The Water Keeper(79)

He scratched his white beard and followed Summer.





Chapter 35


The man walked south and east around the remainder of the boardwalk, attempting to look casual, but his route was anything but happenstance. He dictated where the dog went. Not the other way around. He also stood and waited in the shadows several times, watching crowds of people. Especially women. Maybe he was guilty of people-watching and nothing more. Maybe he was an introvert.

I knew better. His method was textbook. Near 11:00 p.m., he grabbed some takeout and returned to a weekly efficiency rental on the water where he watched a soccer game with dinner on his lap.

Summer had changed and was waiting on me at the poolside bar. A guy with a guitar stood at a microphone singing ballad covers. Pretty good too. When I sat, relief drained into her face.

She said the guy with the dog had been kind, not pushy, and did finally get around to the “are you alone” question. But he got to it by making a statement about himself rather than asking directly. “I been alone for twenty years,” he said, with the same forlorn look across the water, allowing her to agree with him and offer her understanding. He followed with, “No fun, is it?” She’d shaken her head. He then offered to take her on a moonlit cruise the following night. Said it’d be him and several friends. He had an old sailboat. They would grill fish. Be back around one or so. She had thanked him and said she’d think about it.

I wasn’t sure. Either about him or going through with it. Having watched Summer use herself and her body as bait, I discovered I didn’t like it. I wished I hadn’t done it. She saw me waffling and lifted her hand. “I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon. Or evening. Maybe last minute. After I’ve had time to think about it.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t sold.

When I returned to my room, Clay was standing in the shadows waiting on me. From his vantage point, he could see Summer and Ellie’s rooms. Gunner lay at his feet. He said, “Mr. Murphy?”

I turned and we watched as Summer closed her door.

He continued, “I know that man.” He motioned toward the boardwalk. “The one with the dog.”

“How so?”

He showed me a picture of the man, taken up close. From just a few feet away.

Both the presence and the perspective of the picture meant that Clay had gotten close. “You take this?”

“I’m not quite as old as you think I am.”

The picture had been taken through a crowd of people, slightly tilted, but showed his face and, more importantly, the tattoo on his left arm. Clay expanded the picture. “When I was working on the boat, he brought girls there. Only to. Never from. He used several boats, and he never looked the same twice. His face would change. Costumes and such.”

“You sure?”

He tapped the picture. “He can change his face, but it’s a little tougher to change a tattoo. And—” He paused. “I’ve got some experience with evil men.” He closed the picture and put the phone in his shirt pocket. “He’s evil. A heart black as crude oil.”

I woke two hours before daylight and was standing in the shadows studying his efficiency when his light flashed on. I smelled coffee brewing, and then he appeared. This time there was no dog. He was wearing a striped jogging suit and, oddly enough, no beard. He was bald. And when he turned to walk away, I saw a tattoo crawling up his neck. He moved quickly, more catlike, toward a parking garage, hopped into a turbocharged Carrera, and disappeared north.

His exit left me with one impression. I didn’t know who he was, only that he wasn’t who, or what, he seemed. I dialed Colorado. When he answered, he sounded out of breath. “You’ve been quiet a few days.”

“Not much to report. Check your phone. I just texted you a license tag. Need you to run it. Quickly.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

I was quiet a minute. “I’m worried we’ve missed our window.”

He heard my tone of voice and didn’t need to say more. “Let me run the plate.” He paused a second but didn’t hang up. Purposefully. His voice had softened. Like what he had to say hurt more than the rest. “And, Murph?”

“Yeah.”

“Check out the convent.”

There was more there. “What are you not telling me?”

The line went dead.

I returned to the boardwalk and the efficiency. I found the breaker to his room and cut the power. If he had monitoring electronics, I didn’t want them recording me as I let myself in. The dog met me at the door, sniffed me, and rolled over onto his back. The room was sparse. A suitcase. Clothes neatly folded. No booze. No drugs. Bed made. A sweaty towel hanging in the bathroom, probably from a morning workout. In the closet hung three separate changes of clothes. Each different. One striped suit. Black patent leather shoes. One pair of jeans. Running shoes. White linen shirt. One pair of tattered shorts. Hawaiian shirt. Flip-flops. On the bathroom counter sat three wigs and various types of makeup. A finished crossword puzzle—and the handwriting was excessively neat. Printed.

The kitchen was empty. Nothing in the fridge. No food in the pantry save a bag of dog food. A single leash hung on the wall. Oddly, there was a handwritten grocery list stuck to the fridge door, but he had yet to collect the items. The kitchen ceiling was made up of transparent tiles with fluorescent lights above. A cigar humidor sat on the counter. Fifty or so Cubans. And, curiously, a brass Zippo lighter. The lone kitchen chair sat away from the table. Not really at the table or the counter. Like it had been used but not to sit on.