by Lucy Quinn
Still, it could have been worse. Cookie remembered a few of the jobs her mother had held down while she was growing up and shuddered again. At least living on the island meant she didn’t have to worry about Rain collecting tips at the local strip club… for now anyway.
12
Cookie smiled and stepped forward, pushing off the railing she’d been leaning against. She made her way toward the sleek black Mustang that had just pulled off the evening ferry, tossing her hair back as she walked. The nighttime breeze blew her locks out behind her in what was probably more of a frenzied mass than a sexy wave, but she was going with it. As she neared the car, which had slowed at her approach, the driver-side window hummed as it slowly descended. A dark, shadowy figure was visible within the vehicle.
“Hey there, stranger. Looking for a private tour?” Cookie tugged up the collar of her shirt in what she hoped was a cross between a seductive tease and a private detective pose and leaned forward, resting her arms on the window.
“Hey, Charlie.” Hunter O’Neil smiled at her from behind the wheel. “Want a lift back?” He looked tired, and she hoped that wasn’t entirely because of her call.
“Sure.” She trotted around the car and hopped in the passenger side. “Hey, Hunter.” She couldn’t help her grin. “Just can’t stay away, huh?”
“How could I?” he answered as he put the car back in gear and turned to follow the road through town and up to the inn. “You’ve got some kind of crazy crime wave going on around here. I mean, seriously? Murders, kidnappings, blackmail, and now heavy-duty drug busts? What, you couldn’t come back to Philly so you decided to bring all the crime out here?” She could tell from his tone and the set of his eyes and his jaw that he was only half-kidding.
“I didn’t exactly advertise ‘hey, former FBI agent here, bring all your crime to me,” she reminded him. She slapped him on the arm, but not hard enough to disturb his grip on the wheel. “You know that, right?”
Hunter sighed. “I do, yeah, of course. But you’ve got to admit, this is some crazy stuff over here.” He shook his head. “So fill me in. What’s the latest?”
“Let’s see.” She tapped her fingers on the leather seat. “What do you know already? The drugs, right? The hand.” Cookie filled in the details of her grisly package, the note, and what Jared had been able to discern so far. “Should know more once he’s had a chance to run some tests,” she finished. “I’ve tried finding out who our courier was, but Mom didn’t get his name or his company, and so far I’ve hit a dead end with all the local companies. They won’t divulge without a warrant.”
Hunter nodded. “We could try to get one, I suppose,” he mused aloud, “but no guarantee we would. Whoever the courier is, he’s probably not involved, so we don’t really have sufficient cause to go poking around their confidential files.”
“I know.” Hunter accelerated a little as they turned up the hill, and then they were pulling up in front of the inn. Cookie smiled as he cut the engine. “You know, you’re rapidly becoming our most regular guest. Too bad you’re not a paying one.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Maybe you should advertise the whole death-and-danger thing,” he suggested with a smirk. “That’d probably draw the tourists in by droves.”
“Only if you promise to be the token man in uniform,” she teased.
“Um, not likely,” he said dryly.
She snorted in amusement. They both climbed out of the car and Cookie paused, putting a hand on his arm as he came around. “Oh, one other thing.” She stole a quick glance up at the inn and its lit but currently empty front door. “My mom knows about the hand, obviously, and the note, but not about the drugs.”
That earned her another raised eyebrow. “How’d you manage that?”
She shrugged. “Snuck them into the shed and buried them in the freezer, under the hand,” she answered, keeping her voice down. “She won’t go near the thing, so I figured they were safe, at least temporarily.” Cookie knew with her mother, she’d better keep a close eye on her anyway.
Hunter considered that a second before nodding. “Probably a good call.” He knew enough about Rain to understand why Cookie would want to keep the presence of the drugs from her mother, but he was kind enough not to say anything further.
“Why, Agent O’Neil!” Rain magically appeared in the doorway as they were climbing the steps up to the porch. “How nice to see you again.” She gave him a big, enthusiastic hug, which Hunter accepted easily enough. “I’m assuming you’re here because of Cookie’s secret admirer?”
