The Deep Abiding Read online

  She drummed her nails on the dash. She must have known that Ty had a point. Ty decided to drive it home. “You want to get this story, right?”

  “You think I don’t?”

  “You have to be alive to write it up,” he said, as in his rearview mirror he saw a rolling flash of red lights.

  A siren blast wailed behind him as a patrol car bore down on them. Ty reached up, clicked off the dome light, and hit his turn signal, indicating that he was pulling over.

  Next to him, Cressida looked freaked out. “This isn’t good,” she whispered almost to herself.

  “Chill,” said Ty. “Cop’s probably bored, saw the car with our cabin light on, and decided to check us out. Let’s not get carried away.”

  20

  Sue Ann sat in the front seat of her car at the back of Mimsy’s house and opened the brown envelope with her payment for the evening’s work. Inside were five one-hundred-dollar bills, five times what she had agreed with Mimsy.

  There were no prizes for guessing the reason. Mimsy was hardly noted for her generosity. She used money like a weapon when intimidation and fear of her wrath had failed. She always had done, ever since Sue Ann had known her, which was pretty much her entire life.

  At this stage what Mimsy had asked Sue Ann to tell her husband was almost irrelevant. Now it was about Mimsy making sure that Sue Ann followed orders. What the order was didn’t matter but it had to be carried out. That was the Murray family way. Do as you’re told? If the stick doesn’t work, here’s a carrot.

  Sue Ann held the crisp notes in her hand. She and RJ sure could use the money. But how much? How badly did they need it? Bad enough to be involved in someone else possibly losing their life? Looked at like that, five hundred dollars suddenly wasn’t a fortune.

  Two killings, or a killing and a disappearance, might just be written off as coincidence. A third event of a similar nature? There would be no coming back from that.

  Everything would spill out into the light, like the insides of a shark lying on a sunny dock in the Keys.

  21

  Ty hit the button to lower the driver’s window, then placed his hands in clear view on top of the steering wheel. “Keep your hands in plain sight, and don’t make any sudden move,” he told Cressida.

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Chill. I had my interior light on while driving. Any cop is entitled to pull us over. Not everything’s Mississippi Burning.”

  “Oh, come on, you weren’t even breaking the speed limit.”

  “And let me do the talking.”

  “Oh, yeah, like you’re so reasonable. The last interaction you had with a law-enforcement officer, you locked him in the trunk of his own car.”

  “That wasn’t the last interaction I had, and there were extenuating circumstances. I don’t make a habit of it.”

  Ty figured that people were never going to get past what he’d done back in Long Beach when he’d gone to the aid of an old Marine buddy who was in a full-on meltdown. In truth, as he did with anyone, he always tried to see things from the other person’s perspective. A solitary patrol cop rolling up on two people in a car late at night was likely to be on edge. There was no point in making their life more difficult than it had to be.

  Remain calm. Be polite. Keep your hands in plain sight. Don’t make any unexpected or sudden physical movements. It was hardly rocket science.

  Ty watched the cop approach the side of the car. He looked from the uniform to be state rather than local. Ty also noted two other things. He was African American and he had his hand on his service weapon, ready to clear leather if he had to.

  “Sir, are you aware one of your tail-lights is out?” said the cop, leaning down next to the driver’s window.

  “I wasn’t aware of that, no,” said Ty, his eyes flicking to the dash and looking for a warning light that wasn’t there.

  “Also,” continued the trooper, “do you usually drive with your interior light on?”

  “I’m sorry about that, Officer,” said Ty. “We’re not familiar with the area and we were checking a map to find our way back to where we’re staying.”

  “May I see your license and registration?”

  “Yes, sir, they’re just up here,” he said, making eye contact. The cop gave the nod for Ty to extract them from the sun visor.

  He reached slowly up, extracted them from where they were tucked into the visor flap, and handed them over.

  “Also, Officer, I’m carrying a permitted firearm. It’s in a shoulder holster. I assume you’ll want to take possession of it until the stop’s concluded. How do you want to do this?”

  For good reason cops rarely allowed people to reach in, pull a weapon and hand it over. It was way too risky, and too likely to lead to problems. It was preferable to make sure it didn’t come as a surprise and give them the option of how they wanted to proceed.

  The best way of making sure that a stop like this went smoothly was to make a cop aware that their safety was a concern. Again, it was something simple and Ty wondered how so many folks could get it so horribly wrong. Cops had no idea whether someone was a good guy or a bad guy so it was safer for them to assume the worst.

  “I appreciate you telling me that.”

  The cop moved back and opened the door. ‘Sir, if you could step out of the vehicle and place your hands on the trunk.”

  Ty complied, moving slowly. He exchanged a final glance with Cressida. She looked a little worried. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  He stood, hinged at the hips, his tree-trunk legs wide, and his hands placed palm down on the back of the Civic. The cop reached into his jacket, and took the SIG. It was a dumbass move. He should have cuffed Ty first. If Ty had been a bad guy, it would have been easy enough to trap the cop’s hand as he reached in, pivot, and take him to the ground, or turn and trip him, coming up with the SIG.

