by Joanna Wayne
Besides, judging from the doll’s condition and what Jaci knew about the effects of submersion in saltwater, she’d guess it had been in the water no more than a month or so.
She turned the doll over in her hands, pausing to study a smear of something on the cloth that looked a lot like old, washed-out blood.
Tamale nosed the doll.
“Sorry, boy. I know this is your treasure, but I need to take it with me.” She gave him a good neck scratching that seemed to satisfy him, then picked up a piece of driftwood that lay nearby and threw it down the beach for him to retrieve.
They played throw and fetch the rest of the way to her apartment, while possible scenarios ran around in Jaci’s mind, chasing clues with the same fervor Tamale exhibited for the driftwood.
Only one held promise for Jaci’s investigation, and that was if she could prove this actually was Pilar’s doll and Pilar’s blood. It wasn’t likely, but unlikely clues had solved a lot of tough cases.
Perhaps the doll had been in the villa all these years and only recently been tossed into the surf. But why would anyone have kept a doll so many years, only to throw it away now? And what else might someone have saved?
Jaci had to find a way to get inside the villa and snoop around without either Carlos or Alma knowing. If she got caught, they’d be furious and probably ban her from the island, but it was a chance she’d have to take. Too bad she hadn’t come before the villa had been placed off-limits.
She tossed the driftwood for Tamale one last time, then jogged toward the courtyard, the doll firmly clutched in her left hand. She darted through the arched door, then stopped abruptly when she saw Raoul leaning against her doorway.
Her pulse quickened. “Were you looking for me?”
“Yeah. I have some bad news.”
“What?”
“Mac Lowell didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”
“Oh, no. Who killed him?”
“That’s the bad news.”
Chapter Nine
Raoul stood in the morning sunlight, staring at Jaci and wondering how he’d gotten himself so totally caught up in a situation that had disaster written all over it.
He could claim he was just being a Good Samaritan, but he knew it went deeper than that. Jaci got to him on several levels, not the least of which was the raw sensuality that caused the rock-hard feeling inside him right now.
She didn’t look like one of those pale, thin models on the covers of fashion magazines, whose cleavage spilled out of their tops. She had the body for it, but she was more the girl-next-door type. Ponytail. Freckles spattering across her nose. Hips softly curved beneath her wet shorts.
And fiery green eyes staring at him right now.
“How did you hear about Mac’s murder?”
“I had a call from a Detective Ralph Linsky with the Everglades City Police Department.”
“Did he say what led him to the conclusion that Mac’s death wasn’t a suicide?”
“Just that the autopsy indicated bruises and injuries inconsistent with someone taking his own life.”
“What kind of injuries? Internal? External?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Were there any suspicious substances in his stomach or bloodstream?”
“He didn’t comment on that, either.”
“And you didn’t ask him?”
“I’m just a layman, remember?”
“Exactly. So why did he call you with that information instead of me?”
Tamale ran up and dropped a piece of driftwood at her feet. When she ignored it, he started tugging at a dripping mess she held in her hand—a dilapidated doll. She shooed the dog away and shifted the object to her other hand, holding it out of reach.
“What is that?” Raoul asked, pointing to the doll.
“Just something that washed up on the beach.”
“Then why did you keep it?”
“Don’t change the subject, Raoul. Why did the detective call you instead of me?”
“He tried you first, but couldn’t get a connection.”
“That figures. So how did he get in touch with you?”
“I have a very expensive phone.”
“I don’t get it,” she said, tossing her head so that a few more auburn locks slipped from her ponytail to dance about her cheeks. “How would he know how to reach you?”
“I gave the investigating officer my business card yesterday. All the information was on it.”
Jaci batted at a wasp that came too close. “So who killed Mac?”
“Detective Linsky didn’t admit it, but I got the distinct impression that he thinks you may be more involved in the crime than just finding the body.”
“More involved?”
“Possibly a suspect?”
Jaci’s eyes flashed, and her right hand flew to her hip. “No way.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough. The detective is on his way to Cape Diablo as we speak.”
“He’s not wasting any time, is he?”
“Doesn’t appear to be. You have a right to a lawyer, you know.”
“Of course I know, but I don’t need one. I can’t be a suspect. I’m a forensics science student on a case.”
“Exactly. You’re a student.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you’re not official. You seem to keep getting that confused, but I’m certain Linsky won’t.”
“I’m official enough. Once I explain the situation to the detective, he’ll drop any suspicion of my involvement in this—if he’s ever had any.”
Raoul nodded, though he didn’t fully buy into her theory. Explaining had never been enough to satisfy cops when he’d encountered problems with ownership of sunken treasures. “Would you prefer to be interrogated in your apartment or on my boat?”
“I don’t plan to be interrogated anywhere.” She pushed her index finger into her chin. “But I do have police reports and my notes scattered all over my apartment, so maybe I should talk with the detective on your boat—that is, if you don’t mind.”
