She shoved a police radio in her briefcase and started across the street, shifting the heavy bag to her left shoulder. Eleven forty-five. It had taken her longer than she had expected to get over to the beach. She hoped this Lynch guy had waited. Hell, if he hadn’t, at least she’d get a burger or something. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
The Dockside Pub was a rustic tavern with a screened porch facing the docks. She went in, hoping Lynch would signal her.
He did, giving her a small wave from a table across the room. She moved toward him, half hoping to see that his employee had arrived safely. But when she got there, the other side of the table was empty. She sat down and stuck out her hand.
“Mr. Lynch?”
“Yeah.” His weathered face looked stricken as he shook her hand.
“I’m Agent Farentino, FBI.” She slid into a chair, hoisting her briefcase up into an empty chair beside her. “I take it your friend’s still not here?”
Lynch shook his head and watched Emily dig through her briefcase for a notebook and pen. When she looked up, he leaned forward. “You ready?” he asked.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Lynch?”
“I’m a charter boat captain. Tyrone is one of my crewmen.”
Emily looked up at him. “You work on the docks?”
Lynch nodded. “Yeah, thirty years now. I’m retiring in May and-”
“Your employee’s name is Heller?”
“Yeah, Tyrone Heller. I call him Ty. I’ve always called him Ty, for all the years he’s been with me.” There was an untouched glass of beer in front of Lynch. He was picking at a cocktail napkin.
“So you and your employee were meeting here for dinner?” Emily asked.
He nodded, his eyes intent on Emily. “Shouldn’t you put out one of those bulletins for him?”
“First things first, Mr. Lynch.”
Lynch tossed down the shredded napkin and ran a hand over his face. “Look, miss, I’m sure something’s happened to Ty. He’s a good kid, a real good kid. He’s kinda like a son to me, you know?”
“When did you last speak to him?” Emily asked.
“About six, when we closed down for the day. We always come here for dinner every Tuesday night, ever since we’ve been coming to Fort Myers. Tonight, at the last minute, Woody changed his mind so it was just Ty and me. Ty wanted to go get cleaned up. He said he’d meet me back here at nine.”
“Have you tried to contact him?”
“He doesn’t have a phone. I went over to his place about nine-thirty, but he wasn’t there.”
“His address, please?”
Lynch gave it to her. “So I came back here, hoping I just missed him.” He paused. “I didn’t want to call the police right away, but with these killings and all. .” He hesitated. “Ty can sometimes be too damn trusting, you know what I mean?”
“Describe him, please.”
“Jeez. . about six-foot, with brown hair and light skin, for a black man. He was wearing cutoffs and a white T-shirt when he left work. Probably would be wearing the same thing, just clean if he changed.”
“Tell me about Woody. Real name? Address?”
“Woody? Why do you need to know about Woody?”
“He might be with him.”
Lynch shook his head. “Woody said he had a date.” “Why don’t you give me his name and address anyway?” After Lynch did, she asked, “Does Tyrone have any relatives here?”
“None that I know of.”
Emily looked up from her notes. “If you were to guess, where do you think he might go?”
“If he’s not home, he’s usually on the boat. He’s kind of a simple guy.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tyrone?” Emily said.
“Just that he’s a fine young man.” Lynch was picking at the shredded napkin again.
“Does he own a vehicle?”
“A truck, I think. I don’t know the make.”
“How can I reach you, Mr. Lynch?”
Lynch gave her a number. “Or over at Fisherman’s Wharf, the Miss Monica.”
Emily blinked. “The Miss Monica?”
“Yeah,” Lynch said.
“You have another employee. . Gunther Mayo?” Emily asked.
“Did. Haven’t seen him in weeks. What’s that got-”
Emily slid the notebook back into her briefcase. She needed to call Wainwright, but she couldn’t do it here in front of Lynch. The guy was alarmed enough already.
“Mr. Lynch, I think you should go home,” she said, rising quickly.
“Home? What-”
“We’ll check it out and call you if we find anything.”
“But-”
Farentino hurried away, hefting her briefcase to her shoulder. As she started to the parking lot, she rummaged through the briefcase for the police radio. She couldn’t find it and stopped short.
“Shit!” she said.
She plunked the briefcase down on the hood of the nearest car and yanked the briefcase wide open, digging for the radio. Finally, her fingers found it and she pulled it out.
Suddenly everything went dark. There was something slick and damp over her head and an arm under her throat. A hand clamped down on her mouth.
Her heart surged up against her sternum. Her hands shot to her face as she tried to claw at the cloth. She twisted, trying to get free, but the hands tightened.
She felt a sudden sharp blow to her head. Her knees buckled and she went out.
Chapter Thirty-five
Louis screeched the cruiser to a stop, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed out. A man standing at the rear of a car came forward as he saw Louis emerge.
“It’s over there,” the man said, pointing.
