Float the Boat

By Mark S. Ehrlich

It's December 2017 and consultant Nick Harmon is screwed. When he finds his ex-flame murdered the night before a reunion, police suspect he's the long-hibernating Surf Club Killer. Nick has his own theory too: that Adnan Sulaiman, the event's guest-of-honor, copycat-killed her. Backing it up only sinks him deeper into suspicion. But Nick's unconcerned. Even if he cuts his own throat, he's going to make Sulaiman pay. 

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Adnan Sulaiman's latest deal will make real estate history. But the Indonesian billionaire now stands accused of murder. Not by DC police, by a dead woman he never met and a cabal of media loudmouths. The bad news goes global fast. One partner bails, others waiver, and protesters mass at headquarters. He's in the fight of his life and won't back down.

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Detective Steve Caine designates Nick the key suspect and Sulaiman a longshot. But is either man the elusive serial killer? Troubling inconsistencies mount, and unanswered questions dog him. Then a reporter breaks news about crucial evidence. One murderer or two? And if the Surf Club Killer's in town, when will he carve another wave?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark S. Ehrlich
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223557272

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Washington, DC

December 1, 2017

A musky, metallic odor reminiscent of old coins wafted from the bathroom—death’s remittance circulating to all corners of the hotel suite, corroding the air and tarnishing every breath. None of it seemed to bother the detective when he appeared, as if from nowhere, at the edge of the entry hallway, his eyes sweeping across the living room like a tank turret in search of a target.

A burst of pure adrenaline juiced Nick, and he sat straighter on the couch. Somehow, he’d missed the detective’s arrival. The other police officers had provided no hints either. Nick snuck a peek at them at the desk across the room, then returned his gaze to the detective.

He was in a crouch a few steps into the living room, probing several dark splotches on the carpet with a surgical-gloved finger. After glancing at the bathroom, he removed a notebook and pen from his flak vest, made a note, and joined his colleagues at the desk.

Nick observed their interaction. Hands clasping. Notebooks flashing. Pens scratching. Heads swiveling. One cop said something, tapping a folded note. The detective read it, breezed past Nick, and disappeared inside the bathroom.

Five minutes crept by. More than enough time for the uninitiated to make little of what they were seeing and move on. At last, the detective emerged from behind the door and stood before the immense granite vanity. The clutter interested him; his head moved counterclockwise every few seconds to start a fresh analysis. Waste of time, Nick wanted to say, because nothing there mattered. Then it occurred to him that all of this might be a show for his sake, a warning of the intense scrutiny coming soon to him.

His review complete, the detective turned and examined the sets of bloody footprints on the marble tile. His fingers fluttered like a swimmer up on the starting block while his eyes followed the tracks to a pair of shoes pointed toes out just inside the threshold. The fluttering stopped, and he stole a glance at Nick’s stocking feet.

Curious about my loafers? Nick asked him.

Sorry I ignored you before, Mr. Harmon, the detective said before flicking on the exhaust fan and leaving the bathroom. He sat on the far side of the couch facing Nick. I’m Lieutenant Steve Caine, the lead on this case. He gestured at the patrolmen. One of them told me Melody was an old friend of yours. On behalf of DC Metro Police, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.

Nick blinked away tears while staring at his lap. I still can’t believe it.

A shock like this can be tricky. He motioned at the welcome basket on the coffee table. Better drink up.

Nick grabbed a bottle of water and took a long chug of instant relief. Mr. Harmon’s way too formal, Lieutenant. Just call me Nick.

Sure, Nick. Call me Caine if you like. Everyone else does. He opened his notebook. I hear you’re in town from Virginia.

From Chancellorsville.

Beautiful country. I’m up in Centreville. What do you do there?

I own a consulting company and two CrossFit gyms.

Caine swept his eyes over Nick and flipped back a page. The 9-1-1 dispatcher logged your call at 6:31 p.m.

Sounds about right. I’d arrived late, saw the check-in line, and texted Mel shortly after six that I’d show up at six thirty. He took a phone from his pocket, swept the screen and tapped the TEXT icon. 6:06, to be exact.

I take it Mel was her nickname?

