by Lucy Quinn
Oh great, Cookie thought as she watched her ex-partner automatically puff up. “Everything is fine here, sir,” he replied, switching right back into agent-of-ice mode. “And you are?”
“Dylan Creed,” Dylan answered, offering a hand. This time she saw Hunter’s forearms strain even through his jacket, and answering muscles jumped in Dylan’s arm as he responded. Their hands were clamped together like a pair of vices, and both men’s brows furrowed from the strain, but neither budged or let out a sound.
Cookie rolled her eyes.
“How well did you know the victim, Mr. Creed?” Hunter asked when the two of them finally let go and stepped back, neither acknowledging defeat, but neither able to claim victory either.
“Who, Chip Winslow?” Dylan shook his head. “I saw him around from time to time. Everybody did. Never really talked to him myself. A guy like that doesn’t have much need for a handyman.” He said the last bit with a self-deprecating smile, as if he knew that he was so much more than that, and if anyone couldn’t figure that out, it was their loss. Though he hadn’t glanced her way during that exchange, Cookie felt almost as if that hint had been aimed at her, and she wanted to assure him that she definitely knew he was more. A lot more.
“His loss,” Cookie said, a smile tugging at her lips when Dylan glanced her way, giving her a small nod of acknowledgement.
“I see. And where were you Sunday night and Monday morning?” Hunter continued, ignoring her completely. Cookie wanted to scream in frustration or haul off and slug him. What was wrong with him? Dylan wasn’t even remotely a suspect.
“Sunday night? I was home,” Dylan replied. “Alone. Monday morning I was over at the Secret Seal Inn—maybe you know the place?” That last was thrown out quick and hard, his smile not hiding the edges of the barb, and Cookie caught her breath as she felt Hunter’s gaze shift to her, darkening as it moved. Swell.
“Oh?” was all he said, but she knew that tone and knew this was going to be a conversation as soon as they were alone. “I see.”
But Cookie hadn’t let Hunter push her around when they’d been partners, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now. “That’s right,” she said, keeping her own tone friendly and upbeat. “Dylan’s been doing some work on the place for us.” She favored him with a smile. “He was already there when I woke up, though Mom could tell you exactly when he got there, I’m sure.” There was no way Rain had missed the arrival of a man like Dylan.
She directed a glare at Hunter. “He was with me when Mom found the body. We were up on the porch, and she was back behind the house, down in the water.” Meaning, there was no way Dylan could have stashed Chip’s body there and made it back around without Rain noticing. Though of course if he’d killed Chip the night before and tossed the body into the water, he wouldn’t have had to do anything at all the next morning. But that was ridiculous. She knew in her bones that Dylan had nothing to do with this.
“Got it.” She could tell by the edge in Hunter’s words that all he’d really heard was ‘we were up on the porch,’ and her glower at him intensified. Why was he getting so worked up about this? “I’m staying at the inn, as it so happens,” Hunter continued, giving Dylan a smile that would have looked at home on a hungry shark. “If you think of anything else.”
Dylan just nodded. “I’ll let you know if I do,” he promised, and if his tone wasn’t as frigid as Hunter’s, it was equally unyielding, as was his stance. The two were like dogs fighting over their territory. Better get them apart, Cookie decided, before they actually start pissing on each other. Or her.
“Let’s go check out the Tipsy Seagull,” Cookie told Hunter, pushing his shoulder until he began to back away. “See what we can find out there.” She smiled back at Dylan. “Sorry to have to cut lunch short,” she told him, and meant it. “And for other things.” She waved a hand in Hunter’s direction.
“No problem.” Dylan answered her smile, but it wasn’t as warm as the ones he’d bestowed upon her earlier. “Maybe some other time.”
She didn’t look back as she guided Hunter out of the restaurant, but Cookie would have been willing to bet that Dylan watched her until she disappeared out the door.
