Jake sighed. “It’s all in how you perceive it, Stella.”
“I perceive it as freaking freezing!”
Jake wasn’t listening. His attention was caught by something lying on the ground next to the house.
“Would ya look at this,” he said. “Somebody must’ve left it behind. It’s a nice one.”
Jake inspected the rod. “Even left a nice lure on it, too. Wonder how that happened.”
He turned, holding a fishing rod in his hand. A silver bauble dangled from its tip, catching the moonlight as it twirled. Whatever agenda Jake had was forgotten as he started off at a brisk pace, walking straight toward the ocean.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “It’ll warm you up to walk.”
No, snuggling down under an electric blanket would warm me up, I thought. Walking along the beach at midnight in December would only cause pneumonia.
“The doctor said you should take it easy. I think you should go back inside and rest.”
Lloyd ran back and forth, covering the distance between us like a relay racer, barking his excited pleasure in Jake’s choice of direction.
Jake paused, waiting for me to catch up, and when I did, slung one arm across my shoulders. I started to shrug him off, but he held fast.
“I’m just keeping you warm, Stella. Relax.”
“Doesn’t your side hurt?”
He smiled. “Pain is all in the perception,” he answered.
“I guess that shotgun blast was a hallucination then.”
Jake shook his head, still smiling. “You need to work on your negativity.”
“Negative? I am not negative!”
Jake chuckled and began walking at a slower pace, his arm still holding me close to his side.
“You prefer paranoid?” he asked.
I couldn’t think up a snappy comeback. It was too late and too cold. Besides, Jake was close to being right about me. I was negative, especially when it came to men and romance, but look at my track record. I had a right to be skeptical. Too bad I couldn’t cut my heart out and survive.
I walked beside Jake, feeling the strength of his arm around me and rehearsing what I’d say next. It was going to be all business, no matter how hard he tried. I was a no-nonsense woman with a job to do. The sooner we all accepted that, the better off we’d all be. Right?
I lowered my head, ducking the stiff breeze that numbed my skin. Who was I kidding? The only one who needed to quit living in a fantasy world was me. I still had feelings for a man I hadn’t known since high school. I was living in the past, fantasizing that by some small miracle Jake Carpenter had suddenly morphed into Prince Charming. When was I ever going to grow up?
Chapter 5
Jake led us right past the boardwalk, down the steps and onto the beach. It was clear he wasn’t planning to discuss anything with me until he’d planted himself along the surf’s edge and had that stupid silver bauble immersed in saltwater. He wasn’t the only idiot on the beach, either. I counted at least four others, spaced maybe ten feet apart, all watching the surf for signs of action. What kind of shared craziness brought them out on a frigid night to stand waiting patiently for the hit of a lifetime?
Probably the same strain of insanity made women believe in Prince Charming.
I waited on Jake, stewing with the timeless frustration that had gone on for generations before me and would continue long after Jake and I were distant, past memories. Men fish. They fish for no reason, for endless amounts of time, and often return with whopping lies about their missed opportunities. Women know this; I just don’t see why they persist in putting up with it. It had to tie in with that Prince Charming thing somewhere.
Jake brought his arm up over his head, rod in hand, and cast his line far out into the surf. With slow precision, he reeled the line back in and repeated the process, over and over again. Five minutes passed without a word while I slowly became an ice cube. When I couldn’t feel my toes any longer, I lost my patience.
“Listen, if you don’t have anything important to say, Lloyd and I are leaving.” I turned away and started walking. Lloyd, the disloyal, raced off in the opposite direction, trotting up to investigate the other fishermen, leaving me to make my last stand alone.
“Stella, damn it! Wait!”
Jake shoved the butt of his rod down into the sand and caught my arm.
“Come on, honey, I was just trying the thing out!”
“Honey? Jake Carpenter, I am not ‘honey’ to you! I am your business partner and that is all. Got it?”
He nodded, but I thought I saw the sides of his mouth twitching with a suppressed grin.
“What was so important we had to walk all the way out here to talk about it?” I demanded.
“I got a call from one of my contacts at the P.D. before we left,” he said. “The guys that chased us out of Joey Smack’s didn’t make it.”
I thought back to the vision I’d had in my rearview mirror of the car exploding into a fireball as it hit a tree, and shuddered.
“That’s not all,” Jake added. “I read over the report Mia’s private investigator sent her and…” His voice drifted off, his attention caught by something behind me.
“And?”
Jake wasn’t listening. His rod suddenly jumped, flying out of its sand pocket and skittering across the beach. Jake ran after it, dived and came up with it in his hands, pulling hard as something on the other end fought him.
“Damn, Stella, look at that!”
I followed him to the edge of the water, peering out where he pointed and saw an explosion of white surf and black bodies.
“What is it?”
Jake was struggling to hold his line, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead as he wrestled.
“A blitz! It’s a fucking blitz!” His words came out between gasps of exertion and he moved slowly closer to the water.
“Jake, let it go!” I yelled. “Whatever that is, it’s pulling you in!”
I followed him, about to reach out and grasp his arm. The surf was filled with fish, thousands, all roiling around in some sort of frenzy.
