Striker stood. “I need to get back downtown. Let’s head inside so I can get the file.”
He followed her into the squad room. Her 3.14s were signed. Copies were already in the file. Davie had updated her notes and organized all the photos. Before Striker left, she went to the Records storeroom and picked out a blue binder and dividers that would make up the Murder Book. Homicide Special had binders, too, but Davie felt strongly that this one had to come from Pacific station. She didn’t care if anyone accused her of marking her territory.
After Striker left, Davie updated the Javi Hernandez Murder Book and put it on Detective Giordano’s desk. Her boss would reassign the case to another detective, but as always she hated to let it go before it had been filed with the DA’s office.
At six p.m. she was still at her desk in the squad room when her cell rang. It was Striker. “I suggest you pack a bag. Our flight leaves at twelve fifty-five.”
She leaned back in her chair, ignoring the squeaky hinges. “Tonight?”
“Technically, it’s tomorrow morning. You can sleep on the plane. I’ll see you at the airport.”
Davie locked her desk and raced to Bel Air. At least there was no rush to exchange currency at the airport. Tortola was a British protectorate but due to its proximity to the US Virgin Islands, they used the US dollar. She pulled an overnight duffle bag from the closet. Black pantsuits were too hot for the BVIs, but she’d be there on official business so she had to look professional. She picked out several of her nicer T-shirts and a pair of cotton pants. The last thing she threw into the bag was the ratty T-shirt she slept in.
43
Davie watched Striker’s even breathing as he dozed peacefully in the airplane seat next to hers. It was her experience that men could bag Zs anywhere, but she had never mastered the art of sleeping at 35,000 feet. Instead, she passed the hours flipping through the book on money laundering she’d brought with her and watching the in-flight movie—a romantic comedy that was neither romantic nor very funny.
After arriving in St. Thomas, a cab took them to Redhook. A short ferry ride later, they arrived on the island of Tortola, where they cleared Customs. Another taxi took them to the Apple Bay Hotel & Spa, where Lacy Gillen was staying and where Striker had booked a room for each of them.
Before she left the station, Davie had printed a copy of Lacy Gillen’s Florida driver’s license photo. Still, she didn’t know how easy it would be to find her. They were in the country with official papers so if it proved too difficult, they could request assistance from local law enforcement. Whether they’d get help remained a question mark. Gillen hadn’t committed any crimes on the island, at least as far as Davie knew, and local law enforcement might view outsider meddling in island issues as bad for tourism.
The hotel bordered the sea on property that had once been a
Colonial-era sugar plantation. The main lobby was housed in a quaint building across the road from the beach. The area was a verdant paradise, but Davie was almost too exhausted to enjoy it. She hadn’t slept for over twenty-four hours—or was it twenty-eight? She couldn’t remember. Between changing planes and time zones she’d lost track.
A woman with ebony skin and a welcoming smile walked toward them. “Welcome to our little bit of heaven,” she said, with an island patois.
Striker nodded toward Davie. “My sister and I are looking forward to our stay. We love the water, the vibe … ” He gave Davie a side-glance. “ … the rum.”
The woman broadened her smile. “Then you will be very happy here.”
It was clear Striker didn’t want to tell the hotel staff they were cops stalking a hotel guest to question her about her husband’s murder. They followed the woman to a small bar with a panoramic view of Apple Bay where they were instructed to wait until their rooms were ready.
“Is this the only bar?” Davie asked, hoping it wasn’t the lone place where guests congregated. If Lacy Gillen spent her days touring the island, she and Striker might have to search a wide swath of territory to find her. Worse yet, she might stay in her room.
“There’s a restaurant and bar across the road at our private beach,” she said. “We serve lunch and dinner there. You can also snorkel, swim, or relax on the sand.”
Davie thought of how easily her chalky white skin burned in the sun. She hadn’t thought to bring sunscreen. If they had to interview Lacy Gillen on the beach, she hoped it would be under an umbrella.
