by Lucy Quinn
“Or he could be our guy,” Cookie argued. “He’s not exactly buff. I get the feeling any punch he throws has the word ‘tropical’ before it, and the word ‘rum’ after that.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.” She could hear rustling before the pounding of what she suspected were his feet on the stairs. “See if you can stall him.”
“I’ll try.” Cookie hung up and slid the phone back into her shorts just as Stone re-emerged with another box.
“You again?” he groaned as she moved to intercept him at his car. “Just leave me alone.”
But Cookie shook her head. “Not really an option,” she replied. “Come on, Stone, help me out here. What really happened to Chip Winslow? If Daisy’s the one who killed him, why are you the one who’s running?”
She tried getting between him and his car, but he just stepped around her. And, when she wouldn’t move away from the trunk, Stone reached out and shoved her to the side, not meanly but hard enough that she stumbled back a step.
“Just get out of my way,” he half-pleaded, half-urged. “Okay? Let me go.” He opened the trunk wide enough to insert that box with all its fellows then closed the trunk again and walked around to the driver’s side.
As he pulled open the driver’s door, his eyes met Cookie’s for just a second.
She’d seen lots of different eyes over the years. Some were angry, some were elated, some were confused, some were vengeful.
Stone’s were haunted. With guilt, if she wasn’t mistaken. Enough guilt to leave him washed out and haggard. It was the look of a man who’d done something he shouldn’t and understood that there would never be a way to make amends to all those who had been harmed.
Then he blinked and glanced away, breaking the connection.
Should she take him down, Cookie wondered. She could—though not on Dylan’s level, or Hunter’s, she’d had the training. Used it more than once out in the field, too. And a few times off-duty when some guy at a bar had gotten a little too free with his hands. It wouldn’t be hard to put Stone down on the ground and keep him pinned until Hunter could get there and take him into custody.
But if she did that, as an ordinary citizen, it could screw up any case they had. A decent lawyer could claim that she’d interfered, maybe even get her for obstruction or some sort of entrapment, and get anything they wound up learning from Stone after that thrown out of court. Better not to take that risk. Which was why she stood back and watched without a word, as Stone Harris climbed into his little Subaru and the car rattled away.
And standing there on the sidewalk as the Subaru’s taillights faded into the morning mist, Cookie could feel it in her gut that she might also be watching her entire case go up in smoke.
20
Hunter pulled up in his rented Mustang two minutes later.
“Where is he?” he demanded as Cookie hurried around to the passenger side and all but leaped into the slick, black muscle car.
“He got away,” she answered. “He’ll be heading for the ferry. Hit it.”
She’d barely gotten the door closed when her ex-partner punched the gas, peeling out with a loud screech and a deep thrum.
“Got away?” he asked as he took the next left, sharp enough that Cookie grabbed the handle over the door to keep from being flung about like a rag doll. “How’d that happen? He pull a gun on you?”
“No, he didn’t do much of anything.” She sighed, glancing out the window as the small town zipped past. “I’m not an agent anymore, Hunter, remember? I can’t arrest him. If I had, I could’ve given an attorney an excuse to bounce the case.”
She watched his jaw tighten before he nodded. “Yeah. Good thinking.” He followed the compliment by slamming his palm against the dash, making her jump. “But damn! I wish I’d been just a little quicker.”
“Then catch him.”
Hunter pushed down harder on the gas, sending the heavy sports car roaring forward like a lion in full charge.
But when they screeched around another corner and came into view of the main dock, both of them stared in surprise.
There was no sign of Stone or his Subaru.
But Cookie’s initial thought—that they’d missed him and he’d already made it safely onto the ferry—shredded as she realized there was no sign of the slow-moving boat either. And the water here was smooth enough that you could literally watch the ferry the entire way from the mainland to the island and back again.
Squinting, after a few seconds she stabbed one hand forward, pointing at something out on the water. “There!”
It was the ferry, all right. It had to be.
