Graveyard Bay Page 19

  I stopped in my tracks, my ears tingling, straining to hear what was spooking John.

  It took me a moment detect it, the wind alternately whistling and growling around us, the occasional clanging of sailboat riggings against metal masts. But when I heard it, the blood in my veins turned as cold as the water in the bay.

  An engine. Grumbling, low and steady.

  We crept forward onto the concrete pier. John was slightly ahead of me, his gun in his right fist, pointed ahead of him, the flashlight, still off, in his left hand under the Glock.

  Slowly, the shape materialized in the darkness. Big, black. It was a pickup truck.

  Jesus Christ, it looks like Bogdan Tolbonov’s Ford F-150.

  John, low in a crouch, moved cautiously forward.

  Doing the same, right behind him, I smelled the acrid exhaust pumping from the dual tailpipes. We moved around to the passenger’s side, inch by inch.

  I grimaced every time I heard the soles of my boots crunching against granules of ice.

  Suddenly, John’s flashlight came to life, and he had the beam angled so that the reflection on the glass was minimized.

  There’s no one in the cab.

  He turned the beam onto the bucket seats. “There’s a wallet on the console.” He tried the door. “Locked.”

  Wanting to confirm that the truck was Bogdan’s, I took another step toward the front of the truck and saw that it had the jutting black, aftermarket bumper guard that gave the vehicle its intimidating appearance. Like a battering ram.

  Something glittered in what light came from John’s flashlight.

  What the hell is that?

  “John,” I whispered. “There’s a chain attached to the front bumper guard.”

  He stepped up quickly, getting between me and the front of the truck, his gun still drawn and ready. Seeing the length of chain, he ran the flashlight along its links until the beam was in the roiling, black water of the bay.

  It took me a minute to understand what we were looking at, what was floating on the surface, attached to the end of the chain.

  A blackened body, chain around its neck, vaguely human, bobbing in the dark, swirling water.

  You’ll love what I left you at Groward Bay.

  * * *

  The cops cleared John and me off the pier while they taped it off as a crime scene again, the second time in three days.

  Before doing his job, Mike admonished the both of us, “Don’t even think about going anywhere until I get a chance to talk to you.”

  While we sat in the Mustang, listening to late night NPR, we made small talk, consulted our phones, and watched the police come and go. First, they brought in divers to go into the water and inspect the body. Then they brought the dead man up on a lift and, after a brief inspection by the medical examiner, tucked the body into an ambulance.

  I was almost relieved when Mike walked with deliberation up to where we were sitting. We both got out of the car at the same time.

  Without greeting, Mike started. “Do you want to tell me how the two of you came to be out here?”

  “About forty-five minutes ago, I got a text.” I held my phone out for him to look at.

  He squinted as he read the message. “What’s this about notes?”

  I took them out of my bag and handed them to Mike.

  He opened them, and pointing his own flashlight, he glanced at what was written. “Where did you find these?”

  I hesitated. I knew Mike was going to be pissed. “The one about modeling was in my underwear drawer at the house the afternoon Finn broke in.”

  He gave me an incredulous expression. “How about the second one?”

  “On my windshield when I was parked across the street from the aquarium.”

  “What were you doing at the aquarium?”

  “I told you, I was meeting with Wolfline’s attorney, Eric Decker.” I nodded toward the empty Ford pickup truck, now silent but crawling with cops looking for clues. “Is that Bogdan Tolbonov?”

  “We haven’t positively identified the body yet.”

  I frowned. “Why not?”

  He glanced at John, who had been standing wordlessly next to me. “The body’s in pretty bad shape. Looks like he was burned substantially, facial features disfigured. Some of the teeth appear to be missing.” He looked back at me again. “Off the record, I’d say someone had tortured the victim for days. Possibly with a blowtorch and pliers.”

  My stomach twisted. “Jesus Christ.”

  For the first time, John spoke up. “There was a wallet inside the cab of the truck.”

  Mike narrowed his eyes. It was clear that he didn’t care for John Stillwater. “Once again, this is off the record. The wallet belongs to Bogdan Tolbonov. So does the truck.”

  For whatever reason, a feeling of relief washed over me like warm bathwater. Two months ago, Bogdan Tolbonov had scared me, terrified me. He’d threatened me and Caroline. He’d followed me in that truck for days, trying to intimidate me.

  I had no doubt in my mind that given the right circumstances, he would have killed me.

  But now he’s dead. Rendered harmless.

  But there’s an even worse monster out there, Merlin Finn.

  And I’m in his crosshairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I’m having a drink before I go to bed,” I told John. “Do you want one?” It was nearly one in the morning and I was way too sober to go to sleep.

  “Sure.” He sat down at the kitchen table.

  The only light on was the one over the sink, which offered dim illumination for the entire room. I didn’t feel like turning on the ceiling light. “Pretty gruesome.”

  “You mean what they did to Bogdan?”

  Taking the glasses out of the cupboard, I went to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. “Yeah, what they did to Bogdan.”

