Flight

by Laura Griffin

  Brady pushed back his chair, signaling an end to the meeting. “Let me know what you find. All of you. And I want everyone back here at three, so we can get squared away before the press briefing at four.”

  As they adjourned, Joel caught sight of Owen ducking into the break room. At a glance, he could guess why his brother had missed the meeting.

  Joel stepped into the doorway. “Hey.”

  Owen peeled off his shades and winced at the light. “Hey.” He took out his wallet and fed a bill into the machine.

  “Rough night?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “More ways than one.”

  Joel didn’t want to hear about it. He and Owen were only two years apart, but sometimes it felt like a decade.

  “What are you working on?” Joel asked him.

  A drink thunked down. Owen twisted the top off and took a long sip. Joel waited in the doorway, tamping down his impatience.

  “Dude. You have any aspirin?”

  “No.”

  Nicole walked in and stopped short at the sight of Owen. “You missed the meeting.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess that means you were busy breaking the case for us?”

  “Absolutely. You have any aspirin?”

  “No.”

  “Advil? Midol?”

  Nicole rolled her eyes and walked out.

  Owen turned to Joel and sighed. “Catie Vasco.”

  “What about her?” Joel didn’t know the woman, except that she was a game warden.

  “I’m meeting up with her soon.” He checked his watch. “She ticketed five people on the bay Monday morning, and I’m interviewing them to see if they saw or heard anything.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but he didn’t tell Owen that. He wasn’t about to praise his brother when he’d spent the night partying and come into work hungover. Owen had the potential to be a good detective, but he needed to focus.

  “I tracked down three yesterday,” Owen said. “So far, no one knows anything useful, but I’ve got two to go.”

  “What’s the holdup?” Joel asked.

  He swigged his drink. “Two of them speak Spanish, so I need Catie to come with me.” He looked at Joel. “How’s it going with Miranda?”

  “How’s what going?”

  “How’s she working out?”

  “Fine.”

  “Does she know what she’s doing?”

  “Yeah.” Joel asked the question that had been nagging him since yesterday. “You met her yet?”

  “Just briefly. She was in here dropping off paperwork.” Owen paused and looked at him. They had the same blue eyes, but Owen’s were bloodshot. “I know what you’re thinking, bro. Relax.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Yeah you are.” He lobbed his bottle into the recycle bin across the room. “Elaina made you paranoid.”

  “I’m not paranoid.

  “Whatever.” He checked his watch. “I gotta go. I’m meeting Catie in ten.”

  “Let me know how it pans out.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Miranda unlocked the storage closet and gave the knob a hard pull, but the door didn’t budge. The damn thing was warped from the humid air. She braced her foot against the wall, pulled again, and stumbled back as the door popped open.

  The closet light was burned out, but she didn’t need it. Batting away the spiderwebs that had formed in the short time since she’d last been in here, she stepped into the cramped space. She moved the dusty Weber grill and reached for the folded Jeep top propped against the wall.

  A low rumble had her turning around. Joel’s gray pickup made its way up the road, and Miranda’s nerves did a little dance. She wiped the dust off her hands.

  “Hi,” she said as Joel got out. He was dressed in his usual work clothes and held a small manila envelope.

  He took off his shades and walked over. For a moment he simply gazed down at her. He’d shaved this morning, and she remembered how his beard had felt against her skin last night.

  He looked at the closet. “Clean-out day?”

  “I’m getting the Jeep top out. It’s supposed to rain later, and I don’t want to get caught on the highway.”

  He looked down at her, and butterflies filled her stomach. She could tell he was thinking about last night.

  “Brought you something.” He held up the envelope.

  “Let me guess. My ID badge?”

  He handed her the envelope, and she slid out the badge. Seeing her name and photo beneath the official Lost Beach Police shield brought a rush of emotion—apprehension, mostly, with a touch of pride mixed in.

  “You’re official,” he said.

  “I am.”

  She met his gaze again, and a little warning bell went off in her head. They were officially co-workers now, and she needed to stop thinking about his tongue in her mouth.

  He turned to look at the Jeep. “Where you headed?”

  “I’ve got an errand in Corpus Christi.”

  “No kidding? Same. What’s in Corpus?”

  “A camera shop. I’ve got to get my macro lens fixed. What about you?”

  “I’m interviewing that detective.”

  He was following up on the lead she’d given him. Good.

  “Want to ride together?” he asked. “It’d save you the hassle of putting the top on.”

  She gazed up at him, trying not to bite her lip as she debated the seemingly casual question. Should she or shouldn’t she? She was tempted to go with him. She didn’t care about putting the Jeep top on, but she did want to know more about the Corpus Christi murder case in which a feather had been recovered at the crime scene.

  “It’s your lead,” he said. “Aren’t you curious?”

  Okay, so he knew exactly which buttons to push.

  “You don’t mind swinging by the camera store?” she asked. “It’s just a drop-off, so it shouldn’t take long.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And I have to be back by one.”

