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“It wasn’t on?” I asked.
Jones shook his head. I noted the beach boy who’d been doing all the talking when they’d first arrived, had nothing to say.
“Our manager says it was an oversight. He didn’t even know it was turned off.”
“I’m gonna need to see that equipment and the recordings,” Detective Scott said.
“As soon as you get a warrant.” Ah, at last word from the blond Barron.
I took another step closer, leaning in. “You’re exploiting young women for profit in unsafe working conditions with sexual harassment on the side. You want to fuck with me? You want to fuck with my kid, Chad?”
“It’s Barron,” he said, but he stuttered on the B.
“Full name, address, and current contact info,” Jen said as I backed off. “On all of you. And that—” She pointed at the wall-mounted box that controlled the pool floor. “Needs to be disabled until further notice.”
“Disabled?” Barron White asked.
“Yeah,” she said, “As in, unbolt it from the wall, disconnect the wires, and hand it over.”
“Or option B, I take a sledgehammer to it,” I added, moving toward the box as I spoke.
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, now. What’s going on here? Is this some kind of investigation?” Raphael Jones asked. “Misty bumped her head. It was an accident.”
“It was an accident?” I said. “Someone accidentally turned off the surveillance cams and then accidentally closed the cover while she was in the pool?”
“While there’s a dead mermaid on a slab in my morgue with a nearly identical head injury?” Jen Scott added.
The three men went dead silent. They stopped moving. They looked at each other, and then at her. “They found Eva?” That was the one who hadn’t spoken yet, with the shock white hair and too much gel; Andrew Chay.
“Yeah,” she said. “So, it’s a little more than a bump on the head we’re investigating. And I’m gonna need you three to stay in town until further notice.”
Two rolled their eyes, the third, Raphael, asked, “How is Misty?”
I wished I knew. “She’s fine.” Then I nodded at the box on the wall. “You gonna call your maintenance guy or should I go find a hammer?”
Chapter 11
MISTY
The ten-year-anniversary of Eva Quaid’s disappearance was tomorrow, if you counted by Sundays. And if Misty and Zig found what they needed tonight, maybe her case could finally be solved.
Paul Quaid hadn’t left his cabin yet. But he had driven his beat-up car around behind the workshop, and when he’d returned to the driveway, he had a trailer hooked to the back. It was an enclosed box trailer with doors in the rear.
It was pitch dark when he finally started loading his sculptures into the trailer.
“This is it,” Zig said. “He’s loading up.”
“It’s about freaking time.” Misty rearranged herself on the ground. They were sitting behind the fallen log with their folded sleeping bags as cushions. It felt like the darkest night ever in the forest. The moon hadn’t yet risen. It wasn’t silent, though. Night birds called, sounding hoarse and lonely. Insects chirped and whirred, and small animals skittered through the underbrush. The breeze was light and chilly and it smelled of pine.
She couldn’t bring herself to leave, not even to find a phone in the nearest village, so she could check in with Jeremy or Christy. Not when it looked like the guy was finally going to leave. She wanted to get a closer look at that corkboard wall, and maybe at the computer on the desk, too.
So she stayed, and she watched.
Paul Quaid carried one sculpture at a time out of the shed. Each was wrapped in a padded blanket like furniture movers use. He handled them as if they were made of crystal. He put about ten pieces in the trailer, which would hold ten times that many, she thought, then he stood behind the thing for a moment.
He was a thin man, slightly stooped, but that was bad posture, not old age. Or maybe he was bent by grief. Or evil. He was thirty-nine, according to their research. Dirty-blond hair, kind of shaggy on his head. He brushed his hands together, gave a nod, and walked toward the dark cabin.
“No,” Misty whispered.