Nick gave a wistful nod.

What did you do next?

Went to my room, dumped my stuff, and came down here.

Did you see anybody when you reached her floor?

No. Nobody.

Okay, Nick, you’re at her door. Tell me what happened from then until you called 9-1-1.

Nick drew in a deep breath. She left it open on the security bracket and taped that note—he pointed at the desk—to the door.

I saw the note. Mel leaving the door open seems odd.

Doesn’t surprise me.

Why’s that?

She was always carefree. And she was expecting me to be on time.

Caine nodded and said, So you saw the note . . .

I read it and entered. I got no reply when I called her name, saw her stuff, and called out to the bedroom. Then I noticed the lights in the bathroom and said, ‘Mel, it’s Nick. You in there?’ and walked in. The door jammed with a thud, and I saw the blood and her deformed neck and checked her pulse, but it was hopeless. Then I came out here to call. He gestured at his shoes. I don’t even remember slipping them off; it’s second nature to me.

Caine glanced at the brown suede loafers stained at the tips. Mind if I keep them for a while?

They’re yours.

Let’s talk about Mel’s plans for tonight. She wrote you a note, left her door open, her blow dryer and makeup are out and the curling iron’s on—looks like she was expecting you.

At six.

Was she expecting anyone else?

No idea.

Caine, craning his neck as if looking for something, said half to himself, I suppose her phone might have a clue.

Nick pounced on the opportunity. Mine does.

Go on.

Nick clutched his phone, ignoring the budding sense he’d jumped the gun. "She left me a voicemail late today. Said something like, ‘I’ve got a big surprise for Sulaiman, and by big, I mean Harvey Weinstein big.’"

Caine thrust out his hand. Mind if I listen?

When Caine finished, he asked, Did you call her back?

No. She must’ve called when I stopped for gas. I saw it late, right after I sent her the text.

Caine made a notation and tore out a blank page. Write your first thought when you heard it.

Nick wrote two words and handed Caine the page.

Caine read Nick’s note aloud—Me Too—then showed Nick his note: #MeToo. He smirked. Great minds think alike.

We shall see. Couldn’t be anything else, Nick said.

She mentioned she had surprises for you too.

Lost for eternity.

Caine returned Nick’s phone, along with his business card. Do me a favor and forward her message to my cell.

Afterward, Caine followed up. Who’s Sulaiman?

Nick struggled to reply. You get one shot when you strike at the king, and he’d mentioned the voicemail too soon. Still blind to what he’d seen, Caine wouldn’t put much stock in his accusation. Attacking Sulaiman now would be like spitting into the wind. Background first, then start swinging. We’re in town for a reunion tomorrow at the Indonesian embassy. Sulaiman is the guest of honor.

Any events today?

They’re all tomorrow. A brunch and a dinner.

Caine circled back. Spell his full name for me. He listened and typed into his phone’s internet search bar. Just your average Indonesian billionaire.

Nothing about him is average.

Caine continued to probe. Is the reunion school-related?

Work.

What kind of work?

Back in the eighties, we ran a school in a Vietnamese refugee camp in Indonesia, up near Singapore. There’s a bunch of us here, fifty people or more.

Fifty? That explains the group booking they mentioned downstairs. He jotted something in the notebook. Any idea where Mel sent the voicemail from?

The embassy? I’m not sure. Nick removed a small bamboo cylinder from his pocket and unscrewed the top. She was on the organizing committee and had a late meeting there.

What about why she’d want to give this Sulaiman fellow a MeToo surprise?

Nick took a toothpick from the cylinder and put it in the corner of his mouth, his reply on hold while he weighed the consequences. Might backfire, he thought, and pinned his hopes on the upside.

I’ll tell you my theory in a moment. First, you need to know there was a murder in the camp exactly like Mel’s.

CHAPTER 2

Detective Caine eyed Nick. Exactly?

Exactly, Nick repeated, ignoring the doubt clouding Caine’s face. Someone broke Sondra Womack’s neck and stabbed her multiple times. The killer also stuffed her tee shirt into her mouth.

You saw it?

Couldn’t miss it. Looked like a white tee shirt to me.

