by Joanna Wayne
“Why were the police here?”
“They were friends of Raoul’s. They just came by to visit him.”
“Don’t lie to me. They were here to see Jaci Matlock.”
“Then you know more than I do.”
“Get rid of her, Carlos. I want her off this island tonight. I want Raoul off as well. If you don’t take care of it, I’ll have Enrique do it.”
“No. I don’t want Enrique involved in this. They’ll be off soon, but you must let me handle this. Do you understand?”
“Then handle it.”
There was no reasoning with her when she was like this. It would serve her right if he did as Raoul wanted and left her all alone.
“Don’t you trust me to take care of things, señora? After all these years, don’t you trust me yet?”
“I trust you, Carlos. It’s just that…” She met his gaze and trembled. “The police make me afraid.”
He reached out and pulled her thin frame into his arms. “I’ll take care of things,” he whispered. “I promise.”
And Carlos Lazario had never once gone back on a promise. She above all people should know that.
THE WIND WAS ALMOST nonexistent, and the water was as calm as Raoul had seen it in weeks, the perfect day for cruising the open waters of the gulf.
He needed this today. Needed to run the engines at full throttle and let the Quest fly. Needed the exhilaration of power and the feel of the wind in his face. He’d always been better at handling problems when he’d been out on a boat, almost as if the endless rolling waves helped put things in perspective.
But he’d spent little time on the boat over the last two years. It held too many memories of good times he’d shared with Allison.
The familiar guilt welled in his chest, and he closed his eyes, willing her image to coalesce in his mind. It had haunted him constantly in the first weeks and months after her death, but it formed more slowly now, and the features were growing less distinct every day.
Oh, he remembered the Allison in the pictures just fine. He had constant reminders of how she looked in them. Allison as she’d appeared coming up from a dive. In the mornings when she awoke, or stepped out of the shower, those were the images he had to work to hold on to.
They’d been so much alike. Had the same interests. Been almost the same age, with both of them raised by their grandparents. It made sense to fall in love with her, and Raoul had done it right, letting the attraction build slowly as they got to know each other.
Nothing like the way it was with Jaci. She was a good ten years younger than him. She was just starting her career, excited about evidence instead of sunken treasure. She studied DNA and blood splatter instead of routes of ships that had been lost at sea.
But there was no denying the attraction that sizzled between them. He turned his gaze in her direction, though he’d been avoiding that since she’d spread a multicolored beach towel over the padded bench and settled in to catch some rays.
She stirred and her perky breasts pushed against the fabric of her cotton shirt as she stretched and pulled her oversize sunglasses from her face.
She gave him a wave and dropped her long, shapely legs over the side of the bench. “I’m going inside for a diet soft drink. Can I bring you something?”
“I’m getting hungry,” he said. “I’ll come inside with you, and we’ll rustle up some lunch.”
“Great.”
He slowed the twin engines. There was no idling the roaring inside him. He steered the boat back to the last island they’d passed, then dropped anchor and joined her in the cabin. He stopped short when he saw Jaci near the bookcase, holding the picture of Allison.
“She’s beautiful,” Jaci said.
“Yeah. She was.”
“Was?”
“She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. Was she your wife?”
He hesitated, but there was no real reason to avoid the truth. He walked over, opened the cupboard, took out a bottle of Scotch and poured himself two fingers of the malt whiskey. Nothing about this was going to be easy.
Chapter Ten
Jaci waited silently as Raoul downed half the liquor he’d just poured. She was already regretting that she’d asked about the picture. With all the problems she was facing, she didn’t need to add Raoul’s to her list.
Turning away from him, she set the photograph back on the shelf. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t. Allison was my fiancée. She was killed in a diving accident while we were exploring a sunken sailing ship off the coast of Bali.”
“So she was a treasure diver as well?”
“Yes, one of my crew members. That’s how we met.” He swirled the Scotch in his glass, staring into it. “We had plans to be married as soon as we raised that ship.”
He finished his drink, then set the glass on the counter and pressed his fingers into his temples as if he were trying to keep the memories from exploding inside him.
Jaci tried unsuccessfully to think of something to say that didn’t sound trite. “That must have been rough on you.”
“Hasn’t been a picnic.”
“No, I’m sure it hasn’t.” She ached to lay a hand on his arm, but with their own relationship so new and tenuous, even that seemed presumptuous. The silence grew awkward between them.
Finally, he looked up and locked his gaze with hers. “Sorry you asked?”
“I am, but only because talking about it seems so painful for you.”
“I’m not one for going on about bad things,” he said, “especially things that can’t be changed.”
“No, but sometimes talking helps.”
“So they say.”
Jaci’s thoughts went back to the way Allison had signed her photograph. “Love, always.” Her “always” had ended way too soon.
Jaci wrapped her arms around her chest, chilly though the temperature had been comfortable only moments before. She should drop the subject, but felt she had to know more if she was going to understand Raoul. And all of a sudden it seemed extremely important that she did. “When was the accident?”
