by Dani Pettrey
“Clearly,” Finn said. “The duck move was impressive, but with two attacks—first in Raleigh and now with Bashert, regardless of his concocted story—you’re safer with a trained agent.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then quickly shut it. Why was she arguing? She was getting what she wanted, to accompany Finn on the investigation. “Fine,” she said.
Finn narrowed his green eyes. “You agreed way too easy.”
She simply smiled.
forty-one
Finn led the way up the front stairs of 4564 Shore Lane, the way-too-eager-to-accompany-him Gabby on his heels. Regardless of what he or Noah said to try to get through her thick skull, she was working this case just as much as he was. He could either accept that and partner with her—in a manner of speaking—or he could continue to worry about her investigating on her own. His muscles tensed at the thought of her poking around on her own.
Exhaling, he knocked on the front door and waited for an answer.
Wind blew, rustling the weeping willow in the front lawn, which appeared a tad overgrown.
Gabby rocked back on her heels, her hands in her back jeans pockets. Her brown hair wisped on the wind, fluttering about her shoulders.
He knocked again. “CGIS,” he announced. “Please open the door.”
He turned the handle but found it locked. They wouldn’t have been able to enter without permission anyway. Though he’d called for a warrant, it hadn’t come through yet.
“Let’s check out back.”
Gabby followed him through the waist-high side gate and around to the back stone-and-concrete porch.
They climbed the back steps and moved for what appeared to be the kitchen door. He knocked, and once again, no one answered.
Gabby peered in the window. “Kitchen is empty, and it looks like it’s dark throughout this level.”
The bungalow-style home Emmy had sent them to sat eerily quiet.
“Who are you?” a woman asked.
Finn turned to find a woman in her early sixties, with short gray hair and a quizzical eye, standing on the opposite side of the chain-link fence.
“Who are you, young man?”
Gabby followed as Finn strode over and flashed his badge. “Agent Finn Walker, and this is—”
“I’m Gabby Rowley.”
“What are you doing on Mr. Bowen’s lawn?”
Finn explained the pertinent details.
“Well, you aren’t going to find Mr. Bowen around here.”
Finn frowned at her confidence. “Why not?”
“He died six months ago.”
The breeze fluttered through Rissi’s open window as she and Noah drove back to the station in his Jeep, her head still spinning from her talk with Dr. Layton and then Marv. Noah’s spicy aftershave mixed with the salty scent of the ocean, only a hundred yards to their left.
He looked over at the stoplight. “What did you learn today?”
Rissi relayed everything she’d garnered, starting with Marv’s version of the events. “He said the dive went well, but that John Layton panicked and shot to the surface, bypassing the compression stops.”
“So Layton could have been suffering from decompression sickness?”
“Very possible, but Genevieve Layton told a different version of the story.”
Noah arched a brow. “Oh?”
“She said that after her husband returned to the boat, he headed to the bathroom immediately after shedding his gear. He was agitated and said that something had gone very wrong.”
Noah frowned. “Did he say what?”
“No. He just told her to get atop deck and stick with the group. Then he locked himself in the bathroom.”
“Did you ask Marv what went wrong?”
“No. I wanted to see what he had to say with no lead-in.”
“Smart.”
“And he said other than Layton’s rapid ascent, everything went fine.”
“So either Marv or John Layton lied.”
Rissi nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
“As we can’t ask Mr. Layton, let’s get back with Marv tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan. How long do you think it’ll take for the Calliope to be cleared to dive?” she asked.
“A day, maybe two.”
“Hopefully we’ll get some answers from the ship and Layton’s body, which they moved.”
Noah’s brows hiked. “They what?”
“Marv said he and Mo moved Layton’s body to the couch in Mo’s office.”
“Why? Didn’t they know they were compromising crime-scene evidence?”
Rissi exhaled. “Marv said there was no crime. That it had been an accident.”
“Even so . . . why move the body?”
“He claimed that after the explosion, water was rushing in. Before they realized it was too late to save the Calliope, they wanted to prevent Layton’s body from being underwater.”
Noah tapped the wheel. “It sounds reasonable.”
“I hope that was their intention.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “But you don’t think so?”
She shifted in her seat, weighing what she was about to say. “I hate to think Mo or Marv or any of the crew could do anything wrong, but . . .”
“There are a number of questionable issues—the discrepancy between Marv’s and John Layton’s versions of the dive being the most glaring.”
“Along with the odd timing of a man dying and then an explosion occurring. I’m sure it’s possible. . . .”
“But not probable.”
“And the fact they moved the body. I suppose they could have simply not thought it through. . . .”
“True, but there’s more than enough there to be investigated.”
Rissi nodded. “Agreed.”
He tapped the wheel in a sharp beat.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re worried about Gabby.”
He exhaled. “Yeah. I appreciate Finn keeping an eye on her, and I know if anyone comes looking for her, it’s better if she’s not right with me, as they’ll look to me and the family first, but still . . .”
“You’re a good brother. We both know it’s good for Gabby and Finn to spend time together.”
