Hurricane Bay. Heather Graham
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chair. It’s because there’s something going on, and you’re the only one with the knowledge and the training to deal with it, but instead you’re wasting your time in self-absorbed flagellation.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Kelsey. Nothing at all. Not anymore. Maybe I should have a barbecue. Let you tear up my place while I have friends around. Maybe I shouldn’t trust you alone at my house.”
With that, he made his way to his car. He managed to open the door without ripping it from its hinges and even closed it without slamming it.
In fact, he made it halfway down the block before punching the dashboard.
CHAPTER 4
Jesse Crane was standing out by the dock when Dane returned.
Dane didn’t particularly mind darkness himself, but he kept a floodlight trained on the front and rear entries to the house and the dock. The last thing he wanted was someone stumbling onto his place despite the huge Private Road notice on the turnoff to Hurricane Bay and taking an accidental dive into the water. He’d never had a fear of thieves; the value of Hurricane Bay was in the island itself. Most of what he had that might be considered of value had more of a sentimental worth, though he supposed some of the collections his folks had gathered were good ones.
Still, out on Hurricane Bay, he’d never even locked his doors—until today.
“You’re late,” Jesse called to him.
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“No big deal. I would have watched the TV, except the house is locked.” Jesse was tall and gave the appearance of being lanky. He wasn’t. He was honed to a T. His hair was nearly black, dead straight and worn short. His eyes were a light hazel, almost yellow, and he had a way of looking at a person as if he already knew everything they might be trying to hide. He’d been with the Metro-Dade force until his wife, also a cop, had been killed. At that point, he’d left the force and joined the tribal police.
He was Dane’s second cousin, and he had mixed blood, as well. His just wasn’t quite so complex of a cocktail, as he liked to tell Dane.
“When did you start locking the door?” Jesse asked him.
“Today. I’m setting up surveillance cameras, too.”
“Your chosen line of work is getting to you?” Jesse said.
“Maybe. Come on in.”
Dane opened the screen door, then unlocked the old Dade County pine door behind it. Both men stepped in.
The house was concrete block and stucco and Dade County pine, built against the storms that periodically ravaged the area. It had withstood a great deal, even being pounded by hurricanes, because the construction was so strong. The man who had owned the island before Dane’s grandfather had been blown out even before they’d started naming storms. All he had wanted to do was unload the place; he’d called it Hurricane Bay, and the name had stuck. It was Dane’s grandfather who’d built the house. Dade County pine was at a premium because it was almost impossible to acquire anymore. It repelled termites and stood strong against most of the dangers inherent in a subtropical climate. The living room was completely paneled with it. The house boasted two coral rock fireplaces, one in the master bedroom and the other in the living room. A large mantel had also been chiseled to match, and on it stood one of his father’s great treasures, a stuffed ’gator called Big Tom in life, and—since the taxidermist had been excellent at his craft—for posterity. His father had caught the alligator, which had been terrorizing a residential canal in Homestead. The reptile hadn’t gotten hold of any children, but he had managed to consume two poodles and a too-curious cat before being taken down.
A soft leather sofa, matching love seat and two armchairs rounded out the grouping in front of the fireplace. The walls boasted some fine Audubon prints and interesting family photos.
“Want a beer?” Dane asked as they entered.
“Sure.”
Jesse followed Dane through the dining room. The antique claw-foot dining table held Dane’s computer and stacks of papers. They passed through the dining room to the kitchen, which fronted the house, along with the living and dining rooms. Way back when, his grandfather had figured people would want to be outside, so both the dining room and kitchen had large windows that could be opened up to the porch, where there were outside counters and rough wood tables. The back of the house faced both the dock and the little spit of man-made beach, so the floor plan made it easy to be outside most of the time.
Jesse leaned against the kitchen counter, looking out at the night and the water as Dane went into the refrigerator.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been out here,” Jesse said, accepting the can Dane handed him.
“Yeah?”
“Of course, you haven’t been back all that long.”
“Almost six months.”
Jesse didn’t comment. He knew what had brought Dane back. There was no need to talk about it.
“Okay, so what’s going on?” Jesse asked. “Do I have a stray tribal member harassing the tourists? Is some local all pissed off because he lost big at bingo or something?”
Dane shook his head, thinking that his second cousin’s dry expectations might have amused him at a different time.
“No, actually, I need to ask you about something.”
“Shoot.”
“A couple of months back, you found a strangling victim out in the Glades.”
Jesse frowned and nodded. “Yeah, I found the body,” he said. He studied his beer can. Then he looked at Dane again, his forehead still furrowed. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot, between Miami-Dade and just living out where fools can go astray. But…hell. That was bad.”
“Mind telling me about it?”
“I think I talked to you at the time.”
“You did, but I’d like to hear about it again.”
“You have a reason.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you planning on sharing it with me.”
“Soon. I just need a little time.”
“You haven’t found another body?”
“No.”
Jesse studied him for a long moment but accepted the fact that Dane would tell him everything when he was ready.
“I think it was just about three months ago now. The first body was found three months before that, up in Broward County.”
“And the Miami-Dade boys and Broward homicide think it was the same killer?”
Jesse inclined his head. “Looks like it. It’s a tough case. Both bodies were found in such a bad state of decomposition, it’s been a bitch for forensics.”
“That’s why it was so bad when you found the girl?”
“She’d been in the water almost two weeks, in a canal in the Everglades. I don’t really need to tell you what that means, but suffice it to say that nature takes its course.”
“So you think she was thrown into the canal by someone who knew the Everglades?”
“Not necessarily. There are a few pretty decent roads leading off of the Tamiami Trail. And the day I discovered her was…a Tuesday. Right after those torrential rains we had when it was supposed to be dry season. A Mack truck could have driven back there and the tire prints would have been washed out. Of course, a Mack truck would have sunk in the swamp, but you know what I mean. In that area, after heavy rains…you’re not going to find anything resembling a print or a track. And since the body was in the water, tangled up in some tree roots, there