by Tara Lush
“Ooh, that’s too bad. What’s going on there?” Green Hat stared toward the alley.
“I’m trying to figure that out myself.” For all my years of being a reporter, I wasn’t entirely sure how to break it to Fab’s adoring fans that he was gone. I’d probably have to make a statement on Instagram. Ugh. I hated social media.
The women homed in on the crime scene van. “That’s a vacation buzzkill right there. Let’s find another place,” Green Hat said to her friend. They both bid me a cheery goodbye, and I responded with a weak wave.
Several sweaty minutes passed, then Mike Heller, the publisher of the Devil’s Beach Beacon, strolled up with a copy of the paper under his arm. Was it ten already? He usually came to the café about this time every morning to get his large cup of high-octane black coffee.
Time seemed to have stretched and slowed.
“Mornin’. How you holding up?” He glanced at me with a fatherly tenderness, probably because I’d known Mike since I was in high school and had written my first news articles as an intern at his paper. “You okay? Our reporter called in some early details and I thought I’d come check on you. You weren’t robbed, were you?”
I gestured toward the alley. “No. Not robbed. I’m … I don’t know how I am.” I glanced at the photographer from the island’s paper. He was about thirty feet away, his chest pressed against the police tape, trying to get a shot.
“Oh, come on!” the photographer cried, and Mike swiveled his head in the direction of the voice. “Officer, you’re not gonna let me get a shot of the corpse?”
I winced. Had I been so crass and disrespectful when I was a journalist? I hoped not.
Mike turned to me, his expression impassive. He was an older guy, around sixty, with gray hair, deep golden-brown skin, and a trim body. He was one of a handful of folks on Devil’s Beach who was extremely fit. Mike’s specialty was ultramarathons, which made my muscles ache to even think about. How he managed to train while running a paper had mystified me for years.
“Guess I need to chat with our photographer about proper crime scene etiquette.”
“Fab’s dead,” I said dully. “I can’t believe it. I found him in the alley this morning.”
Mike’s brown eyes grew huge, and he sank to the bench next to me. “So, you were the one to find him? Aw, Lana. I’m sorry.”
He extended an arm, and folded me into an awkward half-hug. I broke away and sniffled.
“I found him lying there.” I waved my hand in the direction of the alley.
Mike took a deep breath. “Wow. That’s a lot to process, Lana. Do you want to talk about it?”
His question hung in the air.
“Our reporter’s around here somewhere.” I couldn’t even be offended at Mike’s question; as a former journalist, I knew exactly what he was after. Story first, emotions later. After all, he was the one who’d taught me that, back when I was an intern.
“Yeah, I’ll tell your reporter what I saw.” I shot him a grateful smile. “It’s weird. I’m feeling so many things this morning. And a little part of me thinks I should be reporting right now, except the best interview would be me. I’ve been sitting here zoning out, thinking about that. When I should’ve been calling you with the scoop.”
Mike cracked a smile. “Lana, you’re human. You just went through a trauma, from the sounds of it. You’re not a robot.”
I turned my head and wiped away a single, fat tear, then swiveled to look at Mike, who was being uncharacteristically tender. “I’m okay. Really.”
“If only you could write this article. I know you’d do an amazing job, kiddo.”
“Probably not in my condition. It was freaky, seeing him lying there, this morning.”
Mike cleared his throat. “So strange. I wonder what happened. How old was he? Did he have family in the States, or were they all in Italy?”
“Twenty-eight. And I’m not sure.” Since my father had hired him, I knew darned little about Fab other than his workout routine, and that he was an incorrigible womanizer.
“Terrible.” Mike paused. “We need to tell Raina.”
“Isn’t she in Costa Rica teaching that ten-day yoga retreat with her new man?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s right. She and Kai only left a couple days ago. I’ll give her a call.”