“Jake, don’t!” I cried.
He ignored me, wading a few steps into the water as he slowly reeled the line in on the rod that was now bent almost double.
“This is outstanding!” he cried. “We’re going to catch the hell out of fish now! Do you understand how rare this is?”
Jake wasn’t expecting an answer.
“A blitz hardly ever happens, and never in winter!”
With a mighty heave, Jake stepped back, jerking the rod as he did so, moving with the momentum of the incoming wave to land his catch.
A black shape, writhing and flipping with the effort to escape, flew past us, landing with a loud thud on the sand.
I looked and saw the other men having similar luck, reeling in fish after fish. The water was filled with them and the moonlight reflected off their scales, creating a shimmering cauldron of shape and motion.
The man standing closest to us cried out, wrestling with something that tugged and fought, bending his rod nearly double.
Jake threw his catch farther up onto the sand and moved toward the other man, his attention completely riveted to the man’s struggle. The others did the same, all converging on the man with the big catch, shouting out advice and moving to assist him.
With a sigh, I followed, drawing closer just as the fight came to its conclusion.
A huge, dark lump came rolling in with the surf, swirling to a stop on the firm, frigid sand. The man bent over his catch, reaching to pull it up farther onto the beach, assisted by the others.
One of them cried out, recoiling and running several yards away where he bent over and vomited.
I ran the remaining few yards, stopping a few feet away from Jake. For a brief moment my view was blocked by his back, but then he moved, giving me a clear view.
A woman lay dead on the sand, her long, dark hair fanned out around her body in swir
ls that ebbed and flowed with the incoming tide.
“Shit!”
Jake and another man tugged at the body, attempting to pull her farther away from the water and up onto dry land.
I took in the scene, reverting to my professional training and detaching from the normal emotional response of a civilian. It was obvious that she was far beyond our help. Her face and torso were bloated. The body, or what was left of it, wore jeans and a sodden, navy pea coat. The blitz of fish had done its damage, ravaging her face and hands and making an easy identification impossible.
Jake and I stood there, studying her for almost a minute before either of us spoke. We had both gone into our past professional modes, the soldier and the cop studying the effects of human rage. There was no doubt in my mind that this woman was the victim of a crime and not an accident. Her hands were firmly tied behind her back and her ankles were bound together by duct tape.
“Got your cell phone?”
I nodded, pulled it out of my pocket and looked toward the boardwalk. “I’m not sure where we are exactly.”
Jake nodded back toward the street. “Tell them we’re at the bottom of Forty-sixth Street, on the beach. They’ll find us.”
I made the call, listened to the bored communicator take down the details, and then hung up. I figured that a beach town in winter might have one cop on duty, if that, and prepared for a long wait in the frigid night air. It surprised me when I heard the wail of sirens almost immediately.
“What do you think happened to her?”
Jake had been silently inspecting the body, reaching into her pockets for identification while the others watched, checking the labels in her clothing and carefully searching for additional clues to her cause of death.
“I can’t really tell,” he said.
I stepped closer and knelt by the victim’s side. I’d been a cop in a beach town. Drownings weren’t new to me, but our victims were usually recovered quickly. The woman lying on the ground was too swollen and disfigured to make cause of death discernible. It would take a medical examiner to tell us any more, but then, as bystanders we’d only read about it in the paper.
“Don’t let the cops catch you touching the body,” I whispered to Jake. “It’s a crime scene now. They won’t want it contaminated.”
“Jesus!” One of the men standing clustered behind us swore and fell back, the others following. A huge dog, maybe not even a dog but a wolf, appeared, teeth barred, and stood maybe five feet away from us.
The dog’s attention seemed focused on the body.
I straightened very slowly and stepped between the dog and the victim. Jake did the same.
“Git!” one of the men cried. “Go on, git!” He lunged, holding his long-handled net out in front of him, poking it like a weapon in the animal’s direction.
The wolf-dog stood its ground, fangs bared.
“Don’t move,” Jake said.
The dog whined, wanting to move closer, but was leery of humans. The sirens in the distance grew louder as the emergency vehicles drew closer. The huge dog threw his head back suddenly and emitted a long wail of unmistakable grief.
Lloyd had held back until this point, tail down, ears back, watching. Now he started toward the wolf-dog, as if drawn by the plaintive wail.
“Lloyd, stay!”
He ignored me, slowly advancing toward the other dog. I moved and Jake grabbed my arm, stopping me.
“Don’t!”
“That dog will kill Lloyd!”
I tried to shake off his grip, but it was too late. Lloyd kept on going, closing the gap, tail wagging softly. A strobe of headlights and blue lights flashed, bouncing as the vehicles left the street and hit sand. A fire truck, a police car, an ambulance and several Jeeps converged, heading directly for the spot where we waited with the body.
The large dog’s attention was drawn away from Lloyd momentarily. As the convoy drew closer, the dog turned, gave one look at the body and ran with Lloyd following.
“Lloyd!” It was no use. Lloyd ran behind the other dog, becoming a shadowy form as the moon ducked behind a cloud and left the shoreline in darkness.
