Chapter 39
“His phone’s off the grid,” Isabella said when she called. “Been off the grid all afternoon. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
I thanked her for the info and asked her to monitor comms between family members. I ended the call and asked Mrs. Sweet, "Where would Jacob go?"
She shrugged and gave me a blank look. "I really have no idea."
"Your son lives here on the island, yes?"
She gave a hesitant nod.
"Where?"
She didn't want to answer. "On a boat at Pirates’ Cove. Serenity.”
I told Mendoza, Robinson, and the others to stay here and keep an eye on the house just in case Jacob came back.
JD and I hustled out and darted back to the Porsche. We hopped in and sped across the island to Pirates’ Cove.
At the marina, we hopped out and jogged down the dock, looking for the Serenity. It was an older 32-foot monohull in decent shape. It had a single helm station, a blue Bimini top, and was a tad grungy.
We drew our weapons and surveyed the vessel.
I banged on the stern. "Coconut County! Come out slowly with your hands up."
A few moments later, Chris poked his head through the hatch with terrified eyes.
"Keep your hands where I can see them!" I shouted, my weapon aimed at him.
"What's going on?"
"Is your father aboard?”
His face wrinkled. "No.”
"Step into the cockpit," I commanded. “Slowly.”
Chris did, taking uncertain steps. He was mid-30s with dark hair, dark eyes, and a narrow face. He kept himself fit but wasn't overly muscular. He stood about six feet tall.
We boarded the boat, and JD secured him, making sure he didn't have any weapons.
I cautiously poked my head through the hatch and glanced from the galley to the salon. I climbed down the companionway and cleared the area.
"What are you doing?" Chris grumbled, annoyed. "You can't search my boat without a warrant."
"Routine compliance inspection," JD said. "When was the last time you talked to your father?”
Chris shrugged. "I don't know. A couple of days ago. Why?"
"I take it you don't watch the news," Jack muttered.
I searched the boat, checking both the forward and the aft berths as well as the heads. After clearing the boat, I returned to the cockpit and asked Chris, "Where's your dad?"
"Why? Is he in some kind of trouble?"
"You could say that.”
Chris’s nervous eyes flicked between the two of us.
"He’s wanted for attempted murder. You better pray that Darrell York doesn't die."
Chris's face soured at the mention of the name. “Darrell York!?”
There was a little resemblance between Chris and Jacob, though he really favored his mother. I didn't think Paris could mistake the two. Jacob was a little taller. Chris didn't have a tattoo of Sarah's name on the inside of his right wrist.
"If you hear from your dad, get in touch with me," I said, handing him a card. "If you offer him any assistance, you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive and can be charged as an accessory after the fact. You understand me?”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“Your family's been through enough trauma already. No need to make this any worse."
Dread washed over Chris's face. "You're telling me my dad tried to kill Darrell York?”
"On live TV."
Chris took a moment to process the information.
"Do you have any idea where your father would go?”
Chris thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.
“I need names of friends, girlfriends, someone he might turn to for help.”
Chris scowled at me. “My father doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
“Who are his friends?”
“I don’t recall,” he said in a defiant tone. “You people are really going to take Darrell York’s side? Do you know what he did to my sister?” he said, his cheeks red, the veins in his neck throbbing. “He’s a sick man, and he deserves to die.”
I understood his frustration. “Darrell York did his time. Now, your father’s going to do his. The longer this drags out, the worse it’s going to get.”
I didn’t think we’d be getting any assistance from Chris.
We left the boat and walked back to the parking lot. I called Dr. Parker and left a message on his voicemail, hoping to get an update on Darrell.
JD and I headed up to the station and filled out after-action reports. Daniels put a patrol unit at Pirates’ Cove as well as one at Jacob Sweet’s residence. He could have been anywhere by now, but he wouldn’t get far. Not unless he had a stash of cash and a fake passport.
Afterward, we stopped by the Eternal Skies Funeral Parlor for Cameron Talbot's wake. Again, we weren't exactly dressed for the occasion.
The place had an overwhelmingly floral scent. Enough to overpower any smells that might emanate from the deceased. All the embalming was done off-site.
Flatscreen displays looped pictures and videos of Cameron from childhood to his adult years. Grieving guests mixed and mingled, recounting stories of the deceased, mourning the loss of a loved one.
Bottled water, soda, wine, and cocktails were available to help you get through it.
