Reign of Error (The Worst Detective Ever Book 2)

by Christy Barritt

  “What type of person is that?”

  “The type who’s once a cheater, always a cheater.”

  “I’m not a cheater, but even if I was, what does that have to do with us?”

  I cringed. “It . . . doesn’t. Except it shows your character. Your very lousy character that’s carefully concealed under a noble facade.”

  His gaze clouded, and he leaned closer. “I can only imagine who told you that information.”

  I shrugged this time, wanting to shrink like Ant-Man. “Someone.”

  “Zane.” He released a long breath, and when he was done, fire reignited in his gaze. “Well, let me teach you something, Ms. Up-and-Coming Detective: You have to be careful what sources you trust. Trusting the wrong information from the wrong person can get you killed—or ruin your life.”

  His words caused me to blanch. For the blood to leave my face. For my lungs to tighten.

  Before I could respond—not that I knew what to say—he turned on his heel and left.

  Take the conses by the quences, I told myself.

  That had to be the dumbest expression I’d ever made up. But I was sticking to it.

  After I finished at Beach Combers, I headed over to Oh Buoy, my favorite smoothie bar and a place that was quickly becoming a regular hangout. A mix of a tropical tiki bar and nautical diner, it hands down had the best smoothies in the area.

  Right now, “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys played overhead, but even the warm-fuzzy-inducing song couldn’t undo my crankiness. I didn’t want to do an interview with ABC, nor did I want to do it with Jackson. I never wanted to see him again after our disastrous talk.

  After Jackson left Beach Combers, I’d promptly called Mayor Allen, and he basically twisted my arm and told me saying no to the interview wasn’t an option. He actually said, “Publicity. Good Publicity.” And he said it with the same inflection as “Wuv, twue wuv” from The Princess Bride. Had he done that on purpose? I wasn’t sure. But I was fascinated.

  However, that was neither here nor there. I still didn’t see how murder could be good publicity for the tourist town, but what did I know?

  The whole conversation made me rethink Zane’s Castle/Beckett idea though. If I could get an “in” at the police station, maybe I would stand a chance at solving not only this case but also my father’s disappearance. I had to face the fact that I was getting nowhere on my own. I didn’t have Raven’s instincts or training. But if I planned carefully, maybe I could find some advantages that I did have. Like fame.

  “You look like you have a lot on your mind.” Phoebe Waters, an on-again, off-again employee at Oh Buoy, set my smoothie down on the bamboo-topped table and then slid in across the booth from me. “I’m on break, and I’m a good listener.”

  I stared at her a minute. She’d become a good friend since I’d been in town, and I looked forward to our talks. They were mostly here at Oh Buoy, but twice we’d gone out to dinner together, and I’d enjoyed getting to know her. She was down to earth and as loyal to this area as the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar was to Morpheus in The Matrix.

  She oozed everything that was good about beach dwellers, all the way from her sand-colored hair to her easy smile to her laid-back attitude. She thrived on being with people she loved, doing jobs she enjoyed, and appreciating the natural beauty around her.

  Still, despite her easygoing ways and great listening skills, what bothered me at this moment was that I was going to have to work with Jackson when I did this stupid ABC interview, and Jackson just happened to be Phoebe’s brother-in-law. Or former brother-in-law, depending on how you looked at it. Claire had been her sister.

  “It would be awkward if I told you what was on my mind,” I started, absently rubbing the side of my smoothie cup. Mirlo Sunrise, or, as I called it, Heaven on Earth. The fruity drink was named after a local beach.

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes in thought and studied me a minute. “Is it about Jackson?”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  I took a sip of my smoothie and contemplated my words. I hadn’t ever opened up to Phoebe about . . . well, anything. Not my past. Not my real reasons for being here. Definitely not men problems. But I thought I could trust her. She wasn’t the emotional type, and that could be a good thing because it would balance out my a-little-too-emotional side.