Louis hurried to the red Honda. He immediately saw Farentino’s briefcase on the hood.
“I didn’t touch it,” the man said quickly, coming up behind him. “I mean, I didn’t move it after I started looking inside for a wallet. As soon as I saw that police radio I called you guys.”
“Did you see anyone?” Louis asked. “A woman, about five-two, red hair-”
But the man was shaking his head. “The lot across the street was full when I got here, so I parked over here. It was deserted when I came out. I figured some broad just left it on my hood and drove off-”
“This Honda is your car?”
The man nodded.
Louis surveyed the area. They were standing in a small parking lot in front of a bait store. There were only two cars in the lot, the red Honda and, about twenty feet away, Farentino’s rental, a black Nissan. The entrance to the Dockside Pub was about thirty yards away, across the street. The pub’s entrance faced the street, but there were no other businesses open and the street was quiet. The pub’s own parking lot was around the side. If someone had been standing in the pub’s lot, they would not have seen what was going on in the lot of the bait shop.
His heart was racing. There was no way Farentino would have left that briefcase. He could hear approaching sirens.
He went quickly to Farentino’s Nissan and shined the light inside. Still locked. He swung the light to the ground, looking for signs of struggle, keys, anything.
He returned to the red Honda, swinging his flashlight over the ground. The beam picked up a flash. Farentino’s glasses on the asphalt, just under the Honda. He gingerly picked them up with his shirttail and placed them on the hood of the Honda next to the briefcase.
The whoop of the sirens became deafening and the lot lit up with whirling lights. Louis looked over to see Lance Mobley bound out of a patrol car and sprint over to Louis. A deputy trailed behind.
“What do we got?” he asked tersely.
“Farentino’s missing.”
“Farentino?”
“The FBI agent.”
Mobley nodded quickly. “How do you know?”
Louis pointed the light at the glasses on the hood. “Those are hers. So’s the briefcase.”
Mobley peered into the open briefcase. Louis saw Wainwright hurrying toward them.
“You got gloves on you?” Louis asked as Wainwright came up to him.
Wainwright pulled a pair of latex gloves from his hind pocket and handed them to Louis.
“You should wait for CSU,” Mobley said.
“We don’t have time,” Wainwright said. “Put the briefcase on the ground, Louis. We need to dust the car.”
The man who had found the briefcase pressed forward. “What? What you going to do to my car?”
“Just look for fingerprints,” Wainwright said. “Please step back, sir.”
“Oh, man. .”
Louis pulled on the gloves and set the briefcase on the asphalt. He gingerly began going through the briefcase as Wainwright held the flashlight.
“I think she stopped here and set the briefcase down to look for something and that’s when she was abducted,” Louis said.
“Why didn’t he take the briefcase?” Mobley said.
“He didn’t want it. He wanted her,” Louis said.
“That’s her rental,” Wainwright said, pointing to the Nissan. “Why don’t you go check it out, Lance?”
“It’s still locked,” Louis said.
Mobley stared at Wainwright for a moment, then moved away, yelling to his deputy, “Howard, bring me the punch.”
Louis pulled Emily’s wallet out of the briefcase. “Money’s still here,” he said, laying the wallet on the ground. He took out the folders of case files and laid them aside. He set a small makeup bag and a hairbrush next to the files.
“No keys,” he said.
He pulled out a small notepad. It was open, and he scanned the top page. Farentino had tiny, hen-scratch handwriting.
“Dan, shine that here.”
The words jumped out at him. Dockside Inn. George Lynch. Tyrone Heller. Miss Monica. Missing since eight P.M. Twenty-five years old.
“Jesus, Dan,” Louis said. “She was here to meet Lynch.”
“Why?” Wainwright asked.
Louis rose. “I think Lynch called the station to report his crewman missing. Farentino came here to take the report.”
“What the fuck was she doing down here taking a report?”
“Maybe she was just trying to help.”
Wainwright turned away. “Shit. .”
“Dan,” Louis said, “we have two missing.” When Wainwright looked at him, Louis went on. “This crewman-his name is Tyrone Heller-he’s black.”
Mobley came back. “There’s nothing in the car or trunk.”
“Sheriff,” Louis said, “we need to find a man named George Lynch.”
“Who’s Lynch? A suspect?”
Louis paused just a beat. “Damn it, do you read anything we send over?”
“You badgeless punk,” Mobley said. “I have a hundred men under my command.”
Louis wanted to slug him. “Then fucking use them.”
“What for?” Mobley shouted.
“Lynch is a boat captain. His black crewman is missing. Someone needs to get to Lynch fast.”
“What’s the hurry? If this sicko did this, his crewman is already dead. So’s the woman,” Mobley said.
He snatched his radio from his belt and walked away, barking out commands.
Louis yanked off the latex gloves. He looked at Wainwright and knew he was thinking the same thing. Mobley was right.