7
“Idiot!” Cookie waited only until the door had swung shut behind them before slugging Hunter on the arm as hard as she could. Her knuckles ached from the impact, but she’d be damned if she rubbed them in front of him.
“Hey!” he protested, all traces of the ice-cold agent dropping at once. Instead he looked more like a hurt puppy—albeit one in a nice suit—as he rubbed at his arm. “What was that for?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded, walking away and forcing him to jog to catch up. “You can’t just go around interrogating everybody you meet.”
“Is it ‘everybody’ you’re upset about,” he asked as they headed down the seaside road toward the docks, “or just one ‘somebody’ in particular? Like, say, a certain ‘handyman’ who couldn’t take his eyes off you?”
That defused her anger for just a second. “You think so?” she replied, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“Oh, yeah,” Hunter answered. “I practically slipped in the puddle of drool on the way out.”
And then heat rushed through her veins because she was angry again. “So, what, the first guy to show some interest in me, and you treat him like Public Enemy Number One?” She raised her fist again, but this time Hunter was ready and skipped out of range.
“When some guy goes sniffing around my ex-partner like a dog in heat, you’re damn right I’m going to step in,” he huffed. “Where the hell are we going, anyway?”
“The Tipsy Seagull, I already told you,” Cookie snapped back, “and I can take care of myself, thank you very much. I don’t need you going all alpha-male on me.”
“I’m just trying to look out for you,” he argued, but Cookie knew that was only half of it. Oh, sure, Hunter worried about her, she believed that. But he also didn’t like Dylan showing interest in her, and that had nothing to do with her being safe and everything to do with him staking a claim. A claim he had no right to, since he hadn’t exactly cleared it with her first.
What if he did, though, a part of her wondered. He’d made it clear he was interested last night. That was for sure. But interested in just a quick roll in the hay or in something more? Because as much fun as fooling around with him would be—and she was sure it would be a lot of fun—Cookie wasn’t actually interested in a one-night stand. Not even with someone as hot as Hunter.
She shoved that whole line of thought from her head as they approached the Tipsy Seagull. It was a ramshackle place, nowhere near as solid or handsome as the Salty Dog. In fact, it looked like a large shack that had been built at the end of the docks and then added to over the years to turn it into a decent-sized bar. Which Cookie suspected was exactly how the place began.
Ducking under the weathered sign bearing a drunk seagull reeling about, Hunter pushed open the door and led the way inside. Cookie followed.
It took a few seconds for her to acclimate to the dim lighting and the sour smell of stale beer and rotting fruit. It was nothing like the Salty Dog, which opened up to the pier in the back. The Tipsy Seagull blocked out any and all sight of the docks or the water beyond. There wasn’t even a window. It was as though the patrons here didn’t want to even be reminded of the ocean while they drank; which made sense, given that most of them were fishermen, lobstermen, and sailors. They spent all day, every day out there on the water. When they came back to dry land, the last thing they wanted was to think about water again.
Considering its exterior, Cookie had expected the inside to be just as stitched-together and piecemeal, probably with one of those bars that’s just a door over a pair of barrels. But the interior, though a bit dark and not at all fancy, was a lot more decent—and more solid—than she’d expected. The bar, in particular, took up the entire side wall and was constructed from dark wood whose grain still showed
through years of polish and spilled drinks. Bar stools crowded alongside it, and tables and chairs sat in clusters around the rest of the room.
There weren’t all that many people here since it was still midday, but the handful that were sat at the bar, nursing mugs and bottles and the occasional shot glass. Cookie thought a few of them looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know any of their names.
“Friendly sort of place,” Hunter commented, sizing it up before striding over to the bar and claiming an empty stool by the far end. Cookie joined him.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Unlike most of his customers, he wasn’t old and grizzled. In fact, Cookie would have put him in his late twenties at most. Tall and thin, with pale skin and long, straight black hair, his features were too pretty to be handsome and not pretty enough to be beautiful, leaving him looking delicate and a little unwell. He’d look more at home in a Goth band than a dockside bar, Cookie thought, noting the heavy-metal T-shirt under his plaid flannel and the heavy chain connecting his wallet to his belt.
