Flight

by Laura Griffin

  “This is about yesterday, isn’t it? Those two bodies they found out in the bay?”

  Miranda’s stomach knotted. Maybe she had made a mistake coming here. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

  “I know, I know.” Daisy held up a hand. “You can’t tell me details. But tell me this, though. Are you working with the police here? Is this part of an investigation?”

  A chill snaked down Miranda’s spine. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re not the first investigator to come to me with a feather.”

  “No?”

  “A police detective brought me a feather last summer. He said he found it at the scene of a murder.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot as Joel pulled into the marina. Nearing the water, he spotted an LBPD skiff in the bay alongside a boat that belonged to Lost Beach Fire and Rescue. Joel passed a pair of white vans and a couple of overdressed reporters who appeared to be setting up shots for the five-o’clock news.

  He parked his pickup near a police unit and slid out. Randy stood in the shadow beside his bait shop, smoking a cigarette and eyeing the vans with suspicion. He waved Joel over.

  “Hey.” Joel stepped into the shade. “How’s business today?”

  “Shitty.” He blew out a stream of smoke and nodded at the reporters. “The buzzards are scarin’ off my customers. Any chance you can run ’em off?”

  “They’re on a public road.”

  “Hmph. That’s what they said, too.”

  Joel looked at the reporters, then turned back to Randy. “They’ll pack up eventually. You see anything suspicious today? Anyone strange hanging around?”

  “Nope.” He dropped his cigarette to the gravel and stepped on it. “I’ll call you if I do, though.”

  “Thanks, Randy. Be good.”

  Joel headed over to the blue tarp that had been erected near the dock and stepped over a swag of yellow tape that cordoned it off from the rest of the parking lot. He surveyed the plastic tubs that had been brought in to transport any evidence recovered by the diver. The tubs were empty except for a few crumpled beer cans and a barnacle-covered two-by-four—probably the same one Miranda had slashed her foot on yesterday.

  Joel muttered a curse and turned to look at the water. Nicole was bringing in the skiff now, and he crossed the dock to meet her. She tossed him a line, and he crouched down to tie it to a cleat.

  “How’s it going out there?” he asked.

  “It’s freaking hot.”

  Her nose was pink from the sun. She wore sand-colored tactical pants and a navy golf shirt, same as he did, but she had on black rubber boots and had spent some time traipsing around in the mud this afternoon.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  Joel gave her a hand as she stepped off the boat, and the excitement in her voice made him hopeful that his crap day was about to get better.

  “You guys find a wallet or a purse?” he asked.

  “No.” She wiped her hands on her pants and walked with him toward the tent. “Emmet’s brother found a slug, though.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And he said it’s in good condition.” She stepped under the tent, peeling off her LBPD hat. She went straight for a cooler and popped open the lid.

  Joel watched as she fished a bottle of water from the ice. They’d been searching for a slug at the crime scene ever since their examination of the canoe revealed a bullet hole, which explained why the canoe had been taking on water when the victims were discovered.

  “Calvin’s been down there for hours with a metal detector,” she reported. “He said the silt is so soft, it’s almost like ballistic gel.”

  Emmet’s younger brother Calvin was a new hire with the Lost Beach Fire and Rescue team, and prior to that he’d been a Navy SEAL. The man was not only an expert diver; he knew a lot about ballistics, too.

  “So, the slug’s not mutilated,” Joel said.

  “Nope.” She took a sip of water. “He said it has good markings, which means we can run it through the system.”

  Even so, a match was a long shot. The federal firearms database contained records of the unique markings made by a gun when a bullet was fired. The database included bullets recovered from crime scenes and victims’ bodies, as well as test bullets fired from weapons seized by law enforcement. Problem was, running evidence could take months, and there was only a slim chance that the weapon used yesterday was in the database already.

  “Why don’t you look excited?” Nicole asked.

  “I am.”

  “Uh-huh.” She set her water bottle down on the table. “I take it since you’re asking about a wallet, we didn’t get IDs at autopsy.”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit. He printed them and everything?”

  “Yep. Neither has fingerprints in the system.”

  “So, what did we get?”

  “He ruled out suicide. No gunshot residue on their hands. So, we’re officially investigating a double murder.”

  She sighed. “That’s what we thought.” Her expression clouded, and she looked out toward the bay.

  “What?” Joel asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just they looked so, I don’t know, posed in the canoe. I was thinking it could be some sort of creepy suicide ritual.”

  “Maybe the killer posed them.”

  She shuddered. “That’s even creepier.”

  “So, like I said, no hits on the fingerprints. And no distinguishing scars or birthmarks. Both have tattoos, but nothing distinctive.”

  “What about time of death?” She dropped onto a plastic stool and pulled off one of her mud-caked boots.

  “Within one to three hours of when they were discovered.”