The woman seemed to read her mind. “We have sunscreen for sale in the gift shop.” She poured each of them a glass of champagne and gestured toward a rattan couch. “Please sit and enjoy the view.”
Davie waited until the clerk was out of earshot. “Why didn’t you tell her who we are?”
“We’re in a foreign country. Didn’t want to raise any alarms.”
“Since you’re such a good storyteller, maybe you can pretend we’re friends with Lacy Gillen and find out where she is.”
“I’m working up to that.” Striker smiled as he held up the glass. “Maybe after another one of these.”
“Hold that thought,” she said. “I’m going to the gift shop for sunscreen.”
The store was filled with a small selection of travel necessities—toothpaste, seasick meds, and a rack of gauzy sundresses in colorful flower motifs. Against her better judgment—Davie would never wear it once she got back to L.A.—she bought one of the dresses. The flowers were pink but the pattern also included green leaves. She just hoped the color balance was enough to keep her from looking like a lobster tangled in kelp. Armed with the dress and SPF 50+ sunscreen, she returned to the bar.
Striker was still on the couch in the reception area, gazing out the window toward the view.
Davie sat in a nearby chair. “I’ve been thinking about how the killer found Sabine in California. It must have been shortly before her death. Prior to that, she seemed to be living a quiet life in L.A.”
“Maybe Blasdel tipped somebody off.”
“It’s possible, but I keep thinking about something the director of Four Paws told me. He said Sara Montaine freaked when she found out her picture went out to people on their mailing list. Maybe somebody on that list saw the newsletter photo and recognized her.”
“That’s a little farfetched.”
She hated to admit it, but he was probably right. “I guess, but if we ever identify a suspect, I have the mailing list. It’s searchable.”
The champagne glasses were empty by the time Davie spotted a man in a golf cart pulling up to the door and beckoning them. She and Striker had each brought only a small overnight bag. If the driver found that strange, he didn’t say so. He drove them to a three-story building that crept up the side of a steep hill. He stopped the cart in front of a wooden staircase, where he unloaded the bags and carried them to the second floor. Once the door was unlocked, he waved them inside the room and explained the air conditioning controls, where to find fresh towels, and how to open the sliding glass door, all things that seemed intuitive to Davie.
Striker handed the porter money from his wallet and waited for him to leave. “You look tired. Why don’t you rest? I’m going to drop my bag in the room.”
“Maybe I will, but just for a minute.”
Between the travel and the champagne, Davie felt both tired and mellow. She kicked off her shoes and flopped on the bed. The last thing she remembered was the sound of the door closing.
Sometime later, she opened her eyes and felt disoriented. She glanced at her watch and grew panicky when she realized she’d slept two hours. There were no messages or texts on her phone from Striker. She was about to slip her foot into her shoe when a gecko scurried out of it. She let out a yelp before shaking both shoes to make sure he wasn’t throwing a party in there. She didn’t know where Striker was but doubted he’d made any major decisions without notifying her. She showered and had just thrown on the robe
hanging in the bathroom when she heard a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Just me.” She cracked open the door and saw Striker standing on the landing in Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a black Grateful Dead T-shirt. It wasn’t exactly the attire she’d expected, but he looked relaxed. The short-sleeved shirt also allowed her to finally see the tattoo on his right forearm. It read Breathe.
His gaze swept from her wet hair down her body to a gap in the robe where her thigh was visible. “Pardon me. I knocked earlier but … ”
“Sorry,” she said, pulling the robe tight across her body. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“Not a problem, but you might want to get dressed. We’re having dinner with Lacy Gillen at the beach restaurant in fifteen minutes. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
44
Davie dried her hair, slapped on some makeup, threw on her new sundress, and hurried to the hotel lobby. She spotted Striker sitting by the window, looking pensive. He stood when she entered. His gaze swept her body again but this time his eyes lingered on the sundress. He blinked a couple of times. “Nice dress.”
