard that boat and he was reliving that stormy
day-wondering.

“What happened to the
Wind
Dancer
after you left her, Petty officer?”

“She sank before she could be taken
under tow. The seas were building. It was a hurricane, sir.”

“Yeah I know,” I said. “You did an
amazing job rescuing those people and you got a video of the sailboat’s
interior. Thank you for your service Petty Officer.”

He had that glazed look in his
eyes. He was remembering something terrible.

“Look son,” I said, “I’ve see shit
no one should see too. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see it again. You’ve
got to put it out of your mind. You did everything you could for those people.
They were gone before you got there, but your actions, and that video, might
lead to some answers. Hell, you saved two other people that day.”

“I know that, sir but it doesn’t
make it any easier.”

“I understand, but you can’t save
‘em all, Webber.”

“That’s what Senior Chief Fox
says,” he replied.

“He’s a good man, knows what he’s
talking about too. You’d be smart to listen to him. Let me ask you about one
more thing.”

“About the phantom? Yeah I saw it
too,” he said.

“Is that what you call it, the
phantom?”

“What else can I call it? I took a
good blow to the head on the flight out there. It cracked my helmet. The ride
that day was sporty. I wasn’t sure if I saw anything.”

“What did you see, Marty?”

Webber dropped his head and closed
his eyes. He was trying to see it again, trying to remember.

“Senior was checking out the
Wind
Dancer
with his binocs and said something, probably a curse. I looked up
and saw it out the starboard window.” He raised his head and looked me straight
in the eye. I knew he believed what he was saying.

“What did you see? Was it another
boat?”

“I didn’t actually see a boat. All
I saw was a rooster tail, but a boat was making it. It was a go-fast hauling
ass away from the sloop in fifteen foot plus seas.”

We went over and over Webber’s
recollection, but he couldn’t dredge up any other memory of the fleeting glance
he’d had. I thanked him for the risks he took that day and for being so honest
with me. I promised to keep him in the loop too.

I headed back to Commander Swift’s
office to let him know I was through and thank him. Yeoman Winters smiled when
I came through the door. She did know how to do it and it made her even more
attractive.

“Mr. Everett, are you finished
already?” Winters said. “Commander Swift is gone for the day. Is there anything
I
can do for you?” She was surprisingly warm. Her boss being out of the
office had quite an effect on her demeanor.

“Yeah, there are two things you
could do.” I could think of several more, but they were all X rated. “Could you
leave a message for the commander? I want a copy of the video tape made during
the
Wind Dancer
sortie and the Investigative Activity Report on the
Danny-L
operation.”

“I’ll put that request in for you
Mr. Everett. It shouldn’t take long. Do you want to pick it up or shall I send
it to you? She batted her eyelashes at me. This was getting weird.

“Call me Mac.”

“Mac,” she said, “that’s an
interesting name.”

“Ah, thanks. Send the tape to this
address and if you can, Fax me the report. The Fax number is here,” I said as I
handed her my card. She wrote down the address then slipped my card inside her
blouse.

“I’ll keep this in case I need to
reach you,” she said. “I get over to Orlando all the time.”

“That’s nice, you should call me,”
I said.

“Is there anything else? Maybe I
could show you some good places to eat tonight,” she leaned forward with
anticipation. Her smile showed a set of lovely white teeth.

“Thanks, Ms. Winter…say, what’s
your first name.”

“Shannon,” she said without
hesitation in a slightly husky voice.

“Thanks, Shannon. I have someplace
I need to be tonight. Can I have a rain check? Call me when you’re going to be
in Orlando. Maybe we can get together.”

“I’d like that very much,” she
said. “You sure you can’t change your plans for tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Sorry. Don’t
forget to call me.”

I wasn’t sure what triggered
Shannon Winter’s transformation. Whatever it was, Shannon was unleashed. I
slipped out the door before the new woman jumped me on her immaculate desk.

It was less than an hour’s drive
from Cape Canaveral back to Orlando. My new Camaro ZL1 made the ride pure
exhilaration, but I was preoccupied. The case was a loser. It wasn’t going to
go anywhere, but I’d accepted a retainer. I still didn’t want to go to the
Sheriff’s award program, but Lia was right. Getting my name and maybe a picture
in the newspaper couldn’t be bad for business. I’d had to turn down a sure bet
I’d sail with the Coast Guard, so I hoped the evening wouldn’t be a total loss.

I swung into the Sheriff’s Office
parking lot off Colonial Drive right at 6:25. I had forty minutes to spare when
I slid into a spot close to the building. I smoothed down my hair while looking
in the rear view mirror. I dug in the glove box for the red tie I’d left there
the last time I’d gone to court. The damn thing was curled and creased. It
didn’t have any big stains so I put it on.

I hadn’t been in the Sheriff’s
Office general-purpose room since my own swearing in nearly twelve years ago.
Tonight the auditorium had chairs set out in neat rows. At the front of the
room, loud fussy woman directed the placement of potted palm trees on the dais.
She wore thick black framed glasses rimmed with rhinestones that shimmered in
the bright lights, as did her short spiky hair in an unnatural shade
approximating red.

That would have to be Marsha
DeHart
, I thought to myself as I caught the irritating sound of the woman’s
voice.

I went up to the stage to get her
attention. “Ms. DeHart,” I said. The woman snatched a look at me over her
shoulder then held up one finger in my direction while she looked in the other,
and continued to fire orders at the two guys arranging the stage.

“Ms. DeHart,” I said again.

“What?” she snapped giving her head
a toss, as she looked my way.

