Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  “No, thanks.” Willie sat in a scuffed leather wingback flanking a massive fireplace.

  “I’ll take a water.” Nathan sank into a worn brown sofa that he’d bet a year’s pay was Italian leather. Opening his briefcase, he located his red folder and positioned his cell on the side table.

  Katelyn handed him a glass of ice and a bottle of water.

  “Thanks.” He patted the seat cushion next to his. “I’d like to tape our meeting.”

  She glanced at Willie. Her expression didn’t hold fear, but a couple of wary lines creased her forehead.

  “I hope you don’t mind.” Nathan offered up a good-cop let’s-be-friends smile. “Recording is easier and more accurate than taking notes.”

  She blinked a couple of times and added a few more wrinkles to her brow. “Federal marshals don’t usually get involved in trespassing complaints.”

  “Schroeder mentioned you had an incident on Barry Island this afternoon.” Nathan patted the cushion again.

  Katelyn sat on the sofa’s edge. “That’s right.”

  He fished a small notebook from his pocket. “I’d like to determine if it has any connection to a case I’m working on.”

  He flipped a couple of pages. “I understand you recently inherited the island from your grandfather.”

  Katelyn tilted back a few inches. “Yes.”

  Nathan closed and placed his tablet on the side table. He needed her comfortable, engaging in regular conversation to obtain an accurate baseline. “What time of day did you encounter the trouble?”

  She glanced at the closed notebook and her shoulders softened. “We arrived around three-thirty. I saw the airboat shortly afterward, no more than a couple of minutes.”

  Nathan poured water into his glass. “Sheriff says you and your son came by boat?”

  “It’s a barrier island. No bridge.” Katelyn turned to Willie. “You know anything about clearing land and building a jetty on the south side of the isle?” Nathan noted her cadence. No hesitations, fully in control.

  Willie slipped his forefinger inside the collar of his knit shirt and pulled. “That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”

  “I’d like to clarify a few things before we talk about the dock.” Nathan resettled Kate’s attention back on him. “Would you describe your confrontation with the airboat?

  She answered in a calm, even voice. He purposely interrupted her story several times for clarifications, and Katelyn repeated her answers concisely before continuing on without embellishment. A sign she told the truth. Other than a couple of quick glances at Willie, her eye contact was constant with Nathan. The color of her eyes varied between shades of jade to mossy brown each time she mentioned the airboat. She claimed the driver was young and unusually aggressive.

  Erica, if she’d known, had left that part out.

  Katelyn Landers’s primary concern seemed to center on the airboat. Changes to her island were a secondary matter. She played the part of a naïve owner, gave the impression she didn’t know why or by whom her land was being used.

  “Anything else?” he picked up his notebook and pen, flipped a few pages, and made a quick note, then glanced up.

  Annoyance had settled into the lines around her eyes and darkened her pupils. “Isn’t an airboat stalking me and my son and someone building an unauthorized dock enough?”

  He nodded. He could admit it was one of his men in the airboat, explain that she and her son came within fifteen minutes of witnessing a drug drop. But he couldn’t chance her warning her cousin Calvin Thompson that the airboat was operated by DEA. He took a sip of his water and then slowly surveyed the room. “You also inherited this estate from Noah Barry?”

  Her gaze followed his as if trying to see the space through his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Does anyone else live here?”

  She glanced from Nathan to Willie. “Our caretaker, James.”

  “You have only one full-time employee in residence?” Much better than he’d hoped. The fewer people who knew his team was on the property, the better.

  She looked at Willie. “What does my property manager have to do with a trespasser on Barry Island?”

  By her terse response, Katelyn Landers wasn’t accustomed to discussing personal business with strangers, especially law enforcement. “Ms. Landers. May I call you Katelyn?”

  “Kate.” She brought her drink to her lips. “Everyone calls me Kate.”

  “This is more than a simple trespassing issue.” Nathan pulled a stack of photos from his file and handed her an eight-by-ten. “Did you know about these improvements to your sugar mill?”

