“You packed all these boxes, sir?”
“Not the files. They’s exactly as Cruikshank left them. I done those uns over there.” Parrot pointed to a stack of cardboard boxes.
“You did collect every last one of Mr. Cruikshank’s possessions, now didn’t you, Mr. Parrot? Nothing got misplaced or lost or anything along those lines?”
“’Course I did.” Parrot’s gaze hopped from Gullet to me, then dived to the floor. “I didn’t make no list, if that’s what you’re asking. I just boxed the stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” Gullet skewered the landlord with a look.
Parrot ran a hand across the top of his head. Not a hair budged. The stuff was more glazed than a Krispy Kreme doughnut.
Seconds passed. A full minute. Somewhere out of sight, a faucet dripped.
Parrot repeated the hair thing. Folded his arms. Dropped them. The sheriff’s eyes remained glued to Parrot’s face.
Finally, Gullet broke the silence. “You don’t mind if I take Mr. Cruikshank’s things along for safekeeping, now do you, sir?”
“Don’t you need a warrant or some kinda official paper?”
Not a muscle fiber flickered in Gullet’s face.
Parrot’s hands flew up. “OK. OK. No problem, Sheriff. I was just trying to be legal. You know. Tenants’ rights and all.”
There were eight boxes. I took the file carton. Pete and Gullet started with two boxes each. While the men made a second trip to the basement, I phoned Emma from the Explorer. Though she sounded better, her voice was still weak.
I reported that we were heading to the sheriff’s office. Emma thanked me, and asked that I keep her informed.
Twenty minutes after leaving Magnolia Manor, Pete and I turned behind Gullet into the lot at the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office, a low-rise brick and stucco affair on Pinehaven Drive in North Charleston. Two trips relocated the boxes to a small conference room.
While Gullet called the Charleston City Police, Pete and I began with Cruikshank’s belongings. Pete took the Flynn file. I started with the boxes.
The first yielded bathroom towels and toiletries. Toothpaste. Plastic razors. Shaving cream. Shampoo. Foot powder.
The second contained kitchenware. Plastic cups and dishes. A few glasses. Cheap utensils.
Box three held the larder. Frosted Flakes. Froot Loops. Dried spaghetti and macaroni dinners. Cans of Campbell’s soup, baked beans, Beenie Weenies.
“The guy wasn’t into gourmet cooking,” I said, folding in and overlapping box flaps.
Focused on the file, Pete gave a noncommittal grunt.
Box four contained an alarm clock, bed linens, and blankets.
Box five was stuffed with pillows.
Box six held clothing.
“Finding anything?” Pete asked, his attention on notes he was scribbling.
“A lot of bad shirts.”
“Yeah?” Pete wasn’t listening.
“The guy liked brown.”
“Mm.” Pete wrote something, scratched it out.
“And Dale Evans swimsuits. Those are tough to get these days.”
“Mm.”
“And garter belts.”
Pete’s head came up. “What?”
I displayed a brown work shirt.
“You’re a laugh riot, sugar buns.”
“Are you learning anything useful?” I asked.
“He used some sort of shorthand system.”
Crossing the room, I glanced at one of Cruikshank’s handwritten pages. The notes were composed of combinations of numbers, letters, and short phrases.
2/20
LM
Cl-9-6
Ho-6-2
AB Cl-8-4
CD Cl-9-4
mp no
No F
23 i/o
2/21
LM
Cl 2-4
Ok stops
Ho 7-2
AB Cl-8-5
CD Cl-8-1
???
No F
31 i/o
2/22
LM
No Cl
???
AB Cl-8-4
CD Cl-12-4
No F
Cl 9-6
28 i/27 o
si/so rec! photos
“Probably a date,” I said, pointing to the first line of each entry. “February twentieth, February twenty-first, and so on.”
“Rejewski’s got nothing on you, babe.” Pete smiled up at me.
I waited.