But it was moving slowly toward them, not away from them.
Hunter let out a breath. “So we beat him here.” Then he frowned. “How did we beat him here? This car is fast, and I’m one hell of a driver, but he had a head start. And he knows these roads—what there are of them. He should be down there on the dock, waiting.”
Cookie considered that. “Unless he knew he’d never get to the ferry in time,” she replied. “We’ve only been here a few weeks, and Mom and I are already starting to memorize the ferry’s schedule. The foghorn sounds off as it reaches the dock. It’s like church bells or the town clock or something. Everybody knows it, and you can set your watch by it. Stone’s lived here his whole life—he’d know the ferry was still at least ten minutes out. And if he guessed that we’d be after him—and he’s a petty drug dealer, he’s got to be paranoid—he wouldn’t let himself get caught out on the dock like that.”
Hunter twisted about to face her more fully. “All right, then,” he asked, his features sharpening. “So where did he go instead?”
But to that question, Cookie had to shake her head. “I don’t know. There aren’t any other ways off this island. That’s why we picked it. You take the ferry, or you’re stuck.”
“There has to be something,” Hunter argued. “Something we just aren’t seeing. Or don’t know about because we weren’t born here.”
His statement made Cookie glance up at him. “I do know someone who could help with that,” she said slowly. “But I doubt he wants to hear from me right now. And there’s no way he’s going to want to help you with anything.”
Hunter’s frown darkened into a scowl as comprehension struck. “Oh, come on!” he demanded. “Him? There’s got to be somebody else.”
But she was shaking her own head, even as she pulled out her phone and dialed. “I haven’t really met too many people yet,” she explained as she raised the phone to her ear. “There’s Larry, but I think we can both guess how that would go.” The call connected. “Hello, Dylan?”
“What do you want?” Though not the harshest greeting she’d ever received, it wasn’t too far off, the tone cold and utterly businesslike. Cookie found she had to swallow before she could go on.
She clenched her eyes shut and massaged a temple to stave off the low-grade headache that approached. “Look, Dylan,” she started, “I’m sorry about all this. I really am. What little evidence we’ve got so far pointed us pretty solidly toward Daisy. We had to bring her in and see what she said for herself.”
“Yeah?” The lone word dripped with scorn and disbelief. “That why you charged her with Winslow’s murder? I told you she didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You did,” Cookie agreed, her own tone heating up as anger surged through her. “But it’s not like I could just take your word for it. You used to date her, for God’s sake! You’re hardly impartial. And the evidence pointed her way.” She reined in her temper, focusing on the task at hand. “Hers… or Stone’s.”
That got his attention, at least. “Stone’s?”
“Stone’s,” Cookie repeated. “Only problem is, the little stoner split on us. I caught him packing up his car, but the ferry’s still on its way over, and Stone is nowhere to be found.” She paused. “We need your help, Dylan. Please.”
His short, sharp bark of laughter echoed in her ear. “Are you for real right now? You accused Daisy of mu
rder, now you want to blame her brother as well, and you want me to help you catch him? Dream on.”
But Cookie wasn’t ready to give up. “Think about it,” she urged. “If Stone’s behind this, he’s leaving his sister to take the fall for him. And if he’s not, well, why did he run?”
“Because he’s a stoner, and typically paranoid,” came the reply. “On top of which, he’s basically the closest thing this island has to an actual drug dealer. If he caught even the slightest whiff of cops or feds, he’d be nothing but a memory.” Dylan still sounded annoyed, but maybe not as much. His tone didn’t seem as harsh or as closed off as it had been before. Unless she was mistaken, she was starting to get through to him.
“If it’s just about some pot or some acid, he’s got nothing to worry about from us,” Cookie insisted. “We’re only after whoever did Chip in. You told me that wasn’t Daisy, but it could be Stone. We can’t be sure until we catch him and question him, though. If we can catch him.”