“Two beers, whatever you’ve got on tap that’s good,” Hunter instructed, and Cookie stifled a momentary irritation that he’d ordered for her. He knew her well enough to know she drank beer, and if they were staking things out a little before asking questions, which it seemed they were, beer was a safe choice. They could nurse one for a while without looking too suspicious and without getting fuzzyheaded. Back when they’d worked together, she’d have let him order for her without a problem. It was just now, following on the heels of his run-in with Dylan, that it irked her.
“Hey, remember the Rodriguez case?” Hunter asked her as they settled into their seats. He was grinning, and Cookie found herself smiling as well at the memory.
“How could I forget it?” she asked. “Best excuse for weight gain ever!” Sam Rodriguez had been wanted in connection with a drug cartel, mainly in the hope that he’d flip on his bosses to save his own skin. The only problem was, he’d realized the FBI was on to him and had disappeared. It was as if he were a ghost—there one day, completely gone the next, vanished without a trace. They had absolutely no leads, no ideas, not even any hunches. Nothing.
Until one of Rodriguez’s buddies had mentioned going to this bar with him, this old Irish pub. “He always swore it had the best fish and chips in the city,” this other guy had claimed. “Used to go there at least once a week, been doing it for years.”
So, naturally, the Feds staked out the pub.
But it was a lot easier—and a lot less conspicuous—to stake out the place from inside. They’d divided up the days, and each two-man team had taken its turn as customers at Danny Boy’s.
For two whole weeks.
“The fish and chips really were amazing,” Cookie recalled with a sigh. “But after scarfing them basically every other day, I couldn’t even look at fish and chips for two months. And it was another two months after before I could order them.”
They both laughed, and Cookie found herself relaxing a bit. This was the easy camaraderie she remembered them having.
Just then, the bartender brought over their pints. “Thanks,” Hunter said, accepting his and taking a good long sip. “Ah, perfect.”
Cookie gulped at hers as well and tried not to notice the metallic flavor of cheap beer. “Nice place,” she said, glancing around. “Though… well, never mind.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” the bartender asked.
“Oh, it’s just”—she paused for effect—“I can’t see Chip Winslow coming in here.”
She’d been watching the bartender closely when she said that, and she saw him wince then scowl. No love lost there.
“Chip Winslow? Please!” the bartender scoffed. “That guy’s a total douche. I’d refuse to serve him, but his money’s good, so I grit my teeth and bear it.”
“Oh?” Hunter interjected. “In that case, it might interest you to hear that Chip Winslow’s body washed up on the shore Monday morning.”
“What? Hold on, you’re saying he’s dead?” The bartender stepped back a pace, and the bottles behind him rattled when he bumped into the shelf. “What happened?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Hunter said. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Winslow?”
The bartender frowned. “Friday, I think,” he finally answered. “Yeah, Friday. He was in here, like usual.” He caught Cookie’s look of surprise and laughed. “Oh, I know, we ain’t exactly fancy, but he was in all the time anyway.”
“And you didn’t like it?” Cookie prompted. “Or him?”
“I couldn’t stand him,” the bartender admitted. “Talk about an entitled little prick! I think at least half the reason he drank here was because it made him feel all big and important. Jerk.”
Hunter had been sitting quietly, content to let Cookie ask the questions and field the answers, but now he spoke up again. “If that was half the reason,” he asked, “what was the other half?”
The bartender shrugged. “Who knows? Dude was a total ass. Maybe he just liked slumming it.”
“What was he doing Friday when you saw him?” Cookie asked. She caught his wince. “Please,” she asked gently. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened to him.”
“I threw him out,” the bartender finally admitted. “It was either that or let them duke it out right here at the bar. And while he might’ve deserved that, I’d probably have lost my job for not keeping a handle on things. And I need this job.”
