resting on the shore of Anna Maria Island, just inside the southern lip of the bay. A small seawall and narrow ribbon of white-sand beach…”
Agent Mahoney didn’t realize he was talking to himself, which meant off the meds.
“… Behind the motel stands a short, weathered fishing pier- also called the Rod and Reel-and at the end sits a small, boxlike, two-story wooden building. Run-down, in the good way. Its top floor houses a casual seafood restaurant. The bottom sells live shrimp from large, aerated tanks giving off that unmistakably salty bait-shop funk. Inside is a cozy, rustic bar. The doors stay open. And through the great tidal surges at the mouth of Tampa Bay come some of the largest fish in the world. Without this knowledge, it seems improbable that from the tiny pier, just a few swimming yards from shore, on June 28, 1975, a then-record 1,386-pound hammerhead shark was landed. The jaws used to hang on a plaque in the bar, but now they’re at a museum up the street…”
Mahoney sat on the wraparound deck behind the bar, the only person in a tweed coat and rumpled fedora.
He wasn’t shark fishing.
Wasn’t fishing at all, even though he had a pole and a line in the water. It was therapy. He was dangling for the natural approach because, like Serge, he found medication to be a thick glass wall between him and Florida. Mahoney removed his hat and relaxed on a splintered bench, casting his line again without design. “… And pelicans floated down by the pilings, hoping for toss-aways, as I absentmindedly bobbed my pole and scanned the wide, soothing view over water. Sunshine Skyway bridge in the distance, and Egmont Key in the middle of the mouth. The 1858 lighthouse still stood, but defensive fortifications from the Spanish-American War lay in ruins…”
Mahoney let a smile escape. Heart rate at a six-month low. His decade-long clinical obsession tracking Serge appeared to have gone latent. The detective was on indefinite sabbatical, with an open-ended reservation for room 3 of the Rod and Reel Motel.
DO NOT DISTURB.
“… The sun tacked high at the hottest part of the day, and I retired to the bar. A trough of iced-down longnecks had my name. Nautical maps, oscillating fan, TV on a Weather Channel tornado report with overturned cars. Lacquered into the countertop were yellowed newspaper photos of anglers posing with catches…”
Mahoney chewed his toothpick and thumbed a morning paper. He reached the State section and read a lengthy wire report of the since-dubbed Spring Break Massacre in Panama City Beach. The toothpick went in the trash.
“So they threw the midget off the balcony,” he said ruefully. “Isn’t that how it always starts?”
A cell phone rang.
“Mahoney. Speak to me.”
“Mahoney? This is Agent Ramirez with the bureau.”
“To what do I owe the federal pleasure?”
“Just read your psychology article on profiling. Good stuff.”
“You must have a very old pile of magazines.”
“Found it on a computer search.”
“Search for what?”
“Serge.”
Mahoney winced.
“Hear what happened in Panama City?” asked Ramirez.
“Nasty business. Must have your hands full.”
“Interviewed all the guests and staff-almost everyone came up clean.”
“Almost?”
“One guy whose name wasn’t in the registration book turned up on a number of surveillance tapes around the same time. Our database got a six-point facial recognition match.”
“You’re not looking for Serge,” said Mahoney. “This isn’t his signature. Innocent kids, and he likes to get complex.”
“He was staying on the same floor at the same time. Then I saw his file…”-Ramirez whistled-“… subject of interest in at least two dozen homicides.”
“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree to bark at.”
“Still a coincidence we can’t ignore.”
“Anything from your credit card check?”
“What credit card check?”
“On the son of your protected witness.”
Silence.
“Hello?” said Mahoney. “You still there?”
“How’d you know?”
“Did the math. Pro hit, spring break, your job specialty. Adds up to trouble.”
“Card dead-ends at the Panama City motel. Hasn’t been used since, but he did pawn his class ring in Daytona. Tracked down his motel there-another uncanny coincidence.”
“Serge on security cameras?”
“And two more bodies.”
“Kids?”
“No, pros. Weird murders.”
“That’s more like Serge.”
“I need your help,” said Ramirez. “Anything you got on him.”
“You don’t have that much storage space.”
“Then just the latest. Here’s my e-mail…”
Mahoney jotted it down.
“One more thing,” said Ramirez. “Nobody else can know we talked or what you send me.”
“Informant?”
“You’re as good as I’d heard,” said Ramirez. “Someone else was asking around at the pawnshop before I got there.”
“Serge?”
“Don’t know. But the APB that turned up the sale of the class ring was for law enforcement eyes only.”
“That’s a rodent smell, all right.”
“Can I count on you?”
“Like blackjack.”
Agent Mahoney strolled off the pier and returned to his room. A vintage alligator briefcase sat on the dresser. Mahoney considered it for the longest time. Doubt. But he’d given Ramirez his word.
“I know I’m going to regret this…”
He flipped brass latches. Out came a laptop. He opened it and located a dedicated folder for Serge. The first item was a scanned Christmas message. The next two were digitized videos of commencement addresses-one at least a decade old from the University of South Florida, the other more recent. Mahoney involuntarily chuckled at the thought of the second. He’d practically fallen out of his chair when it first came in. Of all things, Serge delivering the graduation address at a kindergarten.
The agent attached them, plus lengthy data files, and sent the whole batch to Ramirez’s e-mail.
Then another long look at the gator-skin case. He reached in a back pocket and removed the original copy of the Christmas message: a greeting card with a barefoot Santa lying against a palm tree on the beach. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with single-spaced typing. Mahoney sat on the edge of the bed, slipped on bifocals and began reading…
