“Miami, originally,” Evan said around a mouthful of smoke.
“Well, I wouldn’t spread that around, I was you,” Goff said.
SEVEN
EVAN HAD SPENT THE REST of the day poring over Hutchins’ bank statements and waiting for Paula Trigg to call him from the lab. He’d also sent a team out to Dead Lakes to check the bank and water nearest the crime scene. He hadn’t hoped for much, so he was pretty satisfied when that was what he got.
The bank statements were largely uninteresting. There were a few transactions here and there that weren’t very clear, and he’d highlighted those and given them to Goff to run by the widow in the morning.
When Trigg finally did call, it was to say that, as Goff had told him, there were plenty of fingerprints all over the truck. She’d run half of them by the end of the day and the ones for which she found a match all had legitimate reasons to be there.
As Evan headed just out of town on Hwy 98, he looked to his right, out at the bay, and wished he was on it. He needed to think, and water helped him do that. But the early evening was becoming overcast, there was a decent chop on the water, and he had other obligations.
Sunset Bay was considered one of the best facilities in the state, and it was certainly designed to look the part. Evan coasted down the curving driveway, minding the speedbumps that seemed like they were placed every three yards. On either side of him were Sabal palms lit with solar spotlights, carefully planned flowerbeds, and black wrought iron benches that he’d never seen anyone use.
In the center of the expansive lawn was a small pond with a fountain in the middle, and more benches placed thoughtfully on its banks. Those did get used now and then, mainly by him.
He put his cigarette out as he parked, and stretched for a moment once he got out of the car. There were several small, one-story buildings on either side of the main building. They were set up as clusters of apartments for patients who were healthy enough for an assisted living situation. Evan walked through the double doors of the main building.
He waved at the receptionist as he crossed a large lobby that was decorated to look like a decent hotel in some more tropical locale, some place people would go for a more recreational reason.
Halfway down the hall of the East Wing, he raised a hand in greeting to the two nurses at the nursing station. They smiled and waved in reply, but they knew him well enough to know he’d stop if he saw a need for conversation. He seldom did.
Evan let out a slow, even breath as he pushed open the door to Room 209. The room was intentionally cozy and cheerful, with a pale green loveseat under the window, and matching chair close to the bed. Framed seascapes adorned the pale peach walls.
The light in the room had a slightly orange cast to it, from the slices of sunset coming through the blinds, and the small lamp on the bedside table. The room was still and quiet, except for the gentle hiss of the ventilator. Nothing moved but the numbers on the monitors and the leaves of the palm outside the window.
Evan walked over to the bed and placed a hand on the rail. As he did every day, he checked for changes that rarely materialized.
Hannah’s dark brown hair had been washed and dried. They kept it in the short bob she’d worn for years, and the ends curled just under her ears. Her long lashes rested on her cheeks, and her full lips were closed and motionless. She still had some chapping and bruising from the intubation tube they’d removed last month. She now had a smaller breathing tube running through a tracheotomy, which Dr. Simons said was less damaging to her mouth and throat.
Evan sighed and walked around the bed to sit in the upholstered chair next to her bedside table. Next to him on the IV pole hung the bags of saline and liquid nutrients that were ever-present. So, too, the urine drainage bag that was attached to the side of Hannah’s bed.
Once he’d sat down, Evan realized that there had been a change since yesterday. Hannah’s nails, which were normally bare and buffed, had been painted a sheer pink. It was barely discernible next to the pale skin of her slender fingers. Hannah had always spent a lot of time outdoors, and it still seemed odd to Evan sometimes, to see her so fair.
He resisted the urge to run a finger along the back of her hand, and leaned back in the chair.
“So, my boss has been murdered,” he said conversationally. “Which sucks the most for him and his widow, but it sucks for me, too. The County’s stuck me with his job for the time being.”
He stared at the side of Hannah’s head. The shaved spot over her ear had long since grown in, the holes from where they’d drained the excess fluid from her brain were just a memory. But he remembered them clearly. Sometimes when he looked they were still there.
