Flight Read online

  “Yeah.” He sounded defensive.

  “What’s inside?”

  “Beer, mostly.”

  She turned to the woman, who looked eighteen, max. She wore a white bikini top and cutoff shorts, and her long blond hair was pulled back in a loose braid. “We had a noise complaint about this location. Was that you guys?”

  “That was earlier,” she said. “We turned it down.”

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” Shirtless asked.

  “No problem. Mind if I see some ID?”

  The guys traded glances again. The one with the cooler stood up and dug a wallet from his pocket. His friend with the tallboy did the same. Nicole’s attention was on the blonde.

  “Um, mine’s inside,” she said. “I can get it if you want.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Go get it.”

  She got up and ducked inside the tent. Nicole checked out the IDs of the two guys. Twenty-five and twenty-six, both from Austin.

  “That your kayak by the water there?” she asked Shirtless.

  “It’s hers.”

  Nicole handed back the IDs and stepped over to check out the yellow kayak. It was empty and had a paddle beside it.

  The girl walked over and handed Nicole a driver’s license. Amber Lynn Greeson. Austin address. The birth date checked out. Nicole studied the state seal, but everything looked legit.

  “When did you get here?” Nicole asked her.

  “Yesterday.”

  “You notice any canoes out since you’ve been here?”

  “No.”

  Nicole lowered her voice. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two beers.”

  She watched the woman’s eyes. “Are you here because you want to be?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just checking.”

  Nicole handed the ID back, then turned and skimmed her gaze over the water. The distant causeway formed an arc over the bay. From here, the refineries on the coast looked like a strand of twinkle lights, not a row of chemical-belching smokestacks. Nicole shifted her attention north, where the campground abutted private land. A pair of shadows near the water caught her eye.

  No lights. The two shapes could be a pair of SUVs, or maybe an SUV and a camper. The shapes were about fifty yards away, past the boundary for Laguna Vista.

  Nicole turned to the blonde. “Be careful out here, Amber.”

  “I will.”

  She gave the guys her stern cop look and returned to her truck, thinking about the weather the past few days and how soft the ground was likely to be. She continued down the road that started to loop back toward the gatehouse. She braked and studied the topography.

  Screw it, she decided, going off road. It was sandy here, but not soft enough for her to get stuck. At least, she hoped not.

  Her headlights illuminated some leaning posts and a sagging barbed-wire fence. In one section, the wire was missing completely. Nicole’s pulse picked up as she felt her tires settle into previously made ruts in the dirt. Slowly, she passed through the fence posts. She hooked a left toward the water, and her headlights illuminated a silver camper and a black SUV.

  “Son of a bitch,” she murmured.

  Nicole parked and grabbed her flashlight, ignoring the ding-ding-ding telling her she’d left the keys inside. The ground was soft and grassy but not wet. Her headlights created a long black shadow as Nicole trekked toward the camper.

  It was a small Airstream. New, from the looks of it. The vehicle was a black Toyota with Oregon plates. It had a ball-and-socket hitch on the back, and the camper had been detached.

  Nicole’s heart thrummed as she shined her light over the SUV. A strand of Mardi Gras beads dangled from the rearview mirror. Stuffed into the cup holder were a pink hair scrunchie and a bottle of Diet Coke. An orange-and-white fast-food bag littered the passenger floorboard.

  She turned to the camper. Her heart was going double time now as she approached the door and knocked. She aimed her flashlight at the lock, checking for any sign of damage. Nothing. She knocked again.

  Oregon plates. A woman’s scrunchie. Nicole walked around the camper and shined her flashlight at the window, but a white curtain made it impossible to see inside. She circled around the back, and her shoes sank into the sand. It was wetter here.

  Thunk.

  Nicole froze and listened. Nothing. She switched the flashlight to her left hand and rested her right hand on the butt of her pistol. Still nothing. She thought she’d heard movement inside the camper.

  Something rustled behind her. Footsteps. Nicole’s pulse jumped as she whirled around, aiming the flashlight. But there was no one there.

  She switched the light off and waited, listening for more rustling sounds. Maybe it was the wind.

  Thud.

  Nicole jumped, startled. This time she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She unholstered her weapon. Creeping closer to the camper, she turned on the Maglite and aimed it at the back tire. A rat with beady red eyes glared at her and then darted into the field.

  Nicole huffed out a breath, relieved. She was jumping at rats now. She continued around the back of the Airstream, looking for another window. The one at the back was blocked by curtains, too.

  “Hey.”

  She whirled around with her flashlight. Emmet winced at the glare.

  “Jesus, Nik.”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Don’t shoot me.”

  She flushed with embarrassment and holstered her weapon, trying to bring her heart rate back to normal.

  “I’m checking out this camper,” she told him. “What are you skulking around for?”

  Emmet picked his way through the grass. He’d changed out of his work clothes and now wore a T-shirt and jeans with flip-flops.

  “I did a loop through the campground and saw your pickup.” He stopped beside her and looked at the Airstream. “Nice camper.”

