Abby gasped. “Dirk? You think Dirk could be guilty of...this? Of...of anything?” she asked.
Malachi caught her arm and walked her down the dock toward the street. “Ms. Anderson, as I told you, the first thing I did this morning was meet with my friend, David Caswell. And I discovered several things about the deaths. The victims had marks at their wrists that indicated they’d been bound, probably with heavy rope, according to the medical examiner. They all showed signs of blunt force trauma. In other words, they were hit on the head. But in all three cases, the actual cause of death was drowning. So, Ms. Anderson, it looks as if they were held captive, knocked out—and then forced into the water. Water...hmm. That could mean a ship. Look at it this way. They’d been bound and—metaphorically, at least—forced to walk the plank. That kind of implies a ‘pirate’ might have wanted them dead, or they might have met their end off the deck of a pirate ship.”
Abby stared at him. “Oh, no! All right—maybe. But they could’ve gone off a rowboat or...or an oil tanker just as easily.”
“Yes,” Malachi said, “they could have. But how likely is that?”
She shook her head. “I’ve known Dirk most of my life. This is his livelihood. Why would he suddenly go insane and start killing people off his ship—especially without any of us seeing a change in him?”
“No one ever really knows another human being,” Malachi said simply.
“Oh, I think I would’ve noticed bodies popping up in my city over the years!”
“People sometimes crack, Ms. Anderson. Strain, pressure. All the same, no one completely understands the human brain. It’s the most wonderful computer in the world—but just like a computer it can short-circuit. And I didn’t say your friend was the killer. I merely thought it prudent to investigate. Under the circumstances.”
“And you knew I was on that ship.”
“I’m not trying to fight you, Ms. Anderson. I’m not trying to go against you. Look!” he said with exasperation. “I’m here because you wrote to Jackson Crow. I’m here to help you.”
“If you’re going to stalk me, you can quit calling me Ms. Anderson. It’s Abby,” she said. “And—”
She broke off suddenly, blue eyes growing large as saucers as she stared past him.
“Abby?” he said.
She didn’t respond. She was still staring.
“Helen?” she whispered, her voice thick.
Malachi spun around to see where she was pointing.
She was looking at the water, to the far side of the dock. They’d done a good job in the past years, cleaning up the river, but it was impossible to stop a certain amount of natural growth and unnatural garbage from cresting the water and drifting up against the embankment.
There was sea grass or fungus, a plastic soda bottle someone had tossed away and a few cigarette butts. Oil slick covered the water right at the docks, creating little curlicues of blue and purple on the water.
And caught there, just by one of the pilings for the dock, was a body.
Facedown, it appeared to be a woman—long strands of river-sodden hair fanned out from the head. And it appeared that she’d just washed up.
On the slim chance that she might be alive, Malachi took his phone out of his pocket and let it fall on the deck before he dove into the river. Surfacing by the body, he quickly turned her over.
It was indeed a woman. That was all he could really tell as he looked at her face.
And she was dead. River life had already been eating at her flesh. The tip of her nose was gone and her flesh was icy cold and a grotesque shade of gray.
He looked up the five or six feet from the water to where Abby stood on the dock. She was almost as gray as the corpse.
“Call 9-1-1,” he told her.
Despite her pallor, she was functioning. “I already did.”
“Is it Helen?” he asked her.
“I wouldn’t begin to know,” she said, “she doesn’t even look...real.”
An hour later, the corpse was in an ambulance bound for the morgue, crime scene techs were scouring the water and the embankment, and police divers had been dispatched to see if any evidence might remain in the water. Shaken, Dirk had canceled his afternoon and evening pirate cruises, rescheduling or refunding the money of those who’d bought tickets. Abby sat with Malachi Gordon—who had cast off all vestiges of a costume—at a desk in police headquarters.
She liked Malachi’s former partner from the get-go.
David Caswell’s desk was surrounded by others. There was a fair amount of activity at the station. A hooker was arguing with her arresting officer and two other cops were trying to deal with a junkie on a bad trip.
David had arrived at the dock soon after the initial response team had cordoned off the area and plucked Malachi and the corpse from the water. About six-one, sandy-haired, green-eyed, he was serious without being somber, smart and probing without being aggressive or demanding. Abby thought he had to be in his early thirties. He spoke with a slow, smooth Southern accent that matched his steadfast but easy manner.
Maybe he didn’t have to be demanding; he knew he’d get a straight story from Malachi, no matter what the story—and there really wasn’t much of it.
“Your statements are being typed up. You can sign them and get out of here for now,” Caswell told them. “I figure you want to attend the autopsy?” he asked Malachi.
Malachi, hands clasped in front of him, nodded.
“It’ll be scheduled for later today. I’ll call you when I know the exact time. Before I let you go, can we run through what happened? Ms. Anderson...” He paused, looking at Abby, and smiled. “Or is it Agent Anderson?”
She smiled. “I just realized it is. Agent Anderson. I am official. But please call me Abby.”
“Okay, Abby. So you were working on your friend’s pirate boat because his usual actress is the young lady reported as missing. Helen Long.” He studied her. It wasn’t that costumes and pageantry didn’t abound in Savannah. But it could also be a very conservative, old Southern city. She was hardly dressed as a respectable young local in her plumed hat, frock coat, breeches and boots.
“Yes, I was being his wench for today. He’s very upset. Dirk is a great employer. He provides sleeping space when his people need it. He takes on part-time help so his employees can go to school if they choose. He really cares about Helen,” Abby said.
“But...he couldn’t say that the girl we found in the water was Helen, right?”
“No. I couldn’t tell you, either,” Abby added. “And I knew her. I’d met her several times,” she said. “I don’t think it was Helen. But I can’t be sure. The body...” Her voice trailed off. She had to be better about things like this; she’d been through an autopsy, for God’s sake. She’d passed the academy with flying colors.
“Hey,” Malachi said, looking over at her. “No matter how long you chase the bad guys, death can still tear you up. And if you get to where it doesn’t...then you need to reassess what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, thanks,” she said huskily.
“So you were working on the ship, the ship came back in to berth, you were walking down the dock and you just happened to stop and see the body,” Caswell said.
“I was behind her. I’d called out to her,” Malachi explained. “It was while we were standing there talking that Abby saw the body and...”
“And you dove in,” Caswell finished.
Malachi raised his hands. “We could only see her from the top. She was facedown, but the pirate ship and some small boats had just come in, so—I doubted it—but...she might have been alive. Better to try than to find out you might have saved someone.”
“Always,” David murmured. “Now...this may change things,” he said, leaning toward them. “The powers that be wanted to handle the situation on their own, but now with another murder...I think they’ll ask for federal help, if you want to give the right people a heads-up.”
Malachi nodded in acknowledgment. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“When you sign the statements, I’ll give you a copy of the notes I’ve compiled. Then do me a favor and get out of here. I don’t want any resentment if we do go official—or if we don’t. You know how cops can be—I don’t want them to think the feds were snooping around before they were asked in. Some officers take it to mean they’re being judged, that they weren’t considered competent at their jobs and therefore the federal government had to step in. It’s not conducive to constructive work and everyone does need to work together.”
