Unspeakable (4 page)
“
Yep. Mainland is the sheriff’s turf, not ours,” Cinco told her. “She was found in the park.”
“You guys know who she is yet?”
“Not yet.”
“So… what can I bring y’all?”
Troy handed her the money. “I’m heading out, thanks. Keep the change.” Then he turned and gave Cinco his full attention. Meanwhile, the women were busy eyeing Troy’s butt.
Shit, when Cinco wanted a woman, he had to work for it. All Troy had to do was show up someplace in faded jeans.
“Man, I need some ribs.” Cinco said again. “You want to come hear about the fed or what?”
Troy shrugged. “What’s to hear? Maynard said she’s a stiff.”
“Maybe a little.” Cinco recalled the suit, the shoes. But he also remembered the slender body and the clear blue eyes. “Smart, though.”
They elbowed their way through the crowd and pushed open the wooden doors at the front of the bar. The air outside smelled like fish and diesel from the shrimp boats that chugged past this stretch of bulkhead all day long.
Troy’s car was parked in its usual spot up front. He jerked the keys from his pocket and unlocked it with a chirp. “I gotta work tonight.”
Cinco sighed. Very few people knew that behind Troy’s laid-back attitude was a workaholic. Cinco had never met anyone who could spend so many hours pounding away on a computer.
“
Same book?” Cinco asked.
“Nah, this is something else.”
He gave his friend the once-over, noticing the tension in his face for the first time. And suddenly he got it. “You’re worried, aren’t you?” Cinco asked.
“Why should I be worried?”
Cinco just looked at him.
“Hey, call me after the autopsy.” Troy stepped over to the low-slung black Ferrari and pulled open the door.
Cinco shook his head. The man was in denial. “You got problems, bro. Breck blew her off, but Cisernos was listening. I could tell.”
“I’m not worried.” Troy slid behind the wheel, and the engine purred to life.
He backed out of the space, shifted gears, and roared off.
Elaina stared down at the flat tire.
A blowout. Not a gunshot.
She knew what gunshots sounded like, and this had definitely been a blowout.
So why had she nearly jumped out of her skin?
Elaina yanked open the passenger’s-side door and leaned inside the car to switch on the hazards. It was fine. No big deal. She’d never changed a tire before, but there was a first time for everything. If she could handle the Academy, she could handle a freaking flat tire.
She grabbed the owner’s manual from the glove box and looked up “Tire, Changing.” She flipped to the correct page as the traffic whizzed past her. Stepping away from the road into the weeds lining the highway, she
skimmed the instructions. Eight simple steps. Pictures, even. She glanced around at the dimming sky. She’d be out of here in no time.
She walked around to the trunk and popped it open with her key chain. After shoving aside all the gear—flak jacket, evidence kit, emergency flares—she peeled back the carpet.
And stared at the empty, tire-shaped space.
Of course. This was a Bucar—a Bureau car—and someone had obviously made use of the spare already without bothering to replace it.
Sirens sounded behind her, and she felt a rush of panic, followed by relief. Followed by panic again.
Blue and red strobe lights reflected off the Taurus as Elaina slammed the trunk shut. She turned to face her rescuer, who was almost certain to be one of the stony-faced cops who’d witnessed her humiliation in front of Breck earlier.
The police unit rolled to a stop on the shoulder. The driver’s-side door opened, and Elaina could just make out a man’s silhouette in the white glare of the headlights. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he approached her.
“Ma’am.” He stepped out of the headlight beam, and finally she saw his face.
Maynard. Just her luck.
And interesting that he should happen along at this particular moment. Had Breck told him to tail her off the island?
“Looks like you got car trouble.”
“A blowout,” Elaina said. “I was about to change it, but the spare is missing.”
One of his eyebrows tipped up, and she could tell he
was having trouble envisioning her changing anything in a suit and heels.
“Go ahead and pop the trunk,” he said. “We’ll have a look-see.”
“Trust me, it’s empty. Is there a service station around here?” She glanced back toward town, but the fading light made it difficult to read the signs along the highway.
“Lemme make a call for you.”
“Thank you.”
Maynard turned around and went back to the unit. He got inside, and she watched him pull out his radio.
Elaina jerked open the driver’s-side door as she adjusted her plans for the evening. She was stuck on Lito Island for the next few hours, if not longer. She retrieved her briefcase, her cell phone, and the gym bag containing her brand-new iPod. She grabbed her purse, where she’d stashed a small paper evidence bag containing a cigarette butt. She thought of Troy Stockton. Was he watching? She glanced up and down the road again.
“Truck’s on the way.” Maynard trudged toward her car again. “Guy’s name’s Don, with Don’s Automotive. He can get you fixed up and on your way within the hour.”
Elaina felt a prick of annoyance. She studied Maynard’s face and made a snap decision. “Thank you, but I’m staying.”
He frowned. “Staying?”
“Yes.” She hitched her purse up on her shoulder. “I’ll just need a lift to my hotel.”
“And where’s that?”
“The Sandhill Inn.”
• • •
Gina Calvert spent the final four days of her life in Room 132, known to hotel staffers as the Sand Dollar Suite. Elaina slipped the key card in the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped into the darkened room. She smelled mildew and lemon furniture polish as she ran her hand over the wall and located the light switch.
The room flooded with a yellowish glow. Elaina took in the simple decor: wrought-iron bed, blue-and-white quilt, bleached oak nightstands. She pulled the door shut behind her and secured the bolt, then the latch. She dropped her bags on the blue chintz armchair and glanced around. On the closest nightstand sat a white princess phone.
Elaina stared at it and felt a wave of dread. She owed her boss an update. Maybe she’d shoot him an e-mail and hope he didn’t get it until Monday. That would give her two days to recover from this afternoon’s disaster.
