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This Side of Midnight

By

Al Lamanda

Copyright by Al Lamanda

Also by Al Lamanda

Dunston Falls

Walking Homeless

Running Homeless

The John Bekker Mystery Series

Sunset

Sunrise

First Light

This Side of Midnight

With Six You Get Wally (Oct 2016)

One

There are some mornings where the Pacific Ocean is as blue as Paul Newman’s eyes. This was one of those mornings.

Eighty-four degrees with a slight salt-sea breeze that filled your lungs and clung to your skin like mist. The tide was rolling in and the waves were dotted with surfers and a few sailboats off in the distance.

I wore shorts, a tee shirt and jogging shoes. I carried five-pound ankle weights. I removed the jogging shoes and wrapped a weight around each ankle. Then I removed the tee shirt and tossed it on top of the shoes.

I broke into a slow jog for about a quarter of a mile to allow my legs to adjust to running barefoot in wet sand. After a while I warmed up and my muscles loosened.

Then I turned it up a bit.

*****

I lit a cigarette as I walked. This high up, the breeze off the ocean was cool and filled with salt sea air. I walked about a half-mile when I saw Melissa Koch power-walking toward me.

She held weights in each hand.

*****

I knew I was approaching the one-mile mark into my run by the house high on the cliff to my left. I opened my stride a bit, tuned out the sounds of the ocean and entered a zone of silence.

*****

She saw me and didn’t break stride until the gap between us narrowed to twenty feet or so. Then she slowed to a stop.

I kept walking and stopped in front of her, blocking her path.

We looked at each other.

Her eyes were defiant.

“I should have had Herb just shoot you and be done with it,” Melissa said.

“Why?”

“Because my idiot husband can’t keep his dick in his pants,” Melissa said. “Because I’ve invested too much time and trouble in his career to let him piss the White House away on some stupid bitch with a schoolgirl crush on him. Stupid girl goes and gets herself knocked up and I’m supposed to suffer and give it all up because of it. I think not.”

“So you made her disappear?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

*****

Around a mile and a half into my run I passed a young woman walking her dog along the shoreline. I’d seen them before. She wasn’t much older than my daughter, Regan. The dog, a male, was a golden retriever just out of the puppy stage. He pranced out of the water and ran toward me. The woman called him back and he made an immediate U-turn.

*****

“And Handler?”

“He’s nothing.” Melissa showed me a tiny grin. “Although he proved very useful there at the end, didn’t he?”

“Herb kill him?”

“Herb hoisted his unconscious body, but as you figured out, I tied the knot in the noose,” Melissa said. “Now, as you have no proof of any of this and never will, I will ask you this once to leave my property. After that, I will call 911 and tell them I have an intruder.”

She accented her point by holding both weights in her right hand, pulling a tiny cell phone from her waistband with her left.

“Sun’s coming up,” I said.

“So it is,” Melissa said.

“The White House that important you’d kill for it?”

“Yes, and it’s been done before,” Melissa said. “Now get out of my way before I call the police.”

*****

About a mile up ahead I caught a glimpse of the palatial mansion belonging to Senator Oliver Koch of Maine, a very rich and powerful member of the Senate.

I turned up the heat and raced the mile to the side of the cliff where the mansion stood some one hundred feet-plus above it.

*****

I stepped aside.

She looked me in the eye. “Speak one word of this and my attorneys will take away all that you have and all that you ever will have, including that girlfriend of yours and your pretty little daughter. Understood?”

“Yes.”

The grin reappeared. “Good day, Mr. Bekker.”

I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with salt-sea air.

The breeze was cool on my face.

Off on the horizon just a tiny sliver of sunlight brightened the dark sky.

The first light of a new day gave the promise of hope and potential.

I had regained my soul not yet a year ago and I wasn’t prepared to lose it again. Third chances are few and far between. I closed my eyes for a brief moment. My inner voice told me what the right thing to do was.

My eyes opened.

The look in Melissa Koch’s eyes told me I was already dismissed.

*****

At the three-mile marker of Koch’s mansion, I turned right and entered the water about a foot deep, and started the return run. Almost immediately the ankle weights took on water and doubled in weight.

*****

I took a step to my right to allow her to pass.

*****

Waves from the rising tide crashed against my legs and the run grew increasingly difficult. About a half mile into the return trip the muscles in my thighs started to ache and burn from lactic acid buildup. I fought through it and tried to keep the same pace despite fifteen pounds of weight around each ankle.

*****

As Melissa Koch stepped around me her left foot brushed my left ankle. She stumbled forward, lost her balance and tumbled to her left. I turned to catch her, but her forward momentum carried her to the soft dirt at the edge of the cliff where she landed with a thud.

I spun around.

“Are you all right?” I said.

“Yes, you buffoon, I am all right and no thanks to you.”

“Let me give you a hand.” I started walking to the edge.

“I don’t need your help,” Melissa Koch said.

*****

I was a mile from completing the round-trip. My back hurt from having to lift my legs high out of the water. The ever-rising tide and waves pushed at me with each stride.

My arms and shoulders ached.

My legs burned.

My lungs were on fire.

*****

I stopped about six or seven feet from her.

Slowly, Melissa Koch stood up. The soft, rain-soaked dirt started giving way under her weight. She looked at me with fear in her eyes.

“Jump!” I yelled.

She placed her weight on her left foot as if to jump. The dirt at her feet crumbled and she slipped backward and fell again.

I started toward her. The dirt beneath my feet slid forward, almost taking me with it, and pushing Melissa Koch even further toward the vanishing cliff edge.

“For God’s sake help me!” she screamed as gravity took her over.

I was trapped. Another step forward and I would join her. I removed my belt and got down on my belly.

“Grab my belt and hold on!” I said.

*****

I could see my tee shirt and jogging shoes several hundred yards ahead. I pushed past the aches and burn, opened my stride as much as possible and went into a full-blown sprint.

My lungs burned for air.

*****

Just her upper body was visible now as gravity worked its magic.

I stretched out and tossed the belt toward her. It fell about two feet short of the mark.

“You have to reach forward and grab it,” I said.

Melissa Koch stared at the belt, paralyzed by fear.

“I . . . can’t,” she said.

“Yes you can,” I said. “Grab the goddamn belt.”

The dirt was crumbling quickly now. She sank under her own weight.

“Now! Do it now!” I shouted.

I saw her reach for the belt just as the soft dirt gave way completely. There was a split second of eye contact between us and then she was gone.

Just like that.

In the blink of an eye.

*****

I raced the final thirty yards, collapsed to the sand and rolled over next to my tee shirt and shoes.

I sucked air and looked up at the blue sky dotted with milky white clouds.

Battery acid ran through my veins.

Bright sunlight peeked through the clouds and I closed my eyes.

*****

For a moment I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed.

Slowly I stood up and stepped backward to the hiking path. The sky was light now, that first light of the new day was warm on my face.

It seemed forever ago that I stood on Koch’s yacht where Melissa Koch gave me her warning. Watch your step, she said.

That was good advice.

She should have followed it.

*****

When my breathing returned to normal I sat up, wrapped my arms around my knees and looked at the ocean.

The incident with Melissa Koch took place six weeks ago. A powerful senator’s wife doesn’t trip and fall to her death off a hundred-foot high cliff every day of the week, so it was major news. An accident heard around the world, so to speak.

For two weeks I was the guest of the Hawaiian State Police, known as Five-0 in popular culture. The FBI joined in on the fun. I was sliced and diced while they gathered evidence from the cliff where Melissa Koch did her swan dive and after many statements, written reports, reenactments, and the arrest of her lover and henchman, a slug of a man named Herb, they declared her death officially an accident.