Hunter sent a questioning glance at Cookie, who shrugged.
“You know, because he’s sending her these grisly packages with cryptic notes and no name?” Rain laughed. “Come on, I thought you guys were the detectives around here.” She turned and headed back inside, calling over her shoulder, “Dinner should be ready in about twenty. Cookie, I’ve arranged his usual room for him.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Cookie did her best not to grit her teeth at how obvious her mother could be. The inn had three floors, and the second floor was currently completely empty. Yet Rain continually insisted on putting Hunter in the only other room on the third floor, which was directly opposite Cookie’s own room. Not exactly subtle.
With an apologetic shrug, she led him inside and up the stairs, snagging the key to his room on the way. “It’s like you never left,” she said as she pushed the door open and stepped aside so he could enter and toss his bag on the bed.
“I might have to just start leaving some clothes here,” he joked, looking around the room. It was a great space; high ceiling, hardwood floor, big windows, ceiling fan, and nice old furniture. Very comfortable, with a sort of shabby elegance about it.
Cookie’s phone rang, the shrill sound slightly muffled by her jeans pocket. She dug it out and checked the screen, then answered. “Hey, Jared,” she said, walking into the room and turning slightly so Hunter could sidle over and listen in. “What’s going on?”
Hi, Cookie,” the medical examiner answered. “Sorry to call so late. Hope I’m not interrupting dinner or anything, but I figured you’d want the results as soon as I had them.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “What’ve you got?”
“So the fingerprinting was a total bust,” he said. “Sorry. Whoever cut off this hand used acid to burn away any trace of prints.”
“Ouch.” She winced. That was unfortunate, but there were probably other ways to get an ID on the victim, even if prints would’ve been the easiest.
“I did find something else interesting, though,” he continued. “I ran blood tests, and discovered unusual levels of radioactive isotopes. There were also some trace chemicals, pretty nasty ones. So either your victim worked at both a nuclear power plant and a chemical factory, or he had cancer.”
“Cancer?” She glanced up to meet Hunter’s eyes over the phone. “Ah, because he’d had both radiation therapy and chemo?”
“Exactly. I can’t tell what kind, not skin, or at least if it was it wasn’t in the hand. But whatever it was, judging from these levels, I’m guessing it was pretty advanced.”
“Got it. Thanks.” That was certainly something to go on. She was already picturing calling the hospital in Hancock and asking about any cancer patients that might fit the bill. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, one other thing. He’s local.”
“How do you know?”
Jared laughed. “I could explain it, but it’s pretty technical. Suffice it to say, this guy’s skin had traces of seawater, sand, rust, and a few other things that pinpoint his origin to a twenty-mile radius, from Secret Seal to Hancock and just a little past us. It’s like the geographic equivalent of a fingerprint.”
“Okay. Thanks, Jared. That’s a huge help. Goodnight.” Cookie hung up and Hunter took a quick step back, putting a more comfortable distance between them. “So we know he’s from here, and that he was seriously ill with cancer.”
Hunter nodded, thoughtfully. �
�Anybody you know fit that bill?”
Cookie shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone.” She grinned. “But I bet I know somebody who can.”
Together they traipsed back downstairs. Dishes thudded on the dinning room table as Rain set plates out. “Oh, good timing,” she said when she saw them. “I was just about to call you down.”
“Whatever you made, it smells amazing, Rain,” Hunter told her as he stepped up to the table. And it did. Some kind of pasta dish, Cookie guessed, and seared fish to go with it.
Rain blushed at the compliment. “Thank you, Hunter. That’s very sweet of you.” She moved toward her favorite chair and started to pull it out, but stopped midway, eyeing them both. “All right, what’s going on? Spill it.”
