by Keaton, Elle
“More. Fucking. Right. Now.”
Niall complied, first tugging his finger out and then returning with two. “Relax, let me in,” he whispered.
Mat’s cock was molten steel in Niall’s grip. Niall swiped some of the precome up and used it to jack him, feeling Mat tighten in a way that meant he was close to orgasm. He let go then and concentrated his efforts on his fingers. Pushing deeper inside, he twisted them until he found what he was looking for. Mat shouted into his pillow and tried to grind himself against the sheets, against Niall’s hand—anything, it seemed, to push him over the edge.
Niall pulled his fingers out and, with no finesse at all, grabbed his own throbbing shaft and tapped it against Mat’s hole. Mat lifted his ass a little higher, and Niall pushed inside, holding the base of his cock with one hand—he was that close to coming. The heat of Mat’s body, the way his muscles clamped down and then relaxed… Niall dropped his hand and pushed inside Mat until his balls were touching the back of Mat’s ass. Niall was on the edge of coming within seconds.
This time, when Mat grabbed his cock and began to jack himself, Niall didn’t even try to stop him. Sweat dripped down his forehead and onto Mat’s back as he pistoned his hips, scraping over Mat’s prostate, making him moan each time. Within minutes his balls drew up tight, and the spark he’d been holding back burst into full-blown flames. He pulsed into Mat, filling him with his come, marking him as Niall’s inside as well as out.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as he came so hard he saw stars.
Mat collapsed facedown onto the mattress and Niall followed, blanketing him with his body for a few moments. Then, gently, he pulled out and rolled off his man.
“Are you satisfied?” Mat mumbled.
“What are you talking about?” Niall asked, attempting to sound innocent.
“Mmm, I love it when you get all possessive and mark me. It makes me fucking horny.”
“Good. In that case, mostly satisfied. I always want to mark you; I want everyone on this fucking island to understand you are mine.”
“I am yours, Niall. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Do you think the chili is done now?” Mat asked a few minutes later, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“It certainly will be by the time we get cleaned up again. You want to talk about the case, or should I keep distracting you?”
Mat laughed, a sound that sent shivers through Niall because he loved it so much.
“Pretty sure both. But, no, I’d like to at least lay out what we know, what we think is possible, and all the things we have no idea about—which I’m warning you is like 90 percent.”
The main room smelled delicious. The blend of chilis, spices, and simmering tomatoes and beef made Niall’s mouth water. Quickly he poured the corn bread batter into his favorite cast iron pan and shoved it into the preheated oven.
Mat sat at the table, making notes on a yellow legal pad. Niall set the timer, then pulled a chair up next to Mat so he could see what he was writing. “Fill me in.”
“Okay, here’s what we know for sure. One, Cooper had his fingers in some illegal pie. I’m starting to think it was smuggling. Tom Bellows—the dockmaster for the Hidden Harbor Marina—said he, Cooper, was the guy to go to when you wanted a salmon out of season. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but the fines are serious. Fishermen can go to jail, and the Native fishermen are very protective of their waters. As is their right. It’s slippery-slope reasoning, but if he was the guy for this kind of stuff… what else did he offer?” Mat wrote, “Cooper—smuggling” at the top of the pad.
“Sure, I can see that,” said Niall. “He certainly had the opportunity, and as a part of the police department he had some authority, so people who might have come forward might have been intimidated by his position of power.”
“Right. Two, both Bellows and Sharleen Dixon claim to have seen Cooper more than once with a man they didn’t recognize. Now, I’m sure the two of them know each other—it’s possible that they’re covering something up by both identifying some stranger—but I didn’t get that impression. Whoever Bellows described, the man made him nervous. And Sharleen brought this guy up too.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Like I said: they know each other, there is the possibility they’ve come up with this random stranger to throw us off, but I don’t think so.”
“Did they give a description?”