  She placed her drink on the table and took the photo in hand. Textbook confusion swamped her face, slack mouth, furrowed forehead. She looked at Willie as if she expected her friend to intercede.

  Willie’s face remained as empty as a disk wiped clean.

  Kate drew the photo closer. If she faked her confusion, she was very talented.

  The photo included a shot of five buildings that would soon topple to the ground. Except for one, the largest of the group, an old pack house. The color differential in the roof tiles gave the appearance of recent repairs. “Were you aware of the recent modifications to your building?”

  She rubbed her finger over the two-by-fours bracing the double entry doors. “This work wasn’t approved.”

  “Anyone else with permission to make repairs or use your island?”

  “No.”

  “How about before Noah Barry died?”

  Her eyes softened at the mention of her grandfather. “My grandfather was bedridden and unable to speak after his stroke.”

  “Do you have another family member who might authorize repairs without your knowledge?” Nathan gentled his speech as if he understood her confusion. A funeral director’s cadence, soft and much practiced.

  “A family member?” Her vacant gaze drifted back to the photo. He pinpointed the exact moment Kate’s suspicions shifted, tilted, and fell. Her eyelids fluttered, her breath shortened. Someone was uppermost in her thoughts. Was it her cousin Calvin Thompson, her caretaker James, or was it someone else?

  “New trail, new roof on the mill.” Willie chimed in right on time.

  So far, Nathan was pleased with the sheriff’s performance. Willie had laughed at the notion Katelyn Landers might be involved with drug runners. Nathan was fairly confident the sheriff didn’t understand what a behavioral analyst did, but Willie knew about US marshals, and that was enough to secure an agreement that he’d be the pitch hitter in this interview.

  Willie leaned forward. “A little odd, don’t you think, that you wouldn’t know about work on your island.”

  “Well, I didn’t know.” No doubt in her voice, just a hint of exasperation. “Not much goes on in this county without someone apprising the sheriff. I expected you to explain what’s going on.”

  Willie, head down, eyes downcast, played his part and appeared appropriately shamefaced.

  Nathan waited. Sipped his water. He was comfortable with silence.

  After a full five seconds, Kate gave up on Willie answering and turned back to Nathan.

  Nathan placed the photos of the sugar mill back in his folder. “Repairs on your mill were minor and wouldn’t take more than a day or two. The Coast Guard, not the sheriff’s department, patrols the waterways. And with the current political environment, the Coast Guard’s focus is on the ports.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Exactly what’s happening on Barry Island?”

  Relaxing against the back of the sofa, Nathan decided to test Kate’s compliance. “I’m heading up a DEA team who’s followed a drug ring from Veracruz to the East Coast. It’s a six-month investigation, but each time we get close to a bust they pick up and move on.”

  Kate’s face drained to the color of sheetrock. “My island’s being used by drug runners?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t I been informed?”

  “I believe that’s what I’m doi
ng.”

  “Before now.”

  “Until now there’s been no need to involve you.” He gauged her reaction.

  “Why haven’t you arrested them?”

  “We were ready to move in three weeks ago, but they got word and dropped out of sight. Now it appears they’ve relocated and are using your island to break down and package.”

  She took a long, slow breath. “Well, what’s your plan?”

  “Bust them.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Why are you waiting?” She barked her questions, one louder than the next.

  Nathan couldn’t afford for her to find her footing. “We should wrap the case in the next few days. Until then, you should stay off the island.

  “That’s not a problem.” Some color had returned to her face, but her lips remained pasty.

  “Due to your estate’s proximity, it’d be best if you and your family stayed elsewhere.”

  Her body stilled, and her eyes darkened.

  It was a reasonable suggestion, and with a home in Savannah and her mother’s residence located only two blocks away in the city’s walking district, easy enough to manage. “Is there a problem?”

  “Isn’t it a bit extreme to vacate Spartina Bluff? Barry Island’s across the river.” If Kate leaned any farther from Nathan, she’d be in a full back bend.

