Lantern Beach Mysteries Box Set

by Christy Barritt

  Why not?

  There was, however, evidence of a struggle, of a fight. The blood pools weren’t untouched, but they didn’t show a logical progression of movement either. Someone bleeding out would have left a trail leading toward an exit.

  What had happened to Buddy? Because there was no evidence that he’d left this place.

  The thought didn’t settle well with Cassidy.

  She closed her eyes, picturing the scene. Maybe someone had shown up at Buddy’s door. Perhaps Buddy had invited them over. It didn’t matter. Either way, an argument had ensued—one that had led to a fight.

  Assuming the blood was Buddy’s, who would want to hurt the produce stand owner? He hadn’t been in town long enough to develop enemies. Or had he? Was Skye an enemy?

  “Hey, guys,” Ty called from the other room. “Come look at this.”

  Cassidy and Mac met him in the kitchen.

  A pad of paper rested beneath a landline phone, pencil marks slashed over the top.

  Ty held up the top sheet. “I did that old trick I learned from Hardy Boy novels.” He winked at Cassidy. “Not quite Sue Grafton, but . . . I decided to see what the last message left was. It’s an address.”

  Oh, wasn’t he funny?

  “Brilliant work.” Mac peered at the paper “That could be something important. Until we know for sure, let’s keep looking. We don’t want to raise suspicions by staying here too long, even if we do have permission.”

  Trying not to leave any evidence she’d been here—or fingerprints—Cassidy continued around the beach house. She climbed a set of stairs to the second floor, looking for Buddy’s bedroom. Sure enough, his room was through the second door on the right at the top of the steps.

  She wandered the perimeter of the room, soaking everything in.

  For someone who’d set up a business in Lantern Beach, he certainly didn’t appear to be staying long-term. He hadn’t even unpacked his suitcase and instead appeared to be living out of it.

  Which seemed odd.

  Most people didn’t come to town and set up a business temporarily. It wouldn’t be worth it, especially considering the chunk of money he’d put into his top-of-the-line building.

  Buddy could simply be too lazy to unpack. It wasn’t unheard of. Or maybe he’d packed to go on a trip. But something told Cassidy that wasn’t the case here.

  Cassidy would also guess that renting this house cost more per week than he made in a month. Another interesting fact.

  Something wasn’t adding up in her mind.

  She flipped through some papers on the dresser. Pictures of produce. A list of what appeared to be sellers. No letters from Skye. Had Bozeman found them?

  She didn’t know. Just in case these proved handy, she took pictures of the list and the photos.

  Just as she pulled open one of the dresser drawers, she heard a commotion downstairs.

  She couldn’t be sure, but it almost sounded like, “Police! Put your hands up.”

  Cassidy rushed toward the sound, slowing her steps as she neared the bottom of the stairs.

  Ty and Mac stood there with their hands in the air, and Chief Bozeman had his gun aimed on them. The stout man already had beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead. He was nervous. Really nervous.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Bozeman?” Mac asked, a toothpick dangling from his lips. He looked the opposite of the chief—as cool and composed as a man with a clear conscious.

  “I’m responding to a breaking-and-entering call,” he said. “What are you doing in here?”

  A breaking-and-entering call? Who kept calling the police on this place?

  Cassidy stopped at the base of the stairs and the chief pointed his gun at her also. “Hands up.”

  She complied, as any normal citizen might.

  “We’re here because Bill gave me permission to come inside,” Mac said.

  “Who’s Bill?” Bozeman’s eyebrows pinched together, and he drew his chin back in confusion.

  “He owns this place.” Mac said the words slowly, as if giving them a chance to sink into Bozeman’s thick head.

  The chief grunted. “Well, I didn’t clear it.”

  “He told me that your officer said the scene was cleared.”

  “That didn’t give you permission to come in here.”

  Mac didn’t back down. “I think that was up to Bill.”

  Bozeman sighed and slid his gun back into the holster. “Put your hands down. But I reserve the right to arrest you.”

  “You have no grounds,” Mac said.

  If Cassidy didn’t know better, she’d think Mac was enjoying this.

  The chief narrowed his eyes. “What are you all really doing here?”

  “We heard you were accusing a friend of ours of committing a crime you have no proof happened and no proof of her involvement in said crime,” Mac said.

  Cassidy let Mac take the lead here in order not to draw unnecessary attention to herself. Watching him was quite entertaining.

  “We’re exploring every aspect, but Skye Lavinia is at the top of our suspect list,” Bozeman said. “She’s got motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Only if there’s a crime,” Mac said. “You can’t prove anything. Maybe Buddy cut himself and drove himself to the mainland to see a doctor.”

  “Which is precisely why we haven’t arrested her yet.” Chief Bozeman raised his chin. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave, and I ask that you don’t come back until I personally clear the scene.”

  Cassidy started to file out but paused beside the chief. “If you don’t mind me asking, who reported we’d broken in?”