“Two years ago last July.”
For a second she thought she hadn’t heard him right. Two years and three months, yet he showed all the signs of being in the first stages of grief when he talked about her death.
“You must have loved her very much.”
“I loved her. I’ve never thought about there being degrees of love.”
Jaci was pretty sure there were. At least her mother hadn’t appeared to love her father the way he’d loved her.
Jaci’s mind went back to the very tentative brushing of lips between herself and Raoul, and wondered if it were possible that he hadn’t been with a woman in over two years. If so, it might just be normal male urges she’d mistaken for chemistry on his part.
She pulled a can of soda from the cupboard. Raoul filled a glass with ice and handed it to her. “Are you sure you don’t want something stronger? You had a rough morning even before I unloaded on you.”
“Soda is fine.”
“Then I guess we should think about lunch.” He opened the refrigerator and moved a few cartons around to get a better look at the contents. “We ate the last of the luncheon meat last night, but there’s bacon, cheese, milk, lemons, grapefruit.” He stooped to open another crisper drawer. “A head of lettuce and a couple of tomatoes. How about a BLT? Or an omelet? That looks like it for choices. Guess I should restock before we return to Cape Diablo.”
“BLT sounds great. Shall I fry or slice?”
“Your choice,” he said, already retrieving supplies from the fridge.
“Then I’ll slice,” she said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in forensics, it’s that it’s better to be the one with the weapon.”
“You obviously haven’t seen my frying pan.”
Raoul actually smiled as he pulled a cutting board and knife from one cupboard and a half loaf of wheat bread from another. It was good
that his mood was brightening. Hers was probably going to dip to morose when they started talking about how her project du jour had turned into the assignment from hell.
RAOUL FELT AS IF HE’D BEEN battered by a two-by-four from the inside out as he turned the slices of thick, hickory-smoked bacon. Today was the first time he’d said Allison’s name out loud in months. It had been just as painful as Jaci had thought, but for all the wrong reasons.
Not that he didn’t still miss her. Part of his heart would always belong to Allison. But the guilt wouldn’t let up. It just sat there and festered like the cancer inside Carlos must be doing.
If Raoul could live that one day over, he’d change everything about it. But there was no way in heaven or hell he could nullify his actions or redeem his mistakes.
Jaci reached around him to set the knife into the sink. She brushed against him in the process, and his awareness level jumped so high he almost dropped the fork.
He couldn’t imagine what he was thinking when he’d suggested they cook together. The kitchen was too damn small to share with her. He should have learned that the other night.
Jaci scooted past him to return the remainder of the lettuce to the refrigerator. “Did you say you have cheese?”
“There’s a chunk of cheddar in the meat tray.”
“Good. I like cheese on my BLT, and lots of mayo. What about you?”
Right. Take the cues from her. Keep this light and get through it without taking her in your arms and making a fool of yourself.
“Cheese, mayo and a big sour pickle on the side.”
“Yuck. I hate sour pickles.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing.”
She started humming while she spread mayo on the slices of wheat bread that had just popped from the toaster. Humming in the face of danger was probably a good quality for a forensics scientist, not that he was certain exactly what a forensics scientist did.
He yanked some paper towels from the roll and laid them in a plate to absorb the excess grease. “Aren’t there separate fields of study for forensics experts, kind of like specialties for doctors?”
“All kinds of specialties. For example, forensic dentists cast evidence like bite marks.”
“So the cops knew who bit into a steak?”
“Or took a bite out of their victim. There’s also forensic botany, entomology and anthropology, to name a few.”
“Do you have a specialty?”
“DNA analysis and blood splatter.”
“Which explains why you were so interested in talking to Mac Lowell.”
“Exactly. Blood splatter is mainly used to determine the location of impact and what type of weapon was used in violent crimes. For example, a baseball bat would leave a different pattern than a knife. A bullet from a .38 is different from one from an Uzi.”
“You sound as if you know your stuff.”
“I’ve worked hard to learn it. I’m proficient in all kinds of basic criminology, but my real interest is solving crimes that have little or no obvious evidence. I like a challenge.”
Raoul speared the crisp bacon slices and deposited them on the waiting paper towels. “So will you work with the FBI after you graduate?”
“I’m not sure. I have several other options.”
“Such as?”
“I can be a police criminologist or I could work for defense attorneys, disproving all the evidence against their clients. That’s probably where the most money is—and sometimes the fewest ethics.”
“Which way are you leaning now?”
Jaci placed the bacon on the sandwiches. “Toward a position with a police department in a major municipality like Miami or Los Angeles, where they get a huge variety of crimes to solve.”
Big cities versus lonely oceans—another major difference between them, not that Raoul was counting.
“Let’s eat outside again,” Jaci said, grabbing her plate and soda and leading the way. “I always think better in the sunshine. It’s from being raised a Florida girl.”
“Outside it is,” he said, grabbing his own food and following her. Guilt, food, sunshine, Jaci—and murder. You’d think that would kill a man’s appetite, but he was famished.
