The Night Is Alive

13

Aldous walked with a determined pace, apparently oblivious, careless of whether anyone watched him or not. He seemed to have purpose and went straight from the Dragonslayer to River Street.

Malachi kept a careful distance as Aldous walked along the river and stopped at the private dock where the Lady Luck was docked.

He used his owner’s key in the slot, as well as his code, to gain entry and only then did he turn around to see who else was nearby. Malachi had ducked behind a handy SUV.

It was still early; people were out in droves. That seemed to please Aldous. He walked onto his yacht, whistling.

Malachi waited to see if he intended to take the vessel out.

He couldn’t tell; Aldous went down into the cabin.

Malachi put a call through to Jackson. Before he could explain what was happening, Jackson sprang some information on him. “They’ve identified the rowboat we brought in last night.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s from the Lafayette—a merchant ship.”

“How did she wind up in the water?”

“No one knows. But we didn’t need a warrant. The captain assured us we could search the ship and of course we did. He also told us she’d already been searched. The cops have been on almost every ship, boat and floating anything on the water.”

“And nothing? So it was just an unconnected accident?”

“Not really. The Lafayette is owned by a giant parent company, and the CEO happens to be one of the Dragonslayer’s main barflies.”

“Aldous Brentwood?”

“Yeah. That’s why it was searched the first time.”

“I’m on the riverfront watching him now. He just went out to his private yacht, the Lady Luck. He locked the gate behind him. I’m going in.”

“Malachi, hold on. There are officers near you. I can be there—”

“I’m taking a dive, Jackson. If he does have her on that yacht, he’s torturing her right now. Get here as fast as you can.”

He hung up before Jackson could argue, then he moved to a public area, shed his jacket and shoes and dove in. He swam around hard and fast to the Lady Luck and caught hold of the mooring rope to swing himself up on deck.

Aldous was nowhere in sight. Malachi tiptoed around the deck to look down into the cabin, but it was a large one and his view was blocked. He had to take the steps.

The yacht was luxurious. The steps led to a galley and dining area, with a captain’s chair and all kinds of electronic gadgets to the left.

Still no sign of Aldous. There was a hallway that stretched toward the aft. He followed it, then quietly opened the first door. The room was a head, complete with shower. The second door opened to an elegantly appointed cabin. Empty. He tried the door across from it. Also empty.

One cabin remained. The master storeroom. He strode the last two feet down the hallway and listened. Logic told him that no woman could be captive there—unless she was dead. If she’d cried out at any time, she’d have been heard by someone on a nearby boat or even someone walking on River Street.

Tap, tap, tap.

Helen’s words still haunted him.

There was no tapping, just the rhythmic lap of water against the hull. He could hear a band playing at a riverfront club, but that wasn’t the noise he was listening for.

He heard the cabin door opening; he skirted back, sliding into the head, cracking the door slightly.

Aldous Brentwood walked down the hallway and went topside. Malachi couldn’t see him, but it sounded as if he’d hopped back onto the dock. He waited a moment longer and hurried down the hall to the aft.

He threw open the cabin door.

Abby stood still, wondering if she was really seeing what she thought she was. Maybe she wanted to see Blue so badly she’d envisioned him there.

But Malachi saw Blue. In fact, Blue had spoken to him.

And now, he’d actually spoken to her.

“Blue.” She said his name, wondering if he’d disappear. But the image remained. The spirit of the man she’d seen for the first time, years and years ago, when she and her grandparents and the Dragonslayer had been in danger.

He had led her to Gus; he had led her to save Helen.

She walked closer, but not too close.

“You helped me,” she told him.

He inclined his head. “Of course, but there is little I can do when no one sees. You see. Quite remarkable, Miss Abigail,” he said. His voice was like a dry wind. He didn’t speak often, she thought. She suspected it wasn’t easy for him.

“Did you see Gus...die?” she asked him. “And Helen—how did you know? What have you seen? We need your help again, Blue—we so desperately need your help.”