Davie glanced down to make sure he wasn’t making fun of her, but the dress did look nice. “Thanks. Does Lacy know who we are?”
“I didn’t have time to tell her. She was waiting for a woman named Valerie, somebody she met on the ferry. Until we get her alone, I’m your brother.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Just that Valerie is joining us for dinner. We’ll have to figure out some way to pry Lacy away from her so we can interview her in private.”
Davie walked beside Striker across the road to the hotel’s outdoor restaurant as the fading sun cast ripples of shimmery light on Apple Bay. The barbeque was fired up. She smelled meat sizzling on the grill and heard the sound of a band, melding guitar, bongos, and ukulele in an upbeat tune.
An attractive woman in her early forties, wearing an ankle-length dress and a hibiscus flower clipped to her fawn-colored hair, waved from across the room. “Jon. Over here.”
Striker smiled and waved back.
Lacy Gillen’s cheeks were rosy from the sun. Her look of wide-eyed joy at seeing Striker reminded Davie of a high school wallflower crushing on a football jock.
Striker sat in the chair across the table from her. “How was your swim?”
“Glorious.” Gillen fingered a gold apple charm on her necklace as she turned toward Davie. “You must be Jon’s sister. I hope you got some rest. Coming to the island from Florida is bad enough, but it must be a bear traveling from L.A.”
Davie just nodded because she wasn’t sure what Striker had told her.
“Where’s Valerie?” Striker asked.
Davie pulled up a chair and sat but nobody noticed.
“I think she had to make a phone call. She’ll be here soon.” Gillen tore her focus from Striker to address Davie. “Jon tells me you’ve never been to the islands before. What do you think of Tortola?”
“So far it’s wonderful.”
“Our uncle left us an old beach house in his will,” Striker said. “We came to have a look so we can figure out what to do with it.”
Gillen’s expression turned somber as she clutched the necklace. “So sorry for your loss. It must be sad to come to his place without him. My husband and I met at Foxy’s on Jost Van Dyke. I was with friends, but I saw him dancing on the sand by himself. He looked so handsome and carefree. We started talking and one thing led to another. We spent our honeymoon at this hotel. I hope it doesn’t sound morbid, but I had to come back here on the anniversary of his death.”
A waiter arrived at the table and set down three rum drinks, compliments of the house. Davie noted with interest the ease with which the subject of her husband’s death had come up.
“My condolences,” Striker said. “I can’t imagine your loss.”
Nate Gillen’s widow reached across the table and placed her hand on Striker’s. “So kind of you, Jon. When my husband died I thought I’d never recover, but this beautiful place helps me heal.”
She was clearly putting a move on Striker. He wasn’t encouraging her, but Davie worried about the risk of alienation once she found out the truth about who they were and why they were here.
Striker waited a few respectful moments. “You mentioned when we first met that you owned a restaurant. I’ve always had a fantasy about opening one, something small, of course.”
Gillen squeezed his hand and then let it go—reluctantly, it seemed. “Take my advice. Don’t do it. Buying that place was my husband’s idea. He thought it sounded sexy. He didn’t realize how much work it would be or how easy it was to fail. As soon as we bought the place, it started bleeding money. I had to quit my job to help out.”
He nodded solemnly. “A lot of restaurants fail in the first year. He was lucky to have you.”
“Nate loved interacting with the customers, but neither of us had a financial background. It got so bad Nate met with some business people. I guess they gave him good advice, because after that things improved. Nate was finally able to hire a hostess and a new chef. He upgraded the liquor and food. He also started selling logoed coffee mugs and T-shirts and brought somebody in to manage the books. The customers loved the upgrades. Best of all, I got to go back to my old job.”
“This business guy must have had some good ideas,” Striker said. “Maybe I could consult with him. Do you remember his name?”