Senator Oliver Koch left the Senate and flew to Hawaii the day after his wife’s death, and put on his game face for the world of the media. Melissa Koch was buried in Hawaii for reasons unknown to me and then Koch flew back to Washington.

I was free to go home.

I didn’t.

I wanted to, needed to, have a face-to-face sit down with Koch.

After the incident, my girlfriend, Janet, and daughter, Regan, wanted to fly to Hawaii, but there was nothing they could do. I told them to stay put. I needed some time before I returned.

Time to think.

Time to analyze what happened.

Time to accept that a woman was dead because I confronted her in the course of doing my job.

But mostly to ask myself if Melissa Koch’s death was an accident or murder.

At the moment she ridiculed and threatened me, threatened Regan and Janet, I wanted that woman to vanish off the face of the Earth. Did she trip over my foot in a clumsy accident on her part, or because of my subconscious desire to retaliate?

In all honesty, I didn’t know.

What I did know was that if in my heart I believed I murdered Melissa Koch, I would make one lousy husband and father and human being.

So I put off going home and leaned on my closest friend, Police Captain Walt Grimes, to track down Koch and tell him I wanted a meeting. To my surprise Koch agreed and told Walt he was planning a trip to his Hawaiian home after the Senate recessed for the summer. Word was that he would be flying in late tonight and would meet me at his home tomorrow afternoon.

For the past four weeks I’d called home every other night and spoken with Regan and Janet. I told them I loved and missed them and they told me the same, but in the past couple weeks I detected a coldness in Janet’s voice that I had never heard before.

Not quite anger, but definitely cold.

Could I blame her?

After I met with Koch I would grab the first available flight home and make it up to her and to Regan. I wasn’t sure how, mostly by being the kind of man Janet needed in her life and the kind of father Regan deserved.

I put on my jogging shoes and carried the ankle weights off the beach to the string of white bungalows where I’d rented one for the month. They were small, a single bedroom with bath, a tiny kitchen, a backyard balcony with grill and the use of the fresh water pool.

I removed the key from the pocket in my shorts, let myself into Bungalow 21 and immediately put a pot of coffee to brew in the four-cup capacity coffeemaker. When it was done, I took a mug and a cigarette out to the balcony.

No one was in the pool.

By now the temperature was close to ninety, but Hawaii was an ocean kind of a place so the pool was rarely used by guests. Since most people have cell phones nowadays, the rooms were not equipped with a land-line phone. There were four pay phones on the grounds, but I never saw anyone use one.

That included me.

After consuming coffee and cigarette, I checked my cell phone for messages. There were none. With the time difference it was late afternoon or early evening back home so I wasn’t expecting any.

I changed into swim trunks and walked to the pool. There was no need to step in to get acclimated to the water. The temperature was around eighty-six or so and I dove right in and swam the first lap underwater. A sixth the size of an Olympic pool, it required a lot of laps to equal a mile so I didn’t count and just swam until I was tired.

As I did laps I allowed my mind to wander. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Sometimes your thoughts wander into places you’d rather not go and stir up old hurts you’d rather not remember. I thought about all those wasted years spent drinking myself to sleep after my wife’s murder and all those years of being an absentee father to a little girl who desperately needed a real one.

I don’t drink anymore. Two plus years without a drop, but I can’t get back the lost time. Nobody can.

I’ve traded one addiction for two others. I can’t drink and don’t, so I work out until the urge to open a bottle and pour a stiff one passes. I also need to work and keep myself busy. If I’m chasing after a whodunit, my thoughts and time are occupied with things other than my past failures and bourbon over ice. Janet wants me to retire my private investigator’s license and get a nine-to-five so I can be home every night for dinner and TV, but that won’t work for me. Janet and I love each other. People who love each other deal with each other’s flaws and weaknesses as part of the better or worse package.

 Somewhere around the fiftieth lap I came out of the pool. I grabbed a clean towel from a stack in a bin and swiped water off my body, and then went to my balcony.

The grill wasn’t propane operated, but the old-fashioned coals and lighter fluid type. I had a bag of coals on the floor and added some to the used ones on the bottom of the grill. I squirted on some lighter fluid, struck a wooden match and tossed it in. The coals burst into flames.

It would take about twenty minutes for the flames to die down and the coals to turn gray, so I returned to the pool and used the shuffleboard court as a workout area. I got down and did push-ups. I started with my hands close to my shoulders and then spread them about four feet apart. I went back and forth between narrow and wide until my chest, shoulders and arms were on fire and then I took a few minutes’ break. Then I did several sets of one-handed push-ups, alternating between left hand and right until I gave out and collapsed in a heap.

I rested just long enough to catch my breath and then did some ab work. Scissor situps, crunches, planks, leg raises. I did several sets of each until my stomach cramped and told me to stop.

I took a few minutes to recover and then jumped into the pool to rinse the sweat off and cool down. I floated around for a few minutes and when I climbed the ladder out and grabbed a towel, the young girl from the beach was standing beside the towel bin with her dog.

She was maybe twenty-one or two, blond and pretty. She wore a baseball cap and had her hair in a ponytail with the tail sticking out the back of the cap.

“Do you always kill yourself like this?” she said.

I rubbed the towel over my hair. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“You need a haircut and shave,” she said.

“I know.”

“I smell a grill going.”

“That’s mine,” I said. “I was just about to toss on some burgers.”

“I’m Joey, Joey Fureal.”

“Joey?”

“Josephine. My parents wanted a boy. They got me instead.”

“Want a burger, Joey?”

“Sure. This is Buddy. Can he have one?”

“Why not?” I said. “Let me go put some clothes on. You and Buddy can wait on the balcony.”

*****

Joey bit into a burger and wiped juice off her chin with a napkin. “I followed you here from the beach,” she said. “Actually it was Buddy who found you, but I asked him to.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity mostly,” Joey said. “You’re that private investigator who threw the senator’s wife off the cliff.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“What’s the other way?”

“She tripped and fell.”

“That’s what they said on the news.”

At Joey’s feet, Buddy licked the plate clean of the last bit of burger juice.

“They also said you were free to go home, so I was wondering, why are you still here?” Joey said.

“How old are you?” I said.

“Twenty-two,” Joey said. “Almost. My birthday is next month.”

“Remember first grade when your teacher gave you a time-out?” I said. “I’m taking a time-out.”

“You’re hiding,” Joey said. “I live in the next mansion down from the senator. My dad is a hotshot lawyer and my mom is what you would call a socialite. That’s a code word for boozer. I know when somebody is hiding something. What are you hiding from?”

“Are you always so direct with your elders?”

“I’m dying from stage one Hodgkins’ lymphoma, so I don’t have time to pitty-pat around,” Joey said.

I just looked at her.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Joey said. “It is what it is and I’m not going down without a fight. In two weeks I’m going to Sloan Kettering for treatment, me and Buddy. I’ll stay in a hospice so Buddy can sleep in my room. He wouldn’t leave my side anyway.”

My appetite was gone, but I took a bite of my burger and washed it down with some coffee.

“So what are you hiding from?” Joey said.

“Myself.”

“How does that work?”

When a kid tells you they’re dying and then asks you a question, you answer it.

I started with when Regan was five years old and witnessed her mother’s murder, covered the decade of drinking and recovery at the hands of mobster Eddie Crist, and ended with Melissa Koch on the cliff.

Joey listened and took it all in while eating a second burger. When I was done, so was she and she used another paper napkin to wipe her chin and fingers.