“It sounds like Sharleen saw him more than Bellows. He’s between forty and sixty; he’s big—she said he reminded her of you as far as size. He has dark hair. Bellows said he had a beard when he saw him, but the general description is similar enough for me to think it’s the same person.”
“Damn, can you get either of them in for a composite?” Niall asked.
Mat sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think it would be easier to get Bellows in. Sharleen is a mess. Her place, man, it’s bad.”
“Yeah?”
“A nasty mess, like she doesn’t care—probably she’s suffering from depression. I don’t like her much, but I don’t want anything to happen to her. I’m going to have Birdy check on her again.”
“What about the paperwork from Bellows you were going through?”
“It’s a fucking nightmare. There could be information there, but… it’s a mess. Sometimes it’s just a first name, sometimes they write all the boat details down, but we have no, like, solid path to follow. So far there’s been a few where I could tell it was the same boat registering only because of the handwriting. I don’t know. I thought that after 9/11 better record keeping would be required, but I guess that’s just in big commercial ports.”
“Huh, me too. So, this stranger is the best lead you have?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Still no idea where Cooper was hiding out?”
“No.” Mat added, “His ex-wife is picking up the body fairly soon.” He leaned forward again, tapping the legal pad with the tip of his pen before adding, “Where was Cooper hiding?”
“Who else might know about his criminal activity?”
“I already talked to Martin Reynolds. He knew about the fish thing too, but I didn’t get the impression he knew more. I think Martin still didn’t trust him because of Cooper being a cop—even a crooked cop.”
“What about Jeffrey Reynolds? Is it possible he does know something? I mean, he thinks he knows something about your dad.”
Mat tapped the sheet again. “Fuck, yeah, you’re right. He would’ve been maybe in his late teens when Dad died, and he didn’t grow up here, but he could’ve known Cooper.”
“And…” Niall fucking hated Jeffrey Reynolds, “he was obsessed, is obsessed, by what he thinks is his birthright. He’s made it his business to know a lot about Piedras—we know he didn’t meet your brother by accident.”
Niall took the pen from Mat and wrote, “4: What does Jeffrey Reynolds really know?”
“And then there’s the bones.” Mat pointed over his shoulder with his thumb in the direction of the remains outside. “Marshal called in the state, but they’re all backed up, and since it’s not a known homicide and no one has been reported missing, we’re on the back burner. I need to put out a call to the community asking for information from the past twenty years. Ten of those were on my watch. The few runaways who were reported were found in Seattle or Portland.” He released a gusty sigh.
The timer went off. Niall pushed back from the table and headed to the stove. Opening the oven door, he tapped the middle of the corn bread just like he’d watched his grandmother do a hundred times. It bounced in that slight way that meant the bread was done. He took it out of the oven and set it to cool on a rack.
Their bowls were already waiting on the counter. Niall ladled chili into them and carried them one by one to the table. Mat pushed aside the legal pad to make room for dinner.
When Niall returned with triangles of still-steaming corn bread, Mat looked up at him, saying, “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Niall’s heart skipped a beat and then began to pound as if he’d just finished a run. Loving Mat was the easiest and the scariest thing he’d ever done in his life.
“Of course,” were the only words he could force past his lips.
15
Friday—Mat
“Is it too much to ask for more than one night of uninterrupted sleep?” Mat groused.
Niall squinted at him in the early morning light. “What is it?”
“Dispatch. There’s been a report of violence at Brooch.”
“Don’t they have their own security?”
“They do.” Quickly he pulled on his uniform and sidearm, then made sure he had his cell phone and charger. “One of the seasonal workers, from what I understand, so I don’t think it’s theft or something simple. And they asked for no lights.”
Mat couldn’t recall the last time the sheriff’s office had been called out to Brooch. It had been at least a few years. They ran their business tight as a drum. The people who stayed there not only owned hundred-foot sailboats, they owned their own planes and multiple vacation properties across the globe. They did not visit Hidden Harbor or Killegen’s Point; their money stayed at Brooch.