“I’m Mac Everett. Is there
someplace special you want me to sit?”

“Oh Mr. Everett,” she gushed. Her
tone and her body language flipped from arrogant to deferential covered in
syrup. “Thank you for coming.” She knelt on the stage, like a genuflection, and
offered her hand. It was cold and boney. Her faux Southern accent only added
weight to her pretense.

Marsha DeHart was a stick thin five
foot nothing woman dressed in a dark ill-fitting suit and shiny flat shoes. I
could imagine her being very unpleasant. “I’m
so
pleased to meet you,”
she said.

“Yeah, fine, is there someplace
special you want me to sit?” I said again.

“Oh yes,” she said. Her enthusiasm
was nauseating. She was all show and about as deep as a kiddie pool. “Y’all are
all
in the front row and in order. You are,” she consulted her
clipboard. “You’re fifth from the right.”

“Thanks, I mumbled.

“Why don’t you have some punch and
cookies? You can mingle with the other guests until we start. Here’s a
program,” She shoved a piece of paper into my hand. “We’ll get started in a few
minutes.

I didn’t want punch and cookies and
I sure as hell didn’t want to mingle. What wanted was to get this over with and
get the hell out of here. I noticed a few people congregating in the back and
slipped away from DeHart. She’d already returned to firing orders at the two
hapless guys arranging and rearranging the potted palms.

A clutch of people stood silently
around the punch bowl. It was obvious none of these people knew each other. I
worked my way in, got some punch and was about to take a sip when someone
slammed into me from behind. The cup flew out of my hand, hit the wall, and
bounced on the table.

“Oh, excuse me.”

A honey-sweet voice came from
behind me. I turned, intending to give the klutz a piece of my mind, until I
saw her. Standing in front of me was the most surprising woman I’d ever seen.
More handsome than attractive she seemed to radiate confidence. She was
willowy, a tiny knockout. Maybe five-five, she was slim, but not in a boyish
way. A short white dress with a gold braided belt showcased some considerable
curves. Her hair, long, wavy, and golden brown, fell in a casual way over her
shoulders and touched her exposed cleavage. That lustrous main framed a round
tanned face that wore a few miles detectable around luminous brown eyes and a
wide smiling mouth. That smile lit up her face and lifted my spirits.

“I’m
so
sorry,” she said.
Her accent was genuine Deep South, maybe Texas, as she drew out the word so.
“You’d never know I was dancer when I was a girl. I was looking one way and
going another. It’s my fault plain as day. I’m so easily distracted. Here, let
me dry you off, please. My, you’re tall,” she said, in a halting deliberate
way, as she looked up at me.

I could have told her she was
short, but thought better of it.

Her prattle could have been
annoying, but she was so damn good to look at I didn’t mind. Taking a couple
cocktail napkins from the table, she dabbed at my chest where the punch had
ricocheted onto my shirt.

“I get that a lot,” I said.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“People tell me I’m tall. You said
I was tall.” I took her hand as she tried to blot away the punch. It was soft
and cool. “That’s OK,” I said. “Most of my cloths have stains,” I said. “I’m
Mac Everett.” I offered my hand.

“Randi Massey,” she replied as she
offered hers. “I am really, very sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going
and... That’s going to leave a stain,” she said fussing with the dark splashes
on my shirt. “Why don’t you go into the men’s room, take it off, and give it to
me. I’ll have it rinsed out in a jiff.”

“No, really, it’s alright. I...”

“Please, let me make it up to you.”

I could think a several ways she
could make it up to me and washing my shirt wasn’t even in the same zip code.
My new laundress took me by the hand and dragged me to the men’s room. I ducked
in, stripped off my tie, removed my shirt, and handed it to Randi through the
crack in the partially open door. I sat down on the bathroom counter to wait.

I started to get antsy when my
watch read 6:45. Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Everett. We have to hurry,”
Randi said as her arm thrust through the space of the partially open door
holding my shirt.

I didn’t even look at it, but
grabbed my shirt and quickly put it on. The full Windsor isn’t my best act, but
I whipped through knotting the tie in record time. Randi was waiting for me
when I emerged fresh as daisy.

“How did you do it?” I asked as we
headed back. “It’s not even damp.”

“The electric hand dryer,” she
said, “works every time. Come on.”

I spotted a couple familiar faces
in the sparse crowd as I headed for my seat in the first row. Lia, Roscoe, and
Stan Lee were two rows behind me. I took my seat and was surprised to find
Randi was just three chairs further down the row.

The fingernails on a blackboard
voice of Marsha DeHart grabbed my attention as she introduced Sheriff Tom
Winton. He looked like the typical Buford T. Justice southern sheriff, his
green uniform bulging at the waist. The four gold stars on his epaulets
glistened under the lights highlighting his red face.
His collar must be cut
off his windpipe
. When he spoke, it was as if he was a ventriloquist’s
dummy, but you couldn’t see who was pulling the strings. This guy who looked
like a dumb hick sounded like a Harvard professor. His accent was slight and
nondescript. He was articulate, soft spoken and even funny. He moved through
some brief opening remarks with grace and ease. I was dumfounded listening to
the guy.

Sheriff Winton introduced first one
then another recipient. Most of them were blue hairs active with local crime
watch groups who’d called in useful tips. This was a PR event for sure, but the
sheriff’s remarks were measured and erudite and the commendations descriptive.
He was the consummate politician. Then he came to me.

“Our next recipient has a history
with the Orange County Sheriff’s Office. Mr. MacDonald Everett was a decorated
Army officer, deputy sheriff here in Orange County and currently works as a
private investigator in the Orlando area.”