“Know what I think?” she said. “I think you’re not the type to murder someone in cold blood, especially a woman. You’re that old-fashioned type of guy who would let a woman beat him to death before he raised a hand to her.”

“You base that on?” I said.

“Buddy likes you. Buddy is never wrong about people. If he sensed the slightest bit of bad in you he never would have allowed you to get this close to me.”

I looked at Buddy. He looked at me like he wanted another burger. There was one left and I gave it to him.

“Feel like sitting by the ocean for a bit?” Joey said. “I’ve got nothing better to do and nobody to do it with.”

“Why not?” I said. “Want something cold to drink?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed a couple of cold sodas from the fridge, tucked my smokes in my shirt pocked and we walked the hundred yards or so to the sand and took seats facing the waves as the tide started to roll out.

“So here’s what’s going to happen to me when I get to Sloan,” Joey said as Buddy sat beside her and placed his head on her lap. “I’m going to receive chemotherapy every two weeks for several cycles and hope that it works. If it doesn’t, then comes radiation therapy. Either way I’m going to feel sick all the time and will probably lose most of my hair. If it’s necessary I’ll have a bone marrow transplant from a relative or matched donor. I’m told they’ve done something like five thousand transplants of marrow at Sloan, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

I opened my can of soda and washed some down, and then pulled out my cigarettes and lit one.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Joey said.

“I know.”

“It’s really bad for you.”

“I know.”

“You exercise like some kind of freak on a sugar high and then light up a cigarette,” Joey said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.”

“I sound like an old nag, don’t I?”

“You sound like my daughter and girlfriend,” I said.

“Saying girlfriend sounds funny when you’re . . .”

“What?”

“Being someone’s girlfriend is usually reserved for someone under thirty.”

“Then let’s call her my lady friend.”

“What does she call you?”

“Annoying.”

Joey cracked a smile, opened her can of soda and took a sip.

A few seconds of silence passed.

And then just like that the dam burst and she started to cry.

“Oh damn,” Joey said in between sobs. “It’s not fair . . . I just graduated college, for God’s sake.”

I stuck my cigarette in the sand and wrapped my arm around Joey’s shoulder. “I know it’s not fair,” I said. “Very few things are.”

“Listen to me,” Joey said. “I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I?”

“You sound like a young woman who’s afraid to die before she’s had a chance to live. And that’s perfectly normal for anybody.”

Joey sniffled and sobbed for a bit longer and then regained control. She rubbed Buddy’s ears and he responded by licking her fingers.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I take two naps a day. I used to do gymnastics four hours a day and right now I can’t even toss a Frisbee with Buddy.”

“Right now,” I said, “you have to believe that you will, or you won’t. Sometimes failure is not an option.”

Joey nodded and stood up. “Walk me home?”

“Sure.”

Joey’s home was a few hundred yards past the Koch mansion, a mile and a half down the beach. We didn’t hurry. Buddy stayed by Joey’s side even though I could see the young dog wanted to bust loose and run.

“I’m scared, you know,” Joey confessed, “of having to go to Sloan for treatment and of what happens if the treatment fails.”

“When the time comes you won’t be afraid,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Back when I was a cop there wasn’t a day I didn’t think today could be the day I have to draw my gun and today could be the day I die of a bullet from a crazed criminal,” I said. “And then you leave the house and go do your job, and if and when the time comes you do have to pull your weapon, those thoughts go away and you do what you have to. That’s what will happen to you. You’ll be afraid right up until the time you have to do what you have to do, and then you won’t be afraid at all.”

Joey looked at me. “Promise?”

“Yes.”

We arrived at the five-hundred-step wooden staircase that went from the beach to Joey’s home on the cliff. We were so engaged in conversation that I didn’t realize we’d strolled right past the Koch mansion. The handrail had a motorized chair on it.

 “My dad had that put in a few years ago for my mom,” Joey said. “He worries she’ll trip and fall after happy hour. I never used it until recently.”

Joey took the chair and Buddy jumped on her lap.

“Hold on, boy. We go for a ride now,” Joey said and pushed a button.

The chair slowly ascended the stairs. When it was around twenty feet high, Joey said, “Hey, meet me on the beach tomorrow. I’ll bring Buddy’s Frisbee.”

“After I see Koch, come by the bungalow,” I said.

Joey took hold of Buddy’s front paw and waved to me. “Bye-bye,” she said.

*****

I returned to my bungalow, sat on the balcony, drank coffee and smoked a few butts.

Joey made me long for Regan.

I grabbed my cell phone and punched in the number for Janet’s home, where Regan was staying.

“Dad?” Regan said. “Is something wrong? Are you coming home?”

“No and yes,” I said.

“When?”

“Two days at the most. I have to book a flight. I’ll let you know the number and time. Everything okay on your end?”

“Mark decided to take summer school classes,” Regan said. “I’m helping him with homework. Oz is in the kitchen cooking something.”

“Oz?” I said. “Where’s Janet?”

“Working a double shift at the hospital,” Regan said. “She’s going to Chicago for a month day after tomorrow and wanted to catch up on paperwork.”

“Chicago? What for?”

“She’s getting a promotion at the hospital,” Regan said. “She’s going for some kind of training to run the post-op ward.”

“Ask her to call me when she gets in.”

“It will be late.”

“Not here it won’t.”

“That’s right. Okay, I’ll tell her.”

We chatted for a bit and when I hung up I felt very alone and lonely for my family.

Even for Oz.

Sometimes trying to do the right thing is a lonely business.

At least it was for me.

Two

It bothered me a bit in the morning that Janet hadn’t returned my call, but she probably got in late and was tired and had to pack for her trip to the Windy City, and it slipped her mind.

I occupied my thoughts with what I was going to say to Senator Koch. It’s not like you can walk up to someone after causing his wife to trip and fall off a hundred-foot high cliff and say, “Oops, my bad,” and that would be the end of it.

I shaved, showered and then put on the lightweight suit I’d worn the morning I confronted Melissa Koch. I hadn’t brought a lot of clothing with me to Hawaii as I wasn’t planning on more than an overnight stay, though I was allowed to buy what I needed while being held for questioning.

I skipped breakfast and settled for three cups of coffee and an equal number of cigarettes. It wasn’t exactly the breakfast of champions, but I lacked an appetite and there was no sense fixing something I wouldn’t eat.

I walked the mile and a half from the bungalow to the Koch mansion. The tall iron gates were open when I arrived. As a senator Koch wasn’t entitled to Secret Service protection, but he could well afford a private army of his own.

Two men were on duty in the guardhouse. One came out to greet me as I strolled though the open gates. I gave him my name and he said, “The Senator is having lunch in the backyard. He told me to ride you up when you arrived.”

Ride me up meant a trip from the gate to the backyard gardens in a golf cart. As the distance was several acres and I was sweated through to my shirt already, I didn’t mind riding shotgun.

Senator Koch was waiting for me, drinking coffee at a patio table. He was dressed in comfortable clothing suited for Hawaii and appeared rested and relaxed. He stood and filled a cup for me, then waited for me to settle into a chair before he sat back down.

“I’m retiring from the Senate,” Koch said. “From public life altogether. I never wanted to be a senator or run for the VP nod; that was all my wife. She had a push-push, drive-at-all-cost mentality and I went along with her for thirty-plus years. She murdered a young woman because I had an affair with her and then murdered my assistant to cover up her deeds. Melissa was an evil woman, Bekker, interested only in her own rise to fame and power, and I am not in the least bit saddened by her death. For the first time in thirty years I feel free and alive, and I plan to enjoy what remaining years I have left. So, what’s on your mind this fine beautiful morning that you so want to share with me?”

