by Lucy Quinn
She heard a muffled curse from the other stall, and a hand appeared, groping for the phone. Cookie wasn’t a hand expert, but she’d have guessed the one she saw now to belong to someone around her own age. The fingers were long and slender, though the nails were unpainted and showed signs of being chewed upon. After a few seconds the hand closed upon the cell phone and snatched it back up. The stall door squeaked open, followed by the sound of running water. The creak of the outer door opening and closing meant that Cookie was alone again.
Cookie rose from her own toilet, aware that Hunter was probably starting to wonder if she’d fled, and then exited the stall. She paused at the sink long enough to splash some water on her face before leaving the restroom herself. Ideally the brief respite had let Hunter cool down, and now that she’d had time to sit and reflect maybe she’d stop acting like a lovesick idiot.
At least she hoped so. Because short of locking herself in the bathroom permanently, she wasn’t sure what she’d do if she continued to make a fool of herself.
13
When she stepped back outside, the first thing Cookie noticed was that Hunter was still there, though he was standing by the table instead of sitting at it. But at least he hadn’t bailed on her.
The second thing she noticed was that Hayley and Dylan were gone. Which was probably a good thing. Much harder to embarrass herself around Dylan if he wasn’t there.
“Feeling better?” Hunter asked as she approached. She could tell by his tone that what he really meant was “ready to stop acting crazy?”
“Yes,” she responded, answering both questions at once. “I’m sorry. I really am. I—I don’t know what got into me.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s an imp and it’s got green eyes.” He looked a little sad. “I shouldn’t have laid into you like that, though. Sorry. I’ve just never seen you act this way before.” Again his underlying meaning was crystal clear: You’ve never acted this way about me.
“I know.” And she did know. She loved Hunter, at the very least as a partner and a friend if not something more. She trusted him with her life. And yes, she was attracted to him—there was no denying that.
But even when he’d been flirting with Hayley the other night, she hadn’t felt jealous. Annoyed, maybe. Left out, certainly. A little dissed. But jealous? Not really. Certainly not the way she had just now over Dylan.
But was this normal? Was it okay? She had so little experience feeling jealous romantically that she had no idea.
And right now really wasn’t the time to explore it.
“Let’s get back to work,” she suggested. “Okay? This whole detour was my fault, and I’m totally owning it, but I’m game to move past it if you are.”
That earned her a smile, at least. “You’re on.” Hunter held up a bag. “And I got us some food to go. Figured we owed them for taking up the table, anyway.”
“Great.” Cookie pivoted away from the bar, only to see someone approaching them off the street. A familiar someone in uniform with a star on his chest.
“Deputy Swan?” she waited for him to reach her, worried that she might be in for a repeat of his ranting at her yesterday. But he didn’t look angry. Quite the opposite, in fact—he looked excited, which was certainly something she hadn’t seen on the lazy deputy before.
“Miss James!” Swan called out as he stepped up onto the porch and lurched to a stop before them, red-faced and gasping for air. “Agent O’Neil. Glad I spotted you. I was going to run over to Hancock, but this way you’ve saved me the trip.” And, still gulping, he held up a small plastic bag.
A bag containing something the size of a penny and just as shiny, but far more colorful.
“What’s this?” Hunter asked, accepting the bag and peering at it.
“We found it on Dickie’s body,” Swan managed between breaths. “I was one of the first on the scene.” He glanced down at his feet. “I kind of… uh… forgot I had it until maybe ten minutes ago.”
Cookie stared at the man, and vaguely registered that Hunter was doing the same. “This is evidence from the crime scene?” she asked. “And you took it without logging it, and then forgot you had it for days?”
The deputy hung his head. “Yeah.” His expression reminded her of a puppy after it had just been caught pooping on the living room rug. “I know, I screwed up. But I haven’t opened the bag or anything. I just… misplaced it for a little while. And as soon as I found it, I brought it to you.”