  Again, there was no sign that they were up to anything nefarious. They’d had the code. It would make sense if they’d come in through a window or made a scene. But they hadn’t.

  “It was an anonymous tip,” the chief said.

  She nodded, not pushing anymore.

  What exactly was going on here?

  “And in case your friend didn’t mention it,” the chief continued. “She was covered in blood when we walked in.”

  Chapter 7

  Six Weeks Earlier

  Cady paused outside the door of the abandoned apartment building that DH-7 frequented. She tried to keep her anger at bay so she wouldn’t blow her cover. But every fiber of her being wanted to demand answers until she knew the truth about what had happened after Raul had given her that drug.

  Because that’s what she realized had happened. She’d been drugged. It explained her memory lapse. Her headache. Her racing pulse.

  And she knew exactly what they’d given her. Flakka—a drug that made people lose all their sensibilities.

  She’d taken off the shirt she’d been wearing—the one covered in blood. The black tank top beneath it would hide any remaining stains. She’d then found a puddle of water in the warehouse—probably from a recent rainstorm. She’d done her best to remove all the red from her hands.

  She couldn’t walk down the street like that.

  But her head still pounded uncontrollably, probably an aftereffect of the drug and the shock she’d experienced once she’d come to.

  She’d searched the warehouse before leaving. There were no dead bodies there, and no evidence that anything had happened.

  Yet that blood had been fresh. It had still been wet. Still red. It hadn’t darkened that much or deoxygenated—the process of blood turning brown as it met the air.

  Drawing in another breath, she pulled the squeaky door open and stepped inside. The smell of cigarette smoke and body odor assaulted her. There was nothing good about this place.

  A few people turned toward her, but most didn’t give her much attention. Others were too busy counting their loves—money and drugs. Some were getting high. Others had circled up, probably discussing some kind of nefarious deed they were planning.

  Cady needed to find Raul.

  She’d broken into his inner circle surprisingly fast. Probably because she’d p
roven herself to be scrawny but strong. During that first initiation, someone had come at Raul. She’d stepped in and saved him.

  Of course, it had all been a setup. Every step had been practiced and rehearsed. The man who’d come at Raul had been a cop, and he’d been okay—Cassidy had shot him with a rubber bullet.

  But Raul had been impressed—impressed enough to trust her with assignments meeting his dealers. She hadn’t let him down, even though everything in her had screamed that what she was doing was wrong.

  She’d fought to get drugs off the street. To put killers behind bars.

  And now she seemed to be supporting the very people she despised.

  She just had to keep the end goal in mind. That was all she could do. All of this would pay off soon.

  She reached the other end of the building—Raul’s normal lair. The room was set up like a royal court, and Raul always sat enthroned on a leather chair against the center of the back wall—just like a king. Four guys surrounded him—his guard dogs, as Cady called them.

  Raul’s eyes lit with partial satisfaction, partial curiosity as he spotted her. “My Cady. You’re back.”

  She glanced at the men around him, her stomach turning with revulsion at Raul’s words. She wasn’t his, and never would be. “Can I have a minute?”

  His men moved closer, as if she might attempt a ruse against their leader.

  “It’s alright. This is my Cady. Of course we can talk. Just don’t go too far.”

  They stepped out of the room, and Cady stepped closer. Even with all of her training, this man still scared the living daylights out of her. She’d never seen eyes so evil.

  DH-7. Dead Haters Seven.

  Because when the gang had first formed, seven members had tried to sell them out.

  Each of those members had been strung up by their feet and left to bleed out in a deli one of the men owned.

  That was what this gang did to people who betrayed them.

  That person could be Cady if she wasn’t careful.

  “What can I do for you?” Raul asked.

  Cady shoved down her nerves, refusing to show her fear. “What happened?”

  He smirked, knowing exactly what she was talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Raul. You gave me some flakka.”

  “I just couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to try it. It’s like golden nectar from the gods themselves.”

  “I prefer to remain in control.” Her voice trembled as she fought to do just that—remain in control.

  His smirk grew wider. “And I wanted to see what you’d do if you weren’t in control.”

  She swallowed hard. She didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.

  What if she’d confessed to something under its influence? No, she couldn’t have. She’d be dead now, if she’d done that.

  “And what did I do?”

  “You don’t remember.” He stood and came to stand face-to-face with Cady. He reached for her and traced a finger behind her ear.

  She fought not to flinch or to turn away in repulsion. She knew what Raul thought of women—they were second class, a pleasure put on earth for men to enjoy and for nothing else.

  She’d impressed him enough that he’d kept his distance. But for how long would that last?

  “No, I don’t remember.” Her voice held a slight tremble still.

  Which seemed to please Raul. He reached for her and pulled her closer until her body was shoved up against his. And then he leaned toward her neck, her ear. His lips didn’t touch it, but his breath certainly did.

  “You don’t remember this?” he whispered, a menacing undertone lacing his voice.

  Nausea roiled in her. What was he getting at? What had she done during those missing hours?

  “I don’t remember anything,” she said, remaining steely in her determination to find answers.