Raina was the lissome young owner of the yoga studio in my family’s building, one of the other businesses on the ground floor. She specialized in hot yoga, something I stayed far from because it seemed ridiculous to stretch in a hot room when it was already the temperature of Hades outdoors. In fact, that was the name of her yoga studio: Dante’s Inferno. Mike and Fab and the island’s fit crowd—admittedly only a few qualified, since the rest of us liked to eat fried seafood and booze it up—flocked to her studio.
Raina was one of Fab’s first conquests here on the island. According to the Devil’s Beach rumor mill Raina had dumped Fab for some lithe bald dude named Kai, who was independently wealthy and spent his days drinking kombucha.
I’d tuned out the entire story because it was like a hipster Desperate Housewives.
“Mike, I appreciate that. There’s so many people I need to call …” Who was going to tell Fab’s girlfriend, Paige? My stomach clenched. Even though we weren’t exactly friends, no one deserved that kind of news. “I’ve got to reach my father, but he’s not picking up his phone.” I stared at my cell, willing Dad to call.
“No worries. I’ll take care of Raina; I’ve got her email. Hey, are you open and serving coffee? I mean, not to pressure you or anything.”
“Sorry. Not yet. Can’t. I’m waiting for the chief to give me the all clear.”
Grunting under his breath, Mike rose. “Not long before Labor Day weekend. Wonder if this is going to turn away tourists.”
“Thinking about a second-day story already?”
“You know it.”
My faint hangover had migrated into my sinuses as a dull throb. The desire to talk about anything but Fab was palpable. “How was your barbecue last night, anyway?”
He shrugged. “The usual. Wish you had been there, but I understand you had a better invitation. How was the city?”
“Crazy. Like Miami always is.”
“So are my barbecues. You’ll have to come sometime. Now that you’re home.”
He’d invited me to his backyard cookouts a few times since I’d returned. I always had an excuse not to go. A little rebellious part of me resisted being woven back into the fabric of Devil’s Beach so quickly.
I thought of my old life, in a sleek Miami condo. That hadn’t felt right, either. “Home,” I snorted, shaking my head.
He gestured in the direction of the idyllic, sugar-sand beach, which was only a block from where we sat. “Yeah, you can’t beat Devil’s Beach for serenity,” he said, in an almost cheerful voice.
We both turned to stare at an officer directing traffic away from the alley. “Well, usually,” I said dryly.
“Right. Good one. I’ll be back, or send one of our reporters over. I need fortification for this. Gonna be a long day. You want this?” He offered me the paper.
“Sure.” I gratefully accepted it, hoping for a diversion. Mike stalked off in the direction of Island Brewnette. Ugh. Between my outburst yesterday and today’s events, my competition was poised to do a piping hot business.
I unfolded the Devil’s Beach Beacon and my eyes zoomed in on the top headline.
Florida Man Finds Chicken Tender Shaped Like Manatee
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry and slumped against the cool brick of my family’s building.
The nausea in my stomach had reached a crescendo and my entire body pulsed with jitters. Or maybe it was hunger. From my purse, I unearthed a stash of individually wrapped mints I’d scooped up from the swank Miami hotel lobby after the awards ceremony.
While sucking on the candy, I stared at the local media and police, a ragtag bunch of characters. After my eight years at the Miami Tribune,
I considered the reporters here rookies. Competent rookies, since Mike hired eager young talent and groomed them well.
I could’ve been among them; I’d gone out to lunch with Mike when I was first laid off. But his budget could only afford $9.50 an hour, part time. It wouldn’t even cover half of my student loans, so I’d politely said no. My chances of making way more at the coffee shop were greater, and Dad needed me.
I watched their reporter work the scene, feeling a mixture of amusement and jealousy. He had a clean-shaven baby face, and I guessed he was fresh out of journalism school. He was sweating and pacing, so probably this was his first homicide. Which made sense, because this was the biggest thing that had happened on Devil’s Beach since …
“Lana?”
The rough baritone startled me, and I turned in my seat and sat up straighter. “Oh! Chief. Hello.”
Chief Noah Garcia’s voice was only one of many unsettlingly alluring things about him. He was incredibly intense, and today his eyes pierced mine. He seemed on edge.