  John had his hands folded on the tabletop. “I don’t have much sympathy for the Tolbonovs. They’ve killed and tortured, swindled life savings from families, blackmailed judges. Dozens of people have died from the drugs they’ve put out on the street. And the children’s lives they’ve ruined through sex trafficking? I know for a fact that Shana and I have rescued well over a hundred underage kids from the life. I know what kind of trauma that can have on young minds and bodies. That will haunt them for the rest of their lives.”

  I dropped ice cubes into both of our glasses and waited for him to finish his thought. When he didn’t continue, I turned and looked at him.

  He was gazing back at me, his jaw firm, his teeth clenched. “So whatever happened to Bogdan Tolbonov, he had it coming.”

  I went back to the cupboard and poured our drinks. “So, what happens now?” I handed him his glass.

  He took a healthy swallow. “In this case, the enemy of my enemy is still my enemy. Merlin Finn is every bit as bad as Bogdan was. Maybe worse. I owe him for killing Abby.”

  “Shana told me that you were married for seven years.”

  He nodded. “We met while we were both on the NYPD. When we got married, she quit and became a private investigator, a darned good one. Her company had as many as ten investigators working for her.”

  I sat down at the table opposite John. “Were you happy?”

  After a moment, he answered. “I was. She wasn’t. I was working all hours. She was doing investigative work for some pretty large corporations. When I wasn’t looking, the CEO of Brookmeyer Pharmaceuticals swept her off her feet.” John flicked his glass with a finger. “Plus, it was when my drinking was out of control.”

  I understand how that can be a relationship killer. I’ve been married three times.

  “How long were they together?”

  “Only a year or so. It didn’t take her long to catch on that the guy was an asshole.”

  I snapped my fi
ngers. “Brookmeyer Pharmaceuticals. Isn’t that the company that jacked up the price on that cancer drug by a thousand percent?”

  He gave me a sour grin. “Plus, the government caught him misleading investors. That son of a bitch is still tied up in litigation purgatory. He belongs in jail.” He added, “And, for what he did to my ex-wife, Merlin Finn deserves to be dead.”

  Suddenly, Mike’s warning to not trust anyone popped into my mind. How well did I really know John Stillwater? He was an ex-cop who, for some reason I still didn’t know, got kicked out of the NYPD. What did Mike say? That he beat up a person he had in his custody?

  I know that his work with the Friends of Lydia was sometimes, if not often, just outside of recognized legal boundaries. I know that he carries a gun.

  And now I’d just seen an ugly flash of anger. Angry enough to kill?

  Before I’d gotten the text telling me that something had been left for me to find at Groward Bay, I’d entertained lusty thoughts about Mr. Stillwater.

  Sitting in my kitchen, talking about his ex-wife’s homicide, there was nothing romantic about the moment.

  My phone pinged. I reached behind me and fished it out of my oversized bag hanging from the back of my chair. The text was from Mike.

  Call me in the morning.

  I glanced at John. “It’s from Mike Dillon.” I wasn’t about to wait until morning to find out what he wanted, so I punched in his number.

  “Hey, Genie. I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

  “Still wound up. Are you at the office?”

  “I’m just getting ready to head out. We reached out to Valentin Tolbonov and asked him to come in tomorrow to identify the body. He didn’t want to wait, so he came in with dental records and gave us a positive ID. It’s definitely his brother Bogdan.”

  There’s that sense of relief again.

  “He needed dental records?”

  I heard Mike hesitate. “What you saw in the water only scratched the surface.”

  The icy grip of fear overtook my relief from what I was about to hear. “Can I put you on speakerphone?”

  Mike’s voice dropped into a soft growl. “Is your bodyguard there?”

  “Yes.” Without explanation about John, I put him on speaker. “Okay.”

  “The reason we asked Valentin to bring in dental records was there wasn’t much left of the body to identify. I’m waiting for Foley to do an autopsy, but it appears that Bogdan had been tortured with a blowtorch for days. Nearly every inch of his skin had been burned. His fingerprints were gone and someone had removed his eyes.”

  I felt my stomach turn. “What?”

  Mike skipped another beat. “Gouged them out.”

  John spoke up. “What else?”

  “It looks like whoever it was started pulling Bogdan’s teeth.”

  I couldn’t help myself. My stomach clutched. “Dear God.”

  Overkill.

  I thought back to the video of the homicides at the marina. Using the forklift to kill Judge Preston and Abby Tillis was a statement. Two bullets to their heads would have been simpler and faster.

  No, Merlin Finn was making his statement.

  John asked, “Were there enough teeth to make an ID?”

  “Yes, Bogdan had some extensive crown work done. It was enough to make an ID.”

  I asked, “What was Valentin’s reaction?”

  “Stone-faced, grim.”

  “Are we looking at the beginning of a gang war?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Get some sleep, Genie.”

  I said goodnight to John and trudged upstairs. I was still wired from the discovery at the marina and the phone call from Mike, so I sat down at my desk and knocked out a piece for the Post’s website. It was way too late to make the morning paper. The press was already running, and the circulation crew was already taking bundles out to be distributed. But my story would be loaded first thing in the morning online, and then I’d do an updated version for the newspaper for the following day.