He shook his head and in that motion he seemed to impart great sadness.

“I came upon Gus. I tried to keep watch after I realized someone had opened the grate and knew about the exit by the riverbank. I was too late to realize that the Dragonslayer was being used. I was too late with Gus—but I began watching, walking a vigil around the Dragonslayer, up and down the tunnel, out to the river. I saw—from a distance—something. There was nothing I could do, no boat I could take. But you followed me, and the woman lived.”

She nodded. Hoping he’d be able to give her a name had probably been too optimistic.

“You’re still keeping watch,” she said. “And you saw someone approach the Dragonslayer last night in the middle of the night, when we were out. You scared that person, Blue. You made him leave.”

“I tried to see who it was. He left too quickly.” Blue moved with a flourish of his frock coat; he was evidently indignant. “He wore a cape as I sometimes wore. He pretends to be me!” He looked as if he’d say more, as if he’d unleash a spate of curses but determined not to—not with a great-great-whatever niece standing there. He waved a hand in the air. “The young gentlemen pretend to be me in your theatricals, but I find that quite charming. I appear heroic and honorable, do I not?”

“Very honorable,” Abby assured him.

“To be depicted so is palatable. For a killer such as this coward to take on my persona—that is beyond despicable. To torment and slay young women as he does... This is a monster. A monster, Abigail, and I will help you in every way that I can.”

“Thank you,” she said. “We need you.”

He nodded. “I continue to keep watch here. I watch over you as you sleep. I am here, in this hall, or below.” It sounded as if he attempted to clear his throat. “Times have changed, of course. And yet heinous murder remains heinous murder. And few people are so cruel and brutal as this...this piece of human refuse.”

He seemed to be fading.

“Blue,” she called out. “Why have you never spoken to me before?”

“Because there was no need,” he said. “You knew I was here. And you followed me each time, as I prayed you would. I...I need to rest now. This is...difficult for me. Perhaps one learns... Still, throughout the years, there are not so many who can see me, and fewer still who hear me. But, Abby, I am with you.”

Except, as he spoke the last words, he wasn’t. He disappeared as if he’d never been there.

Abby realized she was shaking.

She sat down on the chair in front of the computer screens. She gazed at them for a moment, her mind strangely blank and her hands still trembling. She clenched them into loose fists.

The screens showed her that Sullivan remained behind the bar, Macy chatted with customers, Bootsie raised a beer to his lips.

Will Chan sat and watched.

In the dining room, Paul and Roger were still at the table. Paul was speaking earnestly to Roger; Roger nodded and kept drinking.

He was going to play an interesting Blue the following day if he didn’t stop.

She left the computer screens, knowing that someone at the house on Chippewa was always watching them. By the time she came downstairs, Bootsie and Will were gone. Sullivan worked behind the bar, putting away glasses.

Macy was off-duty, and Grant Green had taken her position at the host stand.

“Hey, girl,” Grant said to her. “I’m glad you’re here. You getting any rest?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Abby said.

“No luck on the missing girl, huh?”

“Not yet.”

He leaned toward her. “I’m having the waitress bring a check to Paul and Roger. I’m pretty sure Paul wants to get Roger out of here. At least the two of them won’t be driving.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Abby said.

“It’s all right to...hurry them out?”

“Grant, yes of course. You’re the manager. You can and should refuse to sell to anyone who appears inebriated. That includes my high school friends.”

He smiled. “Thanks. It’s just kind of... Well, we’re entering a new era at the Dragonslayer. We all need to adjust.”

She refrained from telling him that, at the moment, the running of the tavern was the last of her concerns.

“But you know what? I’m here. I’ll take care of this,” she told him.

She walked over to the table where Paul and Roger were still sitting. She slid in next to Roger and took his hands. “Look at me, Roger.”

When he did, she said, “You’re going home now. Go to bed and get some sleep. We’re doing the pirate show for the crowd tomorrow. I need you to be in good shape. You and Paul. I’m not an actor. I can only do it because I grew up here—and because I have the two of you. Okay?”