“My conscience is bothering me,” I said.

Koch set his coffee cup down and eyed me. “Your conscience?” he said. “Why?”

“Because I’m not sure if her trip and fall was entirely an accident,” I said. “I tried to save her at the risk of going over myself, but in my mind I’m not sure if I caused her to trip in the first place. She threatened me and my family, and when she walked past me and tripped over my foot, I may have wanted her to. Maybe not to kill her, but to humiliate her. I just wanted to tell you that.”

Koch sipped a bit more coffee as he studied me. “Bekker, I really don’t care about your conscience,” he said as he set the cup down again. “She got exactly what she deserved and that’s called justice. I can tell you, based upon what I know of you, that I don’t believe you’re capable of outright murder. For what that’s worth, that’s what I believe. You believe what you want.”

“For what it’s worth, thank you,” I said.

“Would you like some lunch?”

“Sure.”

*****

We ate a three-course lunch prepared by Koch’s chef and chatted for ninety minutes. He told me some war stories about the Senate and I told him some war stories about being a cop.

Then we shook hands and he offered to have one of his men drive me back to the bungalow. “A full stomach, ninety-one degrees, a mile-walk isn’t a good combination for the digestion,” he said.

*****

Joey and Buddy were waiting for me poolside when Koch’s driver dropped me off at the bungalows. Buddy had a red Frisbee in his mouth.

“You made it out alive,” Joey said when I walked to her.

“I did,” I said. “Give me a minute to ditch this monkey suit.”

I went in through the balcony door and changed into shorts, tank top and sneakers. I filled a cooler with ice and soda, tucked my smokes into a pocket and did a quick check of my cell phone for messages.

There weren’t any.

“So are you off the hook?” Joey said as I carried the cooler down to the beach.

“With Koch?”

“Yourself.”

“Let’s just say I’m leaning in that direction.”

“So you’ll be going home?”

“Tomorrow if I can book a flight.”

We arrived at the beach. I set the cooler down away from the waves.

“I don’t have the energy to run much, but Buddy does most of the work,” Joey said as she took the Frisbee from Buddy.

I walked about a hundred feet down the beach and faced Joey. Buddy kind of just stood in the middle and waited for Joey to toss the Frisbee to me. Buddy’s idea of a good time was for us to toss the Frisbee to each other and for him to try to intercept it midflight.

Buddy was successful about fifty percent of the time.

After about an hour Buddy needed a break from the heat and took a quick dip in the ocean. Joey and I sat by the cooler and drank sodas and when Buddy emerged from the water, I gave him some ice cubes to chomp on.

“I thought about what you said yesterday,” Joey said. “About being afraid.”

I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one.

“I’m not sure I’m strong enough,” Joey said. “I’m scared. Really scared.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Being scared is what makes you a good driver. Being scared is what makes you a good cop. Being scared of losing something means you care about it and when you care about it you’re willing to fight to keep it. Being scared is what gives you courage. You can’t be brave if you aren’t afraid. They go hand in hand.”

“Did you teach that to your daughter?”

“More like the other way around.”

“I’ll think that one over,” Joey said.

Buddy had the Frisbee in his mouth again.

“I think he’s ready for round two,” I said.

*****

Around five in the afternoon I walked a very tired Joey and Buddy to the stairs that led to her home in the cliffs.

“Will you come say good-bye to me before you leave?” Joey said as she and Buddy took the seat.

“I will.”

Joey hit the lever and the chair began to ascend.

“I’ll hunt you down if you don’t,” she said.

*****

The first thing I did when I returned to the bungalow was check for messages. Still none. I made some coffee and took a cup and my cell phone to a chair by the pool, lit up a cigarette.

While I was debating whether to call Janet or hold off, the cell phone rang. I checked the incoming number. It was Janet and I scooped it up.

“Hi, I was just arguing with myself if I should call or wait a bit,” I said.

“Regan told me you’re coming home,” Janet said.

“Tomorrow if I can.”

“So what did you accomplish by staying an extra month?” Janet’s voice was cold, almost callous.

“I can’t explain on the phone,” I said. “I’ll explain when I get home tomorrow.”

“This time tomorrow I will be in Chicago,” Janet said. “I’ve made arrangements for Mark to stay with Clayton while I’m away and for Oz to stay at my house with Regan until you get back.”

“Look, I don’t blame you for being angry, but I can . . .”

“I’m not angry,” Janet said. “The hospital promoted me to supervisor of the ICU recovery ward. They’re sending me to Chicago for a month of training. I have a great deal on my mind and much to learn. There are other things in life besides the adventures of the great John Bekker, you know.”

I wouldn’t say I was stunned, as I had that coming, but to hear such harsh words from Janet and in such a cold, dry tone gave me serious pause.

“Okay, I deserved that, but at least allow me to explain why I stayed in Hawaii,” I said. “I could come to Chicago and we could . . .”

“Jack, I have some serious work to do and not much time to learn what I need to learn,” Janet said. “Don’t come to Chicago. I can’t afford to get sidetracked with this. We’ll talk when I come home.”

“Even for a weekend or just a day?”

“It’s not the time, it’s the distraction it will cause me,” Janet said. “I’m expected to learn and then be able to teach life and death procedures to the nurses on my staff. If I’m preoccupied with thoughts of you and the fantasy world you live in I may not return to the hospital with one hundred percent of what I need to know.”

“Fantasy world?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about? Melissa Koch died because I confronted her on the cliff on the Koch property, and if I need to remind you, it was at your asking that I even took the job in the first place.”

“And I felt very guilty about that,” Janet said. “But when I wanted you to come home and you wanted to stay and I wanted to come there to be with you, you pushed me away. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t feel guilty about it anymore. Now we’ll talk when I get home in a month and that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

“I didn’t push you away,” I said. “I needed some time alone to come to grips with what happened.”

“And did you?”

“I think so,” I said. “That’s why I’m going home tomorrow.”

“Good,” Janet said. “Regan needs you.”

“And you?”

“I never needed you, Jack,” Janet said. “A healthy relationship is based upon want, not need. I wanted you and there is a difference between the two. We’ll talk about all this when I get back and we’ve both had time to evaluate things. Fair?”

“Okay,” I said. “Just let me say this. I still love you very much and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this work.”

“I know that,” Janet said. “And I love you too, Jack. Now I have to go and finish packing.”

I said good-bye, hung up, and sat there with cold coffee and a fresh cigarette. I drank the coffee while I called the airlines and made a reservation for a flight that left at noon and got me home around nine at night.

I didn’t want to think about how mad Janet was at me, so I decided to burn off my anxiety with a workout. I went for a long run on the beach and watched the sun slowly set over the ocean, and then exhausted every muscle in my body with push-ups, situps and some laps in the pool. I was on empty, emotionally and physically, by the time I found my way into my bungalow to take a hot shower.

There was still plenty of food in the fridge and cupboards. I put on some spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread and busied myself at the table with a few cigarettes.

That’s when I noticed a message on the cell phone I’d missed earlier.

My close friend and frequent colleague, Sheriff Jane Morgan.

I did a quick guesstimate of the time zones and decided she would be asleep for several more hours, so I called and left a message on her voicemail.

I ate my late-night supper while watching a rerun of, what else, Hawaii-50 and then called it a night and tucked myself into bed.

Three hours later my cell phone ringing woke me up. It was Jane returning my message. “Bekker, you awake?”

I glanced at the digital alarm clock beside the bed. It was three in the morning.

