Some People Die Quick Read online

  "How close are you to a finished product?"

  "I think it's perfected now, but it hasn't been tested in the open ocean. We would need to find a reef, chum all the sharks in, start a feeding frenzy, then test the repellent."

  "After that?"

  "If it worked there, then it should be tested among as many different species and conditions as possible, ultimately with humans in the water. It would be dangerous, but it would have to be done."

  "How far along were you with the development of the repellent when the attack happened?"

  She thought for a moment. "As far as the chemicals and formulas were concerned, those were complete, but refining the process, testing it on living tissue for toxicity, I started soon after coming back to work. This is the key to the success of the repellent. If it isn't tolerated by human tissue or there are severe allergic reactions, then it would be useless. You would repel the shark, but harm the person. I've been running these test for the past year. They are time consuming."

  "How many people know that you are at this stage of development?"

  "Everyone knows about the protein attractant, but only Susan and Betsy knew anything about the repellent. Both of them are dead. No one else knows, no one."

  "What about Vickey and George?"

  "No, they know nothing about it."

  Hebrone was waiting as we eased Picaroon stern first into slip 117. Securing the lines, his movements were quick and sure, like a man with great athletic ability. In his early forties, with gray hair, he had cold eyes that showed no emotion. The face, though not ugly, was cheerless, unyielding, and expressionless, giving it ugly, sharp lines. He agreed to run Anna over in Moran's cigarette, it was still tied in the slip where we left it yesterday, then return it to Chris.

  Watching until the sleek, black, pencil-shaped boat moved out through the channel, I went below, buttoned everything up, and went to bed hoping no one or anything would bother me for the next eight hours.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Someone woke me knocking on the companionway hatch. My watch read ten a.m. I'd been asleep only three hours.

  "Open up, Jay. You can't sleep all day."

  It was Guy Robbins. Slipping on my pants, I unbolted the hatch.

  "What time did you get back?"

  Lighting the burner on the gimbaled stove, I started a pot of coffee. The horrible dream I was having when Guy woke me vanished slowly from memory. "About seven."

  "God, I'm sorry, Jay. I didn't realize you'd sail all night."

  "It's okay. What's up?"

  "Thought I'd drop by and see what you found out last night." He poured us both coffees from the stove.

  "I learned Anna Yillah is a complicated young woman. My only hope is to keep her alive until this thing is finished."

  "Have you figured a motive for any of this?"

  "It has to be related to the shark repellent Anna's working on. It would be worth a lot of money to the person credited with the discovery."

  Guy gazed out a porthole. "Yes, every government in the world would want it for their military. Anyone who swims in salt water would have to have it. Australia alone would make someone a fortune. It would be standard equipment on every boat in the world."

  Rubbing the stubble on my chin, I said, "Anna published the discovery of the attractant, something she named Protein ay-sa-x, three or four months before the attack. Every scientist remotely interested read that paper."

  Guy was silent, sipping his coffee, staring at the activity going on in the marina. Going to the stove, I poured more coffee, slopped in a dollop of honey. Guy held out his cup, I refilled it, and sat back down.

  "If I were you, I'd concentrate close to home."

  "You want to elaborate?"

  "No, it's just a feeling."

  "Feeling? From a highly successful and learned attorney, now that's one for the books."

  He ignored the statement. "I found nothing earth shaking on George or Vickey, but I've got people that are continuing to work on it. Neither of them have ever been in trouble with the law as far as we can tell at the moment."

  "Come on, let's go see W.W."

  "Why do you want to see him? None of this is in his jurisdiction. Anyway, today is Saturday, he's probably not at the office."

  "Then we'll just have to find him, won't we?"

  Picking up the phone, I called the Biloxi Police Department. The Desk Sergeant said the Chief wasn't in today, his home phone was unlisted, and he would not give me his beeper number.

  "Sergeant, please call W.W., wherever he is, tell him Jay Leicester and Guy Robbins will be in his office within the hour. We would like to discuss a murder."