  “Is it true that Jackson stole Claire from Zane?” My words came out confoundingly fast. If I hadn’t said them quickly, I might not have said them at all because they revealed an ultra-personal side of myself that I tried to keep private.

  Phoebe frowned and let her head fall back slightly. “Who on this green earth told you that?”

  I swallowed hard, the acidity from the orange juice burning my throat—that had to be it, not regret—before blurting, “Zane.”

  She shook her head, something akin to anger in her gaze. She spread her hands, which were partially covered with an ocean-blue hybrid henley/sweatshirt, on the table. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” My words caught.

  “About Zane.”

  I didn’t like where this was going, but I couldn’t stop now. “I know he’s my neighbor. The life of the party. Thrill seeker.”

  She pressed her lips together, contemplation clear on her wholesome features. “Do you want the truth, Joey?”

  “I think I do.” I wished I didn’t sound so uncertain. But the truth could be a lot to handle sometimes. I knew that firsthand. Living in la-la land was much more fun.

  She let out a long breath, glanced out the window, and absently tapped her ultrashort, well-chewed fingernails against the table. She was fighting bad memories, I realized. I recognized it because I’d been there before.

  “Yes, Zane and Claire were dating,” she began, her laid-back vibes long gone. “They dated all throughout high school and into college. But they had problems. A lot of problems.”

  “Like what?” Don’t ask. Don’t ask. But I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted a glimpse into the past. I needed more information, even if it wasn’t my business.

  Phoebe’s jaw flexed, and her gaze flickered up to mine. “Like the fact that Zane was doing drugs.”

  My bottom lip separated from my top. “But I thought Zane went off to college and got the job of his dreams?”

  “He did. Eventually. But before that, drugs nearly did him in. Claire tried to fix him. To change him. But she couldn’t. No one could. And he made her life miserable.”

  My entire body felt tense enough to snap. My mind tried to transport me back in time to when my ex had made my life miserable. Actually, miserable was an understatement. Eric had been downright abusive.

  “What do you mean ‘made her life miserable’?” My voice squeaked out.

  She locked gazes with me, her eyes as stormy as a hurricane. “Drugs change people, Joey.”

  I rubbed my arm. “He didn’t . . . hurt her, did he? Physically?”

  “No, not that I know of. But he yelled a lot, especially when he was coming off a high. He depleted her energy, her hope . . . When Jackson came along, he was the best thing that could have happened to Claire. She’d already broken up with Zane, but he just couldn’t accept it. He was sure she would change her mind.”

  “So Jackson didn’t steal her away.” How could I have been so stupid? Yet I’d had no reason to think Zane would lie to me. He was . . . my friend. I’d thought.

  “No. But I would have applauded Jackson if he did. He would have been rescuing her from a desperate situation.”

  I shook my head, guilt pressing in on me yet again. I couldn’t do anything right. “I believed the worst about him.”

  “Well, Zane has hated Jackson ever since. I’m sure Zane doesn’t like the fact that Jackson is your friend. Especially since I see the way Zane looks at you.”

  Did Zane look at me a certain way? I’d wondered about that. “He’s clean now.”

  Phoebe nodded, almost uncertainly, and glanced at her w
atch. “Yep. Okay, I’ve got to get back to work. You’re still coming down to my house this weekend, right?”

  “Am I still invited?” Or had I messed up this friendship also?

  “Of course.” She paused. “Oh, and I heard about the dead guy.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “He was in here, you know.”

  I froze with my smoothie in midair. “Who?”

  “The dead guy. He came in every day last week and sat in that booth.” She nodded toward one in the distance.

  I glanced over at it. That booth had the perfect view of Beach Combers. Had Douglas Whatever-His-Real-Name-Was come here to watch me?

  I didn’t know, but I didn’t like the idea of it. Not at all.

  Chapter Five

  “You guys are talking about that guy who died at the Polar Plunge?” a customer sitting at a nearby booth said. “Right?”