“I am now,” I said.

“Sorry about the time thing, but I talked to Regan yesterday and she said you’re coming home,” Jane said. “I need a favor.”

“Jane, Janet all but dumped me over . . .”

“Janet’s gone bye-bye to Chicago for a month,” Jane said. “Regan told me.”

“What favor?”

“When can we meet?”

“It’s that important?”

“I’m calling you at three in the morning, aren’t I?” Jane said.

“I’ll be in around nine tomorrow night,” I said. “First thing in the morning stop by the trailer.”

“Night-night, Bekker,” Jane said.

“Yeah.”

Three

Since the bungalows were just a mile from town I hadn’t bothered with a rental car, but the airport was too far to walk so I reserved a taxi.

The drivers work on speed, on how many round-trips to the airport they can make in a given shift, so when you ask a driver to wait for an extended period of time they generally have a hissy fit. I told the driver I would add a fifty-dollar bill to the meter if he took me to the Fureal mansion and gave me a ten-minute wait.

As soon as the cab pulled up to the house Joey and Buddy came out to greet me. Joey wore cutoff shorts and a white tank top. Buddy wore his golden fur.

Joey gave me a hug.

Buddy gave me a hand lick.

“I’m off,” I said.

“Me, too, in another ten days or less,” Joey said.

I dipped into my suit-jacket pocket for my business card and placed it in Joey’s hand. “If you feel like talking one day, give me a call,” I said.

“Thanks,” Joey said. “I will.”

I scratched Buddy’s ears. “You’ll be fine,” I said. “They know what they’re doing at Sloan. And don’t be afraid of being afraid. Remember what I told you.”

Joey nodded, showed me a smile and gave me another hug.

As I walked back to the cab, she called after me. “You look good clean shaven,” she said. “Still need a haircut, though.”

I opened the door to the cab and smiled at Joey.

“And a new suit,” she added.

*****

When I walked through the gate around nine-thirty in the evening, I spotted Regan and Oz waiting for me on the other side.

“Dad!” Regan shouted and ran to me. She jumped into my arms the way an eight-year-old would and a nineteen-year-old normally wouldn’t.

I didn’t mind one bit.

“Gained some weight,” I told her. “Must be up to a hundred pounds by now.”

After I set Regan down she took my hand and we met Oz and walked down the stairs to baggage claim.

“You bring me a bottle of them nuts they got there?” Oz said.

“What nuts?” I said.

“Them Hawaiian nuts they grow only in Hawaii, them nuts.”

“Macadamia?” I said. “They sell them in any grocery store.”

“I know,” Oz said. “It’s the thought what counts.”

“I did bring you a nifty shirt,” I said.

“Terrific,” Oz said.

“And something for you,” I said as I kissed Regan’s nose.

“What?” Regan said with childlike innocence.

“It’s in my luggage,” I said. “Can you wait until we get home?”

Regan nodded, but I could see the excitement in her eyes.

“Keep an eye out for my luggage while I reserve a cab,” I said.

“No need,” Oz said. “I drove your crap mobile.”

“My car isn’t that bad,” I said.

“Dad, it’s as old as I am,” Regan said.

“It’s a classic,” I said.

“A 1956 cherry-red Thunderbird is a classic,” Oz said. “What you drive is otherwise known as junk. I see your bags.”

*****

Oz drove. I sat beside him and Regan behind me. After about a mile I noticed Oz didn’t take the road to Janet’s house but to the beach.

“This is the way to the beach,” I said.

Oz glanced at me. “Is there no end to your detective skills,” he said. “Ain’t that right, girl?”

“Almost like a super power,” Regan said.

“Funny,” I said and patted my pockets.

“Dad, do you smell that?” Regan said.

“What? I don’t smell anything.”

“That nothing you smell is a lack of cigarette butts, ashes and smoke,” Regan said. “I cleaned and washed every square inch of this car and if you think you’re lighting up in here I’ll bite you on the back of the neck. Is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

Oz grinned at me ear to ear.

“You shut up,” I told him.

*****

The floodlight was on when we arrived at my trailer. What greeted me were four new beach chairs, an actual patio table and a spanking new stainless-steel barbeque grill.

“Wait till you see inside,” Regan said with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning when she knew she’d scored the gift she really wanted.

The trailer was neat as a pin. My bedroom, the guest bedroom, bathroom, shower, kitchen and what passed for a living room.

“How long did this take you?” I said.

“A week,” Regan said. “Me and Oz did it. When Aunt Janet told me she had to go to Chicago last week I decided I’d rather stay here at the beach.”

“Hungry?” Oz said.

“A bit.”

“Good. I been itching to try out the new grill.”

*****

“I’m stuffed,” I said after consuming three burgers, two dogs and a plate of fries. “And now for gifts.”

I went inside for a moment to dig out the shirt for Oz and the small box I picked up for Regan at the duty-free jewelry store inside the airport.

Oz held the bright yellow shirt decorated with pineapples and palm trees to the floodlight and nodded.

“Ain’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” Oz said. “At night. In the dark. If I squint.”

I held the small gift-wrapped box out to Regan.

She took it and looked at me. “What’s in it?”

“Only one way to find out,” I said.

Regan slowly removed the silver paper, opened the lid and looked at the one-karat diamond earrings inside.

“Dad . . .”

“You’re a grownup girl, you should have some grownup earrings,” I said.

My grownup girl removed the earrings from the box and started to sniffle. “Can I try them on?”

“They’re yours,” I said.

Regan pinned an earring to each ear and did a spin for us. “How do they look?”

“Like a movie star,” Oz said.

Regan gave me a tight hug. Her face barely came to my chest.

“Why am I so short?” she said.

“Because good things come in small packages,” I said. “Now if Oz will take his beautiful new shirt and go home, the jet lag is killing me and I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Just for buying me this shirt I’m going to wear it in the daytime and make you look at it,” Oz said.

Four

I opened my eyes when I heard Regan’s voice through the open window of my bedroom.

“My dad’s asleep,” she said. “Jet lag.”

“He’s expecting me,” Jane said. “We talked on the phone yesterday.”

“He’s retired from investigating,” Regan said.

“I know, hon, but this is important,” Jane said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t ask.”

I heard Regan sigh loudly.

“I’ll get him,” she said. “I was going to get him up anyway. Have some coffee. I just made it.”

I stumbled from the bed to the bathroom and ran the water in the sink.

“Dad, that sheriff is here,” Regan called out to me.

“I heard,” I said. “I’ll be right out.”

I let the sink fill with cold water and stuck my face in it for thirty seconds. Then I brushed my teeth and ran a brush through my shaggy hair.

Jane and Regan were in the new chairs at the new patio table when I emerged from the trailer. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Jane said.

“Regan and Oz did it while I was away.” I filled a mug with coffee and took a seat.

“Want some breakfast?” Regan said.

“In a bit.”

“I hate to ask, Bekker, but I need help,” Jane said.

Regan glared at Jane. “Should I leave?”

“You can stay,” I said.

“It’s pretty gruesome, Bekker,” Jane said.

I looked at Regan. “I’ll stay,” she said.

“Okay,” Jane said.

I looked around the table for my cigarettes.

“I tossed them,” Regan said.

I looked at her.

“The extra packs in your luggage, too.”

I nodded. “So what’s the emergency?” I said to Jane.