  “You own another home in Savannah, and your mother lives on Forsyth Park. There’s no reason you should risk your family’s safety by staying here.”

  “But my house in Savannah isn’t furnished.” Seeming to reconsider. “You’re right. It won’t be a problem. I’ll make arrangements to stay at my mother’s home until you notify us everything has settled.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Kate rose, her foot pointed for the door.

  “One more thing.” Nathan stayed seated.

  Kate’s frown was immediate, followed by an unsteady sigh.

  “I want to post a seven-man team on your property.”

  “Here?”

  “The proximity of your dock to the island would give us an edge.”

  Her hand crept to her lips. She cut her gaze in Willie’s direction, shook her head, and stepped back.

  Nathan threw down his ace. “My request may seem somewhat unusual, but the sooner we close our case, the sooner your life will return to normal. And it would be an asset for our team to have clear visual contact with the island.” Nathan offered an easy shrug. “I have a morning meeting in Savannah, but we could be in place by tomorrow noon.”

  Her face remained stoic, but he watched a mental debate play out in her eyes. A full pallet of faded pinks and whites washed over her cheeks. She crossed her arms and ran her fingers over her forearms. A form of self-soothing. She lifted her chin and gave a short, curt nod. “You can use the guest house over the garage.” She walked to the bar and dropped her diet cola in the trash. “Marshal, why do you think this drug ring chose Barry Island?”

  Nathan pocketed his phone. “Your island’s abandoned. Could be as simple as your land poses the least risk.”

  Her only reaction was to run her fingers over her forehead as if staving off a headache. All Kate’s physical reactions indicated she’d been blindsided by the news a drug ring had taken over her island. He didn’t get the buzz she was evading or lying.

  But Nathan was very interested in how she’d handle her brand-new suspicions. He’d know soon enough if she’d zeroed in on her cousin. Calvin Thompson had a tail.

  Kate went to the desk and scribbled on a piece of paper. She handed the note to Nathan. “My cell phone, my direct line at the Savannah office, and my mother’s home phone number. It’s unlisted.”

  “Thank you.” He tucked the sticky note in his briefcase. Didn’t bother to tell her that all the numbers were already in his file, and there was no such thing as an unlisted number to a federal marshal.

  The double doors opened, and Roslyn stepped back into the library. She took one look at her daughter’s face and stepped with purpose to her side. Nathan noted the mother-daughter bond was discernible and solid.

  “One last thing.” Nathan waited until Kate’s eyes met his. “What’s your family’s connection to Juan Ignacio Cabral?”

  “What?” Roslyn’s shocked tone registered the exact time as Kate’s puzzled, “Who?”

  Chapter Five

  “Juan Cabral was an old friend of my father-in-law’s.” My mother vice-gripped my arm, an unspoken warning to keep quiet.

  “Juan and Dad were college friends who kept in touch.” Mom traded her sweet southern singsong for sullen with a touch of condescension. “They shared an affinity for remote fishing resorts. Nothing more.”

  Every inch of the marshal’s six-foot frame hummed. I’d been in enough boardroom showdowns to recognize his question aimed in my direction.

  “Do you consider him a family friend?”

  “Kate’s never met Juan,” Mom said. “And I haven’t laid eyes on him in years.”

  Parsi closed in a step. “Is that true?” There was something bristly under the surface—disbelief, misdirected irritation. It was hard to tell.

  I wanted to see Mom’s face, figure out why she was so quick to disown a friendship with this Cabral fellow. But I refused to look away from the marshal and his unwarranted scrutiny. He gave me the uncomfortable notion he was peering into the deepest recesses of my mind, sifting through my darkest and innermost secrets. He could delve all he liked. I had plenty of secrets, none connected to a Cabral.

  My grandfather graduated from college over fifty years ago, which put this Juan fellow in his eighties. How could an eighty-year-old man be significant to a drug case? I had nothing to hide. I shrugged. “I don’t remember meeting anyone by that name. Why? Is my grandfather’s friend important?”