Or a rag or a towel or a—

My money’s on a tee shirt.

Caine threw him an icy stare. Early in a case, Nick, some things only the murderer knows.

Nick held his ground. Look, I was there. I saw Sondra right after they found her.

Caine paused as if in thought and opened his notebook. Spell Sondra’s last name.

Nick did, then elaborated. She was a teacher trainer in our program.

What did you teach? English?

Survival English, cultural orientation, and basic job skills for life in the States. I ran the program, Mel ran the cultural orientation classes. The camp was on Garam Island, and we lived there too.

Must’ve been tough.

It wasn’t the Ritz. Nick sank back into the cushions. Stifling heat, rats everywhere, no hot water, nonstop work. The place broke a few people.

Tell me about them later. Caine turned the page. Now, back to Sondra. When did it happen?

Late on December sixth or early in the morning of December seventh, 1984.

Was the killer arrested?

The killer walked.

Any suspects?

A bunch, including me.

A bunch, Caine repeated, eyeing Nick.

Some of the other suspects are in town too.

Caine seemed to mull this over for a few seconds, then he asked, Did you kill Sondra?

No.

Caine said nothing for a while, looking Nick in the eye. Then his phone buzzed to life. After reading the screen, he said, Got a few quick questions about Mel. Profile stuff. They told me downstairs she’s from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Does she have any close family in the area?

None that I know of. She was an only child and her parents died years ago.

Married?

Mel? Never. We dated once, on Garam, and I remember thinking she might be the one. But, no, Mel liked her freedom.

She ever mention a boyfriend?

Not recently. Everything came second to her job.

What did she do?

She ran an endowment program for the University of Michigan.

Caine stood. Thanks, Nick. Relax here a bit and drink some more water.

***

After sending his partner a text, Caine scanned the scene in the bedroom. Curtains and blinds open. Unwrinkled bed. Half-open drawers. Jeans strewn on the walk-in closet floor. No evidence of a pre-murder fling or fight. Forensics would scour the place for trace evidence, but his gut told him they’d find nothing of promise.

He leaned against the dresser, polished his green-framed glasses with a lens cloth, and assessed his new case.

The good news—a rapid discovery—paled alongside the bad: an out-of-town victim, a hotel full of suspects, ancient history from the pre-internet age, and an embassy involved, a twist sure to put a bug up the captain’s ass. The case would go cold over the weekend unless he did something to shake it up. But what?

He put on his glasses and looked at Nick, his lifeline to the past and, at least for the moment, top suspect.

The guy was a walking advertisement for CrossFit. One look at him and Caine felt old. Roughly his height at an inch or two over six feet and at least in his midsixties, despite a shaved head, he looked fortysomething. An air of intrigue swirled about him too. Ripped muscles, worldly smarts. If he did the deed, he’d be a tough nut to crack. An idea popped into his head, completely legitimate under the circumstances, but bound to be controversial. Softening Nick up would help either way.

He checked his watch. Time to roll the dice?

***

Caine rejoined Nick on the couch. Mel deserves my best shot, Nick, but I won’t deliver without more of your help. Tonight.

Tonight? Nick’s lawyer would tell him to flat out decline, but he probed. What do you have in mind?

For starters, I want you to identify her body.

Can I do that?

Only if you feel up to it.

I’m fine. And after that?

I need information, the kind only someone like you can provide.

Nick gripped the tip of the toothpick between his fingers and spun it back and forth. For example?

Three subjects, mainly. Caine ticked them off on his fingers. The background on Sulaiman, more detail on Sondra’s murder, and Mel’s life in the refugee camp.

I’ll be happy to help, Nick said. Listing Sulaiman first might be a ruse, but it was too good to pass up. Would he raise the stakes and take him to headquarters? And what the hell is my status? It’s okay for a suspect to help you like that?

Caine flashed a grin. In my book it is, and that’s all—

His phone vibrated. Right, right, Caine told the caller, then said to Nick, My forensics team is in the elevator.

I’m in Room 834, Nick said.

Give me an hour, max.

Nick moved to leave.

Just a moment. Caine pointed at his socks. Mind leaving them too?