“I have a total staff of ninety deputies to man the entire county and jail,” Jane said. “I’m lucky I can put two cruisers on the street 24-7. I have one vacancy in my three-man detective squad and the other two are out of their league on this. I tried to borrow a detective or two from Walt, but he’s swamped. I asked the county comptroller for special funds to pay your fee and they agreed. Mostly because it’s bad for the tourist season and they don’t want this to linger on to fall when the second round shows up to gawk at the leaves and all the pretty colors.”

I sipped some coffee and looked around the table again for my smokes.

“They’re gone, Dad,” Regan said. “Get over it.”

“What is bad for tourist season?” I said to Jane.

“Are you familiar with Midnight Island?” Jane said.

Midnight Island is three miles off the coast. About four miles long, a mile and a half at its widest point, it’s home to about nine hundred year-round residents. That number swells to three thousand during the summer months. A ferry makes eight round trips to the mainland daily and four on Sunday.

“I’ve been there once or twice,” I said. “A long time ago. I had lunch with Carol at this old hotel restaurant.”

“The kid from the high school,” Regan said. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

Jane nodded.

“What kid?” I said.

“Bekker, we should really bring this to my office,” Jane said.

“Oz is coming,” Regan said.

Wearing the bright yellow shirt, Oz strolled from his trailer to mine.

“What are you supposed to be?” Jane said when Oz arrived.

“Ask Bekker, it’s his shirt,” Oz said.

“Want some breakfast?” Regan said to Oz as he took a chair.

“Let’s all have some breakfast,” I said. “Then I’ll get dressed and go to the office with Jane. Oz, you hang around. Okay?”

“Where I gonna go looking like Tweety Bird?” Oz said.

*****

I rode with Jane in her cruiser and left Oz the keys to my car. After checking me in as a guest at the desk, we went to her office. She called the dispatcher and asked to have her calls held.

“Want some coffee first?” Jane said.

“Sure.”

Jane called somebody on her phone and a female deputy showed up with two containers of coffee from the break room.

“You need to see this,” Jane said as she removed a DVD from a desk drawer and inserted it into the player where it rested on top of a television to the right of her desk. With a remote, Jane turned on the monitor and hit the play button.

“Deputy Spears arrived on scene first, closely followed by Deputy Andrews,” Jane said. “They activated their mounted cameras on the cruisers and mini-cams on their uniforms immediately upon arrival at the County Regional High School. This shot came from a mini-cam.”

The monitor brightened as the high school came into view. The recording time in the right-hand corner was 2:33 in the afternoon.

“There!” I heard a deputy shout.

In the background, a man screamed, “Motherfucker, I’ll kill you!”

The POV of the mini-cam showed the deputies rushing around a fence onto the football field.

“Freeze!” a deputy screamed.

“That’s Spears,” Jane said.

“Put down the fucking bat!” another deputy screamed. “Put it down now!”

“That’s Andrews,” Jane said.

The angle of the POV shifted again and a large man with a baseball bat was beating a kid on the ground in the head and face with it.

“Motherfucker!” the man screamed.

“That is Mr. Norman Felton, a resident of Midnight Island,” Jane said.

“Down, down, put down the bat and put your hands on your head!” Andrews yelled. “Now!”

Felton turned and looked at the deputies. His face was a mask of insane fury. He raised the bat and charged the deputies. There was a loud thud followed by a gunshot.

As Felton fell from view, Andrews yelled, “Fuck. You shot him! Fuck!”

“He broke my arm,” Spears said.

The POV shifted again and Felton was on the grass, bleeding from a gunshot to the head. Next to Felton, a teenage boy was unconscious, beaten to a pulp.

Jane hit the pause button.

“Deputy Spears suffered a broken forearm when Mr. Felton hit him with the bat,” she said. “The mini-cam shows the shooting was clearly accidental and caused by the bat striking Spears on the left arm. The gun went off on impact. The kid is Ubaldo Montero, an eighteen-year-old exchange student from the Dominican Republic. His father has applied for an emergency visa to come to the States. It hasn’t gone through as yet, but it should within a few days.”

I pulled out my cigarettes, lit two and gave Jane one.

“Felton?” I said.

“In county prison hospital in a coma,” Jane said.

“The Montero kid?”

“Three floors below in the coma ward.”

“So what do we know?” I said.

“We know that Mr. Felton caught the ferry at one in the afternoon and drove straight to the high school,” Jane said. “We know he assaulted Ubaldo Montero on the football field, where Montero volunteers as a groundskeeper for the school and was touching up the field when Felton attacked. We know that a school official working on Saturday looked out her window when she heard Felton screaming and called 911. We don’t know motive, but I would bet the farm it’s about Felton’s missing fourteen-year-old daughter, Amanda.”

“Missing?” I said. “For how long?”

“The day of the incident is our best guess,” Jane said. “We have no leads or witnesses on the island who can tell us otherwise. I entered her into the FBI databank, put out an alert to all police and sheriff departments in the county, and established an 800 hotline for information. Nada with a capital N.”

“And who besides us wants her back?” I said.

“That would be Robert Felton, older brother of Norman Felton,” Jane said. “He resides in Rhode Island. I told him I would be bringing in a consultant to assist me. He said he will pay your going rate with a bonus if you find Amanda alive. I checked with county lawyers and there is no law against you taking this case unless you withhold evidence or act in a criminal manner.”

“I thought you said the county agreed to my fees?” I said.

“I told Felton that he couldn’t hire you, as you would be working as an advisor to the Sheriff’s Department,” Jane said.

“What if I turned you down?” I said.

Jane gave me her look that said, That would be a first.

I shrugged and sipped coffee. “What does the county consider a criminal matter?”

Jane opened her desk drawer and pulled out a pack of smokes. She gave me one and we both lit up.

“Smoking in a public building would be a criminal matter,” she said as she flared her nostrils and blew out smoke.

“Okay, I’m in,” I said. “Give me whatever agreement document you have and I’ll get started. God knows I have nothing better to occupy my time.”

Jane nodded. “What do you need from me?”

“Besides that we work together on this, the evidence log, a copy of this DVD, statements from the witness, hospital reports, a meeting with the arresting officers, reports on the Felton home inspection, a list of his friends, family and the daughter’s friends on the island and at school,” I said. “For starters.”

Jane looked at me.

“And your gut instinct,” I said.

“The only thing my gut has is about two inches too much around the middle,” Jane said. “There’s no visible connection between the girl, who is in the eighth grade and enrolled at the middle school four miles from the high school, and the Montero boy, a senior at the high school.”

“Where does he live?” I said.

“In town with his exchange-student foster parents.”

“Add them to my list.”

“Anything else?”

“Tomorrow morning, call both schools and tell them I’ll be stopping by to do some research,” I said. “Make it after lunch so I have time in the morning to review your list.”

“Okay,” Jane said. “I’ll drive you back and then put your list together.”

*****

In the cruiser on the way back, Jane fired up two cigarettes and gave me one.

“I don’t mean to meddle, Bekker, but I heard from Regan about Janet going to Chicago for a month,” she said. “I got the impression Janet isn’t too happy with you right now.”

“I can’t blame her for that,” I said.

“Why did you stay that extra month?”

“Work on my conscience,” I said.

Jane nodded. “A conscience has a way of screwing things up,” she said. “But in the end things always work out one way or another.”

“I know,” I said.

A lifetime ago when I was a kid in Bible study class, I asked the priest teaching the class why God didn’t answer my prayer to make my grandmother better and let her live. He told me God did answer my prayer, but that sometimes the answer is no.

Things working out are a lot like prayer in that regard.

Five

After Jane dropped me off I decided to go for a run since my car, Oz and Regan were gone.