  "Murder? Yes sir, Mr. Leicester. I'll pass the word." His enunciation sounded as if he was writing the words as he spoke.

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  Guy shook his head, climbed the companionway ladder, and waited on deck while I took a quick shower and dressed.

  The drive from the marina down the beach to Biloxi was a stark contrast from ten years ago. Las Vegas style casinos now occupy nearly every foot of land on what once was beachfront property, neon glitters with gaudy signs, and huge hotels hide boats described as dockside gambling, a phrase no one has yet to define. Wonderful century old water oaks and stately mansions still adorn the highway in some areas, but with traffic bumper to bumper twenty-four hours a day, one barely has time to see them, few even care. The economy has been revitalized along the coast, but the gambling brings along a lot of baggage.

  The Desk Sergeant escorted us back to W.W.'s office.

  The Chief was waiting. "Jay Leicester," he said, extending a big, powerful hand. "Good to see you. It's been over a year. Hello Guy."

  Waving us to a chair, we sat down in the small, cluttered office. The space suited W.W. It contained only a few pieces of plain wooden furniture, all harshly simplified down to their essential purpose, but made from high quality wood and skill of design. There was a single filing cabinet with a breaching dolphin exquisitely carved in green stone sitting on top. The only indication that this was the office of the Chief of Police was a certificate of graduation from the FBI Training Academy, along with a photo of W.W. shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover.

  "Coffee?"

  The Desk Sergeant brought us steaming cups of a strong liquid that was almost undrinkable. We made small talk. W.W. waited, he knew we'd eventually get around to whatever brought us here.

  W.W. didn't have a hair on his head, which made him seem shorter than his slightly more than six feet. Built like a middle guard, he was as strong as a Bull Moose and, when riled, could be as mean. His eyes were steel gray and danced with intelligence. The only things keeping him from being a perfect specimen were his hands and feet, they were huge. He wore size fourteen shoes, and his hands measured almost fourteen inches at the fists. Mine measured twelve.

  Patient, knowledgeable and community minded, W.W. had served the people of Biloxi with fair, firm law enforcement for twenty-five years. The only flaw on his record was an arrest incident where W.W.'s sister had been raped and killed. He beat the assailant to death with his fists. The Grand Jury failed to indict. It was a good arrest. The killer had stabbed W.W. thirteen times during the struggle.

  The three of us had been friends since childhood. Our fathers worked together in law enforcement back in the forties and fifties with the Mississippi Highway Patrol. When his father retired, he took the job as Chief of Police in Biloxi. He was killed by a drunken Air Force officer during a family squabble back in fifty-six. We all were at the funeral. My father told me after the service that more officers are killed answering family dispute calls than in any other line of duty. It still holds true today.

  W.W. knew about the Susan Weems murder, and that I was involved. He listened while I went over the details, his mind working over every aspect of what he was hearing.

  "You know this investigation is completely out of my jurisdiction, Jay. How can I help?"

  "The young scientist wo
rking with Anna Yillah on the island is Vickey Fourche. She is from Biloxi. I want everything you can find on her, family, friends, lovers…you know the drill."

  W.W. leaned back in his chair and laced beefy fingers behind his head. "I know the girl. Came from a trashy background. Made something of herself. You think she's involved in the murder of Susan Weems?"

  "No," I said, leaning back in my chair and propping a foot up on the desk. Guy crossed his legs and stared at the green dolphin. "Only in that she's working at the lab. I'm groping at straws, W.W. We've started a background check on George Lenoir, the other lab assistant. Right now, I've got nothing. I need your help."

  W.W. stood, stretched. "I'll do what I can. Maybe something will fall out of the woodwork. Anything else?"

  "Yes, see if you can run down a local thief. Drives an old Chrysler product. Tried to break into Guy's boat the other night while I was on board."

  "Will do." We shook hands. "Good to see both of you again. I'll be in touch. Leicester, be careful. Sounds like the one who slit your girl's throat was a pro."