He smiled at her a little blearily. “Yeah, you know about Missy Tweed, don’t you?”

“She was ransomed,” Abby said.

“But she fell in love with Blue. She wanted to stay with him. He did save her—he came back to his ship to find that bastard, Scurvy Pete, trying to attack her. Scurvy Pete told him she was a captive and they were pirates and he was being a fool. So Missy thought Blue was her savior. Of course, Blue had seized her off her father’s ship, but that didn’t stop Missy from loving him. He was a businessman, Abby. Blue was a businessman. He only attacked ships that belonged to England’s enemies. He took her off her father’s ship when he saved the crew because the ship had been caught in a storm and wrecked and began sinking. So...Blue actually saved Missy twice,” he concluded.

“It’s a great story, Roger. And we’ll do it well tomorrow. If you go home now.”

Paul looked at her with gratitude. “Come on, Roger. I’ll get you home.”

Paul helped him up and they left together, arm in arm. As Abby watched, a man in a colorful tourist shirt rose from his table and followed.

Abby smiled. The police were at work; she knew the man had to be a plainclothes officer, doing his job.

Following Roger English.

“I busted into an empty cabin,” Malachi told Jackson. “And I’m afraid I dripped water all over that beautiful yacht. But I did find this.”

He hadn’t heard anything in the cabin and hadn’t really expected to find Bianca Salzburg. If she’d been there, she would’ve made some sound—unless she’d been gagged and Helen hadn’t said anything about being gagged, just blindfolded.

So, no Bianca. But what he had found was more than a little suspicious.

Maybe not under normal circumstances. But under these circumstances...

He handed Jackson the scarf. It was a large pirate-themed scarf, the kind that was sold all over the city. It had been crumpled and kicked half under the bed. He wondered if it was used as a blindfold by someone.

Aldous?

The man was big and burly. He looked like a pirate. He was rich. He owned ships and a private yacht. He was in the prime of his health.

“Where did he go when he left here?” Malachi asked, sitting on a bench to get his shoes back on as they spoke.

“He was followed to his house. There’s an officer outside now,” Jackson said.

“Did they get anything off that partial gum wrapper?”

“Testing isn’t in yet.”

Malachi nodded. Fingerprints, if there were any, weren’t necessarily easy to match, since they might not be in any law enforcement database.

Malachi stared out at the river. One of the big paddle wheelers was going by; the music and laughter traveled all the way to shore.

People looked at him curiously as they passed. On the riverfront, it was growing late. But tourists, in smaller numbers, were still passing by. The news of a missing woman—and the murders—was surely disconcerting to them. But if they traveled as couples or in groups, the horror was removed. They could sympathize, but this wasn’t their home, and it wasn’t their friend, lover or child who’d been killed or was missing.

No person could embrace every tragedy. It would make life unbearable.

There was nothing Malachi could see on the river. Not then.

“I guess I’ll call it a night.” He turned to Jackson. “They’ll watch him through the night?”

“There’ll be a man on his house at all times,” Jackson said.

Malachi nodded. “Good.” Then he frowned, shaking his head. “Jackson, something is bothering me. Helen talked about a sound. Tap, tap, tap. Does that mean anything to you?”

Jackson looked tired. “They weren’t taken by the ghosts of Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly,” he said. “Tap, tap, tap. I don’t know. I’ll try to think of things that could make that kind of sound. And I’ll see that the whole team is aware.”

“It’s hard,” Malachi said. “Situations like this always are. But,” he admitted, “it’s better when you work with others—the right others.”

Jackson managed a smile. “So, you’re in? As more than a consultant?”

Only if we find Bianca alive, Malachi thought.

“Assuming we solve this,” he said.

“We’ll solve it,” Jackson vowed. “We have to. And we will. We have a perfect record so far.”