  “It’s abandoned.”

  He reached for her flashlight, and she handed it over.

  “SUV has a roof rack,” she said. “You could strap a canoe up there.”

  He aimed the light at the Toyota. “Plates?”

  “Oregon. I was about to run them.”

  He stepped over to the vehicle to look, then handed back the flashlight. “I’ll do it.”

  He walked off, and his broad-shouldered body was silhouetted by the headlights. She spotted his pickup, now parked on the same road she’d used. Why hadn’t she heard him approach?

  She’d been distracted by her discovery.

  Nicole turned back toward the camper. This was it. She could feel it. Her heart was racing now, and not just because Emmet had scared the crap out of her. This location had bay access and was less than a mile north of where the bodies had been found.

  But why set up here, away from the campground? Maybe someone was squatting here, using the bathrooms and avoiding the fees.

  Nicole circled the car again, then searched the weeds around the Airstream, looking for trash or footprints or any other clues. Her flashlight beam fell on a pair of black Teva sandals on the ground near the camper door.

  She crouched down. Men’s shoes, probably size ten or eleven.

  She stood up and examined the door again, itching to try the latch.

  “Hey, Nicole,” Emmet called from his truck.

  She heard the excitement in his voice.

  “What is it?”

  “I think we’ve got something.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Joel trekked up the stairs to his house and cradled his phone on his shoulder as he unlocked the door.

  “Did you talk to him?” he asked.

  “Just got off the
phone,” Nick Brady told him. At Joel’s request, the chief had checked in with a DEA contact, hoping to get a lead. “No run-ins with anyone who meets the description of our victims.”

  “Shit.”

  “I know.”

  Joel stepped into his dark house.

  “I’m not surprised, though,” Brady said. “If these two were running drugs on the bay, it was strictly amateur hour. No one makes a handoff in a canoe.”

  Joel knew he was right, but he’d hoped for a lead anyway.

  “Thanks for checking,” he said.

  “No problem. You home now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rest up. We’ve got a big day tomorrow,” Brady said. “Try to get in early before the media invasion.”

  “I will.”

  “And if they corner you for a quote—”

  “No comment. I know.”

  Joel ended the call and set his phone on the kitchen counter beside his keys. As he scanned his messy living room, his gaze landed on the tuxedo on a hanger draped over the back of his sofa. The tux was overdue, and now he owed a fee. Perfect. And the woman who ran the island’s only formal-wear shop lived for weddings and would pump him for details the second he set foot in the store.

  Joel grabbed a beer from the fridge and twisted off the top, then went out onto the deck. His house was small but solid. It had withstood a Cat 4 hurricane and three tropical storms, including one since he’d lived here. He’d been working on fixing the place up, and his current project was replacing splintered decking.

  No wind tonight, just a light breeze. He walked out over the boathouse and leaned against the railing, looking down the canal toward the bay.

  Elaina was married.

  To Joel’s best friend.

  They were on their honeymoon right now in Hawaii, probably watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.

  Joel sipped his beer and waited to feel something. Resentment. Jealousy. Regret. But he didn’t. Just like at the wedding, he felt nothing but mild annoyance that people kept sneaking glances at him to get his reaction.

  Maybe there was something wrong with him. After a three-year relationship, he should probably feel at least something watching two people he knew better than anyone stand at the front of a church and exchange vows. But he didn’t feel a thing, and hadn’t since he’d heard about the wedding. It was almost like the news had put his feelings for both of them on ice.

  He sipped his beer. It was cold and bitter and felt good on his parched throat.

  His sister said he was in denial. She had a degree in psychology, so maybe she was right. He’d trusted her judgment, too, which was why he’d planned to take a few vacation days after the wedding and head down to Cozumel to do some diving. But the callout on Monday morning had derailed that plan and, truth be told, he didn’t mind. He wasn’t big on vacations, and this one could wait until he didn’t have a double homicide in his lap.

  A boat motored by. Joel watched the running light get smaller and smaller until it became a pinprick. It was headed for the bay, probably to do some midnight fishing. Joel pictured Jennifer Meznick on her dock Monday morning, reeling in a redfish before witnessing someone who’d just murdered two people make a quick escape.

  Or maybe not. Maybe the boat she’d seen had nothing to do with anything.

  Joel checked his watch. Forty-two hours.

  He counted because it mattered. The mythical “first forty-eight” in homicide investigations was real, and he knew that if he and his team didn’t get a break soon, the trail would grow cold.

  Evidence is ephemeral.

  Miranda was right. And not just physical evidence—people’s memories faded, too.

  He thought of her at that picnic table tonight, with her loose curls blowing in the breeze. He pictured her plump mouth, which he’d been thinking about since yesterday. He pictured her brown eyes and the little worry line between her brows as she’d watched him talk about the case. She was right to worry. He was on a clock, and she knew as well as he did that time was ticking away.

  So, was she onto something with the feather thing?

