A Killing Night Part 26

It was early morning and the sun had broken white and molten like a heavy bubble stretching up and then off the horizon. I was in my beach chair, sipping my coffee, watching the sky and water absorb the blue light of refraction over the rim of my cup.

There was not a ripple of breeze and the ocean lay flat like a hot sheet of gla.s.s. The black-footed terns were working the sh.o.r.eline, pecking and dancing. I would have at least another hour before the electrician came to install a new light over the dining room table. I had not been able to sleep on the couch with the smell of fresh paint in my nose so I had camped out on the beach since long before dawn.

Billy had called me late last night, amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice over the receipt of official notice informing him as the legal representative of Colin O'Shea that all charges had been dropped against his client. It had been weeks.

"The wheels of justice and paperwork," he'd said and left it to me to fill in whatever ending I wished.

David Hix had been arrested and charged in both the a.s.sault on Rodrigo and attorney Sarah O'Kelly. Our Filipino friend stayed in the hospital for several days but neither Billy nor I could convince him to stay. He went home to Manila with his wife, who had accepted the cruise line's money to come to America and retrieve him.

"I thank you with my life, Mr. Max," he had said when we had gone to see him in the hospital. "But your America is not a safe place. All I wanted to do was work and bring money to my family."

He was holding his wife's hand when we left and in the parking lot Billy stood at the window of my truck while I got in. I had been beating myself up over the man's injuries, one heaped on top of the other, because no one had been there to protect him.

"You are not r-responsible for the world, my friend," he said. "Even though you may think it is so."

I had stared out past him into the vision of the taped-off crime scene out at the end of a desolate road in the Glades where technicians and a.s.sistants from the medical examiner's officer were meticulously sorting out what would turn out to be the partial remains of four young women, including Amy Strauss.h.i.+em and Suzy Martin.

The cause of Morrison's death had been ruled a suicide by cop. His choice. But I was not displeased with the ending. As far as the families of those young women were concerned, their daughters' killer was just as dead, and perhaps more forgettable without the drawn out process of law.

Billy's statement about responsibility and who carried it had stuck in my head for days afterward. We had all met a man in Colin O'Shea whose shoulders had been widest.

Colin had kept up his surveillance of Marci for nearly twenty hours until she had gone to work. There he recognized Morrison's squad car in the parking lot and was trying to move to another position when Morrison suddenly accelerated out toward the park. He tailed him. He was following on foot, crossing the field when he saw the line of cops open fire. From his distance and with Morrison's back to him, it had looked, he said, like a firing squad.

"Even the brotherhood of blue gotta break at some point, Freeman," he said later while we both sipped our whiskeys at Kim's and neither of us, with our histories, was smiling. O'Shea said he had never been a part of the s.e.x games his fellow officers had played with Faith Hamlin. It had in fact disgusted him. "But I didn't have the guts to turn them in," he said.

But he knew the girl and her adoptive family. She had told him that her stepfather, an Irishman himself, had labeled her a wh.o.r.e when IAD began snooping around the case. "And I also knew the married redheaded son of a b.i.t.c.h who fathered Jessica," he said. "Her life would've been h.e.l.l there. So I took her away."

He had helped support and counsel Faith Hamlin ever since and had never looked back "until you came along and partnered up with me again, Freeman."

His rescue of the girl had been an act of redemption for him. Of his own volition, he'd stepped over the line more than a few times as a cop; his decision this time was to save her and let the pieces fall where they may. There was a look of resignation in his face when I told him there was no way Richards could keep it a secret. She'd have to report the discovery of a missing person to the Philadelphia department. He'd have to go back and face it.

"Guess your ex-wife ain't gonna get those captain's bars after all," he said, smiling as he thought about it.

"She'll find a way," I answered, trying not to.

It would be a media circus when the news broke. Someone would get a photo of the little girl. Someone else's life was going to crash. We were both quiet for a few drinks.