They left the riverfront together, parting ways on Bay Street. Jackson had brought his car and Malachi didn’t want a ride for the few blocks to the Dragonslayer. He could dry off enough walking back, then he’d slink up the stairs before anyone noticed him.

The Dragonslayer was still open when he returned, but he didn’t pause to speak to anyone; he just started up the stairs. Grant, at the host stand, saw him and waved, and he waved back. None of the barflies was present, nor did he recognize anyone at the tables.

When he entered the apartment, Abby came rushing over to him and threw herself into his arms.

“I can’t wait to tell you what happened!” she said excitedly before drawing back. “Ugh. You’re all wet!”

“I went swimming,” Malachi said. He was sorry the moment he said the words. Hope sprang into her eyes.

“You found Bianca?” she asked excitedly.

“No. I dove into the river to get to Aldous’s yacht.” He inhaled. “Abby, the rowboat Roger saw on the river—it belonged to a ship owned by one of Aldous’s companies. The police searched the ship, welcomed by the captain.”

“Does that prove anything?” she asked. “Other than that a rowboat from a big ship broke away?”

“Maybe that’s all it is. But I also found a scarf on his yacht that might...that might’ve been used as a blindfold.”

“Might have been used as a blindfold. And that would hold up in court?” she asked.

“Abby, we’re searching for a killer. We’re not in court. We’re trying to find a young woman while she’s still alive.”

Abby let out a breath. “I know,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Nothing’s been proven—we’re watching Aldous, Dirk, Roger, among others—and keeping an eye on Bootsie, of course.”

“He’s seventy!”

Malachi nodded. “But we have to watch everyone, Abby. Everyone who was familiar with Gus—and the Dragonslayer,” he went on. “Gus knew something because of what he’d seen here. There’s no way out of that. Don’t forget he found one victim’s finger.”

She nodded again. She looked deflated but seemed to have accepted the truth. “So much time is going by. Bianca doesn’t stand much of a chance, does she?”

“She’s strong and resilient. She may be playing it just right,” Malachi said. “He wants a captive who will fall in love with him. He’s trying to live out a fantasy.”

“If he doesn’t give himself away somehow, we’ll never find him,” Abby muttered.

“We will,” Malachi said with assurance. “He was afraid when he came to the Dragonslayer the other night. Why he came when he did, I don’t know. Maybe just to prove that he could.”

“The only people with keys are—”

Malachi interrupted her. “How closely did Gus watch his keys around his friends?” he asked.

She pursed her lips and then sighed. “He kept his keys on a hook behind the bar,” she said. “I guess anyone could have borrowed them and had copies made.”

“Anyone who knew how casual he was with them.”

“But the grate to the tunnel—”

“Was opened by someone who knew the combination.”

“At least we have a new lock—with a new combination.” She frowned. “But if we’re sure it was one of those three, why don’t the police just bring them all in?”

“I believe they’ll bring Aldous in for questioning tomorrow. We’re trying to be very careful. We don’t want to catch him but lose Bianca.”

“Of course.”

She stood there, dejected again, raven’s wing hair like a mourning cape around her slumped shoulders.

He walked over to her. “You were going to tell me something,” he reminded her. He started to embrace her, remembered he was still soaked and stepped back. “What? What was it you were going to tell me?”

“Blue,” she said. “Blue was in here, right after I talked to you on the phone. He spoke to me. He had a real conversation with me. But even though he’s been haunting the tavern for years, he’s not good at drawing whatever energy he needs to speak. I’d hoped so badly that he knew something. But, like you’ve said, ghosts or spirits seem to be the same as we are. They aren’t omniscient. They only know what they’ve seen. He didn’t see what happened. He just knew that the tunnel was being used. But he promised me he’s watching now.”

Malachi touched her hair, brushing his fingers down the silky length of it. “Blue is your ancestor,” he said. “It’s you he cares about.”

“He must have cared deeply about Gus. And the others who came before Gus and me.”