  My lead was “Suspected gangster found brutally murdered in Groward Bay.”

  Then I hit the button and sent the piece to both Ben and Lorraine Moretti. I wasn’t a hundred percent certain who was in charge of the newsroom. I was pretty sure it was Ben.

  Then I added a note to both of them. “It’s nearly two a.m. Getting some sack time, and I’ll be in midmorning.”

  I knew that Ben wouldn’t mind.

  Lorraine Moretti would have a cow.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I rolled out of bed at nine and was greeted by the mouthwatering scents of hot coffee and bacon. Taking a quick look at myself in the mirror and seeing bedhead hair and a hangover mask of crow’s feet and bloodshot eyes, I jumped in the shower and fixed my face in less than a half hour. A record for me.

  By the time I swept into the kitchen, John had whipped up a batch of scrambled eggs and bacon and toasted a couple of slices of whole wheat bread. “Good morning.”

  He smiled at me. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

  I shook my head. “Ghosts and nightmares, all night. How about you?”

  “Your couch is surprisingly comfortable.”

  He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, rolled up at the cuffs. He was adorably barefoot.

  “Where’s Tucker? You didn’t cook him, did you?”

  John jutted his jaw toward the door to the backyard. “The way he was whimpering and dancing around, I figured he needed to go out.”

  I took a quick peek out the window and saw the little guy, nose in the snow, snuffling along the back fence. “Good call.”

  He put the plates on the table. “Dig in.”

  We both sat down and started to eat. Neither of us brought the events of last night up.

  Finally, John began the conversation. “What’s your schedule look like today?”

  “First thing I’ll need to do is pick up the incident reports at the station house.”

  “Check.”

  I picked up and bit off the end of a slice of perfectly fried bacon. “Then, I want to visit Dr. Feelgood at the Armand Pain Management Clinic.”

  “Okay,” he mumbled while chewing a mouthful of eggs.

  “I still need to see if there’s a connection between Wyatt Investments and Galley Media. My boss is convinced that Galley was tipped off about the Sheffield Meridian.”

  “I’ll give you a hand with that. Do some online sleuthing.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “What else?”

  “The supervising officer at the Lockport Correctional Facility the night of Merlin Finn’s escape is missing. I think I’d like to go out there and nose around.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Not far, about half an hour if the traffic’s not bad.”

  * * *

  When we got to the police station, Mike was already on the road, so I picked up the incident reports at the front desk. While we sat in the parking area with the Mustang’s engine running and the heater cranked up, I thumbed through them.

  A smash and grab, a mugging, two DUIs, a domestic dispute, and two more ODs, both nonfatal.

  I glanced at the time on my smartphone. It was almost 10:30. I should have headed into the office, but instead I turned to John. “Let’s go see if the pain clinic is open.”

  We pulled back into the lot that served both the pharmacy and the pain clinic and immediately noticed there were more cars parked there than yesterday. People were coming and going from both doorways.

  “Same as yesterday? You wait here? I see what’s what.”

  John gave me a sour expression and reached into the inside pocket of his leather coat. He took out an envelope and handed it to me. “Take this with you. They won’t take credit cards or checks. They’ll only take ca
sh.”

  I took the envelope and peeked inside, then silently counted five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Think it will be this expensive?”

  “Nah, but you never know. Watch your back in there.”

  “Looks a little like Grand Central Station. I can’t imagine anything is going to happen. I don’t know how long I’ll be in there.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The temperature had risen since yesterday, and the gray ice that had covered the parking lot was now a sloppy sludge. I stepped out of the car, hung my bag from my shoulder, and minced across the way, trying to keep my boots from getting wet and dirty.

  Nearly every chair in the waiting room was occupied. There were at least a dozen people of all ages from early twenties to a woman who looked to be in her sixties. They were dressed in anything from blue jeans to expensive business attire. The room reminded me of the area at the pharmacy next door. Facial expressions and body language ranged from bored to anxious.

  Compared to the outside, the lobby felt uncomfortably hot and stuffy.

  I stepped up to the front counter and, expecting to see a female attendant, was slightly surprised to see a white male, dressed in dark-blue polo shirt with the Armand Pain Management logo over his heart. In his twenties, he was clean-shaven, with a full head of sand-colored hair. He studied me with deep blue eyes. He wore a name badge that said Dan. As an additional accessory, he carried a pistol in a black leather holster attached to his belt. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.” I glanced back at the crowd in the waiting room. “I was hoping to see the doctor.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No.”

  He handed me a clipboard and a short questionnaire. “Fill this out and bring it back to me.”

  I sat down in one of the few empty seats and looked at the questions. Basic stuff, it asked for name, address, and phone number and if I’d ever been afflicted with any of a short list of medical conditions. Then at the bottom of the single sheet of paper, it made certain that I knew I’d be responsible for payment at the time of the office visit. It also asked if I was qualified for either Medicaid or Medicare.

  Oh, you just know this place is scamming the federal government.