Which stunk.
I stared at the officers as they worked. Mostly I stared at Jackson, who looked especially nice with his sleeves rolled up. He was in serious work mode—all in charge and in control. I could watch him like that all day.
A crowd gathered. A couple of people asked for my autograph. Some surfers paused long enough to gawk.
Another hour later—okay, only ten minutes—I sensed someone mosey up beside me, and glanced over. A stout, middle-aged man who reminded me of Kevin James from Mall Cop and The King of Queens stood there. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck, and his stained white T-shirt and exercise shorts led me to believe he just woke up.
“The wifey told me to come check things out.” He glanced at the home beside the grave-front mansion and waved at the woman standing on the balcony. She scowled and went back inside. “She’s a little cranky this morning. It’s not even nine o’clock. You should be able to sleep in until noon on vacation. I should ask for a discount.”
“Bummer.”
He did a double take. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
I decided to forgo sharing the fact that I was an actress. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. Maybe I just have one of those faces.”
He shrugged, accepting my answer, and turned back to the crime scene. “What happened?”
“Dead body.” Grief stretched through my voice. In order to honor life, you had to honor death.
Raven Remington had once said that, but it had always stuck with me.
His eyes widened. “Really? I was out here last night, taking a walk to blow off steam after my wife and I had a fight. I saw two guys arguing. I couldn’t figure out what they were arguing about, but it looked heated. I figured I should mind my own business.”
“Really?” Had this man witnessed something connected to this death? That was what it sounded like.
I definitely needed to tell Jackson—right after I asked a few more questions. I mean, Jackson was busy right now, so I shouldn’t interrupt him until I had all the facts.
“Do you remember anything about the guys you saw?” I asked, the morning sun already warm on my back.
The man shrugged. “Not much. I mean, it was dark, and I was trying not to stare.”
“So you didn’t notice anything specific?” I tried to reframe my original question—a technique I’d learned from Jackson.
He let out a breath. “Well, I guess I did. One of them had one of those man-bun things, and he was wearing a bright-orange tank top.”
“Okay . . .” That was a start. Lots of guys my age liked doing the man-bun thing. Unfortunately. And bright-orange tank tops? Anyone could have one.
Despite my rationalization, something nagged at the back of my mind. I tried to ignore it.
“And—this could be unrelated—but when I went back up to my house, I stepped onto the deck. I saw one of the guys leaving. He climbed into one of those camper-van things.”
My heart raced a couple of beats.
“A camper van?” I repeated as reality tried to settle on me.
“That’s right.”
I didn’t want to face the truth, but the person he’d just described fit that of my friend Zane Oakley to a T.
“Jackson, Zane wouldn’t have done this.”
I’d called him over to the police line and shared what I’d heard. He’d talked to Kevin James and gotten his statement before turning back to me. I could read his thoughts before he spoke a word.
“He couldn’t have,” I reiterated.
Jackson’s gaze darkened at my words. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking that Zane totally could have done this.
It wasn’t that Zane was a bad guy. It was just that he had a history of making bad choices. And drug addiction. And wearing unfortunate man buns.
“We need to find him,” Jackson said.
I quickly reviewed everything I knew, and I stopped at one major sticking point that would prove once and for all that Zane was innocent. “He’s down in Florida.”
Jackson frowned. “Would you mind calling him? Please, Joey.”
“I thought I needed to stay out of this.” I really liked to be in the middle of things only by my own volition. Right now, I was so uncomfortable that even my discomfort was uncomfortable. I should never have brought this up.
“Joey . . .” I heard the urgency in his voice.
I wiped my forehead as the sun glared down at me. It was hot. Had I mentioned that yet? And I was already hungry. Apparently, maple bacon donuts didn’t really fill you up. And I didn’t want to call Zane while under Jackson’s watchful gaze.
I felt like I was in my own version of Speed—I’d set something in motion, and now I couldn’t stop it. And even if I did stop it, it would end with an explosion.
“Okay, okay.” I raised my hands, pushing images of Sandra Bullock and bus crashes out of my head. “I’ll call him. But what do I say?”
“Ask him where he is.”
I swallowed hard, feeling a rush of anxiety. “I can’t lie to him, Jackson.”
He squeezed my arm, probably trying to calm me down. “I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to find out where he is.”
Still, tension snaked up my spine as I pulled my phone out. I hesitated only another minute before dialing Zane’s number. I comforted myself by thinking he wouldn’t answer. And that he was in Florida. This was all one big, bad mistake.
I hadn’t called him since he left. He’d said he was leaving so he could put distance between himself and some bad influences in the area. I’d figured he’d call me when he was back. We were tight like that.
To my surprise, Zane answered on the first ring. “Joey?”
My throat clutched, and I turned away from Jackson. It was the closest I could get to privacy. “Zane? Where are you?”
“Joey . . .” A frantic undertone edged his voice, making me think I’d caught him at a bad time—a bad time in Florida. “It’s a long story.”
I didn’t like how this conversation was starting. “Where are you?”
“I’m staying with my friend down in Waves.”
