by Keaton, Elle
He was tired already, but there was a long day ahead of him.
Birdy rode with Mat back out to Brooch. They’d been unable to find a translator for Raisa, which Mat found extremely frustrating—though not surprising, really, on an island this size. They could, of course, interview her in English, but Mat wanted to avoid that. She was traumatized enough without having to talk with the authorities in a language she wasn’t fully comfortable in. The sun had finally deigned to make an appearance, although it was fighting a heavy fog that had settled over the island since they’d been at the hospital. A few of the maple trees along the highway were anticipating fall and had started to change color. Random splashes of red, orange, and yellow caught Mat’s attention as he drove.
“What do you know about them?” he asked Birdy. By “them” he meant the owners of the Brooch Resort.
“Well, sir, they have been on the island longer than most of us. The current owners descend from settlers who arrived in the 1800s to mine lime. There are actually two families, the Prescotts and the Jenningses.” Birdy spoke just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the road underneath them. “The Prescotts own the majority of the hotel, I think, but I don’t know for sure. After a rough time economically in the 1970s and ’80s, the resort rebounded as a destination for the ‘very rich, but not quite rich enough to own their own island’ rich.”
Mat chuckled. It was a reasonable assessment.
“They have private security—except for the Customs office.”
“I always forget there’s a Customs office on the island.” The sheriff’s office had nothing to do with Customs; it was staffed and supported by the feds. Which was good. He didn’t need more to keep an eye on.
“Well,” Birdy added, “it’s only there because all those rich folk come in from the north and Brooch is the closest harbor to the border.”
Boaters who arrived from Canada were supposed to pass through US Customs at the Brooch office, but who knew what percentage really did? There was a huge expanse of water between Piedras and the Canadian border, and Mat knew there was a population who chose not to declare their goods or persons. Which made him think about all the time Cooper had spent out on the water, alone or possibly with an accomplice.
“Right.”
Birdy continued her summary. “There are only twenty rooms in the hotel, but they also have a private marina for hotel guests only.”
“I imagine it’s pricey to moor there.”
“Very.” She snorted. “Maybe they keep better records than Bellows does.”
Mat huffed a laugh. “A preschooler keeps better records than Bellows. What else?”
“As far as island gossip goes, not much. There haven’t been many complaints about them over the years. They seem to run a nice place. The few people I’ve known who worked there liked it enough.”
“Do you know anyone who’s there now?”
“Mmm, I think maybe Ona Lysk works in the pub, the one you can go to whether or not you’re staying there.”
“Is there one for guests only?”
“So I’ve heard, but I don’t have that kind of cash, boss.”
Mat nodded, braking as the road became narrower and windier and the fog thicker. “Me either.” A mile or so later, the resort loomed up out of the half-dispersed mist, all but invisible until the profile of the roof touched the pale morning sky above the fog.
Even on the back of the building where the parking was located, permanent red, white, and blue bunting hung from the first- and second-floor railings, and an enormous American flag dangled, stripes vertical, in the center. He knew there was a matching set on the water side. Mat’s first thought was that he wouldn’t want to have the room with its view obscured, followed by, “I guess there’s no way to think you haven’t arrived in America.”
“No, sir, there isn’t,” Birdy agreed.
This time, Mat parked in one of the visitor’s spots close to the front door.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked.
“I guess.”
The lobby was on the small side and dimly lit. The only outside light came from the glass panes in the front doors or from the picture windows on the far side of the dining room, which Mat glimpsed through a set of intricately carved doors. Otherwise, the interior was illuminated by hanging pendant light fixtures that, Mat mused, were probably original. The wood walls were dark and covered with black-and-white photographs of the property and early visitors from the early 1800s to, Mat guessed, the 1930s. He remembered that an American president had stayed here once, probably Teddy Roosevelt. Against one wall there was a large case displaying various artifacts; Mat spotted an old sextant, some mining tools, and small books that looked like maybe they’d been someone’s personal property.
A man in his late forties or early fifties, Birdy’s height, with grizzled gray hair was standing behind the reception counter. He looked up as they came inside. He wore a burgundy Brooch Harbor cardigan, thus Mat deduced he was an employee.
“May I help you? Is something wrong?” the man asked, scowling at them. Mat understood that uniformed officers arriving at a person’s business was perhaps not a favorite way to start the day.
He approached the counter. “I’m Sheriff Dempsey, and this is Deputy Flynn, from the Piedras County Sheriff’s Office. And you are?”
“Paul Prescott. Has something happened I’m not aware of?”
With that last name, it was highly likely the man was related to the owners of the resort. The imperious way he posed his question made it seem it would be a shock for something to happen he wasn’t aware of. Mat immediately didn’t like him. He wasn’t sure if it was the man’s sneer or the way he completely dismissed Birdy, as if she were invisible—his attention was entirely focused on Mat.
Paul Prescott wasn’t someone Mat knew. After living on the island almost his entire life, that was unusual. Prescott was older than Mat, but in any case, Prescott had probably been shipped off to private school instead of mixing with the local kids. He might claim to be island bred, but he didn’t know the island.
