12

Cole woke to a ringing phone. “McKenna,” he answered, blinking the haze of sleep from his eyes.

“Looks like we may have found our gal’s boat,” Landon said.

Cole rolled onto his back, blinking against the sun’s rays slipping through the blinds. “Cleary rented it?”

“Yeah, and it gets better. Coast Guard got a call shortly after dawn about a boat run aground on the reef in Herring Cove. You interested in towing it in?”

“Absolutely.” He looked at the clock. “I’ll meet you at the marina in a half hour.”

“I’ll bring coffee.”

Climbing from bed, Cole took a quick, brisk shower and then downed a bowl of cereal. Grabbing his gear, he headed across his property to the boat launch.

Owning one of only two boats on the island capable of refloating and towing disabled vessels, he and Gage were called on often—yet another one of their many services. The majority of the time inexperienced sailors were to blame, but occasionally a more serious matter presented itself. He had the feeling today’s would fall in the latter category.

The sun hung orange over the horizon, signaling another warm day as he steered the North Star around Tariuk’s southern shore. Skirting the rock-strewn inlets, he maneuvered his way to the house Gage rented. Situated on the very tip of the south shore, Gage’s cabin boasted a decent dock and plenty of privacy. Cole pulled up to the pier and cut the engine. Only the rhythmic lap of the waves and the occasional rustle of leaves broke the silence.

Securing the Star to the dock, he walked the pier’s length, noting the absence of Gage’s kayak. No wonder he hadn’t answered his phone.

Sitting down, Cole let his feet dangle over the edge as he relaxed against a piling. He hoped Gage would show soon or he’d be forced to make the trip without him.

Fortunately it wasn’t long before the steady stroke of an oar gliding through the water reached his ears. A few minutes later, Gage rounded the bend. Shirtless, his muscles flexed with each rhythmic row. Catching sight of Cole, he waved.

“I tried calling,” Cole said as he helped Gage lift the kayak onto shore.

“What’s up?”

“I got a call from Landon. It looks like they found our victim’s boat. I could use your help towing her in.”

Gage wiped the sweat from his brow. “Sure. Just let me grab a shirt.”

“Maybe take a moment and swipe on some deodorant.”

Gage smiled. “No promises.”

A little shy of seven o’clock, they pulled the North Star into Yancey’s marina and found the place practically empty. All commercial fishermen were long gone and any serious recreational ones had joined them. Fish were most plentiful and easiest to catch at sunrise and sunset. It didn’t surprise Cole the call had come in shortly after dawn.

Landon waited on the pier, three cups of steaming coffee in hand and a bag of gear at his feet.

Cole eyed the crime-scene kit. “Something we should know?”

Landon climbed aboard. “I’ll explain on the way.”

An hour later, Cole maneuvered past the breakers, easy on the draft around Blindman’s Bluff and into Herring Cove.

The sloop, one of Cleary’s old CAL 2–27s, was run aground on a reef at the far end of the cove.

“Watch where you step,” Landon instructed as they climbed aboard the abandoned vessel.

An awful stench assailed Cole—cloying and dense, like rotting hamburger on a hot summer day. “What on earth?”

Landon had said the fisherman who made the call had mentioned a problem on the boat—but what would cause such a stink?

“This can’t be good.” Gage clapped a hand across his face, turning from the putrid funk with revulsion.

Cole peered into the dark galley and the malevolent odor thickened. His stomach lurched, his gag reflex kicking in.

Landon rested a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t want to go in there.”

Blood covered nearly every inch of the area he could see. “Dear God.”

“Let’s seal it and get it towed back.”

Landon stretched a large sheet of plastic over the galley entrance while Gage and Cole helped secure it in place.

“Doc Powell said Liz’s flesh wounds were all postmortem.”

“Yeah.” Landon crisscrossed yellow crime-scene tape atop the plastic.