  "Thanks, I'll do that."

  * * *

  Anna expected me on Cat Island. Guy could run me over in Picaroon; we'd talk more on the way. George answered the radio and volunteered to run out in the Mako and pick me up at the head of the channel.

  "W.W. looked good."

  "A bit standoffish, don't you think?"

  "It's the mayor, Jay. Some bad stuff going on. He's under a lot of pressure."

  "Being an honest cop is always tough," I said, watching five brown pelicans gliding over the surface of the Sound, their wing tips barely touching the water.

  George was waiting when we rounded North Point. Telling Guy that I planned to be back aboard Picaroon tonight, I asked that he be available tomorrow, Sunday. There was something he might be able to help me with. He said he would await my call.

  Jumping aboard the Mako, George and I watched Guy round the point and set a course for the marina before heading for the dock.

  "Everything okay out here?"

  "Fine. Where were you and Anna last night? We thought there was something wrong. Anna won't tell us where you two were. That weird man who works at the marina brought her back in the cigarette. The only thing she'll say is that she was with you. What's going on, Mr. Jay?"

  "Let's get up to the house. I'll explain later."

  George led the way up the winding path. His big, bare feet made crunching sounds in the shells, broad shoulders touched pine limbs on either side. Warm winds from the dissipating weather system whistled through pine needles, puffy cotton balls of cumulus raced across blue sky, and a strong smell of salt was again in the air.

  Suddenly George stopped in the path. Running into him, I bounced off. He was a powerfully built young man.

  "Look," he said, standing to his full six feet five inches, a stern expression set on a square chin. "I want to know, is something wrong with Anna? Has someone tried to harm her again?" His posture and his questions weren't threatening, but the intimation demanded a reply.

  "Anna had some personal demons to deal with. She's fine at the moment. I'm glad you are concerned, George."

  "How can she be so normal one moment, and so out of it the next?"

  "You'd have to get a professional to answer that, George. Let's get on up to the house."

  He didn't move, looked intently at me, gray eyes questioning, demanding. Then he wheeled and started toward the house, his long strides distancing himself from me.

  He was waiting on the porch as I approached. "Anna's been asleep since eight this morning. You want to wake her?"

  "No, let her sleep. Where's Vickey?"

  "At the lab. I'll go make some coffee."

  Sitting in one of the rocking chairs facing the beach, I listened to the surf. The trees blocked my view, but you could see the birds wheeling and soaring, working the high water line, fighting for survival.

  Weren't we all…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sun was behind me, to the west, and the sound of the surf was peaceful. The porch was cool and pleasant. Leaning back in an old, wooden rocking chair, I put my feet up on the railing and let my mind wander. Lack of sleep caught up with me, and I began to drift off. Suddenly strong, sinewy arms closed around my neck. Reaching up, I grabbed a scarred hand. It was Anna.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said softly.

  "Last night was a long one. Did you get plenty of rest?"

  "Yes, and I feel wonderful. The sail did wonders for me. I do so hope you understand."

  "Glad it helped."

  She sat down beside me and propped her feet up next to mine. We watched the birds over the scrub pines. She wore baggy, khaki shorts that revealed muscled legs and slim ankles. Deep, ridged scar tissue failed to belie the fact that her lower torso had not escaped damage from the big tiger shark's serrated teeth.

  "George is in the kitchen making coffee. He told me you were out here. How did you get to the island?"

  "Aboard Picaroon. Guy came with me and took the boat back."

  Standing, I stretched, trying to shake off the drowsiness, and loosen sore muscles not used to working a sailboat in heavy seas. Glancing up, I saw something odd moving on the path leading from the lab to the house. The angle of the sun blurred the form. Tensing, my brain tried to get Anna inside, away from the danger, but my body stood still, would not, did not respond. I could see the rifle. Screaming, I said to myself, how could you be so careless!