  She took off the other boot. “Okay, so Miranda Rhoads found them about six forty, which means they were shot between three forty and five forty, or thereabouts.”

  “Given the bullet hole in the boat, I think we can narrow it down even more. If they’d been out there two hours, the canoe could have been at the bottom of the bay.”

  “We’re lucky Miranda found them when she did or there’d be nothing left to find. What else?”

  “No track marks or signs of drug use,” he said. “But the tox screens will take a while.”

  “I bet they come back positive. This thing feels drug related to me. They were probably out there making a handoff.”

  Joel folded his arms over his chest. “What’s the evidence of that?”

  She glanced out at the bay. Calvin was climbing into the boat now and taking off his scuba tank. They were done for the day.

  “What else would they be doing out there in the dark?” she asked. “Most sane people are asleep at that hour.”

  “Miranda Rhoads wasn’t.”

  She shot him a look. “You know what I mean. They didn’t have any fishing gear. It looks like they went out there in the dead of night, so what the hell were they doing? No one would sleep out there—you’d get eaten alive by mosquitoes.” She heaved a sigh. “Any leads on their car or where they might have been staying?”

  “McDeere’s been looking for an abandoned vehicle, but so far nothing. And he checked in with the motels and campgrounds.”

  “So, we still have no clue where they were staying or what they were doing here.”

  Joel raked his hand through his hair, frustrated. The recovered slug was a good development, but what they really needed was IDs on their victims so they could start retracing their movements leading up to the murders.

  Nicole stripped off her socks and dropped them into the boots, then retrieved a pair of flip-flops from under the table. She turned to watch as Emmet and his brother docked the boat. Calvin tied up, then hefted his scuba tank over his should
er and walked barefoot up the dock. He wore only black swim trunks and a dive mask that dangled around his neck. The mask had left marks on his face, and it looked like he’d been underwater awhile.

  Joel glanced at Nicole as the brothers walked over. Nicole and Emmet were like oil and water, but she’d had a thing for his brother Calvin for years.

  “Hey, man.” Emmet stepped under the tarp. “You hear about the slug?”

  “Yeah. Good work.”

  Emmet went straight for the cooler while Calvin set his scuba tank on the ground and started rummaging through a duffel.

  “Mint condition,” Calvin said as he joined them under the tarp. He scrubbed his hair, sending water droplets everywhere; then he reached out his hand for his brother’s drink. Calvin guzzled water and plunked the bottle on the table.

  “Here, check it out.” Emmet tugged a small white envelope from his pocket and showed Joel the slug. It looked a hell of a lot better than the one pulled from John Doe’s body at the autopsy.

  Nicole stepped closer. “Amazing. So much destruction from something so small.”

  Calvin swigged more water. “I can put in a call, if you want,” he told Joel. “A buddy of mine works in the county crime lab. He’ll put a rush on it for us.”

  “Thanks,” Joel said, although he doubted anything would come of it in time to be much use to them. If they arrested a suspect and recovered a gun, a match would be useful at trial. “We recovered another slug at autopsy, but it’s mangled.”

  Calvin nodded. “This one’s your best bet.”

  “What’s your guess on turnaround?” Nicole asked him. “We don’t have a lot of leads right now.”

  “Depends how backlogged they are.”

  Joel’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. His pulse picked up at the sight of the San Antonio area code.

  “Breda,” he said, stepping away from the group.

  “Hi, it’s Miranda. Miranda Rhoads.”

  Just the sound of her voice took some of the sting out of his mood.

  “Sorry to bother you at work,” she added.

  “You’re not. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to see if we could meet up later. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  He stepped away from the tent, picturing her at her house last night in her skirt and high heels. “Are you back from your class now?”

  “I’m on my way. I have to pick up Benji at the dog sitter, but I can be at the station by six.”

  “I’m tied up until seven, at least.”

  “I’ll come at seven, then.”

  There was a tension in her voice that hadn’t been there the last time they’d talked.

  “Hello?”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “Miranda . . . are you okay?”

  She waited a beat. “No.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The police station was a madhouse.

  The low-slung brick building sat near the waterfront, giving police boats easy access to the bay. It should have been a picturesque spot, but right now the place was besieged by visitors. The parking lot was overflowing, and Miranda counted four news vans and a half dozen police units from various agencies parked haphazardly on the grass. A red Suburban from Lost Beach Fire and Rescue occupied a front-row space near the flagpole.

  Miranda surveyed the scene as she rolled through the lot, driving slowly so she wouldn’t hit any distracted reporters. A press conference seemed to have just let out. Men in dress shirts and ties and women in miniskirts huddled with cameramen to review footage. Meanwhile, a wind gusted in from the bay, wreaking havoc on their overstyled hair and prompting them to use their vans as windbreaks.

  Parking was impossible, so Miranda drove around to the back, hoping to find something near the boathouse.