“Enigma?”
I shook my head.
“During World War Two the Germans used an electromechanical rotor-based cipher system known as Enigma. Rejewski cracked the code using theoretical mathematics.”
“You’re on your own, Latvian Savant.” I returned to the boxes.
And made my discovery in the second to last.
The contents of box seven suggested a desk or workstation. Packets of paper. Envelopes. Blank notepads. Pens. Scissors. Tape. Staple gun. Paper clips, rubber bands, staples.
A cylinder of CDs.
Removing the outer casing, I slid the discs free from the center spool. Six. I checked each label.
Five blank. One with writing.
I felt a buzz of adrenaline.
Written in black marker was the name Flynn, Helene.
The buzz ebbed slightly. Why? Disappointment? What did I think the label would say? “Unmarked grave on Dewees Island”?
“Pete.”
“Mm.”
“Pete!”
Pete’s head snapped up.
I held out the disc.
Pete’s brows shot toward his hairline. He was about to speak when Gullet appeared. I showed him the CD.
“Do you have a computer we can use to view this?”
“Follow me.”
Leading us to his office, Gullet took a leather chair behind a desk just a few inches smaller than a basketball court. After typing some commands, he held out a hand. I gave him the disc and he entered more keystrokes.
The computer hummed as it sniffed out Cruikshank’s CD. Gullet hit a few more keys, then gestured that we should move around behind him.
Pete and I circled the desk and peered over Gullet’s shoulders. The screen was covered with tiny squares: JPEG files.
Gullet double-clicked the first square and an image filled the screen.
The scene showed a two-story brick building with a center door and picture windows to either side. Neither the door nor the window glass had lettering or a symbol of any kind. There were no street signs or address plaques with which to pinpoint the building’s location. Any view of its interior was blocked by closed venetian blinds.
“Minimal depth of field,” I said. “Pretty grainy. Must have been taken from a distance with a zoom lens.”
“Good eye,” Pete said.
“Recognize the place?” I asked Gullet.
“It’s not Rainbow Row, that’s for sure. But otherwise, it could be anywhere.”
The next several images showed the same structure from differing vantage points. None included a neighboring building or identifiable landmark.
“Go to that one,” I said, indicating an image with a man exiting the building.
Gullet double-clicked the file.
The man was of average height but robust build. He had dark hair, and wore a belted raincoat and muffler. He was not looking at or acknowledging the camera.
The next image showed another man making his exit. He, too, had dark hair, but was taller and more muscular than the first, probably younger. This man wore jeans and a windbreaker. Like the first, he did not look into the lens.
In the next photo was a woman. Black. Blond hair. Big. Very big.
The disc held a total of forty-two images. Except for the first few, each showed someone entering or leaving the brick building. A kid with one arm in a sling. An old man in a Tilly hat. A woman with an infant strapped to her chest.
“Change the view,” I suggested, pointing t
o an icon on the toolbar.
Gullet clicked on the arrow to the right of the tiny blue screen, hesitated.
“Try the detail view,” I instructed, trying not to sound overly bossy.
Gullet double-clicked the last option, and the screen changed to columns of print. The fourth column provided the date and time of exposure for each JPEG file.
Pete stated the obvious: “The pictures were all taken on March fourth, between eight A.M. and four P.M.”
“Hotline to Rejewski?” I asked under my breath.
The Latvian Savant ignored my jibe.
Gullet returned to thumbnail view and opened the first image. “So Cruikshank was still alive on March fourth.” Monotone. “And he was surveilling this place.”
“Or someone else was, and that someone gave Cruikshank the disc.”
“But in the end, it doesn’t much matter. The man killed himself.” Gullet sent a questioning look over one shoulder. “This is a suicide, now, isn’t it, ma’am?”
“Manner of death could be”—I searched for a word—“complicated.”
Gullet swiveled to face me full on. Pete rested one haunch on the credenza. I had the floor.