Okay, I was 0 for 2. Zane had answered, and he was in town. My odds weren’t looking good, but Zane’s were looking even worse.
“When did you get back to this area? I can’t believe you didn’t call me.” I had to throw that in there.
I glanced over my shoulder long enough to see Jackson give me a look that clearly said, Stay focused.
“It’s a long story,” he muttered.
“Where are you exactly, Zane?” I asked. “Where in Waves?”
“I’m staying with Abe.”
Abe? He seemed like an unfortunate choice as a roommate, however temporary. I got bad vibes from the guy.
Jackson mouthed something to me. I finally interpreted it and said, “Stay there, Zane.”
“Why?” His voice cracked. “Why would I stay here? What’s going on, Joey?”
I glanced at Jackson, pondering how much to say. Jackson motioned for me to keep going.
“Just stay there,” I finally said. “Please.”
Chapter Three
Jackson had called the Dare County Sheriff’s Department to pick up Zane, probably because Hatteras Island—where the village of Waves was located—was out of his jurisdiction.
An hour and twenty-two minutes later, Zane was at the Nags Head Police Station and Jackson was questioning him. I wasn’t in the room. Instead, I stayed outside in the hallway, pacing and waiting. I hoped and prayed that Zane had a great explanation for this.
Certainly he did. I mean, of course he did. No doubt. He should be Presumed Innocent all the way right now. Except not like the movie. Because wasn’t the innocent guy actually guilty? Or maybe not. It didn’t matter right now.
What mattered right now was that Zane wasn’t capable of murder. He was many things, but a killer wasn’t one of them.
It would be like Bambi becoming a hunter instead of a victim. The universe
would tilt and shift because it knew something wasn’t right. I just needed to wait this out, and certainly I would learn that this was all a big, huge misunderstanding.
Finally, Jackson stepped out of the room, his expression as dark and stormy as the beginning of a really turbulent movie—like Twister.
I rushed toward him, trying to gauge how tight lipped he would be. It was no use—I couldn’t get a good read on him. I did know one thing: Jackson was going to do the right thing, and I wouldn’t change his mind. Not that I’d want to or anything. Doing the right thing was the right thing.
“Well?” I pressed my lips together.
He rubbed his jaw, his gaze burdened and troubled. “It doesn’t look good, Joey.”
I touched his arm and then remembered that we were supposed to be professional. I pulled away as if I’d touched fire and tried to compose myself. “Let me talk to Zane. Please.”
Jackson studied me a minute, his green eyes full of discernment and wisdom that I’d come to value. “If you do, we’ll be listening to every word you say.”
I raised my chin, not one to be deterred. And people listened to every word I said all the time. Especially reporters when I was saying something stupid. So this wouldn’t be anything new for me.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t have anything to hide.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t the one I was worried about.”
“He didn’t do this, Jackson. I know Zane.”
Jackson didn’t react—either agree or disagree. He only said, “Go talk to him yourself.”
I didn’t like the way that sounded. Despite that, I nodded, drew in a deep breath, and stepped inside the bland, sterile interrogation room. I felt a bit like the one who was being accused.
The lights were dim. Was one of the fluorescents buzzing? Was that some kind of mind-game tactic?
I forgot all that when I saw Zane.
The Zane I saw sitting there wasn’t the carefree Zane I knew. His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders slumped, and his smile had disappeared like that man’s psycho wife in Gone Girl. My stomach clenched as I read between the lines: he was devastated.
I slid into the plastic seat across from him, some part of me instinctively mimicking his body language and hunching also.
He’d barely looked at me when I entered, so I reached across the table and touched his hands, trying to break through to him. He hardly flinched.
“Zane, what’s going on?” My voice cracked.
Finally, he raised his head. As he did, he pulled his hands back. Was he rejecting me? Distancing himself? I wasn’t sure.
“I didn’t do this, Joey.” His voice sounded hoarse and scratchy.
Unfortunately, even though I wished I could just leave it at that—that I could just take him at his word—I couldn’t. I had some hard questions to ask. Questions that wouldn’t help him find his lost Bob Ross Zen.
I licked my lips. “I heard you were seen with Morty right before he died. Tell me that’s not true.”
He drew his haggard gaze back up to mine. “Morty asked me to meet with him on the beach. But he was alive when I left him.”
I swallowed hard. That wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. “Can you start from the beginning? I didn’t even think you were back in town.”
Yes, for some reason, that fact was bothering me entirely too much. It was a small deceit. But if a person lied about one thing, I was inclined to believe he would lie about anything. My dad had taught me that.
I supposed Zane had no obligation to contact me, so maybe it wasn’t exactly a lie of omission, even if it felt like one.
He rubbed a hand through his hair, and his gaze dropped. “I just wanted to slip back into the area and stay low for a while until I got my footing.”
What did that mean? I seriously had no idea. “I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me. I’d like to think I help you keep your footing.”
I wanted to defend him, but the fact that he was hiding things from me greatly diminished that desire.