“True. I just hope it doesn’t end the same way as last time. With Finn hurt.”
“Me too.” Rissi bit her bottom lip. “I don’t think he’s up for more heartache.”
Noah sighed. “Neither is Gabby.”
forty-two
Rissi followed Noah into the station, glad to be back. It’d already been a long day.
“How is everyone holding up?” Emmy asked, her long dark brown hair pulled up in a ponytail, her high cheekbones a soft hue of pink.
Noah sank into an open desk chair. “Shaken, for the most part.”
“I was so sorry to hear about the passenger’s death.”
Rissi exhaled, sinking into her office chair and rolling over to Noah’s desk. “His poor wife. She was heartbroken.”
“What happened, exactly?” Emmy asked, looking at Noah. “You didn’t get into specifics when you called in.”
He raked a hand over his buzz cut. “It’s complicated. Take a seat so Rissi and I can bring you up to speed.”
Emmy rolled her pink-cushioned, specially ordered office chair over to join Rissi and Noah. After all the questions had been answered, Rissi rolled her chair back to her desk. She was more than ready to change out of the shorts, tank, and flip-flops she’d worn to the competition. “I can’t believe we’re investigating Mo and his crew. It’s surreal.”
Emmy leaned against her desk, her arms linked over her white silk blouse, her flowing claret skirt matching the claret flower pattern on her scarf. Rissi wished she had half of Emmy’s fashion sense. She was more a T-shirt and jeans kind of girl. She’d never had a mother to teach her those things. Well, she’d technically had a mother, but since she’d died of a drug overdose at twenty-five, when Rissi was five, she definitely didn’t qualify as a pare
nt.
Noah glanced around the office. “Where’s Gabby?”
“With Finn,” Emmy said.
“How’d it go today? She stay put without much protest?”
Emmy nibbled her full bottom lip. “Um . . .”
Noah’s dark brows lifted. “Em?”
She inhaled. “I think you should ask Gabby.”
“Where are she and Finn now?”
“Finn called in and said they were going to grab a bite to eat at the Coffee Connection. He asked if I wanted them to bring anything back for me.”
He inclined his head toward Rissi. “You okay handling the paperwork until I get back?”
“No problem.”
The door shut behind him and Rissi turned to Emmy. “Pray for Gabby.”
“I know.” Emmy cringed. “I felt bad saying anything.”
“You didn’t have a choice. Noah asked you a direct question, and even if you didn’t say anything, we both know Finn would have. But you’re right. It’s better if he hears it from Gabby.”
Emmy exhaled. “Still feel bad. I get Gabby’s point of view. It’s gotta be hard being asked to sit on the sidelines when there’s a story unfolding right in front of her.”
“I agree.” But it was nice she had a brother and friends who wanted to protect her. “I’m going to change before I dig into the paperwork.”
Emmy lifted a pile from the printer tray and headed for her desk. “Let me know if I can help.”
“Thanks. I’ll get started and see where I’m at.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to make a pot of coffee after I drop this at my desk. Want a cup?”
“Please.” She’d been up since five thirty to check in at the competition by seven.
Rissi moved into the locker room. She changed, slipping into the black pants and turquoise blouse she’d left in her locker for after the competition.
Sitting on the bench that ran half the length of the lockers, she slipped on her turquoise Tieks flats. Since she spent most days on her feet, they were definitely worth the price.
Pulling her hair out of the ratty ponytail she’d thrown it up into during the rescue, she ran a brush through the dried saltwater tangles. Finally, it regained some softness and shape after a spray of leave-in detangling conditioner. She pulled it into a smooth side braid and flipped it over her left shoulder. A quick splash of water on her face, a little mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and she returned to her desk. She didn’t want to think of the mound of paperwork she was about to dive into.
She’d just settled into her desk chair when the front door opened. Logan strolled in wearing a hot pink Hawaiian shirt with white and yellow hibiscus, and white board shorts.
A smile curled on her lips. It took a confident man to wear bright pink, but Logan was nothing if not confident. Perhaps borderline cocky at times, but he pulled it off without the usual accompanying arrogance.
A strong whiff of fresh fish wafted across the room as he approached. “Whoa!” Rissi said. “What’s with the smell, Logan?”
“Amber threw her fish at me.”
“Amber? Let me guess . . . your latest conquest?”
“The women I date aren’t conquests.”
“Right.” Rissi tried not to laugh.
Logan unbuttoned his shirt, flipped it over his shoulder, and headed for the locker room.
Emmalyne’s lips twitched, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Why’d she throw a fish at you?” she asked as he paused at the locker room door.
“Smacked me with it is more like it.”
Emmalyne burst out in laughter. “What’d you do?”
“I love how you assume I did something.”
As he stood there shirtless, Rissi had to admit his washboard abs were impressive, but she never looked at Logan that way. He was the office player—though the term was probably a bit too strong. He possessed a heart of gold. He just had to learn to get out of his own way. He was swimming in the shallow end and needed to take the plunge into the deep with a woman of substance.