  Joel didn’t know. A Brazilian parrot was a strange twist. But everything about this case had been strange from the jump. He would follow up on the lead because he didn’t have a choice. Right now he had no IDs and no motive, and the few clues he had didn’t add up.

  Yet.

  And then there was the challenge of Miranda. Last night she’d been closed off. Defensive. Today, not so much. She’d seemed more relaxed tonight, smiling and talking and even laughing at some points. But still he could tell she was holding back, never truly letting her guard down.

  And she continued to refuse the offer to join his team. Not that he blamed her. If she was dealing with burnout, the last place she should be working was his overwhelmed police department during peak tourist season. They’d be swamped with property crimes, drug crimes, sexual assaults. They’d recently seen an uptick in sex trafficking, too. Growth was a mixed blessing, and the same forces that brought jobs to the island also brought an increase in illegal activity.

  Sometimes Joel felt like he was standing on the shore watching a wave form, one that had the potential to crash over him and wipe out the idyllic town where he’d grown up. Lost Beach wasn’t the same now as when he’d been a kid, and he wanted to protect it. Unlike most people here, Joel had been born and raised on this island, and he felt a responsibility to help preserve it for future generations. He’d never actually said that to anyone, but the idea was in the back of his mind, always, motivating him to get up and do his job day after day.

  So he understood burnout. But he was still hopeful that he could change Miranda’s mind. They needed her skills, if only for the summer. Three months was better than no months. He planned to pour it on thick with her if he had to in order to change her mind.

  Joel pinched the bridge of his nose, where he felt a headache forming. What he needed was a shower and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. He’d take the shower, but trying to sleep would be pointless. He was better off working. He could fire up his laptop and comb through reports to see if he’d missed something—maybe some small detail from an interview that he could turn into a lead.

  Joel emptied his beer over the railing. He went inside, and the buzzing of his phone made his pulse pick up. Miranda? But she wouldn’t call him this late. It was probably the chief again. He grabbed the phone and saw that it was neither.

  “Breda.”

  “You still up?” Emmet asked him.

  “Yeah.” He caught the excitement in Emmet’s voice. “What have you got?”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Miranda pushed hard until her muscles burned and her lungs felt like she was sucking in glass shards. She set her gaze on the horizon and ran flat out, ignoring the pain as the tip of the rooftop came into view. The wooden bridge grew bigger and bigger until finally she saw the yellow flutter of the beach towel she’d wrapped around the railing.

  Just when she was feeling like a badass, Benji sprinted ahead, beating her to the finish line.

  She staggered to a halt and tipped her head back to look at the pink sky. Benji galloped around her, showing off his boundless energy before darting to the shore to chase down a seagull. It flapped away, and Benji raced back, dancing and zipping in circles around her.

  “You’re killing me, Ben.”

  She trudged to the bridge that spanned the dunes and snatched up the towel. She’d left a water bottle there, too, and she took a long guzzle before sharing with Benji. After pouring some into his eager mouth, she unzipped the pouch clipped around her waist and made him sit for a treat.

  “Good boy!” she said, and he ran off to chase sandpipers.

  Miranda blotted her face with the towel and hooked it around her neck. The beach towel was their signal for swim time, and Ben
ji was already splashing around in the waves. The three-mile run had barely put a dent in his energy.

  She turned her gaze to White Dunes Park and noted the shrimp boat just offshore, bobbing gently on the glimmering water. A lone man stood at the stern, pulling in a net as seagulls fluttered around him. Miranda shielded her eyes from the glare and watched him work, wishing for her camera. Maybe he’d be back tomorrow or later in the week.

  She guzzled the rest of her water and sank onto the cool white sand. By lunchtime it would be scorching, but for now she leaned back on her palms and let the wind whip against her flushed skin. Benji barked and took off after a pair of gulls. He loved it here.

  She loved it here.

  Living near the water was a balm to her soul, and she felt grateful every day that the calendar project had come through. She’d needed a change. Not just a change, a lifeline, and the photography project had given it to her. It wouldn’t last forever, but for now the modest income and change of scenery were exactly what she wanted. It allowed her to procrastinate, to put off the decisions that had been weighing on her for months.

  Should she go back to her old job? Her old life? Should she go back to school and maybe get a master’s degree, along with a fresh load of debt? Should she apply for a full-time teaching position? For the past five months, she’d felt rudderless. All her life, Miranda had been goal oriented, and this feeling was new to her. She didn’t know what to do about it.

  I want you.

  Joel’s words came back to her, along with the determined look in those blue eyes. What must it feel like to have such brash confidence? She admired it, but it annoyed her, too, because she knew what he was doing. He was wearing her down, little by little, drawing her in. And she was letting him.

  He’d lured her into his investigation, making his problem hers. She’d been up half the night thinking about it. And the night before that. She didn’t even work for the man, and yet here she was, hooked on his case, analyzing the crime from every vantage point, trying to make sense of the bizarre clues.

  And it wasn’t just the case; it was the people. The camaraderie. The buzz of shared purpose that permeated a fresh crime scene.