Cookie started to tell him just how much his carelessness might have screwed up their investigation, but Hunter laid a hand on her arm. “Thank you, Deputy Swan,” he said in his formal agent voice. “We appreciate your bringing this to us, and we’ll be sure to log it into evidence.”
“Oh.” Swan’s expression brightened as he realized he wasn’t going to be lectured or yelled at. Which was probably a first for him, Cookie thought meanly.
“Thank you!” He saluted and quickly turned around, scurrying back the way he’d come, toward the sheriff’s office.
Saluted? Really? Cookie thought. “Unbelievable.” She fumed, watching him go. “No wonder he was so panicked I’d take his job from him, he’s completely useless. Worse than useless—this evidence could be time-sensitive and have already passed whatever window we had to make use of it.”
“I don’t think so,” Hunter replied. He’d held the bag up so he could study its contents more closely. “Tell me what you see,” he said, and tossed the bag her way.
Cookie fumbled but caught it, then looked for herself. It didn’t take her long, a few seconds at most before her eyes registered exactly what she was seeing. “That’s a fingernail,” she said. “A fingernail. Almost certainly a woman’s, or a teen boy.” She met Hunter’s eyes. “And it’s been painted metallic purple. Just like a certain manicurist right here on the island.”
Hunter nodded. “I think it’s safe to say we know where this nail came from.”
“You mean besides Deputy Useless’s pockets?” Cookie muttered, though without much heat.
“Give the guy a break,” Hunter admonished her, which was funny—most of the time it had been her trying to talk him down. “Okay, sure, he’s not much help. But so what? He’s not trained for this. We are. Which is why he agreed to let us handle it last time, and why his boss specifically wanted us this time.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” she protested, though her irritation had vanished. She’d never been one for kicking puppies, and that’s what Swan was—a big, useless puppy. With a badge.
“It doesn’t,” Hunter agreed, “but look at it from his side of things. You show up on the island. You’re not only hot”—he leered at her for just a second, long enough to let her know that he fully approved of this assessment—“and smart, and running the town’s only inn, but it also turns out you’re an ace detective. With a talented FBI agent up your sleeve, no less.”
He sketched a grandiose bow, which made her laugh. “You solve what was probably the first murder this town’s seen in years that didn’t involve two drunk lobstermen and a beer bottle, and then a second murder hits and lo and behold, his boss calls you and asks you to handle that one, too.” He grimaced slightly. “If you were Swan, what would you have done?”
That didn’t require much thought. “I’d have crawled into a bottle and stayed there a few days,” Cookie said immediately. Then she flushed. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
It made total sense now—the way Swan had lit into her yesterday, the way he’d “forgotten” about this evidence until today, the way he looked completely embarrassed about all of it. He’d gone on a bender when he’d heard about her and Hunter being given this case. He’d yelled at her while he was still lit. And this morning he’d finally sobered enough to realize he really needed to give them the fingernail he’d found.
“Okay, I get it,” she admitted grudgingly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at him about it.” She kicked
at a stray blade of grass poking up through a crack in the porch. “I should take his job after all. It’d serve him right.”
“Yeah, but then you’d be the one stuck with it,” Hunter pointed out. He waved a hand dismissively toward the rest of the town. “Let him be the one to write up parking tickets and catch people for speeding and bust the high school kids for drinking underage.” Then he grinned. “We’ve got a murder to solve.”
“Fine,” Cookie grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. She jerked her chin toward the bag in Hunter’s hand. “So which is it going to be? Apartment first or back to the Dip, Clip, & Rip?”
Her ex-partner took a few minutes to think about it. “Let’s hit the apartment,” he answered finally. “The super should be there with the keys by now, and the longer we wait, the more likely Hayley or someone else will find the place and disturb or destroy key evidence. We’ll give the place a thorough tossing, then go back and corral our latest suspect.”
“Agreed.” Cookie started to go, but stopped and turned back to study him over her shoulder. “Are we good?”