I described the trauma on Cruikshank’s sixth cervical vertebra. Gullet listened without interrupting. I then explained that identical trauma was present on the skeleton Emma and I had recovered from the shallow grave on Dewees.
“Both were white males in their forties,” Gullet said, not excited so much as interested.
I nodded.
“Could be coincidence.”
“Could be.” A coincidence the size of the Serengeti.
Gullet swiveled back to the computer screen. “If Cruikshank didn’t die by his own hand, then the question becomes, who helped him? And why? And what’s the significance of the place in these photos?”
“Could be the place is incidental,” I suggested. “Maybe the subject of interest was one of the people.”
“Only one disc is labeled,” Pete said. “With Helene Flynn’s name.”
“Let’s check the others,” I said.
We did. All were blank.
“You search every box?” Gullet asked.
“Except one.”
We trooped back to the conference room. The last box had once held jars of Hellmann’s mayo. Pete and Gullet watched as I pulled back the flaps.
Books. Framed photos. An album. A trophy. Police memorabilia.
No discs.
“Let’s back up a few trots,” Gullet said when I’d resecured the flaps. “Could have been Cruikshank staking out that building, could have been someone else. If it was someone else, who? And why? And what’s Cruikshank’s interest in the pictures?”
“And how did he get them?” Pete asked.
I thought a moment.
“There are several possibilities.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “One, Cruikshank took the shots himself. Two, he was given the disc. Three, he was given a camera smart card or photo chip. Four, he received the images electronically.”
“Meaning, we haven’t a clue,” Pete said.
“But we do know one significant thing.”
Both men looked at me.
“To download from a camera, smart card, or Web site? To receive e-mail? To save files to disc? To view images on a CD?”
Pete and Gullet spoke simultaneously.
“Cruikshank had a computer.”
“I’d say there’s a good possibility. Maybe a digital camera, too.”
Gullet’s eyes narrowed in anger. Maybe. Maybe I imagined it.
“Time to revisit the good landlord Parrot.”
I made a gesture that took in the files and box eight. “In the meantime, may we take this?”
Gullet thumb-hooked his belt and pooched out his lower lip. As seconds passed, I was unsure if he was ignoring or considering my request. Then he hitched his pants and let out a long breath.
“Truth is, I’m short a deputy right now. Miz Rousseau trusts you enough to take you on, I guess your poking through some boxes can’t hurt. Make sure every item’s inventoried and logged, then sign for the lot. And mind the security.” Gullet didn’t finish the admonition. No point in stating the obvious.
We were entering Mount Pleasant when my mobile rang. Pete was driving.
I dug the phone from my purse. The screen showed a local number I didn’t recognize. I started to ignore the call, changed my mind. What if it concerned Emma?
I should have gone with my first instinct.
14
“HOW’S IT GOING, DOC?”
It took a nanosecond to recognize the voice. Plankton.
“How did you get this number?”
“Pretty good, eh?”
“I don’t do interviews, Mr. Winborne.”
“Did you see my piece in the Post and Courier? The one on the Dewees stiff?”
I said nothing.
“Editor went batshit. Green-lighted me for a follow-up.”
I said nothing again.
“So I’ve got a few questions.”
I used my steely voice, the one I’d learned from cops and customs officials. “I. Don’t. Do. Interviews.”
“It’ll take only a minute.”
“No.” Impermeable.
“It’s in your interest to—”
“I’m going to hang up now. Don’t call me again.”
“I advise you not to do that.”
“Do you still have that Nikon, Mr. Winborne?”
“Sure do.”
“I advise you to take that camera and shove it where the sun don’t shi—”
“I’m hip to the body you cut down in the Francis Marion.”
That worked. I didn’t disconnect.
“The guy’s name is Noble Cruikshank, and he was a Charlotte cop.”
So Plankton had a mole.
“Where did you get this information?” I asked, my voice pure ice.