“From the amount of blood . . .” Cole turned his head to take a deep breath of sea air. “I’m assuming we’re looking at a second victim?”

Landon nodded grimly.

The galley sealed off, Cole and Gage set to work refloating the vessel.

Running aground on the reef, compounded by the constant up-and-down motion of the wind and tide, had left serious damage to the ship’s hull.

Cole set to the task of tacking, leaving the jib sheeted in place while keeping the mainsail tightly trimmed. With the high tide, the boat quickly spun, heeling over and reducing the draft. He released the windward jib sheet and retrimmed the leeward winch.

Once free of the rock and in deep water, Gage hooked the vessel up to their tow package.

“Cleary’s not going to be happy,” Landon said, leaning against the pilothouse door.

Cole grimaced. “Can’t say I blame him this time.”

Cleary met them at the docks, his wrinkled face pinched tight. “My ship, my beautiful ship.”

“Now, settle down,” Landon said. “We’ll help you fix it up good as new.”

Cleary’s dark eyes narrowed. “Is that police tape? What on earth did they do?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Then get out of my way and I’ll see for myself.”

Landon blocked his passage. “I can’t let you on.”

“It’s my ship.”

“Right now it’s a crime scene.”

“Crime?”

Landon cleared his throat. “I’m not at liberty to discuss any details.” He wasn’t announcing that it looked as if they had another murder on their hands. News spread too fast. By lunchtime, the whole town would be in an uproar. They were already garnering more attention than he’d wanted. Tourists slowed as they passed the docks, squinting at the ship in question.

“When can I have my boat back?”

“Hopefully soon.”

“Come on, Cleary,” Gage said, wrapping an arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Why don’t we go over to Gus’s and grab some grub while they get this mess sorted out.”

Cleary didn’t bat an eye.

“On me,” Gage offered.

“All right, but that doesn’t fix things. I shoulda known better than rent to outsiders. Who’s gonna fix my boat?”

“We’ll all see to it,” Landon said.

One of the perks of living in a small town, they all looked out for one another. Most of the time.

Gage steered Cleary up the pier as Slidell ambled his way down, Mayor Cox fast on his heels.

“Wonderful,” Landon murmured beneath his breath.

“What do we got?” Slidell asked before taking a sip of coffee.

Landon lowered his voice, “I’d say there’s a good chance we’re looking at another homicide.”

Slidell let a few choice words slip. “Are you sure?”

“Can’t be positive until Doc Powell runs blood typing on what we found, to rule out Liz Johnson, but seeing her flesh wounds were all postmortem . . .”

Slidell ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “Cleary linked her to the boat. Maybe Doc was wrong about the timing of the wounds she received.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Mayor Cox swiped beads of perspiration from his brow. “Better that than the first time for two murders occurring so close together.”

For once he and Landon agreed. “It should be easy enough to determine once I get these blood samples to Doc.”

“In the meantime, let’s try and keep this hushed,” Cox implored. “We can’t afford the rumor mill churning on this one.”

Landon spied the town’s worst busybodies hovering near the top of the pier, their heads bent in deep deliberation. “We may be too late.”

With a curse, Slidell yanked his radio from his belt. “Thoreau?”

“Yeah, Sheriff?”

“Mabel and Thelma are hovering at the top of the pier. Do what you can to get rid of them.”

Thoreau radioed back. “Like that’s possible.”

“Just do it,” he ground out, then turned back to Landon. “Get the boat hauled into our storage garage and start processing it ASAP.”

Landon nodded. “Will do.”

Slidell glared at Thoreau trying to move Mabel and Thelma along and not having any luck. “Mayor, you may want to give Thoreau a hand. I believe those two are part of your fan club. Why don’t you use some of that charm we keep hearing about.”

Cole, Thoreau, and Slidell huddled around the workstation Landon had set up in the storage facility.

The odor of blood hung in the air, dispelled little by the large enclosed space.