“Who was he fighting with?” Cookie asked, leaning forward. She caught the bartender’s eyes flicking to her shirt where it fell open, but didn’t say anything or change position. Sexuality was a tool like any other, and she had no problem using it. Up to a point.
“Rand,” the bartender answered after a few seconds, tearing his gaze away from her chest and shifting it up to her face. “It was him and Rand.”
“Who is this Rand?” Hunter asked.
The bartender sighed. “Rand Lambert. He’s my sister Mindy’s boyfriend.” Now that he’d started talking, he seemed unable to stop. “Winslow was hitting on her, and not for the first time. Rand got pissed and got up in the dude’s face. Winslow didn’t back down, which means he was either crazy, stupid, plastered, or suicidal, and I had to stop them from actually getting into it right here. Fortunately Mindy helped talk Rand down, and they left. Winslow kept going on about it, though, so eventually I got fed up and told him to get the hell out.”
Cookie and Hunter exchanged a glance. Hunter got the question out first. “Where can we find Rand Lambert?”
“He works at Kelly’s. He’s there most of the time,” the bartender replied.
“It’s the local gym,” Cookie explained to Hunter. “It’s only a few blocks from here.” She turned back to the bartender. “Thanks.”
He shrugged. “You really think Rand killed him or something?” She could tell that his concern over ratting out his friend was warring with his desire for gossip.
“We’re just exploring every lead,” she answered, downing the rest of her beer in a single long gulp as she hopped off the stool. “We appreciate all your help.”
Cookie led the way back out onto the street. The sunshine was welcome, and a seagull called out overhead as if he agreed. “Kelly’s is this way,” she told Hunter, who had followed her out.
“Sounds like Winslow was really good at making enemies,” her ex-partner commented as he caught up to her.
“Definitely,” Cookie agreed. “But we still don’t know how he died. It could have been an accident.”
“Could’ve been,” he admitted. “Or maybe somebody else helped it along.” He shrugged. “Just exploring all the options for now. Let’s talk to this Rand guy and see how he fits.”
Cookie couldn’t argue with that, so she kept her mouth shut as she led the way up the sloping hill toward the gym. Still, she had to admit that it was nice working with Hunter again, even if only for a little while. His whole macho I’m-the-man act aside, he
was a good guy, and they’d always clicked.
The question remained, was that clicking work-only, or did it extend outside the job? It was something she’d wondered about plenty of times back in Philly, and once she and Rain had fled, she’d assumed she’d never know the answer.
Now she thought she just might find out after all.
8
“Okay, not quite what I was expecting,” Hunter admitted as they slowed to a stop outside Kelly’s.
Cookie had to laugh at his tone, and his expression. “It’s no Crunch or Gold’s or any of those,” she said. “Out here, you want to work out, you go to Kelly’s. Or you exercise at home.”
She hadn’t cared much one way or the other, but then she’d always preferred to practice her yoga, tai chi, and stomach crunches in the privacy of her own home. She knew that Hunter was a nut for staying in shape and working out. And even though she’d never seen the inside of his apartment—that had been a very definite line she hadn’t been prepared to cross—she’d always assumed it would be all chrome and marble and steel, sharp edges and bright surfaces. Which made her think that Hunter probably preferred for his gym to be the same way; modern, slick, and high-tech.
Kelly’s was none of those things.
It looked as if it had been there a hundred years, with its weathered stone exterior and the painted sign over the door that probably needed to be touched up every summer. And when they stepped inside, she saw that the interior was exactly the same. A single open room took up most of the space, with a twenty-foot ceiling pierced by skylights for added light. A boxing ring dominated one side of the room, with heavy bags and punching bags all around it. The other side was weight machines and free weights. She did see one rowing machine but guessed its presence on the isolated island was meant to be ironic. A door past all the equipment presumably led to lockers and showers, and she assumed that was where the odor that reminded her of a dead animal must be coming from. A wrought-iron staircase in one corner spiraled up to a glass-fronted office.