His smile was softer this time, and sweeter than she was used to seeing from him. “Yeah, we’re good,” he replied as he slid past her and led the way down off the porch. He waved the takeout bag in his hand. “Although you owe me ten bucks for your share of lunch.”
“Yeah?” Cookie followed him out onto the sidewalk and gave him a mock glare. “Go ahead and trying collecting that money. I dare you.”
Both of them were grinning like little kids as they started walking again, and Cookie felt better than she had all day, like a weight had been lifted. At least now she knew that, no matter what else happened, her friendship with Hunter would stay intact.
Provided he hadn’t put mayo on her sandwich. If he had, all bets were off.
14
Dickie’s apartment was the second floor of a small two-story house. The landlord lived on the first floor so it was simple enough to knock on the downstairs door and ask for the upstairs key.
“Was he a crook or something?” the landlord, an older guy named Kenny who looked like he’d probably been a lobsterman until his knees gave out, asked as he led them up the stairs. Cookie wished he’d simply given them the keys and let them go up on their own, because watching him navigate the narrow, steep staircase was making her wince. “He seemed like a decent kid,” Kenny continued over his shoulder.
“As far as we know, he hadn’t done anything illegal,” Hunter explained diplomatically from behind Cookie. “We’re just trying to see if we can find anything that will explain what happened to him.”
“How long had he been renting from you?” Cookie asked.
“A few weeks,” Kenny answered, pausing on a step to turn and gaze down at her. The way his eyes dipped, it was clear he was looking down her shirt, and from the twinkle in them he didn’t care that she noticed.
Cookie couldn’t even find it in herself to be annoyed, really. Especially when the old man looked so thrilled about it—both his little indecency, and the view itself.
“I’d put up a notice down by the docks, and he called to say he’d seen it and wanted to look at the room. Rented it on the spot, paid two months in advance.” He grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “Other than being a little… active when his lady friend came over, he kept it quiet, was polite, took out the trash for me. Shame he’s gone.”
Cookie shifted sideways to share a look with Hunter. Kenny’s information synched with what Peaches had said, that Dickie had gotten to the island a few weeks ago. But what had he been doing all this time, besides sailing and sunning himself and spending time with the beautician?
They’d finally reached the top of the stairs, and Kenny nearly doubled over as he wheezed in an effort to catch his breath. Then he straightened up and unlocked the door for them. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he told them as Cookie and then Hunter brushed past him into the apartment. “Just close the door behind you when you come down.”
“We will, thanks,” Cookie promised. She couldn’t resist leaning forward and giving the crusty old coot a quick hug. Judging by the way he gasped and then chortled all the way back down, she’d just made his day.
“A little old for you, don’t you think?” Hunter teased once they were alone.
“Well, at least he appreciates all my assets,” Cookie shot back, hands going to her hips.
“Oh, I appreciate them, believe me,” her ex-partner responded. “But right now the ones I need are in your head, not your chest.”
She smiled at that. One thing about Hunter, he’d never treated her like just another pretty face.
Cookie rotated slowly, taking in what she could see of the apartment. It was a nice space, especially for one person. The house was older, and had a high ceiling. The floors were worn-but-still-handsome hardwood, while the doorframes and windowframes were all thick wooden beams, the doors heavy paneled oak. There were plenty of windows, and between that and the ceilings, the place had a nice, light, airy feel.
They were standing in what was clearly the living room, with a couch, a pair of armchairs and a rocking chair grouped around a low coffee table. There was a decent-sized flatscreen TV opposite them against the side wall, situated on a stand right between the windows. Past the living room was a short hallway that ended by opening onto a small but serviceable kitchen, while three doors along the hall presumably led to a bathroom, a closet, and a bedroom.
“This place obviously came fully furnished,” Hunter pointed out, fingering a worn throw that decorated the back of one armchair and eyeing a painting on the wall of a lonely-looking sailboat out on a choppy sea. “I don’t see any of this being Dickie’s style.”