  The form suddenly took shape. It was Vickey Fourche walking up the path carrying a gunnysack, hung over her shoulder with a long stick. Adrenaline and sweat poured through and from me. Light and shadow, a tired, overactive brain, and complacency. The great relief brought the reality that if it had been a shooter we would all be dead, and it would be my fault.

  George came out with the coffee. I sat down, weakly. Anna looked at me with a funny expression.

  Vickey walked up on the porch. "Guess what I've got in the sack?"

  "Grenades, C4 plastic, and poisonous snakes."

  Vickey looked at me, cocking her head to one side. "Oysters, flounder, and two nice red snapper." She held up the bounty for us to see. "Anyone hungry?"

  She wore the same baggy shorts as Anna. Never wearing shoes, her feet were flat, callused, her hair windblown and sun-bleached. A large fossilized shark tooth, black and ugly hung on a leather strap around her neck. Standing alongside the porch railing, I was surprised at how short she truly was, not five feet. She could not have weighed over a hundred pounds, and the pupils of her eyes moved back and forth under tanned lids like tiny ceramic disks sliding under the thinnest film of liquid.

  After the evening meal, and with three hours of daylight left, I asked Anna if she would like to take one of the Makos and make a run around the island. The vision of Vickey walking up the path made me want to familiarize myself again with the lay of the land, all of it. If the enemy came, it would be good to know his likely approach. It had been many years since I'd been to Phoenix Spit, where the old lighthouse was located, or to the shell bank and the 'ruins,' where the brown pelicans may be nesting.

  Anna thought it a swell idea.

  We eased out of the channel and started toward North Point for the fifteen-mile circle. Rounding the north side of the island, we could see that the surf had calmed which enabled us to ease slowly just offshore along the dark-colored sand beach. Bull sharks, nurse sharks, and sand sharks were working inside the rifts, feeding on schools of speckled trout, redfish, and Spanish mackerel. Blue crabs stopped their sidelong dance and raised claws for battle as the Mako's shadow passed over them. Small stingrays skittered away. The puffy cumulus had dissipated, leaving the sky a clear Gulf Stream blue. A few hundred yards to the south, the white lab stood like a beacon to a lost sailor. Even the birds had settled along the surf line. It was a nice evening.

  Passing abeam the lab, we could see both George and Vickey working inside. How simple it would be from this
vantage point to use a high-powered rifle and kill one or both of them. It surprised me that whoever wanted Anna dead had not used this position. Maybe we were not dealing with a pro. Amateurs always make things more difficult for themselves.

  Continuing to motor along the beach, Anna happened to look back. She caught my eye and pointed. Following her aim, I saw George standing at the water's edge beckoning to us. Closing the throttle on the little Mako, we heard him say something about a message.

  Easing back up the beach until abeam of George, I turned straight in toward him and crossed over the first two rifts until the water shallowed and we could go no further without grounding. He waded out to us.

  "Guy Robbins called on the marine radio. The person you met with this morning has some important information. Want's to know what to do."

  "Radio him back and tell him I'll meet him aboard Picaroon at nine o'clock tonight."

  "Will do."

  George waded back ashore and I guided the Mako into deeper water.

  "What's that all about?"

  "I'm not sure. We're working on several things. I'd like to take this boat back to the mainland, if it's alright with you?"

  "Sure." She looked at me with those unblinking eyes, and a half-smile. "You aren't keeping anything from me, are you, Jay? You will tell me the moment you find out. Promise."

  "As soon as I know, you'll know. It's a promise."

  She looked far out to sea, toward Key West.

  There was still time to make the run around Cat Island. Putting the boat in gear, we headed south to the very end of the island, known as South Spit. Over the years the beach has slowly eroded away, losing almost two miles of land. Maybe one day it will return.

  The barrier islands are the reason there are no natural beaches along the coast of Mississippi and Alabama. West of Mobile Bay, they are all man-made. There is no flow-through of water to the mainland. All the pretty white sand along the coast is trucked in and smoothed with a bulldozer.