  I glanced over at the woman, who was probably in her early twenties and proudly sported multiple piercings and a severe wedge haircut. Papers and some notebooks were spread out in front of her, and she held a red pen in her hands. I’d seen her in here before, meeting with a writing group or book club or something.

  “Yes, he’s the one.” I stepped closer, and Phoebe was right behind me as I extended my hand. “I’m Joey.”

  “I’m Alexa. I saw that man in here too.” She closed her leather-bound notebook and crossed her arms. “Had a couple of conversations with him, for that matter.”

  She now had my full attention. “Did he say anything interesting?”

  “He asked about you. You’re Raven Remington, right?” She raised a pierced eyebrow as she waited for my answer.

  “Not really. But I did play her on TV.” If I had a penny for every time I said that, I wouldn’t be in this financial pickle right now.

  “Yeah, he asked if I’d ever talked to you. He acted all fanboy about it, which was weird since he was so old. Men in their forties shouldn’t be fanboy about anything except Star Wars and Apple products.”

  My back muscles tightened so quickly that I barely registered her ageist insult. “Is that right?”

  Maybe that man had been a fan, but that wouldn’t explain why he had one of my father’s photos.

  “That’s not entirely unusual,” Phoebe piped up behind me. “People are fascinated that you’re living here in town. You’re the most exciting thing since Lowe’s opened a store in the area.”

  As long as I was giving people something to talk about . . . me and a big-box home improvement store.

  “Did he say anything else?” I asked.

  Alexa tapped her pen against her lips. “Nothing interesting. He said he’s from Pennsylvania. He was here doing some work. And that he loved your TV show and thought it was really cool you were in the Outer Banks. I was hoping he’d be in here this morning to give his opinion on your TV interview yesterday. Then I realized he was the one who died. Talk about bummer.”

  Phoebe shot me a questioning look, and I shrugged. Phoebe obviously hadn’t watched the news today, or she would know about my throw down.

  “Did this guy say where he was staying, by chance?”

  Alexa absently rubbed the top of her leather notebook. “Not really. But when he pulled out his keys, there was a plastic black diamond keychain on it with the number 611.”

  My shoulders sagged. That was observant, but it didn’t help me. “That could be for anywhere around here.”

  “Actually, it’s not.” Alexa grinned like there was a canary nearby, just waiting to be eaten. “I clean houses around here in the summer to pick up some extra money. That key chain is for the Seaside Condos down the road.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. “Are you sure?”

  An imaginary yellow feather escaped from her lips. “Absolutely.”

  I headed over to the Seaside Condos after I left Oh Buoy. Maybe I should have called Jackson with the information, but I wanted to confirm that Douglas Whatever-His-Real-Name-Was—let’s just stick with Mark Hamill—had actually been staying there.

  That made sense, right? I couldn’t be the girl who cried wolf. There was an entire episode of Relentless on that, and it hadn’t ended well for the college girl in peril who had continually sounded false alarms.

  However, when I pulled up to the condo complex, three police cars were already there, which made me want to turn around. Before I could, Jackson Sullivan’s laser-beam eyes bored into my car. He paused right there in the parking lot and scowled.

  I sighed and put the car in park, knowing I’d need to explain my reasons for being here, lest I look even more guilty.

  I climbed out, slammed the door, and slogged my way toward him. On the bright side, the day was cold but sunny. I pulled my coat closer, not so much because of the breeze but to guard myself against the onslaught of questions and accusations I was certain would come.

  Jackson waited for me like a corrections officer with a grudge and a binge habit of watching Prison Break.

  “What are you doing here?” Jackson asked.

  Guilt—one of my closest companions lately—pounded in my chest. I’d pegged him all wrong, and now he hated me for it. Somehow I needed to make things right, but this wasn’t the time or place. “I heard a rumor the mystery man may have been staying in 611.”

  “And how did you hear that?”

