Small Town Protector. Hope White
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“Probably a mistress. He has a history of cheating on his wife. Why didn’t she report him missing? We got the ransom email two days ago.”
“A witness saw them fighting, and later that night another witness saw her convertible peel out of the parking lot. They came in separate cars.”
“You’ve gathered a lot of information in the last hour.”
“Small-town grapevine. Sometimes it comes in handy.”
As they approached the scene, Garrett noticed a young woman sitting on a rock, a wool blanket draped across her shoulders. Long, light brown hair floated down her back. Garrett thought she was trembling, but couldn’t be sure.
“Is that one of the teenagers who found the victim?” Garrett asked.
“No, it’s Lana. You want to talk to her?”
“I’d like to see the body first.”
Garrett strode to the body and the chief introduced him to his deputy.
“Deputy Finnegan, this is Special Agent Drake from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
They shook hands.
“Good to meet you,” Finnegan said.
“Likewise.” Garrett snapped on a pair of gloves and crouched beside the body. Resignation washed over him. “It’s Washburn.” Fully clothed in a dress shirt, khaki pants and windbreaker. “Did you find red braided rope anywhere in the vicinity of where you pulled him from the water?”
“No, sir.”
Garrett turned Washburn’s head slightly. No ligature marks. Washburn was the next victim, yet at first glance this looked like an accidental drowning.
“I’m assuming your forensics team processed the scene before you pulled him out?” Garrett asked.
“Not yet.”
Garrett glanced at Chief Wright for an explanation.
“We’re a small town,” he said. “A county forensics team is on the way.”
Garrett didn’t want inexperience to mess up this investigation, but he knew things would go more smoothly if he worked with local law enforcement instead of being at odds with them.
“I’d like to speak with the forensics team as soon as they arrive.” Garrett stood and snapped off his gloves. “Where are the teenagers who found the body?”
“They went back to town with the tour group,” a light voice said.
Garrett turned to its source: Lana Burns. She rolled her neck and looked up at him with round, tired eyes.
“Who authorized that?” he asked the chief.
“I sent them back,” Lana answered, standing. “The kids were completely freaked, so I figured the sooner they went home, the sooner they’d calm down. They’ll be more helpful if they’re calm, right?”
She stepped up to him, a little too close for his taste, and he noticed her eyes were a remarkable shade of golden-green; her skin was flawless.
“What’s your email address?” she asked, focusing on her smartphone.
He didn’t answer at first, trying to figure out how someone who saw a dead body—he assumed her first—could be so calm, so…lovely.
Man, he needed about a week of sleep.
She glanced up, expectant. “I’ll email you the contact information for everyone on the tour tonight.”
He handed her a business card, then pulled a small notebook from the breast pocket of his suit.
“How about you?” he said.
She reached for his notebook and he found himself handing it to her. “Here are all my numbers. Cell, landline and the snack shop.”
“Are you too freaked to answer some questions?”
She handed him back the notebook. “Nope. Go for it.”
“Is this a usual thing, bringing people out here late at night?”
“It was only seven.” She planted her hands on her hips in self-defense. “I would never bring people out here if I didn’t think it was safe.”
“I wasn’t inferring—”
“I mean, I’ve been hosting the night cruises for a year now and we’ve never had any problems. People love sitting around a campfire and singing songs, roasting marshmallows and telling stories. I guess it reminds them of childhood or something. Happier times. Well, that and it’s breathtaking out here, quiet and peaceful, usually peaceful, but not so peaceful when a couple of teenagers find a dead body and—” She stopped midsentence. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Rambling. I do that when I’m nervous.”
“Am I making you nervous?”
“Of course you are.”
Garrett glanced up from his notepad, puzzled, and waited for her to continue her rambling. He found it…endearing. Focus, Drake.
“You’re tall and intimidating and your tone is, well, accusatory,” she said.
“Sorry.” Now she had him apologizing. “Back to my questions, do you usually bring your group to this part of the island?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Miss Burns, I’m not accusing you of any impropriety.” However, he sensed that, no matter how politely he phrased his questions, he’d already put her on the defensive. He’d try a different tact. He refocused on his notebook. “Do people sign up for the tour in advance?”
“Usually, yes, although tonight I had some guy try to muscle in at the last minute.”
“Can you give me a description?”
“About sixty, five-nine or -ten, on the rotund side, with thinning brown hair and thick sunglasses. I never trust a person who won’t look me in the eye.”
Garrett instinctively looked up. “You have good instincts.”
“Wow, thanks.”
He ripped his gaze from her striking eyes and jotted down the description. “What was his demeanor?”
“Bossy, rude, maybe a little desperate.”
“Desperate?” Garrett’s hand froze on the page.
“Yeah, he had that look like if he didn’t get over here his world was going to end.”
Could it have been Red Hollow? Did he fear he hadn’t securely anchored his victim and knew he’d float to the surface prematurely? If this was the case, Lana Burns had seen him, up close.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He glanced up and found her studying him with wide, golden-green eyes like she was reading his thoughts.
“What’s the schedule once you dock?” he asked, changing the subject.
“On day trips we spread out blankets and have a picnic, and for the night tours we roast wieners and marshmallows to make s’mores. I tell stories about the island and its history, the Nahali myth about an Indian girl who was saved from a freak storm by a fisherman and how they fell in love even though there was no way they could be together. Sometimes I’ll take the group up to Lover’s Point, usually not at night. The teenagers who found the body couldn’t resist, I guess.”
Of course not, they were young, romantic and naive.
As she rambled on, he put her in the naive category by the tone of her voice: hopeful and innocent. She had no idea of the danger she could have encountered tonight.