She could hear a faint rushing sound and realized it was Dylan scratching at the stubble along his chin as he thought—the way she’d seen him do when he was considering a project at the inn. Who knew such a sharp little noise could be so enticing? And what would it feel like to run her own fingers over that stubble, along that strong jawline? She repressed a shiver. Fortunately, he spoke again before her daydreams could run away with her.
“I might know where he went,” Dylan admitted. “You’re down by the main dock, right? Watching the ferry?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re in that black Mustang that’s been parked at the inn the last few days?”
So much for being inconspicuous, Cookie thought, though she did get a warm jolt from realizing he’d been keeping tabs on her for at least the last few days, maybe longer. That had to be good, right? The fact that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her? Or was it just the natural inclination of a small-town native to wonder about anything new and unfamiliar?
“Yes, black Mustang,” was all she replied. Best not to make a big deal out of it. “You?”
The sudden rap on the passenger’s-side window startled her, and she jumped in her seat, one hand clutching the phone and the other diving back behind her to latch onto her gun. But then she saw Dylan’s face peering at her through the glass, grinning. Ah.
“Let him in,” she told Hunter as she hung up her phone. He scowled and glared and kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel. “Hunter, let him in,” she repeated firmly. “We need him.”
“Fine,” Hunter finally grumbled, popping the locks. “But if he pulls a gun on us or something, don’t blame me.”
“Morning,” Dylan said as he opened Cookie’s door, waited for her to climb out, and then squeezed into the car’s incredibly cramped backseat. “Doing a little sightseeing, eh?”
Cookie reclaimed her seat and turned, noting the gleam in his eye. He’d gone from pissed to mischievous in one point six seconds flat. What was he up to? Playing along, she asked, “Sure, why not? Anything you think Hunter here really ought to see?”
“Well, there’s one place,” Dylan answered, drawing out the words just to make them suffer. Cookie could tell he was enjoying himself. “It isn’t open right now, strictly speaking, but it’s still a nice place to sit and relax, and it’s got a gorgeous view. Good enough to paint, even.”
Cookie had been puzzling over his words, trying to make sense of them as he spoke, and she could see by the knit of his brows that Hunter was just as confused as she was, if not more so. But then she registered Dylan’s last comment, and something clicked in her memory. A slow smile spread across her face as she turned to her ex-partner.
“I know where Stone went,” she told him. She hoped she—and Dylan—were right.
21
“Explain this to me again,” Hunter insisted as he gunned the engine and raced down the island’s main street, flying past their one tiny post office, the sheriff’s station, and the handful of other businesses and organizations. “The only way off the island is the ferry, and the ferry only stops at the main dock. The one we just left. But instead of waiting there for Stone to show, you’ve got me speeding away from it, to the other end of this place.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the backseat, then toward Cookie before returning to the road as his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “How do we know you’re not just creating a diversion, getting us out of the way so Stone can make a clean getaway?”
“Because,” Dylan snapped back before Cookie could even formulate a reply, “the one I’m worried about here is Daisy. And like Cookie said, if Stone is behind this, he’s leaving her in the lurch. I won’t stand for that.” He sighed and rubbed at his face, once again eliciting that faint scratching sound that had drawn her in earlier. “Look, Stone’s not a bad guy. Big-time slacker, sure, and generally useless, but he’s not mean or cruel or anything. And he does love his dad and his sister. I have a hard time believing he’s the one who killed Chip, or that he’d let Daisy go down for it if he did.” He shook his head. “At the same time, the fact that he’s running can’t be good. And if there’s a chance this’ll help clear Daisy, I’m willing to take it.”
Hunter considered that for a second before finally giving a terse nod. “All right. So where are we going?”