"It's a h.e.l.l of a thing to do, lad," Colin suddenly said, using his old Irish brogue. "Goin' home again." We both drank to that.

Now I was thinking about sleet and spitting snow while the sun traveled higher in front of me and a sheen of sweat began to form on my chest. Beside me I picked up a movement of bright yellow and green in the corner of my eye. The young boy with the blue eyes was standing beside me, his sand bucket and shovel in hand.

"Josh," a woman's voice called from behind me. "Go down to the water, honey, and wash your bucket."

The boy turned and skipped toward the ocean and I looked up as a pair of legs stepped into his place.

"Good morning," the woman said.

I had to s.h.i.+eld my eyes to see her face. She was young and very tanned and her dark hair was tucked through the back of a baseball cap.

"It is," I said.

"You know," she said, dropping down to face level, her knees resting in the sand, "you have my son infatuated."

I raised my eyebrows and pointed out to the boy. While she nodded I glanced at her left hand.

"Yes," she said, but her dark eyes were smiling. "He has come to me a couple of times with questions about a man, who I a.s.sume is you, and he wants something cylindrical and green that he thinks is somehow used to dig in the sand."

I knitted my brow, thinking of my previous encounters with the kid, and put it together.

"Rolling Rock," I finally said.

"Ahhh," she answered. "One of my favorites."

We both went quiet and watched the boy.

"Do you live here?" she asked, scooping up a handful of sand and letting it sift through her fingers.

"Yes, uh, on and off," I said.

"I noticed your housekeeping skills." She tossed her head back toward the bungalow.

I smiled. She was talking to me, but watching closely every movement of the child and I realized I was, too.

"Do you have family?" she said, and I did not answer at first.

I looked south down the sand to the edge of the water where two women were approaching. The taller one had long, tightly muscled legs like a cyclist's. The younger one was carrying a new sunburn. In the bar that night Sherry and Marci had found a connection. A woman's need to mother. A young lady's need of comfort. Over the past few weeks they'd spent hours talking and running the beach together and even when I was not invited I somehow felt part of it. As they came near, Marci leaned into Richards and flipped her ponytail onto her shoulder and put her arm around her waist and said something that made them both laugh.

"Maybe I do," I said, watching them. "Maybe I do."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Thanks to Marie and John Cusano for letting me into their lives and that of their daughter, Cindy, and to Women in Distress, the South Florida shelter and center for victims of domestic violence. Thanks also to Lieutenant Sherry Schlueter of the Broward Sheriff's Office for her dedication to the most vulnerable and for her inspiration; Laurrie Pood, the finest bartender in South Florida; Erika Kahn for her patience and reading; and Anne Newgarden for catching my many errors.

A continuing debt of grat.i.tude is owed to Marlene and Russ Parks for affording me "The Cabin" where the foundations are written.

Deepest thanks to my agent, Philip Spitzer, and to my editor, Mitch Hoffman, whose discerning eye made this one better.

A BIOGRAPHY OF JONATHON KING.

Jonathon King is the Edgar Awardwinning author of the Max Freeman mystery series, which is set in south Florida, as well as a thriller and a historical novel.