“We were just wondering,” Cookie asked, keeping her tone as light as she could while reaching for her own seat. Not for the first time she wished her mother wasn’t quite so good at reading her. “Do you know anybody here or in Hancock, like maybe one of the lobstermen, who’s been really sick lately? Like sick enough to be a regular at the doctor’s office?”
Rain’s face fell, her good humor instantly turning to sadness. “Oh, you mean Jimmy Calder,” she replied. “Poor thing. Lung cancer, stage four, inoperable. He’s gone through chemo twice with no result. It’s just awful.” Cookie knew that this was no act. Her mother might be flakey, and flighty, and sometimes self-centered, but she had a big heart, and she really cared, even about people she’d never met.
“Jimmy Calder.” Cookie rolled that name around in her mouth for a second. “He’s a lobsterman, right?”
Her mother nodded. “His wife Leslie’s a waitress over at the Tipsy Seagull. Nice people. And he’s only in his late forties, much too young for something like this. It’s really sad.”
Now Cookie remembered where she’d seen his name before. “There’s a jar at the Salty Dog,” she told Hunter. “Collecting donations to help with his medical bills.”
“Most of the local businesses have them,” Rain agreed. “He doesn’t have any insurance, and it’s not like either of them make much money, and chemo’s expensive.”
Cookie shared a look with Hunter, who nodded. “I hate to have to do this, Rain,” he said, taking a step away from the table instead of toward it, “but it sounds like Charlie and I need to go pay a visit to Jimmy’s wife. And we’d better do it right away. With this kind of case, the longer you wait, the more evidence can get lost.” He favored her with his most charming smile. “I don’t suppose you could keep dinner warm for us?”
Like so many women before her, many of whom Cookie had only heard about in morning-after stories, Rain melted under that smile. “Of course I can,” she promised. “Just don’t be too long, you hear? Otherwise the fish’ll get dry.”
“We’ll be quick as we can, Mom,” Cookie told her. “Thanks.” She followed Hunter back outside.
She hoped Leslie was working tonight, and that she might have some way for them to confirm that the hand had come from Jimmy.
13
“How’re you holding up with all this?” Hunter asked as they headed down the hill toward the Tipsy Seagull. A cool breeze that bordered on cold blew around them as the evening approached. There was no point in taking the car, since it was only a ten-minute walk and the weather was nice. The only real reason he needed a vehicle at all was for the drive from the nearest airport to Hancock and then onto the ferry.
At first Cookie thought he meant the events of the evening. “Fine,” she answered, but even without looking right at him she could tell he was frowning at that. “What? I’m fine.”
“Charlie,” he said, using the name he’d always had for her. “Somebody sent you a hand in the mail.”
“It wasn’t regular mail, it was couriered,” she replied automatically.
He sighed and she echoed him.
“Okay, okay.” She didn’t slow down or stop, but she did mentally pause to consider the question seriously. “I’m okay,” she answered finally. “Really. Yeah, it’s a little creepy, but we’ve seen worse.”
“Sure, but worse wasn’t mailed—sorry, delivered—to your door,” Hunter pointed out. “Whoever’s doing this is willing to not only kill a man but chop him up and use him for a message. That’s hardcore.”
“It is, and I really want to get whoever’s behind this,” she agreed, twisting a little so she could face him better even as they continued to walk. “And yes, I’ve got my guard up, okay? But otherwise I’m fine.”
He didn’t reply to that, just studied her for a minute before nodding once. Cookie tried not to show just how relieved she was. She knew full well that Hunter could get protective. It had taken her almost a year to break him of the habit of stepping in front of her to shield her whenever they broke down a door or somebody pulled a gun. That was sweet and all, but it wasn’t how equal partners worked. If he treated her like someone who needed protecting, not only was he not able to do his job fully, but he wasn’t letting her do hers either. Eventually he’d gotten that message. She hadn’t needed a defender then, and she certainly didn’t now.
They continued on in silence for a few minutes before Hunter spoke again. “So, this Jimmy Calder,” he started. “We’re liking him for this?”