  A reporter darted in front of her, and Miranda slammed on the brakes. He glanced up from his cell phone and scowled.

  “Idiot,” she muttered.

  The passenger door opened, and Miranda gasped, startled.

  “Hey.” Joel slid into the seat. “Bad place to meet. Sorry.”

  “It’s a zoo here.”

  “I know.” He raked his hand through his hair and looked out over the chaos. He was dressed the same as yesterday, in a navy shirt and brown tactical pants, with badge and holster at his hip. “Chief decided to hold a press conference, deal with it all at once.” He turned to look at her. “You eaten?”

  “What?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  She realized she was famished. “Yeah, actually. What are you thinking?”

  “Drive north.”

  She maneuvered out of the lot, careful not to sideswipe any police cars.

  “You can cut through this side street, then in four blocks pick up the highway.”

  Miranda followed his instructions and turned north onto the state highway that ran the length of the island. She glanced at Joel beside her. He had a strong profile. His mirrored sunglasses concealed his expression, but the tight set of his mouth hinted at the pressure he was under. He seemed tired and amped up at the same time.

  “Long day?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” he said, rubbing his jaw. He was well past the five-o’clock-shadow phase, and she remembered how he’d looked last night at her door, all tall, dark, and sexy, like she’d conjured him up in a dream.

  He glanced at her. “You been to Manny’s?”

  “No. Where is it?”

  “Turn left after the marina.”

  The sign for the nature center appeared, snapping her attention back to the reason she’d called him. This was work, not a social visit, and she couldn’t get distracted.

  They passed the pasture with the water tower, but the horses were nowhere to be seen now. Joel looked toward the bay as they neared the marina, and she knew he was thinking about the investigation.

  “Hang a left just up here,” he said.

  She turned onto a narrow road and bumped over potholes until she reached a row of warehouses along the waterfront. Rusted boat trailers filled half the parking lot. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded another lot with a sign pinned to the gate: YOUNG’S BOAT STORAGE.

  The warehouse on the end had a blue awning above the door, and Miranda noticed the neon sign. Beyond the building, a row of picnic tables overlooked the water.

  “I always thought this was a boat repair shop,” she said, pulling into a space.

  “That’s next door,” Joel told her. “Looks like a dive, but they’ve got the best fish on the island.”

  It was a high compliment given the number of seafood places in town, and her curiosity was piqued as they got out of the Jeep.

  Joel waited for her to retrieve her purse from the back. They walked to the restaurant together, and he opened the door for her.

  Inside, she paused beside the door to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. A large box fan hummed from the corner, circulating the humid air. The room had a concrete floor with a drain in the middle. Ice-filled cases displayed a selection of glistening fish. An array of big blue crabs had been arranged artfully in a case at the end. At the back of the narrow restaurant, a raised garage door provided a view of the docks.

  “It’s a fish market, too?” she asked Joel.

  “Yep. They get it fresh every day. Or you can bring in your own catch and they’ll cook it up however you want.”

  A man in a black apron came out from behind the counter. Joel peeled off his sunglasses and shook the man’s hand.

  “This is my friend Miranda,” Joel said to him. “Miranda, this is Manny Ortega.”

  He flashed a smile at her. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “You got a table free?” Joel asked. />
  “There’s one outside. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  Joel ushered her through the restaurant, and the smell of fried shrimp wafted over as they passed the kitchen. Stepping onto the patio, Miranda saw that every picnic table was occupied except one on the far end. Joel led her to it and took the side with his back to the water.

  Miranda sat down, swinging her legs over the bench, glad she’d changed into a T-shirt and jeans when she’d come home from work.

  “Nice view,” she said.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the pair of shrimp boats moored at the weathered dock. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Not at all. Look at the birds.”

  A flock of pelicans roosted along the roof of the neighboring building. They had a view of the boats, where men in waders were going through nets and tossing scraps into the water.

  Joel turned back to face her. His blue eyes looked tired, and his thoughts seemed to be far away. It was a look she’d seen before on the faces of detectives she’d worked with.

  “How’d the autopsies go?” she asked.

  “Not good. Still no IDs.”

  “Damn. Really?”

  “Really.”

  Oftentimes an autopsy provided information that could jump-start a stalled investigation. Such leads made sitting through the grisly procedure worth the agony—because it truly was an agonizing thing to watch. But Joel’s grim expression told her that hadn’t been the case here, which meant the pressure on him and his team was mounting.

  “What did they find?” she asked.

  “Cause of death, which is homicide, like we expected. Approximate age. Stuff we already knew, really.”

  “And what’s the age estimate?” she asked. The Lost Beach rumor mill had the victims as “teens,” but Miranda thought they’d looked slightly older.

  “Early twenties,” he said. “That’s based on teeth. And something from the X-rays.”

  “The epiphyseal plates, probably. They stop growing in the early twenties.”