month ago.”
I lifted my phone off the bar in the salon. “I’d set it to vibrate. Looks like there are three missed calls, and two voice messages. One’s from Nick’s phone and one from a number I don’t recognize.”
Dave shook his head of thick silver-white hair and stepped inside. “Nick’s been trying to reach you. He’s at the Tiki Bar. Said he overheard, and I’m quoting here—two shit-faced carny types talking about the killing at the county fair. He said one guy, a fella who’d partaken in a wee bit more Miller beer than he should have, was telling the other guy that the word on the street, so to speak, is the death of the worker was a contract killing.”
“Are these two men still there?”
“I don’t know. Nick called me after trying your phone for the last half hour or so.”
I said nothing, the only sound coming from halyards clanking against a sailboat mast in the warm night breeze.
“What are you thinking about, Sean?”
“Dan Grant said he found some records indicating Courtney Burke has spent some time in a psych ward. I don’t know the details.”
“Could have been by court order. Her family could have institutionalized her. Regardless, it indicates some kind of mental instability.”
“Not always. Why was she locked in an asylum? We know the effect, but what was the cause. You were trained in understanding human breaking points, how to accelerate reaching them. Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it’s mental. It’s still pain, in the case of repeated sexual assaults, it’s layered pain. In my book, years of sexual abuse is physical and mental. It’s encrusted like a hot branding iron on different sections of the victim’s soul. The pain may dull, but the mark to your psyche is like a bad tattoo that blurs through time.”
“Let’s take a walk down the dock.” I turned to Max who napped on the salon sofa. “Hold down the fort. If ole Joe the cat comes near, try not to be too inhospitable.”
***
I could hear the Friday night entertainment at the Tiki Bar before Dave and I reached the end of L dock and opened the locked gate leading away from the boats. We walked around a deserted fish-cleaning station that featured a weathered and knife-scarred wooden table, stainless steel sink, and a thatched roof made from dried palm fronds tarnished in splashes of black and white pelican poop. The smell of fish scales and dried blood mixed with the drifting scent of deep-fried hushpuppies and blackened grouper coming from the bar grill.
The Tiki Bar was filling up with salty regulars and sunburned tourists, a combination that created a culture club of opposites. A solo singer wearing a Panama hat and a surfer’s shirt sat on a stool in a corner, guitar in one hand, the crowd in the other as he led them in a rousing chorus of Irish ballads and Jimmy Buffett songs. After a few drinks and sing-along songs, the drawbridges of class distinctions lowered and the yellow brick road to Margaritaville, by way of Dublin, became a festive group journey. The fishing captains swapped stories of great catches and beating storms in open waters. One middle-aged vacationer grinned and admitted how he’d love to trade places away from the predictable, the office politics—the mundane, to fish for a life of adventure. “We have half-day and full-day rates to get you started,” bellowed a gray-bearded charter captain, lifting a bottle of beer in a toast to the promise of a personal quest.
The entertainer told the crowd he was taking a short break. Kim Davis finished pouring a tall glass of dark beer and handed it to a shiny, red-faced customer wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Kim turned toward Dave as we sat down at the only two open bar stools. “Dave, did you have to round up a posse to find Sean? Nick has been more anxious than I’ve seen him in a long time.”
Dave grunted. “Sean had his phone turned down.”
“Where’s Nick?” I asked.
She glanced over my right shoulder. “Looks
I lifted my phone off the bar in the salon. “I’d set it to vibrate. Looks like there are three missed calls, and two voice messages. One’s from Nick’s phone and one from a number I don’t recognize.”
Dave shook his head of thick silver-white hair and stepped inside. “Nick’s been trying to reach you. He’s at the Tiki Bar. Said he overheard, and I’m quoting here—two shit-faced carny types talking about the killing at the county fair. He said one guy, a fella who’d partaken in a wee bit more Miller beer than he should have, was telling the other guy that the word on the street, so to speak, is the death of the worker was a contract killing.”
“Are these two men still there?”
“I don’t know. Nick called me after trying your phone for the last half hour or so.”
I said nothing, the only sound coming from halyards clanking against a sailboat mast in the warm night breeze.
“What are you thinking about, Sean?”
“Dan Grant said he found some records indicating Courtney Burke has spent some time in a psych ward. I don’t know the details.”
“Could have been by court order. Her family could have institutionalized her. Regardless, it indicates some kind of mental instability.”
“Not always. Why was she locked in an asylum? We know the effect, but what was the cause. You were trained in understanding human breaking points, how to accelerate reaching them. Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it’s mental. It’s still pain, in the case of repeated sexual assaults, it’s layered pain. In my book, years of sexual abuse is physical and mental. It’s encrusted like a hot branding iron on different sections of the victim’s soul. The pain may dull, but the mark to your psyche is like a bad tattoo that blurs through time.”
“Let’s take a walk down the dock.” I turned to Max who napped on the salon sofa. “Hold down the fort. If ole Joe the cat comes near, try not to be too inhospitable.”
***
I could hear the Friday night entertainment at the Tiki Bar before Dave and I reached the end of L dock and opened the locked gate leading away from the boats. We walked around a deserted fish-cleaning station that featured a weathered and knife-scarred wooden table, stainless steel sink, and a thatched roof made from dried palm fronds tarnished in splashes of black and white pelican poop. The smell of fish scales and dried blood mixed with the drifting scent of deep-fried hushpuppies and blackened grouper coming from the bar grill.
The Tiki Bar was filling up with salty regulars and sunburned tourists, a combination that created a culture club of opposites. A solo singer wearing a Panama hat and a surfer’s shirt sat on a stool in a corner, guitar in one hand, the crowd in the other as he led them in a rousing chorus of Irish ballads and Jimmy Buffett songs. After a few drinks and sing-along songs, the drawbridges of class distinctions lowered and the yellow brick road to Margaritaville, by way of Dublin, became a festive group journey. The fishing captains swapped stories of great catches and beating storms in open waters. One middle-aged vacationer grinned and admitted how he’d love to trade places away from the predictable, the office politics—the mundane, to fish for a life of adventure. “We have half-day and full-day rates to get you started,” bellowed a gray-bearded charter captain, lifting a bottle of beer in a toast to the promise of a personal quest.
The entertainer told the crowd he was taking a short break. Kim Davis finished pouring a tall glass of dark beer and handed it to a shiny, red-faced customer wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Kim turned toward Dave as we sat down at the only two open bar stools. “Dave, did you have to round up a posse to find Sean? Nick has been more anxious than I’ve seen him in a long time.”
Dave grunted. “Sean had his phone turned down.”
“Where’s Nick?” I asked.
She glanced over my right shoulder. “Looks
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