“If I’d minded, I wouldn’t have offered. Besides, they want to talk to me as well. I’ll let Carlos know what’s going on so he won’t come barging into the meeting.”
“He won’t like it,” Jaci said, her soft lips drooping into a scowl. “He thinks I’ve already caused enough trouble.”
“Imagine that.”
She ran her full hand across the front of her shorts. “I’ll have to get out of these wet clothes and grab a quick shower, but I’ll be down shortly.”
He watched as she walked toward her apartment, aroused by the way the wet shorts clung to her butt, and thinking he had to be nuts to be falling this hard for a woman he barely knew.
And wanting her all the same.
JACI SHOWERED AND DRESSED IN a pair of blue cotton cropped pants and a white short-sleeved polo shirt. Taking a quick look in the mirror, she lifted her hair from her neck, holding it in place a few seconds before letting it fall back to her shoulders. She grabbed a tube of lipstick and was just about to start painting her top lip when she stopped abruptly.
She’d never worried about makeup before when she was involved in crime work, and she wasn’t about to let one almost kiss make her start with the feminine, flirty routine now.
She scanned the room for her sandals. One was near the table, where she’d left the doll. The other was hiding. Thankfully, she found it a few seconds later, tangled in the fringed border of the cream-colored chenille spread, where it had landed when she’d kicked it off.
Slipping into the shoes, she grabbed an apple from the refrigerator and her keys from the table. She glanced toward the third-floor window of the villa as she rushed out the door. Alma was there as always, keeping watch over everything that happened on her island of the damned.
DETECTIVE LINSKY WAS JUST UNDER six feet tall and about thirty pounds overweight, with most of his excess fat in the spare tire that hung over his belt. His g
raying hair was cut short, and his skin was so weathered by sun, wind and saltwater, the lines around his eyes and mouth looked as if they would break if he smiled.
His partner, Jack Paige, was at least ten years younger—probably around forty. He was short, lean, blond and the more personable of the two. At least that was Jaci’s first impression of them. So far they were just past the introduction phase and still getting settled in the ship’s cozy living area.
Jaci sat in the tan armchair. The detectives were on the striped sofa. Raoul straddled a deck chair he’d brought in for the meeting.
Neither Jaci or Raoul interrupted while Detective Linsky explained that bruises found on Mac’s arms convinced them that he hadn’t been a willing participant in the hanging. She was pretty sure they weren’t telling everything, but then cops seldom did unless they were talking to other cops.
Ralph Linsky crossed a foot over his knee, giving the impression this was a friendly chat. “Can you tell us again why you were meeting Mac at his home?”
“I was supposed to meet him at Slinky’s Bar. When he didn’t show up, I walked to his house.”
“And why were you meeting him at Slinky’s Bar?”
“I explained all of this to the investigating officers at the crime scene. I’m sure you have it in your notes.”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
She explained again, starting with her interest in the photos of the blood splatters and ending with the phone call she’d received from Mac Lowell.
“Who did you tell about your scheduled appointment with Mac?”
“No one.”
Linsky arched his brows. “No one? Not even Raoul, when you asked him to take you to the island?”
“No, I only told him that I had an appointment with someone. I didn’t mention Mac.”
“I understand, seeing as Raoul is a relative of Carlos Lazario.”
Raoul held up a hand to halt the questions. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jaci said, just wanting to get this over and done with. “Carlos had nothing to do with it. My investigation was a private matter.”
“So no one knew you were going to talk to Mac Lowell about the old Santiago mystery?”
“I didn’t tell anyone. I don’t know who Mac may have told. Except…”
“Except what?”
“I doubt this means anything, but my room was broken into the morning I was to meet Mac. Nothing of value was taken, but the piece of paper where I had written down Mac’s name, phone number and the time and place I was to meet him was missing.”
Linsky uncrossed his legs and propped his elbows on his knees, looking her straight in the eye. “Let me make sure I have this straight. Someone broke into your apartment and the only thing they took was information about Mac?”
“I don’t know that they took it. It’s just that I haven’t seen it since then. It probably got mixed up with my notes when they were rifling through them.”
“And you didn’t think any of this was important enough to mention?”
“His death appeared to be a suicide.”
“Did you find out who broke into your apartment?” Linsky asked.
“Since nothing was taken, I just assumed it was Alma Garcia. She has problems and probably just wandered in. At any rate, I’m sure she didn’t leave the island and murder Mac.”
“We’re just trying to get all the facts,” Linsky said.
“With that in mind, can you tell me exactly how the phone conversation went between you and Mac?” Detective Paige asked, taking over from Linsky, who had pulled a black notebook from his pocket and was making notes fast and furiously.
“I can’t tell you word for word.”
“Then give me the gist of it.”
Even though she was certain both detectives had the investigating officer’s notes at their fingertips, she repeated the information.
“Are you aware that Mac Lowell quit the force one week after the Santiago disappearance?”
“I read that somewhere.”