“This island has two halves, basically,” Cookie answered, happy to break in and possibly defuse the clash of manly egos filling the car with testosterone. “There’s the part you’ve seen already, the nice, quiet little town of lobstermen and a few small shops. But then there’s the other side. It’s an artists’ colony. According to some of the sites I read before we moved here, it got started back in the 1880s when a few Maine artists who’d done well for themselves purchased the northern edge of the island and started inviting friends out to summer with them. It’s private property, but anyone can apply for a summer residency. If you get accepted, you get your own cabin for the summer, and I think they cover some of the meals, too. You just need to get out here and spend your time painting or drawing or whatever.”
She saw Dylan nod in agreement. “Yeah, it’s been a real godsend for the island in general,” he explained. “Our population more than doubles every summer, which means we sell a lot more food, souvenirs, and basic services. The money from the colony gets a lot of small businesses through the winter.”
“And this helps us how?” Hunter asked impatiently. “Do we think Stone is hiding out in one of the cabins and, what, waiting for us to get bored and leave? Or head over to Hancock looking for him so he can sneak out once we’re gone?”
“Not exactly,” Dylan said. Even without looking at him, Cookie knew that he wore a smug expression plastered across his face. “The colony has its own dock. And during the summer months, the ferry detours over there on its way back to Hancock.”
“Ah. So you think Stone is waiting to catch the ferry there, rather than where we’d expect him.” Hunter nodded. “Smart. Provided he’s got a way to signal the ferry and convince them to make that stop, even though it’s still spring.”
“Contacting them is the easy part,” Dylan answered. “The ferry pilot, Captain Bob, always carries his cell phone in addition to having his radio on, and everybody on the island knows his number. It’s handy if you’re running late to make the ferry and need him to wait a few minutes, or if you’re checking to see if some package you ordered is on its way over.”
Cookie considered that. “So we can assume that Stone called him and that Captain Bob is making the extra stop to get him. We just need to get there before he takes off again.”
“I’m working on it,” Hunter growled, slowing to navigate a twisty turn. “This isn’t exactly the interstate, you know.”
Cookie quieted down and let him drive. She wanted to twist around in her seat and study Dylan in order to gauge whether he’d really forgiven her yet or not, but decided against it. That kind of motion could distract Hunter, plus she couldn’t allow herself to blatantly stare at him. Not
in front of present company. Awkward. Instead she peered into the visor mirror, which only gave her a glimpse of Dylan behind her.
Until he shifted, looked straight at her reflection, and winked. A flood of warmth flowed through her, enough to make her squirm, and she did her best not to gasp or sigh or even cry in relief. Judging by that little gesture and the smile quirking his lips, he had indeed forgiven her. And while she didn’t yet know what the future might hold for her and him, if anything, Cookie knew the last thing she wanted was for him to be mad at her.
Though a traitorous part of her mind couldn’t help her next thought: if he never gets mad, you can’t make up afterward. The heat of her blush on her cheeks made Cookie turn her attention to the road ahead, staring intently out at the hilly landscape and trying to catch the first glimpse of the artists’ colony they were speeding toward. She ignored the faint, throaty chuckle she thought she heard from behind her, though her face flamed even more at the sound.
Great. This was not what she usually had to worry about when trying to chase down a suspect.
It was several more minutes before the property finally came into view. They’d just topped another low hill, and up ahead, Cookie spied the peaks of several small roofs and the glimmer of the ocean beyond. “Almost there,” she murmured.
“Any sign of Stone?” Hunter asked. His eyes were fixed on the road itself. Fortunately, they hadn’t encountered any other traffic—a definite advantage to living on a small island, and one where most of its inhabitants were either out on their boats well before dawn or walked where they needed to go—but the road itself was narrow and meandering enough to require his full attention. Especially at the speed they were going.
“Not yet,” she admitted, scanning the area as they approached, the roofs now resolving into a staggered row of small cabins. She squinted, trying to see past them, and finally spotted a dark sliver against the sun-lit water. “There’s the dock.”
They reached the first cabin and zoomed past it, giving Cookie a better view of the dock itself—and a curse slipped from her lips. “Damn it!”