Obviously Jaci was, too. They were half finished their meal before she broke the silence.
“My turn to ask questions,” she said. “Don’t worry. They’re not personal.”
“Okay, shoot.”
She scooted closer to the small table that separated them. “There are dozens of theories about what happened the night the Santiagos disappeared, but as a guy with ties to the island, what do you think happened that night?”
Raoul saw no reason not to hand it to Jaci straight. “I think they were all murdered.”
“You say that with conviction.”
“Why not? Andres Santiago led the kind of life that begot violence.”
“But how do you explain that there were no bodies, and their yacht was missing, as well as the treasure Andres had supposedly buried on the property?”
“Don’t tell me you think Andres just gathered up his family and treasure and sailed away in the night. That he gave up his life of crime and took on a new identity on some foreign shore, leaving blood splat tered all over the boathouse to throw off anyone who might come looking for him.”
“It could have happened like that.”
“If you believed that for one moment, you would never have chosen this as your project.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I agree with you. I’ve always thought the blood in the boathouse was Santiago blood. And after coming to Cape Diablo, I’m even more convinced.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t believe in black magic or evil spirits or any of that, at least I never did before. But Cape Diablo has an unmistakably sinister feel to it, as if the deadly secrets are crying out for someone to uncover them.” She shuddered and pushed aside the plate holding the last few bites of her sandwich. “How’s that for creepy?”
“It’s the isolation,” Raoul said. “You’re not that far away from the mainland, but when you’re surrounded by nothing but water and countless islands that run together like spilled green paint, it seems that you’re at the end of the world.”
Jaci got up and walked to the railing. The sun glistened on her wind-tousled hair, and a hard knot settled in his gut.
“You’ve got more to deal with than the island’s aura, Jaci.”
“I know.” She turned back to face him. “Do you remember the doll I was holding when you came to tell me that Detective Linsky was on his way?”
“You said Tamale came out of the sand dunes with it in his mouth. Things wash up all the time. Carlos pulled up the handlebars of a tricycle with his crab traps this morning.”
“The doll had ‘P. S.’ painted on the back of its head.”
P. S. Pilar Santiago. He could almost see the wheels turning in Jaci’s mind.
“Get real, Jaci. If that doll had been swimming with the fishes for thirty years, it would likely be on the other side of the world by now—if there was anything left of it.”
“I don’t think it was in the water that long, but I’m sending it in to the university forensics lab for study. I especially want them to test a stain on the doll’s dress that looked as if it could be blood.”
“Do you have a sample of Pilar’s DNA for comparison?”
“No, but thorough testing can determine if the stain is actually blood, and approximately how long the doll has been in the water.”
“You’ve had your head in too many textbooks.”
“No. Think about it. Suppose someone here on Cape Diablo only recently decided that the doll could be incriminating. They could have thrown it into the waves thinking that would be the end of it, but instead it washed right back to the island.”
Someone on Cape Diablo. Irritation hit, fast and furious. “Carlos would never kill anyone, especially not two little girls. And it’s damn unlikely that Alma killed four pe
ople and got rid of the bodies without an accomplice.”
“Maybe there was an Enrique in her life back then. We don’t know.”
“You told me once you didn’t fabricate evidence, but it sure sounds like you are to me. Which would be fine for your project if that’s all that was at stake. But it’s not.”
Raoul pushed back from the table and walked over to stand beside Jaci at the rail. “Give it up. Go back to the mainland before you end up dead.”
Defiance flared in her green eyes. “I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s not just a project, Raoul. It might have been in the beginning, but… I can’t explain it, but I have to find the answers. To do that, I need to get inside that villa.”
“Don’t go snooping in there alone.”
“Surely they don’t shoot trespassers on Cape Diablo.”
“I’m serious, Jaci. I don’t want you going in there by yourself. If you have to see the place, I’ll go in with you. Let me talk to Carlos about it first.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Then I’ll work something out. Promise me you won’t go in solo.”
“I appreciate the offer.”
“How about a better one? Let me take you back to the mainland tonight, and I’ll do your research here. All you have to do is give the orders.”
“And what kind of cop will I make if I give up every time there’s a little danger?”
“A live cop.”
“If there are answers to be found on Cape Diablo, I’m going to find them.”
God, he’d love to shake some sense into her. “Do you hear yourself, Jaci? You know the danger, but you’ll risk your life to be the woman known for solving the Santiago case?”
She looked up at him, and this time he saw more than defiance. He saw conviction—and traces of fear.
“I can’t give up, Raoul, but it has nothing to do with gaining a reputation. It has to do with who I am. My father was the best damn cop in Florida, and if I’m going to be one, I’m going to be like him. That’s the passion that drives me. It’s who I am, and I’m sorry if you can’t understand that.”
Driving passion. God, he wished he didn’t understand it, wished he hadn’t lived it. Wished it hadn’t cost him so much.