Cookie shrugged. “I guess. I don’t really know the guy. I’ve seen him around once or twice, I think, at least the pictures on the jar are sort of familiar, but that’s about it. Still, if he had terminal lung cancer and nasty medical bills and wasn’t exactly raking in the big bucks as a lobsterman—”
“—he could’ve turned to drug smuggling to make ends meet, yeah,” Hunter agreed. “And then, what, a run went wrong and they killed him?”
“That lobster trap washed up on Lookout Point,” Cookie replied. “I’m betting that wasn’t deliberate. Apparently it happens sometimes. The chain can break, or a really strong wave can just pick the whole thing up and when you come back out to pull up the trap, it’s gone. Which means you’ve lost whatever it’d caught, but also the trap itself, and they’re not cheap to replace.”
Hunter nodded. “It’s a smart way to smuggle drugs,” he said, slowing as they neared the Tipsy Seagull. “A drop-off point out on the water, and nobody knows the exact location but you and your supplier. They load in the drugs and you collect them, deal them, and return their cut of the money.”
Cookie laughed and shook her head. “There’s no way this guy was a heavy-duty drug dealer,” she argued. “Not unless he’s only selling to other lobstermen, bar staff, and a couple of local businessmen. He had to have just been the mule, that’s all. I bet he never even touched the drugs himself; he just provided the traps so the suppliers could get them safely to the real dealers. And for that he got a cut of the money, probably not much, but a lot more than he’d have made off a trap full of actual lobsters.”
Hunter nodded, and smiled. “Always keeping me grounded in reality,” he told her. “Just like you used to.” They stopped in front of the Tipsy Seagull, and Hunter puffed up his chest as he got into agent mode. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this.” Together they stepped up onto the bar’s front porch with the solid thud of serious footsteps. While most waterfront establishments would want their decks to face out toward the water, the Tipsy Seagull appeared to have deliberately shunned the stunning views of the bay. Its porch was in front toward the town instead, as if shielding its patrons from the sight of the ocean they worked every day.
When they entered, Cookie was again struck by the difference between the bar’s ramshackle exterior and its worn but much more homey interior. Not that it was luxury accommodations or anything, but the inside was clean, far more solid, and far less shabby than the outside would suggest.
There were more people here than usual, though the place was still only half-full. She spotted the bartender, Ian Tremaine, whom they’d interviewed about Chip Winslow’s death. He still looked too delicate to be tending bar at a rough-and-tumble place like the Seagull, but it was obvious watchin
g him that he was comfortable here, and the patrons all knew him. There were two waitresses delivering drinks, one of them a slender blonde and the other a stocky redhead. “I bet that one’s Leslie Calder,” Cookie said softly, nodding toward the blonde.
“Right.” Hunter waited for his moment, timing it perfectly. Just as Leslie returned to the bar with an empty serving tray, he stepped forward to intercept her. “Leslie Calder?” he asked, holding up his badge and ID when she nodded. “I’m Special Agent O’Neil, FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you have a minute?” He’d always been good at the cool-but-not-mean professional demeanor, and his tone made it clear this wasn’t really a request.
Leslie glanced over at Ian, who looked annoyed but nodded, before setting the tray on the bar and following Hunter back toward the door and then outside. It was pleasant out, but all the patrons had decided to hole-up in inside, making the deserted patio the perfect spot for a private conversation. Leslie glanced at Cookie as they stepped out, spotted the deputy’s badge Cookie was once again wearing at her belt, and nodded without asking anything.
Leslie was the kind of woman who’d be described as care-worn, Cookie decided as she studied the waitress. What she’d initially taken as slender was actually outright thin; the kind of thin you get from stress and constant work and probably not enough food. The kind that wore away all the fat until you had a vaguely hollowed-out look. Her blond hair was stringy and dull and pulled back into a serviceable bun, and she was unconsciously wringing her serving apron with her hands.
“What’s this all about?” Leslie asked with the tone of someone who was used to having life deliver a series of bad breaks. Given her husband’s condition, that made total sense.