  “Through talking to someone at Oh Buoy. You?”

  He tilted his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Was he staying here?”

  “I can’t tell you that either.”

  “Well, what can you tell me?” I pressed.

  “That you should stay out of this.”

  “I can’t stay out of it. I look guilty.” Plus, I’d put myself out there. On TV. And now it was a race to find the killer before the killer found me.

  “Being here doesn’t help,” Jackson said.

  “Douglas Murray went into Oh Buoy frequently and watched Beach Combers from his little seat by the window. He asked people about me. What if he’s my stalker, Jack—Detective Sullivan?”

  He stepped closer. “Listen, if it makes you feel better—or worse, I’m not sure which—this is where he was staying. But he’s only been here a week. Your super-stalker duo, as you call them, has been here in the area for at least six weeks.”

  “They could have switched locations. Or maybe they left the area and came back.” Why was I talking like this topic was ordinary? Or like my stalkers were my friends? They terrified me. But at this very moment, I was separating myself from the reality of scary stalkerdom in order to get answers.

  Jackson shrugged. “You never know. They could have.”

  “Why else would this guy have my picture?” Unless he was a stalker or connected with my dad . . .

  Another shadow passed his gaze. “We’re trying to figure that out.”

  “Did you get the autopsy back yet?”

  His jaw flexed. “We did.”

  “And? Please don’t say you can’t tell me.”

  “He drowned.”

  “Accidental?”

  “There were bruises on his shoulders.”

  My blood went cold. “Like he was held under the water,” I muttered.

  “I’m only sharing that information to remind you of how serious this situation is.” He shifted. “I need to get back now. Stay away from this, Joey. Please.”

  I raised my chin. “I don’t know that I can do that.”

  “Try.”

  Without waiting for my response, Jackson walked away.

  And I remained right where I was.

  Chapter Six

  I stood at the perimeter of the crowd, hoping to spot a clue as to what the police were doing. I stared at the scene around me. Why were there so many police cars here? That was what didn’t make sense. Sure, a murdered man had stayed here. But it wasn’t like he was here now. All the police seemed like overkill.

  At least, it would seem like that if we were filming Relentless. Though I kne
w Hollywood wasn’t always accurate, I’d learned a lot in my limited PI work.

  A small crowd had gathered, all waiting to see what the commotion was about. Even though no police line had been strung, we’d formed somewhat of an imaginary boundary. I watched as officers came and went from the condo.

  While waiting there, I realized something very important: I couldn’t stand back passively and wait. I was a showman, and I needed to do what I did best. I needed to act as an unconventional hostess of sorts.

  Take the conses by the quences.

  Note to self: stop saying that annoying phrase.

  “Excuse me. May I have everyone’s attention?” I turned to address onlookers. The small crowd looked at me, some surprised, others trying to avoid eye contact. “I’m desperate to find out information about the man who was staying in condo 611. I’m trying to identify who he is, where he was from, and why he was in this area. Did anyone here talk to him?”

  Everyone remained quiet a moment, so I waited.

  “Anyone?” I asked again.

  Finally, a man cleared his throat. He was probably in his early thirties, lanky and tall with dark straight hair. Mostly what I noticed was that he had a leg brace and an arm crutch, causing his steps to be staggered as he moved toward me.

  “I talked to him once,” he said.

  “And?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “He seemed nice enough.”

  “What did he say? Anything that gave any hints about what might have happened?”

  He remained quiet a moment. “I don’t know. He was pretty friendly. But I saw some shady guys hanging around. I thought they might be going to the condo next door to him, but they went to his.”

  “What do you mean by shady?”

  He shrugged. “You know, the kind who sag their pants and wear massive gold jewelry. They had shifty gazes. I don’t know. I don’t want to stereotype.”

  “I see. In other words, the guy staying in 611 didn’t seem like the type to hang out with those kind of people. More like someone who liked Star Wars.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Anything else you can share to identify these shady characters?”