“Thanks for coming by,” Slidell said, shaking Cole’s hand.

“No problem. Glad to be of help.” He was as anxious as anyone to see what Landon had found. The sooner they caught the killer, the sooner he’d rest easy. One confirmed murder and one suspected one following so close after Henry Reid’s crash . . . It was too much death for such a small town.

Slidell inclined his head to Thoreau. “Tell Tom this meeting ain’t optional and I hate waiting.”

“Yes, sir.” Thoreau booked it to the corridor connecting the storage facility to the station.

Cole hunkered into an empty chair.

After a moment’s pause, Slidell grabbed one too, the metal legs scraping across the concrete floor. He sank into it with a huff. “All right, Landon. Let’s hear what you got. Tom and Thoreau will just have to catch up.”

“All right.” Landon laid several items on the table before them. “I found the remaining nineteen tanks rented from Cole’s shop. I had Doc Powell contact Owen Matthews again, but I have to say the majority looked to be in pristine condition.”

Cole sat up a little straighter. “And the rest of them?”

“Still in good working condition but with similar surface damage to the one Liz Johnson was wearing. Doc says he found particles of sediment, identical to that found under Liz’s nails, imbedded in the crevices of the tank’s valve, which is why I wanted Cole here. As captain of our dive rescue squad and Tariuk’s only qualified cave diving instructor, I thought he may be able to offer some opinion on where Liz and our mystery man or woman may have been diving.”

“That would be a man.” Tom’s boots clipping the concrete echoed in the steel-framed structure. “Cleary just finished giving Earl a sketch.” He held the picture aloft.

Cole studied the image. A man—white skin, dark hair and eyes, drawn from a distance in shades of gray.

“That doesn’t show us a whole lot,” Landon said.

“Cleary said the girl rented the boat. He only caught a glimpse of the man while they were loading their supplies on board.”

“Supplies?” Slidell propped his boot on his opposite knee.

“Diving equipment, couple of duffel bags, grocery items. Cleary said they rented it for two weeks, and judging from the amount of gear and food they loaded, they were planning to stay out the entire time.”

“Which explains why no one in town, other than Cleary, Piper, and Jake remembered Liz,” Landon said.

“He get a name on the man?” Slidell asked.

“Nope.” Tom shook his head. “He only dealt with Liz.”

“She mention what they were up to?”

“Nope. According to Cleary, they didn’t say and he didn’t ask. He just assumed fishing. After he saw the dive tanks, he figured diving. Didn’t matter to him. They paid cash, up front. Top dollar, in fact. Cleary was thrilled. Truth be told, the boat wasn’t even worth the two weeks’ rent they paid him.”

Cole chuckled. The way Cleary had carried on at the dock, he’d have thought they’d just destroyed a brand-new sloop.

“Cash again.” Slidell sighed.

“They didn’t want to leave a trace,” Landon said. “And that goes along perfectly with what I found, or I should say the lack of certain items I didn’t find.”

Slidell hunched forward. “Such as?”

“No identification. No duffel bags. Nothing but the tanks from Cole’s shop and—”

“But Cleary specifically said he saw them carry duffels on board,” Tom interrupted. “Where are their clothes, their belongings?”

Landon leaned against the workbench. “I have a feeling they were tossed overboard along with the body of our victim . . . or victims.”

Tom crossed his arms with an air of defiance. “How’d you reach the conclusion there is another victim?”

“Rain washed away most of the trace evidence outside the galley, but I found hair matted with blood snagged on the starboard cleat. I sent it over to Doc Powell. He did a quick blood-typing test and confirmed the blood on the boat does not match Liz Johnson’s.”

“Wonderful.” Slidell exhaled. “We’re looking at a second homicide.”

Landon nodded. “I strongly believe so.”

“And our body?”

“Somewhere in the gulf.”

Tom snorted. “That narrows it down.”

“It is what it is.” Landon shrugged.

“Why dump all their gear?”