When Mat pulled into the resort’s parking lot, he saw that Patrick Radden had arrived before him and was waiting outside next to his cruiser. The dispatcher had said the caller requested they arrive quietly, so neither one of them had used lights. Mat assumed the goal was to not disturb the guests.
“Deputy Radden, thanks for waiting.”
“I just got here, sir.”
Mat rolled his eyes. “‘Sheriff’ or ‘Dempsey’ is fine.”
Together they crossed the still-dark parking lot toward the twenty-room hotel. The structure had been built in the late 1800s and was one of the oldest on the island. Mat remembered from elementary school that the original walls were over a foot thick, built from trees a person couldn’t wrap their arms around.
Before they reached the front doors, a young woman, maybe in her teens or early twenties, stepped out of the shadows and intercepted them.
“Are you from the police?” She was tiny, slender as a reed with long dark hair pulled back into two thick braids that swung across her shoulders as she moved.
“Yes.” Mat moved forward to meet her. “I’m Sheriff Dempsey. This is Deputy Radden. Did you call?”
Instead of answering him, she whispered, “This way,” and led them not through the front doors but around to one side, toward the back of the hotel, where a nondescript door was propped open with a rock. Next to it, a sign read Employees Only.
After slipping inside, she led them down a narrow hallway meant for the behind-the-scenes staff. When she pushed another door open, Mat saw stairs leading downward. She put a finger to her lips with a quiet, “Shhh,” her fear evident. Mat and Radden did their best, but inevitably some of the stairs creaked under their weight.
At the bottom of the stairs were obviously the original quarters for domestic help. The girl scurried to another door, opened it, and waited for Mat and Patrick to join her.
“Here.” She pointed.
Mat stepped past her into a room about the size of a college dorm. Twin beds were pushed against the walls. A tiny fridge sat in between them, and a closet with no doors was situated at the foot of each bed. His attention focused on one of the beds, where a still form lay, covered with a thin blanket. It was that time of early morning when there was no color, and the tiny window between the beds probably didn’t let much light in even at noon.
“What happened?” Mat asked.
It was obvious the second girl had taken a beating of some kind, or perhaps a bad fall. Mat crouched next to the bed. She cringed, and tears slid from the corners of her eyes. He couldn’t tell if they were from fear or pain. One eye was swollen shut and the other very close to it. She likely needed medical attention, and he wondered why they hadn’t asked for an ambulance.
“Is there a reason you didn’t want management to know you called us?” Mat asked. “What are your names?”
“I’m Francine. This is Raisa.” The woman—Mat now realized her size made her look young, but she was at least in her midtwenties—had slipped inside the room and pulled the door shut. She had her arms wrapped around herself as if the thin hoodie, jeans, and sneakers she wore weren’t keeping her warm enough.
Mat turned back to the injured girl, wishing Birdy was with him instead of Patrick. This needed a woman’s touch, not two imposing men.
“May I look?” he gently asked the girl on the bed.
“Please, sir, can you take us away from here?” Francine implored. “The man who did this, he is not a good man.”
Mat wanted to tell her that any man who hit a defenseless person was not a good man. Raisa was possibly more slender than Francine and, Mat was certain, younger. She had long blonde hair that was pulled away from her face in a ponytail. He stretched out a hand toward one corner of the blanket covering her, saying, “I won’t hurt you. I promise. I just need to see your injuries.”
The girl—Raisa, he reminded himself—turned her face into the pillow as if to distance herself from the physical trespass as much as she was able. She still hadn’t uttered a word.
Mat didn’t gasp, but some emotion must’ve shown on his face. Raisa had been thoroughly beaten. She wore an overly large, plain T-shirt and panties; what he could see of her was covered with bruises. Mat couldn’t be sure in the dim light, but some of the bruising on her legs looked to be old, fading to a sick yellow, instead of just beginning to form like the rest.