During the car ride on the way over, Mat and Birdy had debated how to approach the resort management and, in the end, he had decided to go with his gut feeling.
“Another officer and I responded to a call here very early this morning, and Deputy Flynn and I are following up.” Mat didn’t let Prescott interrupt him, although it was clear the man wanted to. “One of your cleaning staff was assaulted, and her roommate called the sheriff’s office. We arrived on the scene around oh-three-thirty, and after assessing the situation, we transported both the victim and the individual who called us to the island hospital, where the victim received care. They are both now in a secure location.”
They weren’t, quite yet, but they would be soon. Deputy Radden was taking this very seriously. Neither of those young women would be harassed or injured on his watch.
Prescott’s eyes widened and then narrowed. His imperturbable mask quickly slid back into place, hiding his emotions, but not before Mat recognized wariness mixed with unease. Not surprising, since his income depended on his resort being a safe place for guests.
“This is highly unusual. Why didn’t the authorities check in with management?”
“I am the authority, and now I’m here giving you an assessment of the situation. Do you want to continue this conversation here, or would you like to take it somewhere more private? I’m perfectly happy to talk out here in front of your guests.”
Patrons were starting to wake up. Mat could hear movement in the hallways and footsteps on the sweeping staircase to the second level. The sound of china clinking was audible from the dining room, where a few early birds were already having their morning coffee and dry toast, or whatever people in a place like this ate for breakfast.
“Let me call someone to watch the front desk.” Prescott sniffed. “This is highly irregular. You can be assured I will be lodging a complaint.”
“I love being assured of thin
gs,” Mat retorted, feeling his patience stretch thin after an already long day—and it was only seven in the morning. “It makes me feel like I’m doing my job right.”
“Sir,” Birdy muttered loud enough only Mat could hear.
Prescott tapped a brass-plated call bell; Mat hadn’t noticed it tucked near the edge of the countertop. Moments later a door behind the desk marked Employees Only opened, and a younger man poked his head out. “Yes, sir?”
“Cody, watch the desk while I talk to these… the sheriff,” Prescott demanded.
Cody’s eyes flickered to Mat and Birdy and back to Prescott, obviously wondering what this was all about.
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to finish pulling up the afternoon reservations first?”
Mat and Birdy’s appearance was a nasty fly in the hotel’s morning routine. Good.
“I want you to get out here and watch the front desk. Now.” Prescott never raised his voice, but a threat was there. Mat could almost hear Prescott’s teeth grinding.
The younger man blanched. He quickly exited the back room and pulled the door closed behind him; Mat heard it snick shut. Cody also wore a Brooch Harbor cardigan. His dark blond hair was cut short on the sides and spiky on the top—and his eyes were the same shape as Paul Prescott’s. A son or nephew?
“This won’t take long,” Prescott said to Cody. “This way.”
Birdy caught Mat’s gaze as they followed Prescott, and she rolled her eyes. Mat had to stifle a laugh. Nothing about this was funny, but Prescott sure did have a stick or something else uncomfortable up his butt—and ‘this’ would take as long as they needed it to.
Prescott led them down a short hallway. He opened a door, and they heard him say, “I need this room.” Two workers garbed in kitchen whites, noticeably disgruntled, exited seconds later, and Prescott motioned for Mat and Birdy to follow him inside.
The uninspired space held a table, some cheap metal chairs, and a vending machine stocked with sodas and chips. It was obviously an employee break room, and Mat felt bad that Prescott had just kicked its occupants out.
“My office is too small for all of us,” Prescott said. He took the chair at the head of the rectangular table and sat, motioning for Mat and, by proxy, Birdy, to sit as well. Mat was tempted to remain standing—everything about Prescott rubbed him the wrong way—but Birdy took a chair, so he followed suit. At this point he wanted cooperation. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to get a search warrant.
Prescott began, “Explain what the police were doing on my property without my consent. We have private security to handle sensitive issues. I do not need my clients’ private lives splashed all over the front page of the news.”
Mat scoffed. “First of all, Prescott, we were called here. It doesn’t matter who calls us—the sheriff’s office responds. When we arrived, we found an injured young woman in distress and transported her, by her request, to the emergency room. Her friend who called us was too frightened to stay here. She seems to be very concerned about some kind of retaliation—you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Why would your staff be scared to talk to management if they’ve been assaulted?” Mat knew the whys, but he wanted to see Prescott’s reaction. “If by protecting your guests you mean keeping them from due justice, you have the wrong idea: justice will come for them.”
The color drained from Prescott’s face. Mat continued speaking.
“The person the victim describes is male, possibly in his forties, dark hair, maybe five foot nine or ten. He’s physically fit, but she smelled cigarette smoke on him. She was walking from the laundry to the basement staff quarters when he confronted her and forced her to go with him to one of the empty rooms—he seemed to know she carried a master key. He beat her, raped her, and then threatened to kill her if she told anyone. Does this sound like any of your guests?”
The room was silent. Prescott’s mouth opened and closed as he processed the seriousness of the incident. “No, of course not. I—” He swallowed. “I mean, who would do such a thing?”