“I’m sure he did, but you’re his focus now. He’ll do anything to protect you—and the Dragonslayer.” He stepped back. “I’ll get in the shower.”

He left her in the living room and walked down the apartment hallway to the bedroom, shedding his wet clothes. He went into her bathroom; the Dragonslayer might be old, but Gus had had the bathrooms modernized. The faucet released a hard spray of steaming hot water.

He let it pound down on him, just standing there for several minutes.

And then he felt her. She’d stepped in behind him. She held the soap in her hand and worked it slowly over his body.

A shower can clear the mind....

In a radiant spray of heat he became lost in the sheer sensual pleasure of being with this extraordinary woman while the water pulsed, hot and vibrant, searing into his muscles.

They more or less made love. They teased and aroused, and teased and aroused again as they left the shower and halfway dried themselves, then fell into bed together.

Being together like this was sweeter every time. There was nothing arbitrary about it, nothing that didn’t seem to offer promise, nothing that brought back the pain of memory and the past.

He’d never really thought it possible. He was falling in love again.

Abby had never really liked playing Missy Tweed. To her mind, Missy had been an idiot. History said she’d fallen in love with Blue Anderson and that she’d cried when she was returned to her father. She disappeared into history after that, but Abby always felt she’d probably been a spoiled teenager and that, once home, she’d simply fallen in love again.

But here she was...playing Missy Tweed.

Paul, as Scurvy Pete, stood beside her on the platform. Roger, sober and seriously in “Blue” mode, was wearing his pirate best. They’d drawn a huge crowd; the little reenactments and the way the players talked and related tidbits of history were well documented and well-known, a high point in most tour books for their area.

Will Chan had taken on the role of narrator that day, dressed as a swashbuckling pirate himself. He talked first about the history of the city of Savannah and the early days of piracy. He told the crowd that pirates had found their way into coastal cities, often snubbing their noses at a royal governor and whatever military or local law might be in effect.

He told the story of Blue as if he’d been a true gentleman with the people of Savannah.

And then he told the story of the floundering of Missy Tweed’s ship and how the crew had been saved—and the damsel taken for a fair ransom. Blue believed that asking a ransom for Missy was well within the law; after all, he’d saved the lives of an entire crew. And if asking for the ransom wasn’t quite within the law, then so be it. He would still be paid. However, on his ship, every man knew that captives were not to be molested or harmed.

But Scurvy Pete had brought his own pirate ship flush with Blue’s; he’d wanted in on the action. And when he’d seen the delectable Missy, he’d wanted much more. Thus began the drama that the crowd was about to witness.

With a flourish, Will left the makeshift stage. Abby dutifully let out the scream of distress, which brought the pirates to action, Scurvy Pete accusing Blue of being less than a man and a blot on the rugged truth of piracy. Blue, in turn, ridiculed Scurvy Pete, telling him he was due to swing from a yardarm, that he wasn’t just a blot on piracy but a blot on the entire human race.

Abby could see that the rest of the Krewe who were in Savannah were scattered through the crowd. They were there because their suspects were there, except for Dirk, who was out on the Black Swan. Dirk was not alone, although he undoubtedly thought he was. A plainclothes policeman was on board; Abby knew that Jackson and Malachi both believed they were drawing close to a resolution and that everyone needed to be watched.

“You fool! I will have your captive, and I will return the lass as I see fit!” Paul told Roger. “You will fall beneath my steel!”

“One day I’ll fall, but I will fall to the law on the high seas and not to the likes of you, Scurvy Pete!” Roger said. “I will go with my ship—and not with the dregs of the sea!”

“To the death, Blue Anderson! To the death!” Paul bellowed, and the two began to thrust and parry with their swords, to the delight of the crowd.

Abby screamed appropriately—like a girl—and fell back. Will Chan came to slip his arms around her and help her from the stage so the sword battle could continue.

The two men were very good at what they did. The crowd grew, with everyone entranced. Finally, Blue caught Scurvy Pete with a fatal blow.