“Who did this?”
“She won’t say.” Francine’s eyes were wide.
Mat pulled the blanket back up to give Raisa a semblance of privacy in a not-very-private situation and stood up again. She still would not look at him or Patrick.
“Please take us away. I am afraid whoever did this will come back.”
Mat glanced at Francine and then back at Raisa. The state of her bruising troubled him. She was the victim of abuse, that much was clear, but not much else was. Who would do such a thing in a public setting, a hotel, where anyone might see or hear?
“Raisa,” he asked gently, “can you tell us who did this to you?”
“She doesn’t speak much English,” Francine offered.
Mat thought through various scenarios. Kneeling beside her bed again, he said, “Raisa, Deputy Radden and I can’t just take you to the station or the hospital. We need you to ask us to take you. I know you are frightened.” Taking a breath, he made himself ask the question he most didn’t want to. “Were you sexually assaulted? If so, we can transport you to the hospital, where they can collect evidence.” He hoped she was understanding at least a little of what he was saying.
Patrick spoke for the first time. “Francine, do you know what happened?”
“No.” She shook her head. “We only share this room—she hadn’t come to bed yet, and I was worried, but it’s happened a few times before. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, she was trying to get into bed, but she was crying, and when I turned on the light she was undressed and I saw all the blood and bruises.”
“Blood?” asked Mat.
“Yes.” Francine pointed to a hand towel or shop rag lying half under the bed.
“Please.” They all looked at Raisa. “Yes, hospital.” Her voice was quiet, but Mat thought he detected an accent. He couldn’t place it, though.
To Francine, he said, “Do you have anyone to call?”
“My sister,” she said, “but she lives in Portland.”
Mat nodded. “That’s fine. We can put you up until she can get here—or help you get to Portland, if that’s what you want.”
“Maybe we should call an ambulance,” Patrick said.
“No!” burst from Raisa, “No, please take me now.” Her accent was pronounced. Where she’d been lethargic before, now she was stiff with terror and moved as if to fling the blanket off and run to the hospital herself.
/> “Raisa.” Patrick’s quiet voice stopped her frantic movements. “Mi ćemo se pobrinuti za vas.”
Mat stared at his youngest officer, as did Francine—and Raisa, who quit struggling.
Patrick shrugged. “My mom is from Ukraine. I think Raisa is also. Or at least somewhere thereabouts. The accent was familiar enough I figured it was worth a try.”
Eyes wide, Raisa allowed Patrick to wrap her in the blanket while Mat and Francine grabbed the women’s belongings. There wasn’t much: a set of uniforms, which they left, and their rucksacks. Quickly Mat stuffed the few personal clothes close at hand into one of the bags and led Francine and Patrick, carrying Raisa, upstairs and back outside.
The hotel staff was starting to wake up. From somewhere down the hallway, Mat heard the sounds of dishes and pots and pans clinking. The sweet, oily scent of breakfast prep wafted toward them.
They made it to their cruisers without being stopped, but Mat felt like he had a target painted on his back the entire time. His shoulder blades twitched, and he wanted nothing more than to put Brooch Resort behind him. And yet he’d have to be back before the day was out.
Patrick carefully tucked Raisa into the back seat of his car, and Francine climbed in next to her.
Mat leaned in through the still-open door. “I’ll follow you to the hospital, and we’ll make sure you both stay safe.”
Francine had her arm wrapped about the other girl, and Raisa leaned against her. They were both terrified, but Mat noted Francine’s resolve and hoped it didn’t waver. Almost nothing was worse than a sexual assault. As if the assault itself wasn’t bad enough, dealing with the rape kit and the necessary questions was awful.
As he got behind the wheel of his cruiser, he pulled out his cell phone and called Birdy. She would meet them at the hospital, and they could start the rest of the process. If they could find an interpreter to help them interview Raisa.