“Exactly: you don’t know just by looking at people how good or terrible they are. This occurred in your hotel, on your watch, but this island is under my care, and you can be damn sure we’re getting to the bottom of it.”
“What do you need from us?”
“We’re going to need to look at all the rooms that were unoccupied last night and get a list of all your guests. Including those using moorage instead of staying in the hotel. Please tell me you keep decent records.”
Prescott frowned. “Of course we do. Everyone who stays at the hotel or in moorage has to fill out a guest form. We enter them all into the hotel database.”
“We’d like to interview your staff and find out if this is an isolated incident or if it’s possible something like this has happened before. And we’d like access to the moorage data.” “Like” was a nice way of saying “will,” but Mat had learned over time it was helpful to let people like Prescott think they still had some say in a situation that was out of their control.
“I—” Prescott sputtered. “This is highly unusual. My staff has the utmost—”
Mat cut him off. “I’d think you’d want to get to the bottom of this. You don’t want word getting out that your facility is an unsafe place to stay or work at, do you? It’s hard enough keeping good staff, am I right? What if your guests find out about the assault? How do you know they’re not in danger?”
Prescott nodded, his head bobbing furiously. “Yes, yes, you are right, of course. I’ll send out a memo immediately and make my staff available to you.” He looked around. “You can use this room. Who do you need to see first?”
“Send in the cleaning crew, please—I know many are likely just starting their shifts, but we need to talk to them first. After that, we can see the kitchen staff and grounds crew.”
“What about the office staff?”
“How many of there are you?” Mat asked.
“Myself, Cody, and”—he looked up at the ceiling, probably counting his staff in his head—“five others. Also three bartenders, two full time and one part time, but they don’t live on site and don’t arrive until three, when their shifts start.”
“Before we interview anyone, Deputy Flynn and I need to see the rooms no one reserved last night.”
16
Friday—Niall
“You don’t live a boring life, do you?” Leo chuckled.
Mat had left far too early after a call from Dispatch, and Niall hadn’t been able to fall back asleep with the other side of the bed empty, so he’d dragged himself up and gotten the coffee machine to do its magic.
“Did Ryder get in okay?” he asked, hoping to avoid the conversation about the bones waiting to be identified.
“Yeah, he got in late last night. But seriously, Niall, human remains?”
Niall sighed. It was no use. “Mat’s going to have to call in the state. This isn’t our doc’s specialty, although Soper is the one who ID’ed them as most likely male. I’ll be honest, Leo, the first thought I had was that they were my mother’s. I know it probably seems terrible, but”—he shrugged, even though Leo couldn’t see him—“I’d like closure someday.”
“That’s completely understandable,” Leo said. “Let me talk to Kimball. We’ll send Ethan Moore up. Before you argue with me, this would be a great way for Ethan to get more experience leading his own team. He’s done a lot of extractions with a team but not been in charge of his own, and he needs the experience.”
Niall hadn’t met Ethan Moore yet. He had a contract with WCF, but when he wasn’t in the field, he was an adjunct professor of forensic archaeology at Berkeley. Did Niall want another stranger up here tromping around his property? No. But he also wanted the bones removed and properly taken care of as soon as possible. He’d already decided if no one claimed them he’d pay for the burial himself.
“Okay. But this isn’t an emergency. The bones have been out there for a while.”
“No. But you know
as well as I do that if there is family left—if we are able to identify the remains—they’ll be grateful for the closure.”
Niall did know. He was one of those families. A family of one—two now, he supposed—who would like to know what had happened to his mother. He’d like to put her ghost to rest.
There were people who’d say Ana didn’t deserve Niall’s forgiveness after the life she’d led and the way she’d treated her only son. A year ago, Niall likely would’ve agreed with them. But now he just wished her peace. Anger was a heavy burden to carry around, and he was tired of it.
“And what about this recent homicide?” Leo asked.
Niall had told Leo about Duane Cooper’s showing up dead.
“I didn’t do it.” Niall was only half joking. “But if I’d gotten my hands on him after Mat was injured, I don’t know…”
“What do you know about it?”
Niall sipped his coffee, wondering if Mat would be pissed if he shared information about an active case with Leo, and decided he was going ask forgiveness later. Besides, Leo was an ex-cop himself.
“Between you and me only, this case is active—though Mat doesn’t have a lot of resources. Still, I do my best not to interfere.”
“How’s that working?” Leo was laughing again. Niall rolled his eyes and waited for his partner-slash-semi-boss to calm the fuck down.
“Not well,” Niall admitted. It took less than five minutes to fill Leo in on what Niall knew about Cooper’s death.
“Huh,” Leo mused. “It seems pretty clear he had a partner you guys never knew about. He wasn’t acting alone. And now you say this Jeffrey Reynolds has come forward claiming that Dempsey’s father’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“He wants a deal, but all he’d say is that July 3 wasn’t an accident—which is the day Mat’s dad was killed.”
“This is… a lot of history converging at once.”
“Yeah.”
“Which leads me to believe Cooper’s death is somehow also connected.” Leo paused. “To the sheriff’s death, I mean.”