CHAPTER 3

Dulles, Virginia

The seismic roar of jet engines overhead at Dulles International Airport breached the interior of the embassy limousine cruising to an exit ramp. The rumbling reached Adnan Sulaiman as he was settling into a rear row captain’s chair and loosed a memory of his last visit. He buckled his seat belt and gazed out the window and into the past.

His wife had joined him on what had been her last trip, and his eldest son, still teething as company president, phoned daily. Five states in three days. A jaunt to the Arctic Circle. A new client. An enormous investment. And when Lehman Brothers tanked, it almost blew up in his face.

An American saying his youngest grandchild taught him came to mind: No pain, no gain.

The pain had come fast. But instead of panicking, he bought out nervous partners and doubled his net worth on the rebound. Batam’s Midas, the newspaper wags dubbed him, setting him up for an epic fall. But his touch never lost its luster, and the pile grew and grew. Now, on the verge of the deal of his life, he’d put everything on the table. The scale took his breath away. All from a mere hole in the ground.

After loosening his seat belt, he unbuttoned his overcoat and removed a diamond-tipped fob chain from his pants pocket. He let the end dangle for a practiced second while making a gun shape with his left hand, then he twirled the fob around the barrel—his index and middle fingers—untwirling, retwirling . . .

The habit focused his mind. The aches and pains of life dissolved with it in hand. He checked his watch, unadjusted to the local time. Twenty-eight hours since he’d boarded the Batam ferry to Singapore. He’d survived far worse.

The embassy man sitting alongside him coughed. Deputy Chief of Mission Lestari, the embassy’s Number Two Man. Lestari, you didn’t mention the meeting.

It’s still on, sir. Ambassador Pranoto moved it to nine thirty. He checked the time. The traffic’s light tonight, and you’ll have about an hour to rest.

Sulaiman palmed the fob and scowled. He detested meetings he didn’t lead but couldn’t refuse. What’s the purpose?

The ambassador needs thirty minutes to review the final reunion program with you.

Fine, Sulaiman muttered. My speech is done. Shall I send it to your assistant?

Please, sir. He’ll upload it to the teleprompter for tomorrow night.

Teleprompter? Pranoto’s certainly pulling out all the stops.

He sees this weekend as a stepping stone to bigger things, Lestari explained. Changing subjects, he said, Sir, we’re hearing rumors you’re about to launch a megabillion-dollar shot across Singapore’s bow. The culmination of Habibie’s Dream, some are saying.

His dream and my risk. The former president’s been a lifelong inspiration. Nothing’s public yet, mind you, but I’ll call it Straits Towers: luxury waterfront condos, a world-class golf course and resort, a million square feet of commercial space. The crown jewel, still unnamed, will surpass Singapore’s Guoco Tower by fifty feet.

What a powerful statement, sir.

Historic, Sulaiman said. He gazed across the cabin toward DC. Diffused light reflecting off the cloudy night sky grabbed his attention. The memorials to Washington and Lincoln.

The Americans have had a nice run, Sulaiman said. But this is the Asian Century. Our time to leave a mark that inspires the next generation. He faced the window. I briefed your boss last week, and I’d be honored to brief the ambassador.

Excellent, sir. Lestari tapped his phone screen. How’s tomorrow morning after the brunch?

I’m available.

I’ll handle the arrangements myself. After making inputs to his phone, Lestari asked, How was your trip?

Long but comfortable. The attendants pampered me nonstop. I enjoyed an old James Bond film and even slept a few hours. Thanks to the brandy.

Lestari stared at the floor mat. We hope you enjoy your stay with us, sir.

Ah yes, the Royal Apartment. Lestari had resisted booking the plum quarters until Wiranto outfoxed him. My aide told me everything’s arranged.

Lestari curled his lip. The ambassador insisted.

How generous of him.

The Royal Apartment is in the mansion, sir, a truly magnificent building with a remarkable history. I assume you’re familiar with the Hope Diamond, sir.

The Hope? Of course. Sulaiman opened his hand to reveal the end of the fob. A worker tried to smuggle this raw three-carat stone out of my first diamond mine. He found Lestari’s eyes in the dimly lit interior. I know about the curse and the ghosts, too. What of it?