His eyes met mine. “You do help me find my footing, Joey. Believe me—you do. It’s just complicated.”
“I hate when people say that.” However, I said it all the time. Like, all the time. But that was aside from the point. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Zane drew in a long, deep breath, as if he was gathering his thoughts and needed all of the energy he could muster. “Morty called me last night around midnight. He asked me to meet him at the beach.”
“Okay.” This was a good start.
“When I met him there, he was acting crazy. He asked me to deliver a package to someone.”
The good start went bad. When it came to crime, any kind of package was never good. No, packages only spelled trouble. I’d learned that from Raven also.
I swallowed hard. “What kind of package?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”
So he knew packages were bad too. He should get some credit for that. But I still had more questions. “Why didn’t you want anything to do with it?”
Finally, his gaze met mine. “Basically, it’s like this. Morty and his girlfriend, Bianca, just broke up. I figured it was some of her stuff. I didn’t want to get in the middle of it. That woman is crazy.”
“Why did you think it was her stuff? Did he ask you to give it to her or someone else?”
“No, he didn’t specifically say it was hers. But Morty had been so distraught since Bianca left him. I could just feel that this was going to be trouble. Morty has always been trouble.” Zane crossed his arms and averted his gaze again. “When I left him, he was alive and he still had his package.”
I remembered what Kevin James had told me about a heated conversation. “But you argued first?”
“We did. Morty was adamant that I help him.”
“And you were adamant that you wouldn’t,” I finished.
“Exactly. But I had no reason to kill him.”
The door opened, and Jackson came in. His expression had morphed from a Lifetime-movie type of dark and stormy to a Stephen King–worthy one.
Dear me. This wasn’t good.
He held up a bag and turned to Zane. “You recognize this?”
I stared through the plastic. There was a gun inside. A handgun, I thought. A Glock.
Zane hated guns. He’d emphasized that point when I took him to a gun range a few weeks ago. He almost hadn’t gone.
Zane remained quiet, staring a hole into the weapon.
“This was the gun used to kill Morty,” Jackson said. “Your prints are on it.”
Chapter Four
“I would never shoot someone!” Sweat sprinkled Zane’s forehead, and his hands shook. “You’ve got to believe me.”
“How about this?” Jackson slapped a picture on the table. “Have you seen this?”
I peered over his shoulder and saw a photo of a package wrapped in brown paper. It appeared to be the size of a brick. There was no way that could be the package Zane had seen last night.
Zane stared at the photo, and recognition flared to life in his gaze. “That’s the package Morty tried to give me last night. I didn’t take it.”
Or maybe that was the package. Mental sigh.
“It was in the house where you’re staying.”
Zane raised his hands. “Well, I didn’t put it there. And how did you get a warrant so fast?”
“We didn’t need one. Your friend let us in.”
Zane’s bottom lip dropped, but then he clamped his mouth shut. He was mad at Abe for letting the police into his room, I realized.
“Do you know what was inside this package?” Jackson continued.
I really wished they would stop using that word.
Zane’s jaw flexed. “Notes from Morty’s ex-girlfriend and a straw from a drink they shared on their first date?”
“A brick of cocaine.”
Zane’s eyes widened. My eyes widened. Jackson’s ey
es, on the other hand, narrowed with a new intensity.
“I promise—I didn’t take the package, I didn’t know what was inside, and I have no idea how it ended up at my place.”
Zane’s voice climbed higher. No doubt he was realizing how this looked. It wasn’t good.
“I’m sorry, Zane,” Jackson continued. “The murder weapon has your prints on it, you were last seen with the victim, and this was found in your room. We have enough evidence to get a warrant for your arrest and to charge you with the murder of Morty Savage.”
“I didn’t do it.” Veins protruded at Zane’s neck, and panic visibly raked through him.
My heart pounded out of control as I watched everything unfold. I felt helpless to do anything and uncertain if I should do anything even if I could. As much as I didn’t want to believe it, all the evidence definitely made Zane look guilty.
“You have the right to remain silent.” Jackson pulled out his handcuffs and stepped closer to Zane, clearly on a mission.
Zane turned toward me, desperation in his gaze. “Joey, you’ve got to help figure out who did this. Help clear my name. Please.”
I didn’t know what else to do but nod. “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Jackson shot me a scowl. Apparently he didn’t want me doing that. But how could I say no? My friend needed me. And what were friends for if not to help prove you weren’t a murderer?
“Considering your connection to this case, I think it would be best if you weren’t working with me right now, Joey,” Jackson said as he led Zane toward the door. No doubt he was going to book him, and Zane’s life was going to look dramatically different for a while.
Then Jackson’s words hit me, and my cheeks flushed. Ouch. Jackson was firing me? But I’d never even been hired! How rude.
At least without Jackson by my side, I could snoop freely and without obstruction.
If only I could do that without harming myself.
Baby steps.
Inwardly, I felt incredibly unsettled at the silent friction I felt between Jackson and me though.
I slipped out of the room while Jackson read Zane his rights.
Blooper Freak (The Worst Detective Ever Book 5) Page 2