The emergency vehicles reached us, halting a few feet from where we stood. Doors flew open and within an instant we were surrounded.
A familiar figure, curly-haired and tall, with an open, easy smile, stepped to the front of the crowd and seemed to take charge.
“All right,” he said to the others, “everybody wait right there until I get an idea of what’s going on.”
He walked toward us, taking in the details of the scene before him. When he reached me he said, “You again. You’re getting quite an introduction to Surfside Isle.”
I nodded, feeling the chili he’d recommended churn in my stomach.
“I’m not liking this part of town as well as I did Marti’s Café,” I said. “So you’re a cop?”
How had I overlooked this? I thought I was good, especially at picking out a fellow officer, but he’d gotten by me.
Tom chuckled. “Yep, they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I was working in Virginia, came home on vacation and well, you see the result.” He shrugged and turned to Jake.
“So she found you. That was quick.”
“Oh, no, this isn’t the guy.”
Tom shot me a puzzled look and I realized he had to be wondering why I’d come to town looking for a man I’d met in New York when I had Jake here, as well.
“He’s my cousin,” I interjected.
Jake looked completely confused, but recovered, introducing himself and shaking hands.
“I thought I’d try out the rod, and well, there was a blitz and then this.” Jake indicated the victim’s body.
Tom squatted in the sand beside the victim and inspected her carefully.
“Are you the one who hooked her?” he asked Jake.
“No, I was.” The other fisherman, a small, squat, middle-aged man shuffled forward and Tom turned his attention to him.
“All right. Hang on.” He signaled to an older gentleman. “Let’s see what Doc can tell us.”
Tom looked up at the others. “I’ll need statements, names and addresses,” he said. “Why don’t you folks wait over there by the police car and I’ll get to you as quick as I can.”
The process was beginning. Flashes exploded as the scene was preserved on film and the evidence gathering began. Tom gave orders in a calm, understated tone, watching as the others moved to carry them out.
“Here.” Tom shoved his notepad in our direction. “Would you mind writing down your full names and where you’re staying? I guess we might as well get your home addresses while we’re at it. I doubt I’ll need too much more from you tonight, but I’d like to get a formal statement tomorrow.”
Jake took the pad and began writing. I inched closer to the medical examiner, hoping to hear more.
“Not over twelve hours,” he muttered. “Doesn’t look like she was conscious when they dumped her.”
Tom nodded, caught me eavesdropping and said, “You got your contact numbers on there, too?”
“Does this sort of thing happen a lot around here?” I asked.
He smiled. “What, you think ’cause this is Jersey the Mafia uses the beach for a dumping ground?”
I shrugged. “Well, you gotta admit it’s a bit weird, a woman duct-taped and dumped. I’d expect it more here than in, say, Florida.”
Tom shook his head. “No, we don’t find bodies washing up onshore any more than you would anywhere else. Surfside Isle hasn’t had a homicide in—”
Before he could answer, the M.E. interrupted. “Well, you got one now,” he said. “No way around it.”
Another flash went off, startling us. A middle-aged woman holding a huge camera stood just a few feet away, snapping pictures while simultaneously trying to keep her long red hair from flying across her face and into the camera lens.
“Hey, Megan, knock it off! You’re corrupting a crime scene.”
Two voluntee
r firefighters moved toward the woman, but she stood firm. “It’s news, honey,” she said. “I got rights the same as you. The public has a right to know about news in their community.”
“For God’s sake, Megan,” Tom said. “We don’t even know the victim’s name. How’d her family like it, finding out by seeing pictures of her body splashed all over the front page?”
Megan gave Tom a look. “I’m doin’ my job, sport,” she said.
The M.E. hastily covered the victim’s body with a sheet provided by the EMTs. Tom moved toward the reporter, his hand extended.
“Give me the film, Megan. I’m confiscating it.”
Megan shook her head and took a step backward.
“Megan, don’t make me arrest you.”
She stood there, uncertain, for a long moment, and Tom waited.
“Ah, shit!” she swore. “Here!”
She pulled the length of film from her camera, tossed it onto the sand in front of Tom, and just as quickly popped in a new roll.
“No pictures of the body, but I get everything else,” she said, and started snapping.
Jake grabbed my arm, spun me around and started walking me away from the others, down the beach in the opposite direction of our beach house.
“Move it, we don’t need to have our faces plastered across the local paper,” he whispered.
I let him lead me across the firm sand, but looked back when I heard someone cry out, “Hey!”
The flash went off again and Megan lowered the camera. “I wanna talk to you two,” she called.
“Take a number,” I muttered.
We put on speed, not exactly running, but in no way lingering to acknowledge the reporter’s request. That would be all we needed, an article in the local paper mentioning that two private detectives were in town. If Mia Lange wanted a private reunion with her brother, a newspaper article that so much as mentioned our case would ruin her chances. Worse, if Joey Smack had contacts in New Jersey, and what mobster didn’t, he’d find us before we could devise a plan to thwart his efforts.
“We’ll go down here and then cut back up toward the house,” Jake said.
Stella, Get Your Man Page 7