“I don’t. A regular customer of ours set up the meeting. His name was Jack Blasdel, but I’m not sure I’d recommend contacting him. Nate thought he was charming. I thought he was sleazy. He was always at the restaurant, hanging around and bothering me. After I went back to work, I’m sure he was happier flirting with the pretty new hostess. He seemed to love impressing her with his tall tales.”
Davie felt a jolt of adrenalin at hearing Blasdel’s name. At least she knew where Sabine had met him. Again, she wondered if those business people had also provided the money Nate Gillen was laundering through his restaurant.
“What job did you go back to?” asked Striker.
“I love children,” she said. “Nate and I weren’t blessed that way, so I got a job teaching preschool. It was perfect for me.”
Davie didn’t know what magic Striker had worked on Lacy Gillen for her to bare her soul this way but whatever it was, he deserved kudos.
“Working with children isn’t a job,” he said. “It’s a calling. You must have been relieved when the business improved.”
Gillen’s expression turned melancholy. “Yes. Things were good … for a while.”
Striker kept his tone light. “Uh-oh. Are you about to crush my dreams of being the next Wolfgang Puck?”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “It might be different for you.”
Davie glanced at Striker to warn him the conversation was teetering toward telenovela territory, but he ignored her. This time Striker reached for Gillen’s hand and the gesture seemed too genuine to be part of a pretext. “I’m sorry, Lacy. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Let’s talk about something else.”
A woman with spiky blonde hair and a prominent nose walked up to the table and gave Lacy a hug. Her sleeveless silk shirt fluttered in the warm evening breeze, exposing a daisy tattoo on her neck.
“Valerie,” Gillen said. “I want you to meet Jon Striker and his sister Davie.”
Davie stared in shock as she realized Valerie was the person in Kathleen Newell’s going-away party photograph. From the stony expression on Striker’s face, he recognized her, too. Nate Gillen had told Valerie not to charge Newell and her friends for their desserts. Davie wondered if she was the new hire who kept the books at the Seaglass Cafe. There was a bigger question—were Valerie and Lacy Gillen only pretending they’d just met on the ferry?
45
Davie w
as eager to talk to Striker alone, but she didn’t want to interrupt the flow of conversation.
Valerie stared at Davie as the waiter set a rum drink on the table in front of her. “Brother and sister? You don’t look anything alike.”
“Yeah,” Striker said. “Everybody says—”
Davie interrupted. “Don’t worry, bro. I’m not sensitive about it anymore.” She focused on Valerie. “I’m adopted.”
Valerie’s face was a hard mask. “Sure.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t believe a word of it.
“I was telling Davie you two met on the ferry,” Striker said.
Lacy Gillen flashed a broad smile. “It was just yesterday, but I feel like I’ve known Valerie forever. She sat next to me and we just started talking. After about ten minutes we realized we had so much in common. We were both traveling alone and to top it off, we were staying at the same hotel. Isn’t that amazing? We were destined to be friends, right, Val?”
“Right,” she said in a monotone.
Striker took out his cell and pointed it at them. “Let me take your first bestie picture.” The camera flashed before either had time to object. “Give me your number, Valerie. I’ll text this to you.”
“Oh, send it to me, too,” Gillen said, rattling off her number.
Valerie didn’t respond, just sat there glaring at Striker.
Davie sipped her rum drink. “What brings you to Tortola, Valerie?”
Before she could answer, Gillen chimed in. “She’s a CPA at a big accounting firm. She just broke up with her boyfriend and decided to get away for a while.” She slapped one hand over her mouth and grabbed Valerie’s arm with the other. “Oh, sorry. Am I talking out of school?”
Valerie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “It’s not exactly a secret.”
Gillen’s tortured expression eased as she leaned toward Striker. “Sometimes I blab too much. Everybody says so. For a long time after Nate’s death I hardly talked at all. At some point I guess the floodgates opened. Sorry. I’ll stop now.”
The Second Goodbye Page 20