Cookie agreed. When she’d met him, Dickie had been wearing lightweight slacks and a polo shirt plus docksiders and a captain’s hat—he’d only been lacking the sweater knotted loosely around his neck to be the very image of a stylish preppy. And the furnishings on his boat had all been high-end, very sleek and chic. Nothing like this.
“I’ve got this room,” she told Hunter. “You check out the bedroom.”
He nodded and made his way down the hall, trying each door in turn before finally grunting victoriously and disappearing through the last one. Meanwhile, Cookie carefully checked the living room, running her hands behind every piece of furniture, searching under the cushions, lifting the pictures from the wall to see if anything was taped behind them, shaking out each book and magazine in case something had been tucked between their pages, and listening to the sound of her feet on the rug in case a section rang hollow. All the standard tricks. But she didn’t find a thing.
“Anything?” she asked when Hunter reappeared. “Because I’ve got zip.”
Hunter smirked at her. “Well, I did find this.” He held up something in an evidence bag—something flat, rectangular, and shiny. Cell phone.
And it looked awfully familiar.
“Let me see that,” Cookie demanded, taking it from him. “I’ve seen one just like this,” she said after inspecting its simple, basic shape and prominent buttons. “Not even an hour ago.”
“What? Where?”
She explained about the other woman in the restroom at The Tipsy Seagull, and how she’d dropped a cell phone there.
“Huh.” Hunter shook his head. “You’re thinking it was Hayley.”
“Well, yeah.” Cookie tossed this phone back to him. “Who else could it be, with fancy shoes like that, younger than most of the islanders, not tan enough to be Peaches and not inked enough to be Trina? Unless Mindy was in there and neither of us saw her.” Which wasn’t completely impossible, since Mindy’s brother Ian was a bartender there.
Hunter was thinking about that. “I didn’t see Hayley go inside,” he said slowly, staring off into space as he searched his memory, “but I was deliberately not paying attention to them, so it’s possible she slipped in and I missed it.”
“Easy way to find out,” Cookie declared. She tapped the
phone in his hand. “See who he called last on this thing.”
“I would, but there’s a problem.” He hit the power button, but nothing happened. “It’s dead.”
“Damn.” Cookie considered that. “We can bring it back with us and plug it in,” she suggested finally. “Let it charge a bit, then try it.” But something else was bothering her, too. “When we checked the boat,” she recalled out loud, “didn’t you say all of Dickie’s things were laid out on the bedside table in the main cabin? Wallet, keys—”
“And phone,” Hunter finished for her. He snapped his fingers. “That’s right!” Then he flashed her a quick grin. “See, hot is one thing. But hot and crazy smart? Even hotter.” He quickly returned his focus to the matter at hand. “So, assuming this is Dickie’s, he had two cell phones.”
“This one’s got to be a burner,” Cookie stated. “Look at it—it’s dead simple, clunky, no frills and no style. Just something to buy when you need to make a call that you don’t want being traced.” Now she was frowning. “And Hayley had one just like it.”
“We think,” Hunter reminded her. “We don’t know for certain it was her. Or that both phones are the same. I’m guessing you didn’t get a good look at it, and that the lighting in there isn’t exactly exam-room quality.”
“Okay, sure,” Cookie agreed, frustrated. “Maybe I can’t prove it right now. But I know that was her. Even if the phones aren’t a dead match, they’re similar. And why would she and her brother both have burners?”
“To avoid stalkers?” Hunter suggested. “Or the press? She probably has to put up with them nosing about her business all the time, especially now that she’s doing a new album for the first time in years.” He flushed a little at Cookie’s smirk. “What? My niece is a fan.”
“Oh, of course,” Cookie told him, now grinning openly. “Your ‘niece.’” She used her hands to denote the quotation marks. “Do you take her to all the shows? And watch videos with her too? But only because she’s a fan, right? Not you.”
“Shut up,” her ex-partner grumbled, bumping her with his shoulder, and almost knocking her down in the process. Dude didn’t know his own strength sometimes. “Anyway, you’re right, we’ll charge this one and then see what we can get off it.”