“Doc.” Mock disappointment. “You know my sources are confidential. But my facts are solid, right?”
“I’m confirming nothing.”
Pete was throwing quizzical glances my way. I gestured that he should keep his eyes on the road.
“But something is bothering me.” Slow. Ponderous. Winborne sounded like he’d watched way too many Columbo episodes. “Cruikshank was a PI, a former cop. He was probably on a case when he died. What could be so mind-blowing that it would cause a guy like that to string himself up?”
Silence hummed across the line.
“And the demographic.” He pronounced it “deemographic.” “Male, white, forty-something. Sound familiar?”
“Keanu Reeves.”
Winborne ignored that. Or didn’t get it. “So I’m checking out what Cruikshank was working when he hanged himself. You got any insight into that?”
“No comment.”
“And I’m looking for links between Cruikshank and your bones on Dewees.”
“For multiple reasons, I advise you to print nothing.”
“Yeah? Gimme one.”
“First, if the body from the Francis Marion is that of Noble Cruikshank, a man committing suicide is hardly a scoop. Second, as you know, Cruikshank was a cop. His former colleagues might not appreciate you dragging his name through the mud. And third, whoever the victim turns out to be, it is unethical to reveal information about a death before notification of next of kin.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m going to disconnect now, Mr. Winborne. If you take my picture again I will sue you.”
I clicked off.
“Sonovabitch!” I came close to hurling the handset through the windshield.
“Lunch?” Pete asked.
Too angry to speak, I nodded my head.
Just past Shem Creek, Pete turned right from Coleman Boulevard onto Live Oak Drive, a residential side street lined with bungalows and shaded by, yep, you guessed it, live oaks wrapped with Spanish moss. Pete went left onto Haddrell, curved left, then turned into a grav
el parking area.
Across the lot, between the Wando Seafood Company and Magwood & Sons Seafoods, stood a ramshackle structure that looked like it had been hammered together by a committee sharing no common language. The Wreck of the Richard and Charlene is known to locals as “the Wreck.” Unmarked and unadvertised, the restaurant may be Charleston’s best-kept secret.
The story goes something like this. During Hurricane Hugo, a fishing boat named the Richard and Charlene was tossed onto the restaurant owners’ property. Seeing it as an omen, the restaurant owner’s wife christened her establishment in honor of the wreck.
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale. . ..
That was 1989. The wreck is still there, and the Wreck is still there, its owners disdaining all forms of marketing and publicity. Even signs.
Concrete floors. Ceiling fans. Screened porches. An honor system for help-yourself beers in a deck cooler should you have to wait for a table. The formula works, and the place is always packed.
At four thirty in the afternoon things were uncharacteristically quiet. Service didn’t start until five thirty, but we were seated. What the hell? The Wreck is that kind of place.
The Wreck’s ordering system is as simple as its menu. With the crayons provided, Pete circled the shrimp basket, the gumbo, and the key lime bread pudding, and indicated that he wanted Richard-size portions. I chose a Charlene-size oyster basket. Diet Coke for me. A Carolina Blonde for Pete.
Dixie dining at its best.
“Let me guess,” Pete said, when the drinks had arrived. “That call was from a journalist.”
“The same rat bastard that snuck onto my site on Dewees.”
“He’s graduated to the crime beat?”
“Do I look like the little twerp’s employment counselor?” I was still so angry it came out shrill. “But he’s got far more information than he ought to.”
“Must have an informant.”
“Gee. You think?”
“Okeydokey.” Pete took a swig of beer and leaned back in a posture suggesting conversation was terminated until I’d composed myself.
Through the screen, I watched gulls circle trawlers at the dock. Their buoyant, hopeful looping was somehow calming.
“Sorry,” I said when our food was delivered. “I’m not annoyed with you.”
“No problemo.” Pete pointed a shrimp at me. “A lot of reporters monitor emergency frequencies.”