I changed into shorts, tee shirt and running shoes. I stretched for a bit and then jogged slowly down to the beach. The tide was up and surfers in black wetsuits dotted the landscape.

I ran for thirty minutes before removing my shirt and tucking it into my shorts and turning around. On the way back I upped my pace and my mind entered the zone of quiet. Thoughts are shut out and all you hear is your own heartbeat and rhythmic breathing. Runner’s high, they call it. I call it peace and quiet.

Not true.

I call it escape.

*****

Regan was at the patio table waiting for me when I returned.

My daughter knows her father. A fresh pot of coffee was on the table beside her. A towel hung over a vacant chair.

I arrived at the table, grabbed the towel and wiped my face before taking a chair. “Where did you and Oz disappear to?” I said.

“I asked him to take me to that tobacco store on Elm Street,” Regan said. “And to pick up Molly from Aunt Janet’s house.”

My hopes were up as I filled a mug with coffee.

“I bought you this,” Regan said. She produced a gift-wrapped box from her lap and set it on the table.

Before I could reach for the box, Molly magically appeared from somewhere and jumped onto Regan’s lap.

I removed the wrapper from the box to reveal a complete kit for electronic cigarettes.

“I know you tried them a few years ago, but they’ve improved them now and I want you to try them again,” Regan said. “And also wear sun block when you go running around shirtless in the sun. There is a thing called skin cancer you should know about. Okay?”

I nodded.

“Uncle Walt called,” Regan said. “He’s stopping by. I told him I would make us all lunch, so you sit and try one of those cigarettes, drink your coffee, and I’ll make something to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Molly followed Regan into the kitchen.

I looked at the electronic cigarette kit and finally opened it. The starter kit held two ceramic filters, four screw-on white tubes and a battery charger. The instructions said the filters were fully charged and ready to go. One white tube was equal to two packs of cigarettes. Five puffs on one tube were equal to one regular cigarette.

I screwed a tube to the filter. It was about the length of a king-size filtered cigarette.

I sighed and placed it between my lips.

From behind me, Regan said, “I see Uncle Walt’s car.”

Walt’s unmarked sedan was headed our way across the beach.

I took a puff on the electronic cigarette and the tip glowed red. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but not as good as the real thing. Most things in life aren’t.

Walt arrived, parked and exited his sedan wearing a charcoal gray, lightweight suit with white shirt and paisley tie.

Regan gave Walt a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. “Lunch is almost ready,” she said. “So you two have some guy talk time.”

Walt looked around. “Where’s the cat?”

“Wherever Regan is.”

“So as your best bud maybe you could enlighten me as to why you stayed in Hawaii so long?” Walt said.

“Work on my conscience, wait for Koch to show up, come to grips with killing Melissa Koch,” I said.

“I read all the PD reports,” Walt said. “It was an accident. Even the Senator said so in a statement.”

“Say you were driving home one dark night and just didn’t see a kid on a tricycle as he darted out from the curb,” I said. “It was an accident you ran him over, but wouldn’t you feel just as guilty as if it weren’t?”

Walt sighed. “What the hell are you smoking?”

“A gift from my daughter,” I said.

“And your lady?”

“She’s in school in Chicago for a month,” I said. “And she’s not too happy with me right now.”

“Do you blame her?”

“No.”

I took another hit on the e-cigarette.

“How are those things?” Walt said.

“Like food without salt,” I said.

Walt nodded. “You gonna help Jane? She wanted to borrow a detective, but I’m short-handed as it is and the mayor would never go for it.”

“I met with her this morning,” I said. “Any ideas?”

“I haven’t looked at any evidence or read statements,” Walt said. “But Norman Felton was obviously in a rage over something and I’d guess it’s his missing daughter. Without Felton telling us why he attacked that kid it’s the only obvious link.”

“About as I see it,” I said.

“I’ll help when I can,” Walt said.

“Enough boy talk,” Regan said as she emerged from the trailer with a large serving tray loaded down with thick club sandwiches, pickles, chips, fries and bottles of cold soda.

“Where is the . . . ?” Walt said as Molly jumped onto the table.

“I called Oz,” Regan said as she looked at me. “Okay?”

“Did you ask him to change his shirt?”

“No.”

“Why does he need to change his shirt?” Walt said.

“That’s why,” I said and pointed to Oz as he merrily strolled toward us in his canary yellow shirt.

*****

After Walt returned to work, Oz and I sipped coffee while Regan cleaned up in the kitchen.

I waited for her to join us at the table before I said, “Oz, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

About to sip coffee, Oz paused and gave me his look. “Is it one of your favors where people shoot at me?” he said.

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Try to beat me up?”

“Probably not.”

“Will I get paid?”

“In free burgers and hot dogs.”

“In that case, what is it?”

“I’d like you to teach Regan to drive,” I said.

Regan shot her gaze in my direction.

“Me?” Oz said.

“You’re a good driver and I’m a lousy teacher,” I said. “I would screw it up and I think it’s about time Regan got her license. What do you think?”

“Do I get a car?” Regan said.

“If you get a license you can have mine,” I said.

“A car that wasn’t first owned by Fred Flintstone,” Regan said. “Or smells like the city dump.”

“Take it or leave it,” I said.

Regan looked at Oz.

He nodded at her.

“Yabba dabba doo,” Regan said.

Six

While Oz drove Regan to the motor vehicle bureau to get a learner’s permit, I called Jane and she picked me up in her cruiser.

“Have breakfast yet?” I said as I slid into the passenger seat.

“No.”

“Let’s pick up some on the way in,” I said.

Jane hit the drive-through for egg sandwiches with hash browns and coffee. I carried the bags to her office where I broke out the food while she set up the DVD player.

We watched the incident for the second time, then a third. As far as I could determine from viewing it, Deputy Spears and Deputy Andrews followed procedure one hundred percent by the book and the shooting was completely accidental.

It was difficult to determine if Felton meant to attack the deputies or was so insane with fury that he didn’t know what he was doing. It appeared he was out of control when he struck Spears with the baseball bat.

It was in his eyes. That look that said occupant missing in action, please check back later when I’m home again.

Question was, why?

What could drive an otherwise sane man to get in his car, ferry it to town and beat a kid half to death with a Louisville Slugger?

Did the Montero kid have something to do with Amanda Felton’s disappearance?

Did Amanda run away from home and did Normal Felton blame the Montero kid for it? If so, why?

On the surface the fourteen-year-old girl and eighteen-year-old boy weren’t connected in any way.

On the surface.

On the surface the iceberg that sunk the Titanic didn’t appear all that much, either.

“Any sign of the Felton girl yet?” I said.

Jane shook her head as she finished off a hash brown.

“Have a contact number for the brother, what’s his name?”

“Robert,” Jane said. “Robert Felton. Owns a car dealership.” She gave me the number and I punched it into my cell phone.

“Good morning, Felton Motors, how may I direct your call?” a chipper female voice said.

“John Bekker calling for Mr. Felton,” I said. “I’m a special investigator with the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Please hold.”

I held. And listened to Kenny G for sixty seconds or so. Finally Kenny G shut up and Robert Felton came on the line.

“I had to think a minute before it hit me,” Felton said. “The investigator recommended by that woman sheriff, right?”

“I’m assisting the sheriff with the investigation,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about it as soon as possible.”

“I’m in Rhode Island,” Felton said.

“Not a problem. Tomorrow mid-afternoon okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess so,” Felton said.

“Need directions?”

“I’ll manage.”

I hung up and looked at Jane.

“Want some fresh coffee?” she said.

“Sure.”