Paul died, emoting dramatically. Will took to the stage again to do a follow-up, and then the crowd broke into applause.

Abby was immediately besieged by a number of children in the audience. She posed for pictures with them and answered what questions she could about Savannah and piracy.

She looked up at one point, aware that she was being watched. Malachi had been waiting for her to notice him.

She made her way through the crowd to approach him.

“I’m heading to the station. They’ve just brought Aldous in,” he said quietly.

She felt her heart sink. “All right. I’ll join you there soon.”

“Don’t worry. Jackson and I will question him. David will go in and out. We’ll find out where he’s hiding Bianca.”

“You’re sure it’s him?” she asked.

“No, but the evidence points to him.”

“Do they have anything definitive?”

Malachi nodded. “DNA on the scarf I found on his yacht,” he told her.

“DNA?”

“From tears,” Malachi said. “The scarf was around the eyes of Felicia Shepherd at some point before she was killed. They were able to extract DNA and it matched Felicia’s.”

Malachi had to hand it to Aldous. When he’d first been brought in, accused of the murder, he’d been belligerent and angry. Then he’d look incredulous.

Now, he looked scared.

“You want to take it for a few minutes?” Jackson asked Malachi, who’d been observing the interrogation. “David thinks we can handle this better than he can.”

“Sure.”

Malachi walked into the room. Aldous Brentwood raised his head; he was pale. His bald head gleamed in the bright light overhead, his gold earring glittering.

“You,” Aldous muttered. He shook his head as if in disgust.

“Aldous, you shouldn’t be aggravated with me. I didn’t want to think you could be guilty of something like this.”

“I’m not!”

“One of your rowboats was found out on the river. Forensic teams are going over it now. I believe we’re going to find some organic matter that will prove the boat was used to dump the bodies of those who were killed.”

Aldous leaned toward him. “I’m not stupid, Agent Gordon. You can’t prove I ever had that rowboat. I own the ship, yeah, but I don’t work on it.”

“I’m not an agent,” Malachi told him. “Just a consultant.”

“Consult yourself out of here. My attorney is going to make mincemeat out of all of you.” Aldous sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve got nothing on me. Does Abby know you’ve brought me here?”

“She knows. And, Aldous, I’m afraid we have more on you than that.”

“What? That I go to the Dragonslayer? That I was friends with Gus?” He shook his head. “You’d have to arrest half the city.”

“Didn’t they tell you what this is?” Malachi asked. A pirate scarf—the one he’d found half under the bunk in the yacht’s master cabin—was on the table between them, carefully folded in a plastic bag.

“It’s a scarf in a plastic bag.”

“Your scarf,” Malachi said. He watched the man intently for his reaction. Aldous Brentwood didn’t appear to be anything other than perplexed.

“I don’t buy those stupid tourist scarves!” he said.

“But you did. This one was found on your yacht.”

“What? It was not! I let the police search my yacht. I’ve cooperated since this whole thing began. I am not guilty of anything! Hell, what’s the matter with you? I’d never have hurt Helen. I was crazy about Helen. Am crazy about her.”

“Maybe you liked her too much.”

“You’re sick!” Aldous spat.

“Am I? You’ve bought into the legend of pirates and their swashbuckling adventures since you were a kid. Look at your normal mode of appearance. You’re not married and never were. You own all kinds of ships. You’re rich, and you’re rich because of the sea. You know the Dragonslayer, you know Savannah and the river. And you know your pirate history. Come on, Aldous. You want to live a fantasy. You probably imagined from the first that you could kidnap a girl and convince her you were a charming rogue, an Errol Flynn or a Johnny Depp. But you could never get the right girl.”

Aldous Brentwood’s eyes widened with incredulity as he stared at Malachi. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” he shouted. “And I sure as hell don’t know what this scarf—that isn’t mine—means!”

“It was used as a blindfold, Aldous,” Malachi said. “Poor Felicia cried—cried in fear and terror and despair—when she was bound in a cabin on one of your ships. She cried, and she left traces of her DNA to prove that you were her killer.”