Lestari cleared his throat. Well, sir, the mansion’s owner was also the Hope Diamond’s last private owner.

Its last victim too, if I remember correctly.

Lestari sat straighter. Correct, sir. Her father built the apartment for the King of Belgium, and it takes up most of the fourth floor. Today, we reserve it for special guests—like the president and vice president.

Impervious to the slight, Sulaiman slid up his coat sleeves and revealed a set of presidential cuff links. I suppose these qualify me? A tingle ran up his spine and, not waiting for a reply, he struck. Tell me, Lestari, do the big shots bring their own masseuses, or do you provide one?

Blindsided, Lestari stalled. For a massage, sir?

What else could I mean? Sulaiman huffed.

We’ll be happy to provide one, sir. Um, will fifteen minutes after the meeting be satisfactory?

The smell of victory enthralled Sulaiman, and he rejected the suggestion. After? That won’t do. I should be fresh for the ambassador.

I understand, sir. Lestari lurched for his phone.

Sulaiman’s private celebration ended a moment later when his phone beeped with a text. After reading the one-word message, he sent a one-word response, and pocketed the phone. Gazing out the window, he went back to twirling the diamond.

CHAPTER 4

Washington, DC

The kitchen closes in ten minutes, Caine informed Nick as he approached their table. They were on the upper deck of an open-air café at Union Station. Need anything?

Nick took a seat and motioned at the coffee jug on the table. That’ll do. Any word?

The director just called and said it’s official. Knowing about Mel’s tattoo settled it.

Nick managed a strained smile. The DC morgue uses photos of the deceased for identification. At Nick’s suggestion, the director had quizzed him about Mel’s tattoo, drawn over a nasty scar on her hip.

We were in Koh Samui, Thailand, Nick recounted. Mel’s first choice was a Jolly Roger. I talked her into a musical note, to match her name.

Thanks, Nick, Caine said. I know making the ID wasn’t easy. He topped off his mug of coffee and took a sip. Quieter than I expected.

Great spot, Nick said, looking over the vast hall. Christmas lights, glittering stars, and plastic holly had replaced the tiers of scaffolding that ruined past visits. I think I was on Garam when the renovations began. This place was a dump for decades. He put a fresh toothpick in place. Sure beats the hell out of the morgue.

What kind of wood is that?

Nick looked at the toothpick holder in his hand. This? Bamboo. From Japan, like the toothpicks. I make them myself.

You make the toothpicks?

I make them mint flavored. I buy in bulk and soak them in peppermint oil.

Sounds expensive.

Depends on how you look at it. Nick removed a toothpick and held it by the pointy tip. US toothpicks disintegrate and are a waste of money. Japanese toothpicks are ground to size and much sturdier.

He showed Caine the notched end, broke it off and rested the pointy tip of the toothpick on it. Proper Japanese etiquette is to rest your pick like so when it’s not in use. He maneuvered the toothpick into the corner of his mouth. I like to grip the notches with my back molars.

Nick pocketed the holder and said, Ages ago, chemotherapy gave me killer halitosis. I tried everything—brushing, mouthwash, gum, Tic Tacs—but nothing worked. Then I stumbled across this and the problem disappeared overnight.

Nick spun the toothpick’s tip between his fingers. Funny thing is, I beat cancer, but not my addiction to mint toothpicks.

All a matter of priority, Caine said and checked the time. Let’s start.

Same rules as in the car?

Caine nodded. If you don’t want to discuss something, tell me.

Got it.

I want to begin with Sulaiman. I was reading about him while you were in the bathroom. Ex-general. Billionaire. Owns a vast conglomerate and—he glanced at his notebook—the former head of B3-V, which you said ran the camp with the UN.

That’s right. B3-V policed the camp, enforced the rules, and handled security. The UN provided relief services.

What does B3-V stand for?

Sorry, can’t remember. Three long Indonesian words that begin with B and V for Vietnam. Special Agency for Vietnamese Refugees is probably close.

That works for me. Caine turned to a blank page. Before you share your theory, tell me more about Sulaiman.