While Jane left her office I scribbled some notes on a pad on her desk. Are the DVD’s available from the POV from the patrol cars? Besides the teacher in the school were there any others on the field or within view of the attack? Was the teacher’s the only 911 call to the high school?

Jane returned with two containers from the break room.

“Can you play the 911 call?” I said.

Jane went behind her desk and pulled a small recorder from a drawer.

Before she hit the play button, I removed the electronic cigarette from a pocket and stuck it between my lips. Jane looked at it.

“A gift from Regan,” I said.

“How are they?” Jane said. “Better than last time?”

“Like taking your sister to the prom,” I said.

Jane nodded and hit play.

“911, what’s your emergency please?”

“I’m at the regional high school and there’s a man beating up what looks like a teenage boy with a baseball bat.”

“Are you inside the school?”

“Yes. Third floor.”

“Are you sure the man is hitting the teenage boy with a bat?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m watching him. The boy is against the fence and . . . oh, he just went down.”

“Sheriff’s deputies are on the way. Please stay inside. What is your name?”

“Sheryl Johnson. I’m a teacher here at the school.”

“Stay on the line until the deputies arrive.”

“Okay.”

“Play it back,” I said.

We listened to the call three more times. I made another note on the pad. How long was the response time from when the call was placed to the deputies’ arrival?

I sucked on the electronic cigarette and exhaled water vapor.

“Can I try that?” Jane said.

I gave her the cigarette. She inhaled and blew out vapor. “It’s close,” she said. “But no cigar.”

“Where’s the evidence log?” I said.

Jane passed me the log book. It was open to the Felton page.

One standard, 32-ounce Louisville Slugger baseball bat made of maple wood and available anywhere sporting goods were sold. Blood on the bat matched blood from Ubaldo Montero. Hair on the bat came from the head of Ubaldo Montero. Blood on Norman Felton’s clothing and skin matched blood from Ubaldo Montero.

The 911 call made by the teacher, Sheryl Johnson, and her written statement.

The DVD recording made by deputies Spears and Andrews and their written statements.

Hospital reports of the injuries to Ubaldo Montero. Hospital reports of the gunshot wound to Norman Felton. Hospital reports of Deputy Spears’s broken right arm caused by Felton’s attack with the baseball bat.

I read the reports filed by Deputy Spears and Deputy Andrews.

I read the initial and follow-up reports from Detective Philip Eaton and Detective Stan Hollis.

“What do you got on Norman Felton?” I said.

Jane handed me a file.

Norman Felton. Age forty-four. Graduated high school and attended college for two years. Took a job with the Post Office where he’s been employed for twenty-three years, first as a loader, then sorter and finally to delivery. His tax returns for the previous year listed as income a total of sixty-three thousand with some modest capital gains on investments. His pension was fully vested and would have made his retirement at age fifty-five very comfortable.

His present duty station was on the mainland with scheduled hours between six-thirty in the morning until two-thirty in the afternoon. That meant a five-thirty in the morning ferry ride five days a week.

During his second year at the post office, Felton met Susan Wiggs, a sorter at the mainland station he was assigned to. A romance blossomed and marriage soon followed. They put off having children until they could afford to purchase a home and when they could, they found a modest, Tudor-style home on Midnight Island.

Susan transferred to the small post office on the Island while Norman worked his way up the ladder to delivery. It was then they started to raise a family. Amanda Felton came along almost fifteen years ago and four years later, after multiple tries at having more children, Susan was diagnosed with a rare and incurable form of lung and rib cancer. She fought the good fight, but died when Amanda was just seven.

For the past seven years, Norman raised his daughter alone and from the enclosed photographs of her had done an excellent job of it. I studied several of the eight-by-eleven photos Jane included in the file.

Amanda was a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl about five foot four inches tall and had the budding shape of a young woman. She was a B+ student and would be a straight A student if not for difficulty in her math classes. She played guard on the girls’ basketball team and was a member of the cheerleading squad for the boys’ basketball team. According to reports from Eaton and Hollis, she was a popular girl with many friends on the Island and mainland.

There was a list of friends interviewed concerning Amanda’s disappearance. She was last seen at school on Friday as normal. She rode the ferry home after school with several classmates who also lived on the island. They went their separate ways when the ferry docked and Amanda hadn’t been seen since.

What were the odds that the disappearance of Amanda Felton and her father’s beating the Montero kid were unrelated?

A billion to one.

“How long has school been back in session?” I said.

“Not long. A week when the incident took place.”

“Amanda Felton had become Norman Felton’s entire life,” I said, thinking aloud.

Jane nodded. “Daddy’s little girl,” she said.

Still thinking aloud, I said, “Are the tapes from the cruisers available?”

“Yes, but they show nothing.”

“Can I see them anyway?”

“Sure.”

“The 911 call; was it the only one or did someone else also see the attack and make a call?” I said.

“Nothing else from dispatch,” Jane said. “I’ll check and get back to you.”

“The response time, how long?”

“Under three minutes,” Jane said. “You want exact?”

“As close to,” I said.

“You’re wondering if there was someone else on the field that ran off before my deputies arrived,” Jane said. “Another witness.”

“Just a detail.”

“And a damn good one.”

“When can I see the tapes from the cruisers?” I said.

“As soon as I can have them sent up,” Jane said. “Tomorrow.”

“I’ll stop by on the way back from seeing Felton.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Go home and think,” I said. “Mind if I keep that notepad?”

“This one is going to get messy, isn’t it?” Jane said.

“I’ve never seen a neat one,” I said.

*****

To the right of my trailer, a few years ago, I’d set up a pull-up station, a push-up station, and a hundred and twenty-pound heavy bag on a tripod. Hanging from a nail on the side of the trailer were several weighted jump ropes.

Regan was still out with Oz when I returned home, so I changed into sweats and did a workout to clear my head and open the thought valve.

I started with some jump rope using a two-pound weighted leather rope. After ten minutes I worked up a sweat and put the rope back on the nail. Then I did some push-ups, elevated and flat, switched over to pull-ups and chin-ups, and then grabbed the bag gloves and gave the bag a pounding.

Norman Felton went berserk at the high school and beat the Montero kid with a baseball bat. Why?

When confronted by Jane’s deputies Felton was still in such a rage he turned the bat on them. Why?

Felton’s daughter, Amanda, was missing, but for how long was the question. Before or after he went Mickey Mantle on the Montero kid?

Somebody hurt Felton’s little girl.

That’s the only thing I could see that would set him off like that.

I thought about what I would do to somebody if they hurt mine.

Yeah, somebody hurt his little girl and on the surface it appeared that somebody was a skinny teenager from another country named Ubaldo Montero.

“Dad, don’t you ever get sick of beating yourself up like that?” Regan said. I hadn’t heard the car arrive over the loud creaking of the heavy bag hinges.

I lowered my hands and pulled off the gloves.

Regan held up her learner’s permit. “Did you know Oz’s brother runs the motor vehicle place?” she said.

“Actually I did, and let me guess and say Oz called in a few favors,” I said.

“Only one,” Oz said as he came up behind Regan. “He allowed her to take the written test today instead of all the usual BS. She only got one wrong and the kid never even read the book.”

“I have to go to Rhode Island tomorrow,” I said to Regan. “Want to go for a ride with your old man?”

“Can Mark go with us?” Regan said. “He’s going nuts and needs to get away from Clayton for a day.”

“Sure,” I said. “Give him a call and ask, and I was thinking the three of us might go to dinner in town tonight.” I looked at Oz. “If you change that shirt.”

“You bought this thing,” Oz said. “But for a free meal I’ll dip into my wardrobe.”