  Ty decided that it might be wise not to share those thoughts.

  “Stay right there. I’m going to run your details,” the trooper said. “By the way, you haven’t been drinking this evening, have you?”

  “Only soft drinks,” said Ty.

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  Ty stayed where he was. A few minutes later the trooper returned. “You can take your hands off the trunk, and turn around.”

  Ty did just that.

  “Sir, I’m going to need you to complete a field sobriety test for me.”

  “Not a problem. I haven’t been drinking. Just let me know what I need to do,” he said, keeping his hands by his sides.

  The truth was that he’d felt a little woozy ever since they’d left the dinner, but he had put it down to travel, and the hot, sticky weather. It wasn’t that he felt drunk, or anything like it, but he didn’t feel entirely sober either. He’d had to focus hard on the road, but he’d put that down to it being unfamiliar.

  Now that the officer had mentioned a sobriety test, Ty felt a fresh bout of wooziness rise up in him. His mind was no doubt playing a trick on him. Mention being sober and all of a sudden you become much more aware of your physical state.

  Ty shook the thought from his head. It was his mind playing tricks. It had to be. He hadn’t consumed any alcohol, and he hadn’t smoked weed, which he did from time to time, in months. There was no reason to worry.

  “Okay, Mr. Johnson,” said the officer. “I’d like you to take nine steps forward heel to toe, counting the steps out as you go. Then I’d like you to turn around, and take the same number of steps. You understand what I’m asking you to do?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Ty started forward, placing one foot in front of the other, the heel of the front foot touching the toe of the back foot. He counted as he went. As he reached nine, and turned, he found himself wobbling slightly. He had no idea where his sudden loss of balance had come from.

  “Keep walking,” said the officer.

  Ty stopped at nine. He looked back. “Don’t kn
ow what happened on the turn. Ground must have been uneven or something.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. It was the kind of thing a drunk person said to explain themselves.

  “Okay, Mr. Johnson, I’m going to need you to turn around, and I’m going to place cuffs on you.”

  “Come on, man. It was a wobble. You’re not going to arrest me for that.”

  The officer eyed him, his expression set hard. “Sir, we also had an anonymous phone call that someone in that exact car had been drinking. Now, if you haven’t consumed alcohol we’ll be able to confirm that and you’ll be released. Until then you are under arrest on suspicion of driving while intoxicated. You have the right to remain silent.”

  Ty turned and allowed himself to be cuffed as the officer rattled through his Miranda rights. There were no prizes for guessing who had made the call, and Ty suddenly wondered about the overly-sweet Arnold Palmers he’d drunk. It would have been easy enough to add some vodka, and he wouldn’t have tasted it.

  Now his concern was Cressida, and her safety.

  He waited for the cop to finish reciting his rights. “May I speak with my passenger for a second? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” said the officer. “But I’m not taking the cuffs off.”

  “That’s cool.”

  The officer shepherded him over to the car. “Ma’am, you can step out,” the officer told her.

  She got out. The cop handed her the keys to the Civic.

  “I think my drink might have been spiked,” Ty told her. “Either way, I’m certain our host for the evening called this in.”

  “Officer, this whole deal is a set-up. I’m a reporter from New York. I’m here . . .”

  “Save it,” Ty told her. “He’s not going to change his mind. I’m already under arrest. Are you okay to drive back on your own?”

  “Sure. I can find it,” she said.

  “Forget that note, okay? If this is a set-up . . . Well, I don’t have to fill in the blanks, do I?”

  “No, you don’t,” she said.

  “I need you to promise me you won’t change your mind,” said Ty.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go straight back to the Airbnb.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay to drive, ma’am?” said the cop. “Were you drinking this evening?”

  “One glass of wine, and I didn’t finish it. Officer, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl, and it’s just down the ways.”

  Ty half turned to the cop. “Could we follow her to the turn-off? I’m fairly sure it’s the way we’ll be going.”

  The man hesitated.

  “I’d really appreciate it, Officer.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. Can’t see what harm it would do to make sure she gets back safe.”

  “Thank you,” said Ty.

  The cop led Ty back toward the patrol car where he got in back. Cressida got into the driver’s seat of the Honda. He watched the Honda pull back out onto the road. The patrol car tucked in behind.

  They followed Cressida for two miles down the road. She indicated to turn off. The patrol car slowed until she had made the turn, then sped up.

  “So?” said the cop, eyeing Ty in the rearview mirror. “What brings you all the way down here?”

  22

  In the back of the patrol car, hands cuffed in front of him, Ty cycled through the evening’s events, and beyond. The traffic stop had caught him off balance. So, for that matter, had the revelation about Timothy French and all the other stuff Mimsy had spilled.

  The reporter going missing gave him the most immediate concern. He understood why Cressida hadn’t wanted to tell her editor about it. He might have pulled her investigation. But by not telling him she had potentially placed both of them in danger.