Without asking, he sat on the bench next to me, which gave me a second to compose myself—and to marvel at how his crisp blue uniform fit his muscular body perfectly.
I moved my purse and scooted to the far end of the bench.
He slowly removed his police hat, revealing short, dark hair. Something about his masculine body and the way he always looked sharp was incredibly endearing. Even now, in the middle of a homicide investigation, I couldn’t help but swoon a little as he adjusted his glasses.
“So,” I said nervously.
“So.” He ran a hand across his sharp jaw. “How are you?”
I pawed around my purse for another mint. “Gutted. You want one?”
“No, I’m good. And it’s understandable that you’re upset.”
“I mean, I’ve seen a dead body before. As a crime reporter.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“But this is different.”
“I can imagine. Quite unusual, given the circumstances. We’re going to have to formally interview you, but I’m glad you already gave such a detailed statement to the responding officer.”
By “detailed statement,” he meant ten minutes of non-stop verbal diarrhea. When the officer arrived minutes after I’d found Fab, I was nervous as heck and had unloaded everything I’d seen.
“Here’s the good news. We found nothing suspicious in your office or coffee shop. No forced entry on the first or second floor, no obvious evidence of theft. The safe in the office is locked shut. We’re going to need you to come inside with us and let us know if you notice anything that’s out of place.”
“Of course.” I sighed, pressing a hand to my breastbone. “That’s a relief, though. That no one’s hiding in the storage room or the upstairs office bathroom. But, Chief, what happened to Fab?”
“Have you stopped calling me Noah because we’re in the middle of an investigation?”
I opened my mouth and he smiled, showing that adorable dimple of his. Way to diffuse the tension in my body. If this was his signature investigative tactic to disarm people, it was working.
“Noah.” I allowed myself to truly grin for the first time today.
His cheerful expression faded. “About your barista.”
“Former barista. Fab and I had words yesterday at Island Brewnette.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. Former barista. I heard about what happened between the two of you.”
I didn’t like the pause he took after that, but I also knew enough from being a reporter that I shouldn’t babble to fill a lull in the conversation. So, I stayed silent.
Noah trained his dark brown eyes on me. It was as if he was studying me, sizing me up, probing inside my brain. Normally when we stared at each other, I felt electric shocks of lust. Today, his gaze made me feel a touch uneasy. As if I’d done something wrong. Which was ridiculous, because I hadn’t.
“Fab fell from the roof, it appears.”
My jaw hung open as I imagined Fab plummeting down four stories to his death. He loved that rooftop. “What?”
“We found his flip-flops and a glass of half-finished wine on the roof. And his injuries seem consistent with a fall. But that’s between me and you. Don’t go telling your reporter friends at the paper yet. I’ll handle the news releases. Can you recall if Fab was depressed?”
I scowled and straightened my shoulders. Suicide? Fab didn’t seem the type to kill himself. He was many things, but depressed wasn’t among them. “Of course, this is off the record. But I don’t understand. He jumped? Or he fell?”
“Could be either. At this early stage, everything’s on the table. We’re going to do a full investigation.”
“Naturally,” I said, a little too forcefully. “He did like to drink wine on the roof, entertain friends. He’d told me that he’d put a table and chairs up there. But I can’t imagine Fab committing suicide. He had a lot to live for.” Women, latte art, flexing his muscles on the beach—he had a sunny, if not patronizing and arrogant, personality. Like the overgrown Peter Pan he was, Fab always acted like he’d won the lottery.
“No, he didn’t seem the type, but you never know. Depressed people often hide it well,” the chief said slowly. “That’s why we want to get into his apartment so we can study his things. Do you have a key? We didn’t want to break down the door if we didn’t need to. Maybe he left a note. Or, maybe it was an accident.”
I gave a little cry and jumped up, a jolt of awareness shooting through me. “Oh God.”
Noah stood; his eyes wide. “What?”
“Stanley!”
“Who’s Stanley?” Noah’s hand hovered over the gun on his hip. My heart skipped a beat. His automatic instinct to protect made me adore him all the more.