“Harder to prove identity. We only know our Jane Doe’s name because Piper had it on the rental slip. Unfortunately Liz, or most likely Elizabeth, Johnson is ranked as one of the most common names out there. The prints Doc provided pulled up no information, and we need something to compare her dentals to. None of the Elizabeth Johnsons in the missing persons database are our gal.”

“So either no one knows she’s missing or no one’s bothered to report it,” Cole said, hoping it was the former. Not that he wanted anyone to lose a loved one, but having no one who cared enough to report the woman missing seemed even sadder.

“Cleary said the boat wasn’t due back until today. Piper said the same about the tanks,” Tom said.

“So it’s probably too soon for anyone to realize she’s missing,” Thoreau chimed in.

“Another day or so should do the trick. I’ll keep checking the missing persons database. Maybe something will pop up,” Landon said.

“And our mystery man?”

“Without a body, there’s no chance for identification. We’re posting Liz’s picture and the sketch Cleary provided of our man throughout town. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Tom said.

“There’s always the chance the body will float. Or someone will come looking for them both,” Landon said.

Slidell reclined back. “Not exactly comforting odds.”

“For now it’s all we have to go on,” Tom said.

“That’s not entirely true.” Landon stepped back to the table. “Whoever was clearing the boat of everything personal missed one pivotal item.” With gloved hand, he lifted a cell phone. “Found it beneath the cushion of the galley bench.”

Slidell rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Yes and no,” Landon said, squashing the budding hope. “I called the carrier, and there’s no file on record for the phone.”

“What?”

“There’s no history on the phone. The number doesn’t even correlate to any records they possess.”

“So you’re saying they provide service for a phone they have no contract or record on?”

Landon nodded. “The phone shows the carrier, but according to them the phone and the number don’t exist.”

“You’re saying we’re at another dead end.”

“Not exactly.” A slight smile cracked on Landon’s lips. “I’ve got the last call made from it. A week ago yesterday.”

“Same approximate time as Liz’s death, according to Booth,” Cole said.

Landon nodded. “It was a text.”

“And?” Slidell said, his patience clearly waning. “What did it say?”

“ ‘Let’s talk.’ ”

“That’s it?”

“Yes and no . . .”

“Real helpful, Landon,” Tom grunted.

“Who was the call placed to?” Cole asked. That, at least, would provide another avenue to pursue, and allow Landon to proceed.

“It’s just showing as an unlisted number. I’d like to send the phone to a friend I have up in the Fairbanks Police Department. I gave him a call and he said it takes time, but he can usually locate the actual number.”

“Fine.” Slidell grunted. “Now, what’s this ‘yes and no’ junk?”

“Yes, that’s all the text contained, but that’s not all that was sent.” Landon set the phone aside and lifted a glossy print, handing it to Slidell. He handed a duplicate to Cole and a third to Tom. “This picture was sent as an attachment to the text. I know it’s grainy. . . .”

Slidell held it up, examining it. “What is it?”

“A painting of some sort,” Landon said.

Cole studied the angelic face, rimmed by gold. A cherubim, perhaps. “Actually, it looks like . . .” He paused. What were those called? “An . . . icon.”

“An icon?” Landon’s brow furrowed.

“You know, the paintings you see in the Russian Orthodox churches.” He’d visited several with Bailey and her aunt way back when.

Tom snorted. “What would some old painting have to do with a double murder?”

Cole rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know. I’m not even positive that’s what it is.” But he knew someone who might. Bailey. Did he really want to drag her into the investigation? No. But asking her to take a look at a photo wouldn’t be pulling her in. She would simply be providing clarity on the image. She’d worked in Agnes’s shop. Surely she would have an idea. What could it hurt to ask? “I know someone who may be able to help us with the photo,” he finally said.

“Give them a call.” Slidell stood and dropped the photo back on the table. “At this rate, it may prove our only viable lead.”