Nick thought a moment, and said, Think of a movie you’ve seen with a domineering Third World military brute and that’s Sulaiman.

A real thug, huh?

A heroic thug.

Heroic? In what way?

Sulaiman’s branch was military intelligence, and he received three presidential citations for valor. The first came during the failed communist coup in 1965, the others for action against rebels in East Timor and Papua New Guinea. The wall in Sulaiman’s office rose in memory. He hung the plaques right below a photo of the man who signed them and never failed to point them out when I visited.

I saw recent photos of him at a groundbreaking ceremony, Caine said. For an ex-general, he looks suave.

Suave? Nick wanted to bang his head on the table. In a satanic way, I suppose. Corrupt, arrogant, and overbearing are a better fit. His nostrils flared. If he’s a billionaire, his seed money came from me.

Sounds like he tormented you.

For four brutal years. Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia, was his base, and he had a satellite office at the navy base in nearby Kerajaan Tinggi, where I worked the last year.

Nick recalled the relief of departing Indonesia for good. Sulaiman was a fiend. He blamed the ’65 coup on the Red Chinese and didn’t trust ethnic Chinese Indonesians either. He used to browbeat me for hiring them and anyone else he considered less than one hundred percent Indonesian. Vietnam was on his shit list too. To him, the refugees were spies sent by Hanoi. He wanted them out of his country by any means possible and lived to expedite the process.

Thanks, Caine said and put his pen down. That helps a lot. One thing you didn’t mention was Mel’s interaction with him.

Well, she really didn’t have any.

Hmm. I guess I assumed she did from the message.

Nick shook his head. She only knew about him from me.

Caine nudged his eyeglasses up. Okay. I’m ready to hear your theory.

My hunch is she was after revenge.

For what?

For B3-V’s shenanigans in the camp.

MeToo-related, I take it?

Exactly. Some B3-V soldiers treated refugee women brutally. A classic case of the powerful ruling the powerless. Sexual harassment, abuse, rape—you name it, it happened. The perpetrators got a slap on the wrist and a transfer. Sulaiman could’ve put a stop to it but didn’t. Mel knew some of the victims, and I bet she wanted payback.

Payback?

That’s right, and knowing Mel, she’d go for the jugular. Stage something. The setting at tomorrow’s dinner is perfect: cocktails, presentations, music. All capped off by a speech by guess who. I bet she planned to ambush him then.

Doubt crept back into Caine’s expression. I don’t know. I mean, I get she was salting her anger away and saw this weekend as a golden opportunity. But the MeToo angle seems thin.

Yeah, you may be right. But what we think doesn’t matter.

Why?

It was enough for Sulaiman, and when he found out, he murdered her.

CHAPTER 5

Caine sat up with a start. Hold on. You think Sulaiman murdered her?

Not think, Nick said. "Know. I know he did. His fingerprints are all over it."

You’re serious, Caine said skeptically.

Caine’s stance was as predictable as his undervaluing of the tee shirt, and Nick took it head-on. He’s got access to everything he needed to copy Sondra’s murder. I don’t believe in coincidence.

Same here, but I like facts.

If he found out about Mel’s plan—

A huge if.

Not for someone like Sulaiman.

Over a protest?

Nick dug in. Once Mel started, she wouldn’t relent. And Sulaiman, well, you don’t know him. He’d attack with everything he’s got.

You’re right. I don’t know him. Caine found Nick’s eyes. But I’m intimately familiar with murderers.

Come on, Caine. Sulaiman reads the papers. He’s got Harvey Weinstein to thank for teaching him how not to handle the problem. He wouldn’t wait, he’d act.

Acting’s one thing, but murder? Caine ran his hand through his blond hair. Seems more likely he’d try to scare her away first. Blow up her car or—

Put a horse’s head in her bed? Nick pushed back from the table. The Sulaiman I knew spurned half measures. Copying Sondra’s murder probably got him hard.

Slow down, Nick. These MeToo cases are like onions.

Then let’s peel back the skin.

Fine. Caine raised his index finger. For one, let’s say it’s a given Mel had a MeToo-related surprise in store for Sulaiman. He raised a second finger. "And we’ll also stipulate Sulaiman found out about her plan