People gave us a few dirty looks because of our attire as we drifted through the crowd.
The usual suspects were present—Cameron's wife, Wesley's ex-wife, Ian, Holden, Landon, and others. I’m not exactly sure what we were looking for. Anything that might give us insight into the case. These murders were clearly connected to their testimony against Darrell York, or so it would seem.
Plenty of gossip drifted about the room, discussing the recent shooting. Most of the people in attendance were in support of Jacob. He was a hero to this crowd. But something more was going on, and I had my suspicions.
I bumped into Holden and offered my condolences.
He asked, "Do you have any idea who's doing this?” It was a loaded question.
“We’re considering all possibilities.”
"Darrell is responsible. I don't care what he says.”
"You know, he's maintained his innocence all these years," I said, just to get a reaction out of him.
It did.
His jaw flexed, and his eyes narrowed. "I saw Sarah with him on his boat the day she disappeared.
We all did. He's guilty as sin. Nothing he or anyone else is ever going to say is going to make me change my mind. Go back and talk to anybody involved in that case. Darrell had been harassing Sarah for weeks, coming on to her. She wanted nothing to do with him. The guy was a creep, and still is.”
Holden was pretty hot about it. Understandably so.
He continued, "Darrell’s going after everyone who testified for the prosecution. That’s obvious.”
“How do you explain the doctor?”
His brow wrinkled. ”What was her name? Renfield?"
"Renick. As far as I'm aware, she had nothing to do with Darrell's prosecution."
I planned on having another chat with Darrell as soon as he was stable, if he survived.
"I don’t know how she fits in. But I’ve got half a mind to go to the hospital and pull the plug on the fucker myself."
"I would caution against that," I said.
Holden dismissed the notion. "I wouldn’t really do it. I'm just talking. But I sure would like to."
"Let us handle it."
"Well, you’re not really doing a good job so far. Figure it out because I'm tired of going to funerals.” He stormed off and headed toward the bar for another drink.
We talked to Landon. He was unsettled and emotionally distraught over the loss of his friend. He wanted answers, like everybody else. Answers we didn't have.
Landon had a square jaw, a low, brooding brow, short, wavy dark hair, and an athletic physique.
I’d seen him here and there on the news and in campaign ads.
On most occasions, he had the fake smile of a politician, but today he wasn't smiling.
"Do you have a plan to identify who is responsible for these killings? "
"I can assure you, we’re doing everything we can. Sometimes, these things just take time to play out."
"Time?" he repeated, incensed. "Every second that goes by is an opportunity for another one of us to die. It's obvious to me that these murders are connected and motivated.”
"On the surface, it would appear that way.”
"On the surface?” He scoffed. "Please, we all know who's behind this, and he’s sitting in the hospital right now.
Don't you find it a little coincidental that all these deaths started occurring after that scumbag got released from prison?
He should never have been let out. At least somebody had the balls to do what needed to be done. "
Landon wasn’t a big fan. Nobody here was. They were all moments away from grabbing pitchforks and demanding justice. Anyone in their path would get skewered. Landon walked off, disgusted.
Somehow, we’d become the bad guys in this whole thing.
Father Flannery approached with some trepidation.
He was late 50s with stark white hair, rosy cheeks, and a somewhat bulbous nose.
He stood about 6'1" and had an affable, comforting demeanor.
"I just want to say how shocked and appalled I am by Father Callahan's behavior. I want to assure you both that I had no knowledge that he was engaging in such activities. When he was transferred into our parish, I was given no information about his background or the allegations in Garden Grove.”
"I hope there aren’t any other victims that we’re unaware of," I said.
It was a mortifying thought, and that was evidenced by Father Flannery's expression. "Yes, indeed. I just want you to know, my door is always open if you have questions or need to discuss anything.”
"Thank you, Father."
"I'll be performing the service tomorrow for Cameron. I do hope you have some leads on who is responsible for this." He was fishing for information.
"Right now, we have no evidence to connect Darrell York to any of the deaths. But we do know the same gun was used to kill Cameron and Dr. Renick.”
Father Flannery frowned. “Well, I’ll be praying for your safety and for wisdom that you may come to the proper conclusion.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Father Flannery excused himself and moved on to comfort other mourners.
We talked to a few more people, then headed back to the Avventura. The rest of the evening was pretty low-key.
In the morning, Brenda called with the results of the blood analysis.