  “Same here.”

  Miranda locked the closet and retrieved her camera bag and purse from the Jeep. Errands were good. This would give her a chance to be around him while conducting official police business, which would help get things back on a professional footing after her temporary insanity last night.

  “Hang on,” he said, opening the passenger door. He reached inside and grabbed a Dr Pepper can and some newspapers off the floor, making room for her stuff.

  She climbed inside and looked around his truck, taking in every telling detail. It was neat, but not immaculate. The faint smell of leather told her the truck was fairly new. He had his cell plugged into the charger and a tackle box stashed in back, alongside a brown accordion file.

  Joel hitched himself behind the wheel. So, errands with Joel. Not what she’d expected to be doing this morning. She snuck a look at him as he pulled onto the highway. Just seeing his strong hand on the steering wheel put a warm tingle inside her.

  She distracted herself with her phone.

  “The camera shop is on Pecan and Second Street,” she informed him.

  “My appointment’s at eleven, so we’ll do that first.”

  “Eleven? That’s cutting it close.”

  “It’s on the south side of town.”

  They picked up the highway, and Miranda looked out the window. A line of gray clouds was moving in from the Gulf.

  “So, what’s a macro lens?”

  “For macrophotography,” she said. “Extreme close-ups. Like hair and fiber evidence, marks on shell casings, things like that.”

  His eyebrows tipped up.

  “Not something I’ve been doing much of lately, so I’ve been putting off getting it fixed, but I
like to be prepared. You never know what you’re going to need, and I hate getting caught with the wrong equipment.”

  She was babbling.

  She looked out the window again and thought about that kiss. What had she been thinking? Really, she hadn’t. It had been pure impulse, a response to that world-weary look in his eyes.

  The second kiss had been something else entirely.

  “I went back to the camper last night with Emmet,” she said. “No sign of blood spatter or unexpected bodily fluids.”

  “I heard.”

  She’d expected he would have heard by now, but she was trying to fill the silence. Maybe this outing was a bad idea.

  They reached the causeway, which was lined with signs showing how all lanes of traffic would become one-way in the event of a hurricane evacuation. Miranda gazed out at Laguna Madre, one of only six hypersaline bays in the world. It was a rare and beautiful ecosystem, teeming with wildlife. No boats out at the moment, which wasn’t surprising given the forecast. The wind had picked up since earlier, and little whitecaps formed in the bay.

  She glanced at Joel. Time to summon her courage and get it out there.

  “So, I want to apologize,” she said.

  He cut a look at her. “For what?”

  “Last night. That was poor judgment on my part.”

  “I thought it was great judgment.”

  “Well.” She glanced out the window. “Now that we’re working together, it’s probably best if we don’t . . . you know.”

  “What?”

  She looked at him, and he was smiling slightly, like he was enjoying her awkwardness.

  “Work and personal relationships don’t mix. Trust me. Things can get messy, and it’s totally not worth it.”

  He didn’t respond. A few seconds ticked by and she tried to read his expression.

  “So . . . can we agree?” she asked.

  “We can agree to disagree.”

  She tried to come up with a response to that. What didn’t he agree with? That things could get messy, which they could? Or that the risk wasn’t worth it?

  And did any of it matter, really, if she was just here for the summer? What was so bad about a summer fling? By the time anything got messy, she’d be leaving.

  Her heart thrummed as she thought about it. A fling with Joel. The idea had been lurking in her mind since the day she’d met him, and she’d tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away.

  “Miranda?”

  She looked at him.

  “Relax. I won’t kiss you unless you ask me to. How’s that?”

  “That’s . . . fine,” she said.

  He looked at the road again, and she had no idea what he was thinking.

  “So, you were right about social media,” he said.

  “What’d you find out?” she asked, relieved by the change of subject.

  “Nicole dug up several accounts. Elizabeth Lark has a huge Instagram following.”

  “How huge?”

  “One point two million.”

  It wasn’t crazy big, but big nonetheless.

  “You should look her up,” he said. “Betty’s Lark. She’s posted a lot, and we’re piecing together her timeline now leading up to the murders.” He cut a glance at her. “How’d you know?”

  She shrugged. “I follow a lot of online photography. You get a feel for it. Different platforms have a different vibe.”

  “Well, maybe when you check her out, you’ll come up with more insights. I know jack about social media, to tell the truth. Same for the rest of the team, except for Nicole.”

  “You should get educated. It’s a useful investigative tool.”

  “I know. I keep meaning to take an online class, but something always comes up.”

  “You guys do training, don’t you? Suggest it to Brady.”

  They reached the mainland. Miranda was startled when Joel changed lanes and signaled to exit.

  “Already?” she asked. “I thought you said Corpus.”

  “We’re meeting at his house in Bayside. Did I mention he’s retired?”

  “No.”

  “He retired at Christmas after thirty-one years on the job.”