She’d underestimated the politics down here. It wasn’t just about jurisdiction or expertise. It was about stroking the right egos, playing the game. She should have presented herself as a helpful federal agent, here to observe and lend a hand. Instead, she’d come across as a know-it-all, and Breck had been more than happy to put her in her place.
She pulled out her cell and called her best friend.
“Weaver.”
She sighed. Just the familiar sound of his voice made her feel better.
“I’m at the Sandhill Inn,” she told him.
Pause. “Didn’t they release that crime scene, like, three months ago?”
“I’m spending the night here.” She sat down on the
bed and started unbuttoning her shirt. Even the room felt humid. “I got a flat tire.”
“So call a tow truck,” he said in a low voice. “You’re only what, fifty miles from here?”
“Forty.”
“Why are you staying, then?”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I’m in the surveillance van with Scarborough and Garcia,” he said. “Southwest Bank branch office.”
“I shouldn’t keep you.”
“Forget it. They’re both on the phone.”
But she felt guilty, anyway. Elaina’s partner was possibly the only agent Scarborough liked less than he liked her. It was probably the magenta ties. Her boss was of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell-don’t-advertise persuasion.
“So what happened? Why’d you decide to stay?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess because they wanted me to leave.”
“Atta girl. Hey, you need a ride tomorrow?”
“I’ll be fine. I think I’ll spend the weekend here, see if I can get anything.”
“Good luck. See you in the office Monday.”
She felt bolstered, like she always did after talking to Weaver.
Hanging up, she scanned the room again with a fresh eye. It was quaint. Charming, actually. With the right man, the place might even pass for romantic.
Had Gina brought a man back to this room during her brief vacation? Did she pick up strangers at bars? Was she a loner? Most profilers focused their attention on the perpetrator. Elaina—possibly because she was a woman—believed it was just as important to study the victim.
If she understood the victim, she had a much better chance of figuring out how she’d crossed paths with her attacker.
Elaina walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. The tiny room had a black-and-white-checkered floor and a claw-footed tub. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Strands of hair had come loose from her bun, and mascara smudges darkened the skin beneath her eyes. How did women wear makeup in this climate? It practically melted off as soon as she left her apartment every morning.
She unwrapped the soap and scrubbed her face clean. Then she returned to the bedroom and snatched up the carryout menu from the nightstand. She gave it a brief perusal, then called in an order for pepperoni pizza and a two-liter bottle of Coke.
After hanging up the clunky phone, she crossed the suite to the sliding glass door. This room had a view of the beach, according to the hotel clerk. Elaina pulled back the curtains, gazed down at the lock, and sighed. Whatever she’d been, Gina Calvert hadn’t been very security conscious.
Elaina slipped off her heels and stepped outside. The sound of breaking waves lured her toward the edge of the patio. A half moon had risen in the east, and she gazed at it for a moment, then turned back to face the suite.
The slider’s lock was flimsy but had shown no sign of damage, according to police reports. Ditto the lock on the bathroom window.
Had he come in through the hallway? If so, no
one on staff had seen him. Or if they had, they hadn’t reported it. So how had the killer entered her room?
“He came in off the beach.”
Elaina gasped and reached for her gun.
He stepped into the light, and suddenly she remembered.
“Troy Stockton,” she said accusingly.
“In the flesh.” His gaze dropped to her Glock. “Long as you don’t blow me away with that thing.”
She jammed the weapon back into her holster. “I know who you are. You wrote about the Woodlawn murders up in San Antonio.”
He lifted an eyebrow and slouched against the wall beside the doorway. He was half in shadow now, while she was standing in a pool of light.
With her shirt unbuttoned.
“You followed me here,” she said, rebuttoning the blouse.
“Nope.” He hooked his thumb through his belt loop and watched her.
“How did you know I was here?”
He shrugged.
Either he was following her or someone was feeding him information. Given his line of work, she guessed it was a contact on the police force. Probably Maynard.
She stared at him and hoped he’d shift under the scrutiny, but he didn’t. He just stood there, looking nothing like a writer, all tall and broad-shouldered with muscles that bulged beneath his black T-shirt. Where was the pasty skin? Where were the horn-rimmed glasses from his book jacket photo? Must have been a prop, selected to create the illusion of scholarship.
“You decided to stay,” he said.
“I’m here for the autopsy.”
“You weren’t invited.”
She crossed her arms, and he shifted his attention out toward the water.
“This beach gets pretty quiet ’long about midnight,” he said. “Just couples, mainly. No bonfires anymore, not since the burn ban.”
She followed his gaze to the shoreline, where waves churned against the sand. In the moonlight, she could see a cluster of people standing beside a beached kayak. They were sharing a cigarette, and the ember glowed as they passed it around. A few other groups strolled down the beach, probably heading out to the bars.
“He could have walked up to her door without anyone noticing. Maybe she recognized him from someplace, let him right in.” Troy turned to look at her. “Or maybe he let himself in.”
“The lock wasn’t damaged.”
His gaze dropped down to her top button, then drifted back to her face. “That lock’s a joke.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve looked at it.”
Gina’s girlfriends told police she’d gone back to her room alone on the night of her disappearance. And yet
the couple in the suite above Gina’s had heard muffled voices—a man’s and a woman’s—in the room beneath them. Who was the man? It was one of the central questions of the investigation.
An investigation Troy Stockton seemed to know a whole lot about.
Elaina pursed her lips. “Are you writing about Gina Calvert now? Another runaway bestseller about slashed-up women?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched.
“You seem to have all the right contacts around here,” she said. “Plenty of sources. Probably won’t take you too long to crank something out.”