“Stanley is Fab’s puppy. He got him a month ago. He’s probably upstairs on the fourth floor.” I paused, a current of dread flowing through me. “At least, I hope he is.”
Chapter Five
With rubbery legs, I followed Noah up the three creaky flights of stairs to Fab’s apartment.
“Interesting place you’ve got here. How long has your family owned it?” Noah’s voice bounced off the walls, which were covered in an antique, tropical-print wallpaper.
I paused. Usually most people on the island knew my family’s colorful history on Devil’s Beach—my great-grandfather had famously killed a man during a duel the year he arrived in 1899—but I guessed Noah didn’t, being a newcomer and all. Then there were my family’s ties to a problematic monkey colony. And the kumquat farm.
Best to gloss over my eccentric family legacy, especially today.
“My great-grandparents settled here around the turn of the century. They were among the first full-time residents. They built this as a hotel.” We were passing the third floor. I hauled in a breath, trying not to pant like an animal. Noah, of course, wasn’t even winded. “My mom opened the café about twelve years ago, when I went off to college, and she and my dad closed the hotel around the same time. When Mom died, Dad kept the café going. He has a plan to turn the third and fourth floor into condos. He rented to Fab about six months ago, saying he could stay until he started renovations. Fab liked the place because it had roof access and lots of light.”
There I was, running off at the mouth again. I received no response from Noah, probably because we were at the top floor, hovering near Fab’s door. My heart rate spiked, and not because I could smell Noah’s spicy aftershave.
What were we going to find on the other side? Being an animal lover, my main concern was for little Stanley, a puppy so petite that he once snoozed in a shoebox under the counter downstairs.
“Do you want me to unlock it?” I wheezed while waving my set of master keys.
“No, let me. We don’t know what’s in there,” Noah replied in a stern voice.
As if to punctuate his words, a sharp bark came from behind the door.
“Stanley,” I cried. “Oh, thank God, he’s okay. We’re coming to
get you, Stan.”
“Step aside.” Noah motioned for me to move away, and I obeyed, flattening my back to the wall. “And don’t follow me in—I don’t want you to contaminate the scene.”
He briskly unlocked the top lock and turned the doorknob. A gold-and-white furball flew toward us.
“Oh, you poor little man,” I said, kneeling and opening my arms. With those long, muscular legs of his, Noah carefully stepped inside and disappeared.
The puppy bounded into my embrace—I must admit, he loved me from the moment one of Fab’s female admirers gave him as a gift a month ago—and I scooped him up. “Little pupper. All alone. Such a good boy. So brave.”
As the tiny moppet licked my face in the hall, I inspected the dog, petting and kissing him. He seemed his usual, jolly self. Poor little thing didn’t know his owner was dead. My heart squeezed thinking about what he might have seen, and how he’d been alone for hours.
Edging into the doorway, I caught an eyeful of Fab’s living room. It appeared like it usually did—a messy bachelor pad. A pile of what appeared to be dog poop sat in the middle of the floor.
“Let’s get you outside, Stanley, so you can do your business.” His fur had the faint smell of baby powder. I smooched the top of the dog’s soft head and furtively glanced inside the apartment.
Fab’s place was a mishmash of former hotel rooms all interconnected. Over the decades, walls had been knocked down during my parents’ half-baked ideas to turn it into offices, incubator space, and a meditation center. It was rundown, with giant, old floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. I shivered. Wouldn’t be going near those windows. Just the thought of looking down at the alley made me woozy.
Stanley wiggled in my arms at the sight of Noah coming back in view.
“Well, there’s no one else here.” As if on cue, a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, streamed through the glass, and lit up Noah’s handsome profile with a rim of light. “Want to go upstairs to the roof with me, to see if you notice anything out of place?”
I shuddered. “I probably wouldn’t know. I haven’t been up there in years. It’s not my favorite place. Hey, I think the puppy probably needs to do his business outside. Mind if I take him downstairs?”