  They turned at the first intersection and passed an oil refinery partially concealed by a high fence covered in vines. After several stoplights, Joel hung a right into a neighborhood called Rippling Shores. Miranda caught a glimpse of the bay, where no doubt the waves weren’t exactly rippling during tropical storms. The neighborhood was only a few dozen homes, all smallish seventies-era houses on stilts.

  “The case is still open?” Miranda asked.

  “Yep.”

  Joel pulled up to a stop sign and checked an address on his phone. He glanced at her.

  “I wanted to talk to the original detective,” he said, reading her mind. She would have expected him to want to interview someone currently with the department.

  “Why?”

  He hung a right onto a street called Ghost Crab. Trucks and cars filled the driveways, even some boat trailers. The neighborhood looked to be year-round residents versus weekend people.

  Joel swung into a driveway and turned to look at her.

  “You know how you walked through that camper and got a hunch about the victim? It’s like that. Those impressions don’t translate when you hand off a case file.”

  “I get it.”

  She looked at the one-story house painted sky blue and felt a flutter of apprehension as the reality set in. Joel had come all the way here to interview a veteran detective at her suggestion. All because of a feather. She hoped to hell this wasn’t a waste of time.

  She glanced around. At the end of the cul-de-sac was a marshy area. Beyond it, several wade fishermen stood in the water.

  She looked at Joel. “You should talk to him alone.”

  “Why?”

  “You said you know him, right? He’ll probably open up more if it’s one-on-one.”

  He seemed to think about it. “What will you do?”

  “Go exploring with my camera.”

  “You sure? I bet you’d ask good questions.”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of your own.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Henry Lind had spent thirty-one years as a police officer before retiring to his house on the bay. Not a bad life, if you still had time to enjoy it.

  “Damn prostate cancer,” he said now, leading Joel down a creaky wooden staircase. “And as soon as I got through that mess, my heart started giving me trouble.”

  Maureen Lind had poured Joel and her husband tall glasses of lemonade before shooing them off to “the workshop,” which seemed to be her name for the pass-through garage where Henry kept his boat. Joel stepped into the space, which could have held two cars if not for the boat trailer smack in the middle. Both garage doors were open, creating a breezy tunnel where Henry could work.

  “Before Christmas, I finally said screw it.” Henry set his glass on a workbench stacked with toolboxes, hoses, and power tools—few of which related to boat engines, as far as Joel could tell. “I didn’t want to spend my last years cleaning up other people’s shit.”

  Henry straightened his green John Deere cap and nodded at his boat. “I’ve been working on the engine all week. She crapped out on me in Farland’s Channel, had to get a tow from a buddy. Mechanic was out here last month, but he only made it worse.”

  Joel approached the boat—an eighteen-foot Grady White with a Yamaha engine. It was a nice boat, but it had to be at least twenty years old. The engine cover was off, and an array of tools littered the floor.

  “What’s your horsepower?” Joel asked.

  “Three hundred.” He looked at Joel. “You fish?”

  “When I can.”

  “Don’t guess that’s a
lot with all y’all got going on down there.”

  Joel figured he was referring to Lost Beach’s economic boom, which was fueling development, traffic, and crime on the island.

  “So, you’re here about Randall.” Henry leaned back against his workbench, evidently finished with small talk. “That’s one of those cases you don’t forget.”

  “There’s a chance there could be a connection to my case.”

  “The feather.”

  “That. And the murder weapon.”

  “Oh yeah?” His bushy gray eyebrows arched, and Joel could tell it was a detail he didn’t know. “A .38?”

  “That’s right. We just heard that this morning. We recovered a slug, but we’re still waiting to see if it matches anything in the federal database.”

  Henry pursed his lips. “Interesting.”

  “I understand Mark Randall was shot twice with a .38 pistol.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “No one saw or heard a thing. He was out there fishing by his boathouse, and they got him in the chest from two to three feet away, according to the ME. His wife came home from the grocery store and found him sprawled on the dock with a buncha buzzards pecking out his eyeballs.”

  “You guys zero in on a suspect?” Joel asked, wording it carefully so it didn’t sound like criticism.

  Henry snorted. “I was up to my ass in suspects. That was the problem. Mark Randall had two ex-wives and four grown kids who hated him, plus a business partner he screwed out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not to mention his third marriage being on the rocks. They had a kid together, too. He was in kindergarten, or he probably would have been on the suspect list with everybody else.”

  Joel sipped his lemonade, hoping Henry would keep talking. He seemed to be on a roll.

  “Bottom line, this guy had spent fifty-two years stockpiling money and enemies. He was a prick, and we had no shortage of people who wanted him dead.”

  Joel had read about Randall in newspaper articles. He’d made a fortune putting in housing developments along the lower Texas coast, making friends and enemies along the way. He’d run for a seat in the state senate at one point but lost the primary after a local newspaper got hold of a police report showing that cops had been called out to Randall’s house for a domestic dispute.