“I’m with Emmy on your being to blame,” she said, linking her arms across her chest. “So let’s hear it.”
A resigned expression crossed his handsome tanned face. “She may have interpreted my helping another charter guest with her casting as a tad flirtatious, but I was just being polite.”
“Uh-huh.” Emmy shook her head. “Please, when you flirt, you go all out. Don’t try to sell a ‘tad’ flirtatious.”
“Yet I still seem to have zero effect on you.”
Emmy smirked. “Because I know your type.”
“And . . .” He dropped his shirt at his desk, strode over to Emmy, and sat on the corner of her desk. “What type is that, beautiful?”
“A serial player.”
“Just because I like to spend time with a beautiful woman like you doesn’t make me a player.” He leaned forward with a smile, and Emmy cast her glance away.
She focused on the pile of papers before her, but Rissi didn’t miss the rose flushing Emmy’s cheeks. “It’s the sheer number of women you date that makes you a player.”
“Excuse me, I’ll have you know, I never date more than one woman at a time.”
“No.” Emmy rolled her eyes. “You just cycle through them at warp speed.”
He tilted Emmy’s chin with his finger, his gaze meeting hers. “Trust me. When I find the right woman, I’ll commit.”
Emmy swallowed, and after a silent moment between the two, she shifted back from his touch. “Now shoo. You need a serious shower, and I have work to do.”
Logan retrieved his shirt and moved toward the locker room, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
Emmy dropped a note on Noah’s desk and sighed. “I swear, the man’s impossible.”
Rissi spun her chair back to face her desk with a smile. Logan’s love life may be a comedy of errors, but that really could change. She truly believed no one was hopeless.
Please, Father, let Logan accept our offers to come to church one day. Let him hear your Word. It can change hearts and transform lives. As good of a guy as he is deep down, he desperately needs you. We all do. Help Logan see there’s more to life than looking for distraction in empty relationships. Help open his eyes to the beauty of women fully committed to you . . . like Emmy.
There was something there, but as things stood, it would never move beyond that unless Logan did some soul searching.
forty-three
Finn pulled out a brown wooden chair for Gabby, having chosen the square table on the back wall of the Coffee Connection.
The scent of corn bread and fresh chili swirled in the air, mixing with the burnt coffee smell that Gabby insisted was the worst way to describe the wonderful smell of roasting coffee beans emanating from the gold roasting machine.
During her winter stay, he’d often seen her sitting at the glass separating the restaurant side from the kitchen, watching the roasting machine at work. She claimed there was something soothing about the whir of the grinding. To Finn, espresso smelled like burnt coffee, but he couldn’t get enough. He started nearly every day off with a quad macchiato.
Smitty, Paul Barnes’s manager and second-in-command, greeted them with a smile. “Here you go, my dear.” He handed Gabby the chalkboard menu—fresh and different every day depending on Paul and Smitty’s whims.
“Ooh,” Gabby said, her eyes skimming over it. “The roasted green tomato soup sounds delicious.”
Finn’s brows hiked.
“What?” A smile flitted across her lips. “You’re not nearly adventurous enough when it comes to food.”
“I’m just a man who prefers the basics—a piece of southern-style corn bread and that chili I smell cooking.”
She shook her head. “What is it with you and chili?”
“I can depend on it to be good.”
She huffed and handed Smitty the menu. “I’ll have the roasted green tomato soup and the Gruyère grilled cheese.”
Smitty tucked the menu at his
side and bent forward from the waist. “Excellent choice.” He smiled and headed for the kitchen.
“Not even going to ask about Gruyère,” Finn said.
“It’s earthy and nutty and tastes delicious.”
“And good old American cheese doesn’t work because . . . ?”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know who’s worse at trying new stuff—you or Noah.”
He leaned forward. “I’m always up for new stuff. I just like my food to be standard.”
She shook her head, reclining against the back of the chair. “You mean boring.”
“Is there anything you don’t argue about?”
“With you . . .” She smirked. “Not much.”
He chuckled. “At least you didn’t argue about that.”
She stuck her tongue out.
“And I’m the immature one?”
“I never said you’re immature. I said when it comes to food you don’t have a mature palate.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “And what kind of palate do I have?”
“That of a teenager.”
He weighed the idea. “I’m okay with that.”
She rolled her big blue eyes. “Of course you are.”
He lifted his chin, not willing to let this playful moment go. “Food snob.”
“Child.” She swished her hand toward him.
He grabbed hold of it, circling the pad of his thumb down her palm.
She swallowed, her gaze locking on his.
When he spoke, it was low and intentional. “I promise you, I’m very much a man.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
His smile widened. He’d rendered Gabby Rowley speechless. He never thought he’d see the day.
The service bell on the counter rang in fast succession, and Gabby pulled her hand back, lowering it to her lap and smoothing the napkin she’d laid across it.
Pink flushed her cheeks as warmth spread through his chest.
He’d never met a more vibrant woman. The way he responded when she walked into a room . . . He reached for his glass of water, debating which was better—guzzling it or dousing himself in an attempt to temper the heat rushing through him.