  He pulled back and laughed as if entertained by her response.

  He stepped back. “We just officially made you one of us.”

  “What does that mean?” Part of her didn’t want to know. Yet she had to know. Needed to know.

  “We marked you.”

  The blood whooshed from Cady’s lungs. Their tattoo. They must have given her a lightning bolt tattoo while she’d been under the influence.

  “I see.” She raised her chin. “But that still doesn’t explain the blood or the warehouse. Did you just leave me?”

  Raul backed away, done playing his games with her, obviously. “That’s not important.”

  “It’s important to me.”

  “The only thing that’s important is that you understand that you’re working for me.” His gaze sliced into her. “Do you understand?”

  She knew the conversation was over. “I understand.”

  “Good. Because I have another errand for you to run. Get cleaned up.”

  Cady bit down hard. This conversation might be over, but this ordeal was only just beginning for her. She would find answers about her missing time, if it was the last thing she did.

  Chapter 8

  Cassidy and Ty sat beside each other in his truck, both quiet as they processed what they’d learned from Chief Bozeman at Buddy’s house.

  “I’m surprised Skye didn’t mention she had blood on her hands,” Ty said.

  “She probably knew it would make her look guilty.” Who wouldn’t think that? Did it make it right not to mention it? Not really. Not to Cassidy, at least. Then again, Cassidy didn’t have any room to talk, considering her current situation.

  “But still.” Ty shook his head, his jaw set and his eyes showing his unhappiness at the omission.

  Cassidy shrugged. “Maybe she has a good explanation.”

  “Maybe.”

  Cassidy shivered. Hearing that her friend had blood on her brought back another round of memories. Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered her own situation. And her internal cry was always the same. Please, don’t let me have hurt anyone while under the influence. Please.

  Who was she even talking to? Certainly not a God who’d been silent her entire life.

  Or had He?

  Her best friend, Lucy, had believed, and she’d been murdered. God certainly hadn’t done her any favors.

  “What now?” Ty said.

  “Mac is going to get the information on the renter for us from Bill. In the meantime, how about if we go check out that address you used your Hardy Boy skills to find?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I feel a little guilty not turning the information over to the chief.”

  Obstruction of justice—it was a crime. The process of living a lie had spilled over into so many other areas of her life. Things no longer seemed as black-and-white as they once had.

  “I’m not sure the chief would buy our excuse,” Cassidy said.

  “Me neither.” Ty put his truck into Drive. “Let’s go.”

  Before he could pull out, something caught Cassidy’s eye, and she grabbed Ty’s arm. “Wait.”

  He hit the brakes. “What is it?”

  “I just saw a man in that house over there.” Cassidy pointed across the street. “He was watching us from his window.”

  “You think he’s the guy who keeps calling in these tips?”

  “I’d say it’s a good possibility.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  He put the truck back into Park, and they dashed across the street, through the rain, to the man’s house. The good news was that the weather had let up ever-so-slightly for the moment. There was only one car in the driveway, and the place seemed quiet—like it wasn’t filled with a bustling family or partying friends.

  Ty banged on the door, and they waited.

  No answer.

  They’d clearly just seen the man, however.

  Ty pounded again.

  And again, there was no answer.

  Finally, Ty leaned toward the wood. “We know you’re in there. Open up.”

 
The door flew open, and a scrawny man stood there with his arms raised, a half-eaten plum in his hands. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

  Ty scowled. “Why would we hurt you?”

  “You were in that house.” He nodded to Buddy’s place.

  Yep, he was the guy who kept calling the police.

  “What’s been going on in that house?” Cassidy asked. “And, please, put your hands down. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

  He eyeballed them both, searching their gazes to see if he could trust them. Finally, he nodded and stepped back. “I’ll talk, but you need to come inside. I don’t want anyone to see us.”

  Either this man was paranoid—which was a good possibility—or he knew something that could change this investigation.

  They stepped into the entryway of the quiet home.

  The man glanced outside again before shutting the door. Cassidy was thankful she’d thought to stuff her handgun into her cross-body purse. Just in case.

  “Who are you two?” he asked, then took another bite of the plum. The man had small features and dark hair that looked greasy. He wore exercise shorts and a T-shirt advertising a local restaurant.

  “We’re friends of someone accused of the crime,” Ty said. “You mind sharing your name?”

  “People call me Sissy.” The man didn’t even flinch at the name. When neither Ty nor Cassidy said anything, he explained. “My name is Sisco, but I got the name Sissy from my friends in college. It stuck, and now it sounds normal to me. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “We know our friend didn’t do it,” Ty said.

  “You mean the woman who broke in this morning?” the man said.

  “She didn’t break in,” Cassidy said. “The door was unlocked—probably left that way by the real criminal.”

  “Well, she didn’t belong there. That’s why I called the police. I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

  “How did you know she didn’t belong there?” Cassidy asked.

  “Because I’ve seen the type of people who frequented the place. They didn’t look like that girl. They looked scary.”