  A stare-down with a US marshal seemed unadvisable. I dropped my gaze to a pile of mail stacked on my desk and moved around a couple of files. I hoped he’d get the I’m-a-very-busy-woman message.

  Mom inhaled an uneven breath, and I couldn’t help glancing over. She gripped the back of a wingback chair so tight her perfectly groomed nails came close to puncturing the brown leather.

  “You’ve never met Juan or his nephews?”

  “Nope, never had the pleasure.” I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s getting late. I need to check on my son, so if that’s all?”

  “I’ll be here at noon tomorrow with my team.” Parsi turned with military precision and walked from the room.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see us so late, Kate.” Willie ducked his head and followed the marshal down the hall.

  I followed them to the front door, locked up, and returned to the library.

  Mom had switched from herbal tea to a glass of merlot. She swallowed a sizable gulp. “If you ask me, that Marshal Parsi was a little full of himself.”

  I skimmed my hand over my lower abdomen in an effort to stifle my butterflies—butterflies that resembled a school of piranha nipping my intestines with quick lethal bites.

  “Why’d you get uptight when Nathan asked about the Cabral family?”

  “Nathan?” She graced me with one of her iceberg-melting stares.

  Inwardly, I cowered. But I dug deep and stared back. “Just answer the question.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of getting friendly,” she said. “Bad enough you’re allowing his team to vacation in the guest house. My God, what were you thinking?”

  Mom mustʼve heard me agree to lodge Parsiʼs team over the intercom. What was I thinking? Maybe I could blame it on my splitting headache. “I’m worried Calvin’s into something over his head.”

  “That’s no reason to allow eight US marshals the run of your compound.”

  I laughed and my brain banged against my skull. If I popped any more aspirin the piranhas would draw blood. “It’s a stretch, don’t you think, to call a house with sixty acres of pasture a compound?”

&n
bsp; Mom sank into the sofa, grabbed a pillow and placed it behind her back. “You think Calvin’s involved with this drug ring?”

  “God, no.” I kneaded my forehead. “Surely not.” My intestines were inflamed. I wanted to blame it on a virus, but…those penetrating brown eyes. Eyes that I would typically describe as lazy bedroom, but tonight more in line with heat-penetrating missiles had pushed every intuitive alarm button I possessed. “I’d call Calvin again, but it’s after eleven.” Etiquette dictated nothing but emergency phone calls after ten o’clock, but texting was a gray area. I grabbed my cell, shot off a message asking Cal to call me immediately.

  During Parsi’s hour long interrogation, I examined and discarded the possibility that Calvin was the reason drug runners squatted on my land. My cousin often walked a thin line with the law. But drug running? No way. He wasn’t an idiot.

  “Did the marshal seem familiar to you?” The idea we’d met in the past swirled in my head the minute I shook his hand. “Parsi sounds Middle Eastern. Do we know him from somewhere?”

  Mom looked at me as if I’d suggested she eat a raccoon. “Why in the world would we know a federal marshal?”

  She had a point. I plopped on the sofa beside her and tucked one leg under another. “Okay, spill it. What gives?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She sipped her merlot.

  “When Nathan asked about Juan Cabral, you had a hissy fit.”

  “Don’t be overly dramatic.” She placed her drink on the table, picked up a Guns and Garden magazine, and thumbed through the pages. “After I explained that Dad and Juan were old friends, the marshal acted as if he didn’t believe me. It irritated me.”

  Yeah, right. Irritation always turned Mom’s voice a notch above a squirrel protecting her young. I nodded. Conceding all points was the only hope I had of ferreting the truth. “How well do you know Juan Cabral?”

  “Not well.” I wasn’t sure which was faster, her head shake or the flutter of her fingers running over her blouse. She tossed the magazine aside, rose, and walked to the desk. “Haven’t seen him in years.”

  “I’m curious why his memory upset you.”