“I’m not—and that wasn’t on my yacht!” Aldous protested. “The police were on my yacht.” His eyes narrowed. “They didn’t find anything there—unless it was planted!”

“Planted by the police?” Malachi asked, raising an eyebrow.

“By the police,” Aldous agreed energetically. “Or...or someone!” He pointed at Malachi. “Or you. You! We don’t know you—you don’t belong here. You’re not one of us. Maybe you planted it on the yacht!”

“Aldous, get over it. I was the one who found the scarf, but I wasn’t in Savannah when this spree of kidnapping and murders began,” Malachi told him.

“But you found it, right? You went on my boat illegally. I don’t know the law all that well, but I know you can’t use evidence in court when you got it illegally. And don’t you get it? You’re harassing the wrong person. I didn’t do any of this. I’m innocent—I swear it!”

Malachi decided wearily that he believed him. Aldous was passionate in his denial. But he pushed a little further.

“Actually, I’m not a cop. I’m a civilian and I thought I heard you screaming on your yacht. I went out to see if you needed help. I saw that scarf, and took it in case you’d been kidnapped or injured—one victim was a man, you know—and it meant something. I gave it to the police.”

“That’s the biggest crock I’ve ever heard,” Aldous sneered.

Malachi shrugged. “Maybe. We know you have all the right credentials—and a rowboat and a scarf with a victim’s DNA.”

Aldous shook his head. “But...it’s not me. I didn’t do it.”

“So, how did your rowboat wind up loose and how did the scarf wind up on your yacht?”

“I don’t know! I’m telling you, someone put them there,” Aldous said. “I swear to you, I know nothing about that scarf.”

“Who else is on your yacht on a regular basis?” Malachi asked.

“I have a cleaning crew that comes in once or twice a month.” He paused. “There are ten berths there, so one of the other owners could have gotten on my yacht. And, then, of course—”

Aldous broke off. He looked ill.

“And then, of course—what?”

“Gus, Bootsie and Dirk. The three of them had keys to the dock,” he said. “They’re my best friends. They were always welcome on my yacht.”

Something cold hardened inside Malachi. Aldous could be lying, trying to shift the blame.

But he didn’t know; he didn’t have a definite sense that yes, he was guilty, or no, he was innocent. He believed Roger, and even though he wasn’t completely certain, he leaned toward believing Aldous.

That left Dirk or Bootsie.

Or...

Someone else who was always at the Dragonslayer, someone who knew everything about the way it ran, day in and day out.

Grant Green, Macy Sterling, Jerry Sullivan.

Macy? Doubtful—unless she was someone’s accomplice. Grant? Not around during the day. And yet, that could mean he was able to be anywhere else, without even having to slip away.

Jerry Sullivan, the bartender, friendly, ever listening, knowing everything and everyone. Always there from lunch until closing.

“Aren’t there any cameras around that river that might’ve been aimed at my Lady Luck?” Aldous asked him. “I’m telling you—someone was on my boat and planted that scarf.”

“Say it was planted, and the police didn’t do it. Who would it have been?”

Aldous shook his head, lost and dejected. “I...I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I’ve never attacked anyone, I just happen to be bald, and I don’t have any fantasies about being a pirate,” he said.

“I’m going to see what I can do for you, Aldous.” Malachi got to his feet.

“You’re going to let me go?”

“I’m going to ask that you stay here for the moment. They’ll get you some coffee.”

“Yeah, sure, if it’s going to clear me. I’ll drink coffee and play Tiddlywinks all night if it’ll make you people believe me.”

“Great. I’ve got to go.”

Malachi was anxious to be on the move.

They only had one real connection to the killer. Helen Long. He had to talk to her again.

There had to be some clue in her story. There was something he should be seeing clearly, but couldn’t, not yet. The answer to the riddle was in the back of his mind somewhere; he just hadn’t figured it out.

Tap.

Tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.