  The same went for the Klan involvement, and a couple of other things she had either failed to mention or played down, either directly or by omission. A female Klan order was news to him, but it was hardly surprising. Ty had never bought into the idea that girls were all sugar and spice. In his experience women could be just as deadly, if not more so, than men. He could conjure up a couple of vivid examples including a dedicated white supremacist by the name of Chance, and a Chechen terrorist called Mareta.

  Would Mimsy Murray be added to that list? He guessed that only time would tell.

  To murder one person and cover it up or hide the culprits was bad enough. But to do it to two people, many years apart, raised the stakes considerably.

  The patrol car was wending its way through the section of Everglades they had driven through on the way in. Thousands upon thousands of miles of wetlands. Terrain so immediately similar that stumbling into it would mean you would almost instantly be lost and disoriented. You might be a hundred yards from a road, but without the sound of traffic, you would have no idea.

  It would have been easy enough to disappear the body of Timothy French in there. If the ’gators didn’t take care of most of it, a thousand other smaller creatures would.

  The miracle wasn’t that he was still missing but that Carole Chabon’s remains had been found. They had been one hell of a grisly needle in a monumental haystack.

  Now here he was sitting in the back of a patrol car with his principal on her own. He should have asked her to follow them. At least that way he would have known she was safe. He cursed himself for not thinking of it until now.

  “You okay back there?” said the cop.

  “Listen, would you mind calling the lady I was with, see if she got back okay?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all, but cell-phone reception around here is kind of patchy, at best. It might have to wait until we get back to the barracks.”

  “How long’s that likely to take?”

  The cop shrugged. “Not long. Roads are quiet. Maybe another forty minutes.”

  Ty guessed that around here the phrase ‘not long’ was relative. Right now forty minutes seemed like an eternity.

  Ty leaned forward again. “Is there any way you could have another trooper or a local officer check in on her?”

  The cop gave Ty a longer glance in his mirror. “You guys in trouble?”

  “We’re down here investigating the murder of Carole Chabon. It was a ways back—1974.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “They never got anyone,” said Ty, trying to avoid sounding accusatory. Unsolved homicides could be a touchy subject for law enforcement, understandably so.

  “No, we never did.”

  “Why do you think that was?” Ty was pushing his luck, but he wasn’t sure what he had left to lose. It wasn’t as if the trooper could arrest him for a second time.

  “Oh, I could tell you exactly why. No one was willing to talk. Not that they’d even seen her, never mind anything else.”

  The cop’s frank admission caught him a little off-guard.

  “But people knew?”

  “Someone did. They had to. There were rumors, but you can’t arrest someone on rumors.”

  Ty thought about the anonymous call that had just gotten him pulled over. He decided not to mention it. “What kind of rumors?”

  In the mirror, Ty caught the cop’s smile. “You just ease back there, and enjoy the scenery, partner. We can check on your friend as soon as we get back.”

  Ty did as he was told. The darkness was so complete that, looking out of the window, all he could see was his own reflection thrown back at him.

  23

  Cressida pulled up outside Adelson Shaw’s house. She flicked off the Honda’s headlights, but left the engine running. The short ride back had been uneventful. She had seen one other vehicle, a big rig with a full trailer, but it had been traveling in the opposite direction, and had barely slowed down as it had barreled past her.

  The porch lights were on. So were some of the other downstairs lights. She wasn’t sure if Adelson was still up, or if the lights had been deliberately left on for their return.

  She wondered what it must be like to live al
one in such a large house. The thought of it made her anxious, although she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the thought of passing through life without a family or children.

  What had really happened between Adelson and Mimsy? Had they been involved at one time? Mimsy had seemed to suggest they had, without directly mentioning an engagement or that he was her boyfriend. She’d said something about Adelson having been the man she was closest to. That much Cressida was sure of.

  Was there a link between the two of them and what had happened to Carole? Mimsy had dropped some heavy hints about that too. Perhaps Adelson would be more forthcoming.

  One thing Cressida was certain of now was that people here knew what had happened to Carole Chabon. They also knew why. When she had been researching the story, which seemed like it had been going on for a long time, she had become more fascinated by the why than the who. In a way who had killed Carole, then Timothy French was less important to her than why they had done it.

  Was there a reason that went deeper than the color of Carole’s skin, and the need to stop Timothy French exposing the guilty? Although Cressida knew it happened, killing someone for their skin color seemed pathetic. Beyond pathetic. A feeble motivation for such a devastating act.

  She dug the note from her bag, flattened it out, and held it at the top of the steering wheel.

  She had given Ty her word that she wouldn’t act on it. Not tonight anyway. But a tiny voice was nagging at her now. It was the part of her that had made her want to come down here, even though her presence would be unwelcome, a part of her that was anchored way back in childhood when she had first heard this story, and others like it, but before she’d had a name to put to them.

  The note in her hand was calling to her. Would the person who had written it, and left it on the windshield, really arrange another meeting? Surely there had to be a reason why they had contacted her like that, and why they wanted to meet in – she checked the time on the car’s display – a little under thirty-five minutes.