“Yep, just packed up and left Everglades City without bothering to sell his house or his boat or his car, which he also left behind.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“He did. Just caught a plane and disappeared. Actually lived outside the country for several years, bought a house somewhere in the Caribbean Islands.”
Raoul took the bait, likely to keep the detective from going on and on. “What did he do for money?”
“The police department always wondered that same thing.”
“Mac’s partner was killed about that same time,” Linsky added. “Killed by a car bomb.”
“Not according to police reports issued at the time of his death,” Jaci said, sure she’d read that he had died in a car accident in Miami.
“Exactly.”
“So why were the reports falsified?”
“So that his wife and kids, who were also reportedly killed in the car accident, had a halfway decent chance of starting all over again under assumed identities. Are you beginning to get a picture here, Miss Matlock?”
“Hard to miss with you painting it so vividly. You think someone paid off Mac Lowell to keep him quiet, and killed his partner when he couldn’t be bribed.”
“You are smart,” Linsky said, “just like your professor said.”
She groaned. “You talked to him?”
“Just checking out your credentials.” Linsky shifted as if he couldn’t quite get comfortable. “I know this all makes for a juicy project for your thesis, Miss Matlock, but under the circumstances, I think it best if you choose another one. Believe me, your professor understands that working on this case may very well have placed you in danger.”
“Exactly how do you plan to protect Jaci now that you think she’s in danger?” Raoul asked.
“I’m trying to get her off Cape Diablo. If she gives up the investigation and gets away from here, I doubt anyone will bother her.”
“But you don’t know that?”
“I can’t guarantee it, but…”
“So whatever she decides, she’s on her own.”
Linsky shrugged off the comment. He and Paige stayed another thirty minutes, questioning Raoul about his relationship with Jaci. Neither cop looked convinced that the two of them were basically strangers. By the time the officers stood to leave, her head was pounding.
She walked with Raoul and the detectives onto the deck.
Linsky paused before stepping to the dock. “I’m not sure who killed Mac, but I do know those high-ranking drug guys order murders with the same calm you might swat a mosquito. And we have reason to believe that in spite of numerous arrests, smugglers and drug dealers still use the deepwater cove on the southern end of Cape Diablo. It’s the perfect spot to stay hidden until they’re ready to hit the open waters of the gulf.”
If he was trying to frighten her even more than she already was, he was doing a darn good job.
When they left, Raoul put his hands on both her shoulders, massaging her strained muscles with the tips of his fingers.
She should leave, but she hated to go back to her apartment alone, hated to pass the swimming pool or to walk into the shadow of the villa and see Alma staring down at her. Hated the thought that Mac had been murdered.
“Let’s take the boat out,” she said, surprising herself with the request.
“Out where?”
“Out of sight of Cape Diablo. Someplace where I don’t feel as if Alma’s gaze is boring into me. Somewhere I can think, and try to digest all that Linsky had to say, without having it colored by the island’s eerie atmosphere.”
“You’ve got it.”
Raoul squeezed her shoulders one last time, then went to start the boat. It occurred to her as the motors hummed to life that she had become totally trusting of a man she knew almost nothing about.
That couldn’t be wise. Yet he was the only person she wanted to be with right now.
&n
bsp; A SHARP PAIN SLID BETWEEN Carlos’s ribs, so strong he had to hold on to the edge of the table for support until it passed. He started to take one of the pain pills he’d had smuggled out of Mexico, then decided against it. The pain would get much worse before this was over, and the illegal drugs were getting harder to come by.
Bull was not nearly as accommodating as Pete Trawick had been while he was running the supply boat. Bull didn’t want trouble with the law. Carlos could appreciate that. But he needed the drugs to see him through this and to make the ending work as he had planned.
What he didn’t need was the Santiago investigation reopened. Not that the cops would waste much time on the old crime. Truth was they hadn’t been all that interested when it was fresh. Still, they would upset the señora, and he didn’t need that.
She had been right to fight having tenants on Cape Diablo. He’d welcomed the change at first, had thrived on the new voices, the chance to talk.
The world had changed in the years since he’d moved to the island. Only he and the señora had stood still, except that they’d aged—and grown lonelier.
Slowly, he bent and pulled the small box from beneath the bed. He set it on the table and opened it, taking out the top letter.
The envelope was old and yellowed, the edges frayed from the hundreds of times he’d read it and all the others he’d kept. He slid the letter from the envelope and read the greeting.
“Mi querido.”
My dear one…
Tears filled his eyes so that the words on the page ran together. It didn’t matter. He knew the letter by heart. It was the last one she’d ever written to him.
He shook the old memories from his mind at the sound of someone on the stairs leading to the boathouse, and quickly hid the letter. The visitor was the señora. Her footsteps and voice were as familiar to him as his own.
There was a quickness in her steps today. He hoped that didn’t mean she was on one of her frequent wild and frenzied escapes from reality. He never knew what would happen when one of those hit. No one did. No one ever had. Another reason he was glad the villa was off-limits to tourists now.
The door flew open and the señora stormed inside.