Born in Lansing, Michigan, in the 1950s, King worked as a police and court reporter for twenty-four years, first in Philadelphia until the mid-1980s and then in Fort Lauderdale. His time at the Philadelphia Daily News Philadelphia Daily News and Fort Lauderdale's and Fort Lauderdale's South Florida Sun-Sentinel South Florida Sun-Sentinel greatly influenced the creation of Max Freeman, a hardened former Philadelphia police officer who relocates to south Florida to escape his dark past. King began writing novels in 2000, when he used all the vacation days he accrued as a reporter to spend two months alone in a North Carolina cabin. During this time, he wrote greatly influenced the creation of Max Freeman, a hardened former Philadelphia police officer who relocates to south Florida to escape his dark past. King began writing novels in 2000, when he used all the vacation days he accrued as a reporter to spend two months alone in a North Carolina cabin. During this time, he wrote The Blue Edge of Midnight The Blue Edge of Midnight (2002), the first t.i.tle in the Max Freeman series. The novel became a national bestseller and won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel by an American Author. (2002), the first t.i.tle in the Max Freeman series. The novel became a national bestseller and won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel by an American Author. A Visible Darkness A Visible Darkness (2004), the series' second installment, highlights Max's mission to identify a dark serial killer stalking an impoverished community. (2004), the series' second installment, highlights Max's mission to identify a dark serial killer stalking an impoverished community. Shadow Men Shadow Men (2004), the third in the series, revolves around Max's investigation of an eighty-year-old triple homicide, and (2004), the third in the series, revolves around Max's investigation of an eighty-year-old triple homicide, and A Killing Night A Killing Night (2005) tells the story of a murder investigation in which the prime suspect is Max's former mentor. After finis.h.i.+ng (2005) tells the story of a murder investigation in which the prime suspect is Max's former mentor. After finis.h.i.+ng A Killing Night A Killing Night, his fourth book, King left journalism to become a full-time novelist.

Since 2005, King has published his fifth and sixth Max Freeman novels, Acts of Nature Acts of Nature (2007), about a hurricane that puts Max and his girlfriend at the mercy of some of the Everglades' most menacing criminals, and (2007), about a hurricane that puts Max and his girlfriend at the mercy of some of the Everglades' most menacing criminals, and Midnight Guardians Midnight Guardians (2010), which features the dangerous reemergence of a drug kingpin from Max's past. He has also published the stand-alone thriller (2010), which features the dangerous reemergence of a drug kingpin from Max's past. He has also published the stand-alone thriller Eye of Vengeance Eye of Vengeance (2007), about a military-trained sniper who targets the criminals that a particular journalist has covered as a crime reporter. In 2009, King published the historical novel (2007), about a military-trained sniper who targets the criminals that a particular journalist has covered as a crime reporter. In 2009, King published the historical novel The Styx The Styx, which tells the story of a Palm Beach hotel at the turn of the twentieth century and the nearby community's black hotel employees whose homes were burned to the ground amid the violent racism of the time.

King currently lives in southeast Florida, where he writes, canoes, and explores the Everglades regularly.

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Jonathon King playing basketball for his high school team, the Waverly Warriors, in Lansing, Michigan, in 1972.

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King's yearbook photo from his senior year of high school in 1972.

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For seven summers, from 1974 to 1980, King was a lifeguard in Ocean City, New Jersey. He's shown here in 1974 or 1975 with his best friend and fellow lifeguard, Scott Erb.

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In 1976, King worked as part of a crew hired by boat owners to deliver sailboats from New Jersey to Florida at the end of the summer. He's shown here sailing a forty-foot vessel down the coast.

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King's children, Jessica and Adam, at ages ten and eight, respectively, with the mascot of the University of Florida in Gainesville in 2003.

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A handwritten ma.n.u.script page from King's debut novel, The Blue Edge of Midnight The Blue Edge of Midnight. Worried that his years as a reporter would make it difficult to write thoughtfully using a keyboard, King wrote his first two books with pencil on legal pads to avoid sounding like a journalist.

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King's Edgar Award for the Best First Mystery Novel by an American Author, which he won in 2002 for The Blue Edge of Midnight The Blue Edge of Midnight, the debut book in the Max Freeman series. The Edgars, which are given annually by the Mystery Writers of America, are considered the most prestigious awards in the mystery genre.

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King stands inside of Kim's Alley Bar, one of the oldest taverns in Ft. Lauderdale. Several scenes in the Max Freeman series take place here, particularly in A Killing Night A Killing Night, in which Max investigates the abductions of several bartenders. An actual bartender from Kim's Alley even made an appearance in the book.

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King at an isolated fis.h.i.+ng camp in the middle of the Florida Everglades.