The Murder Artist

I pay for a day ticket, put the receipt on the dash, and turn my car onto the beach, falling in line behind a black Explorer. We roll along the sand at the posted ten-miles-per-hour pace. To my right, an endless parade of buildings and parked cars, the sparkle of hotel and condo swimming pools. To my left the white beach, the forest of umbrellas, towels and beach blankets and people, the expanse of ocean and sky.

I spot the van where Emma Sandling works, which is easy enough. It’s under a huge inflated rabbit – dressed in a bikini. The thing bobs and snaps against its guy wires in the stiff breeze. A short line of customers stretches out from the service window, ski

And then I’m past the van, my first glimpse of Emma Sandling that of a figure inside the service window, counting out change. I exit next to the Adam’s Mark and make my way up A-1-A to the entrance ramp for a second pass. This time, Sandling is outside the van, clipboard in hand, talking to a couple of boys holding lime green boogie boards. She’s a small woman with coppery hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wears pink shorts and a white halter top and flip-flops. A flash of a smile, an impression of freckles, and I’ve cruised past again.

The guy at the entry point recognizes me this time and waves me through. About a hundred yards from the Beach Bu

“Help you?” She has an engaging smile. Dimples.

“Just a bottle of water.”

“Sure thing. The small one or the one-liter size?”

“I’ll take the liter.”

“That’s good,” she says, pulling a bottle of Dasani from the cooler behind her. “It’s hot out here. You want to stay hydrated.”

She puts the change on the counter, looking past me to the woman next in line, but I hesitate, immobilized by her nonchalance and vulnerability. “Somethin’ else, sir?” she asks with a little frown.

“No, I’m all set,” I tell her, and move out of the way.

I find an open spot on the uncrowded beach, stretch out my towel on the hard sand, and watch the waves roll in, the endless ebb and flow. Little kids play tag with the leading edge of the water, build sand castles, present shells to their mothers. Gulls cry, planes cruise by overhead, hauling advertisements. Women intent on ta

I sit there with the sun beating down on my back and the image of Emma Sandling in my mind. My skin feels too hot, and when I close my eyes, there’s a sort of thudding in my head, like a heavy door slamming shut over and over. By the time I get back to the car, the thudding sensation is gone and in its place is this single depressing thought: It won’t work.

I must have been kidding myself – because how could I ever have thought it would work? Sure I can get close to Emma Sandling, maybe even make friends with her. But what about when I get around to the subject at hand? When her new friend starts talking about the abduction of her sons – an incident she’s gone to such lengths to bury in the past?

The interior of the car is so hot I have to put my sandy towel on the seat. The steering wheel burns my hands. Back in the motel, I take a look at my notebook, reviewing the information McCafferty sent about Emma Sandling’s schedule. I jot down a few questions I want to ask. Then I stare at the ceiling for a long time thinking about how I can get Emma Sandling to talk to me.

Finally, I get into my shorts and T-shirt and head out, ru

I think about it. I do have some leverage over Emma Sandling. She’s in hiding. I know where she is. I could expose her. She’ll understand that. She’s got a life here; she won’t want to pick up stakes again.

But leverage doesn’t exactly amount to Plan B. Not really. There’s only one thing to do: throw myself on her mercy.

Thanks to McCafferty’s e-mail, I know Emma’s schedule. She’ll close the Beach Bu

I could just show up at her apartment, but I sense that I’ll do better if I can talk to her without the kids being around. She won’t feel as threatened. If I had more patience, I might wait for the morning, wait at the Beach Bu

In the meantime, I check my e-mail. There’s one from Petrich, appending the police files about the dimes and the origami rabbit. I read these over, but the only new bit of information is a paragraph- long expert opinion from an origami scholar.

Without destroying the specimen, I ca

I try watching television, but that drives me crazy – ads and laugh tracks and news bites like fingernails on a blackboard. Turning it off is worse; I’m left with my own adrenalized dread and the glacial passage of time. After a while I head to the beach and walk, somewhat soothed by the crash of the surf. Still, I check my watch every few minutes.

At nine, I’m heading down Clyde Morris Boulevard, the sky a streaky pink above. I turn onto International Speedway Drive, then hang a right into the college’s huge parking area. The lot’s half empty now, but it must have been crowded when Emma got here, because I find her red Subaru way out on the periphery. I’m sure it’s hers because of the Save-the-Manatee plates, but I check the number against the one on McCafferty’s e-mail anyway. Yes.

It’s nine-fifteen. I park a few spaces away from the Subaru. I listen to the radio for a while, but after a few minutes, I have to get out of the car. I’m edgy and restless. But then I feel conspicuous just standing there, so I gravitate toward a small strip of vegetation that separates the parking lot from a service road. This is where I wait, in the midst of palmettos and reedy bushes, muttering to myself as the leaves rustle and clatter in the breeze.

I realize what I’m doing: I’m rehearsing. It’s as if I’m practicing a stand-up before the camera rolls. I know it’s stupid, as if there’s any right way to say what I’m going to say – but I keep trying out different phrases anyway, because it fills my mind.

“Emma – my name is Alex Callahan. We have a tragedy in common…”

“Emma Sandling, I need your help.”

“Emma…”

It’s full dark now. Light fixtures stand at regular intervals in the lot, each creating a cone of light that’s alive with orbiting bugs. More cars depart. In this section, only a dozen or so remain.

A figure approaches, but soon I know it’s not her. It’s a kid, baggy pants and earphones. He shuffles toward his rusted-out Toyota and then drives away.