It was still difficult to believe that both of their lives had been changed so completely by something as simple as a misstep, an unexpected bob of the boat, a slip as she jumped to the dock to secure the stern line. Her head had hit the side of the dock in just such a way as to turn what should have been an ER visit into a never-ending stay, first in the ICU in Cape Canaveral, then in the brain injury ward at Florida Hospital in Orlando.
And now they were here. He had sold their house and put a down payment on his boat with what was left after paying for this place. He’d left the Brevard County Sheriff’s Office and was now being shoved into a position he didn’t want, at a department where nobody knew him. Because she’d fallen off of a boat. Not his boat, but her lover’s. A stranger to him, but not to her.
At the time, he was too angry and too wounded to give Shayne credit for staying at the ER even after Evan had shown up. Once the fury and the fire had mellowed to a deep ache, he’d grudgingly come to respect the man for it, but barely.
When he felt a sharp pinch of fresh anger in his chest, Evan looked away from the bed and up at the monitor that displayed readings of her heart rate, respiration, brain activity. It seldom changed, and he seldom expected it to anymore. He sighed and leaned back in the chair.
“Anyway, so now I’m supposed to be the interim sheriff, investigating what appears to be the execution of the former sheriff, and pretending not to see that nobody in the department thinks I’m the man for the job, including me.”
Evan caught a movement in his peripheral vision and turned to look at the window. Through the blinds, he could see that the breeze had picked up; the little palm outside was getting excited about the possibility of rain.
He turned back to look at his silent, beautiful wife of five short years.
“Your cat has undertaken the task of peeing in my shoes for me,” he said pleasantly. “I’m still a little upset with you for dragging him home and then sticking me with him two weeks later. I guess he’s still upset about it, too. Either that or just hates me because he knows I loathe cats. We’re thinking about going to counseling.”
Half an hour and several lesser news stories later, he stood. He stared down at her face, so still for so long that it had taken on the presence of a sculpture. “I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He stood there for another moment, looking at the little blue causeways that ran just underneath the skin of her hands, at tall of the old IV sites on her wrists, at the earrings he’d bought her for their third anniversary.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said again, quietly. He leaned over the bed rail and kissed his wife on the forehead, then walked out the door.
He stopped at the nurse’s station and nodded at the blandly pretty blond who was one of Hannah’s nurses. Cara or Carrie or something, but he didn’t want to look at the badge on her chest to be sure.
“How are you tonight, Mr. Caldwell?” she asked as she stood and picked up a chart.
“Fair,” he said honestly. “And you?”
“I’m doing all right,” she answered, grabbing a pen before she walked around the curved counter. “Hoping for some rain.”
He nodded, meaning nothing. “Was it you that painted Hannah’s nails?”
“Yep, that was me,” she said.
“Th
ank you,” he said. “Although I have to wonder why. Do you think she notices?” He hadn’t meant it in a combative way, and he hoped, belatedly, that that wasn’t how it sounded.
“Maybe,” she said. “Do you think she notices that you never miss a day?”
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“There you go,” she said as she headed down the hall. “Anyway, I didn’t do it just for her.”
Evan looked after her for a moment, then turned and walked back the way he’d come. He lit a cigarette as soon as he was the required twenty-five feet from the doors, exhaled his first drag into air that had become damp and heavy. Faint thunder rumbled from somewhere to the east. He wished it Godspeed.
He’d been completely blindsided by Hannah’s affair. He’d had no idea she was unhappy. The only complaint he could remember her having, and it was frequent, was that he never talked to her about his work, about his day. He’d always tried to keep his work life and personal life separate, and he didn’t want to talk to her about the darker side of his existence.
But now he did so, every single day.
The skies let loose just as Evan stowed his dress shoes in a cubby on the sun deck. All rain sounded like hail on a boat. It was one of the many reasons he’d chosen to live on one. He opened the door into the salon, leaving it open wide for the fresh air and noise, and headed for his stateroom in his sock feet.
He was relieved to find that there were no fresh urine comments in his hanging locker, and after he hung up his blazer and pants and tossed his shirt, underwear and socks in the washer, he changed into his favorite blue pajama pants and headed back up to the galley.
As soon as he stepped onto the galley steps, he spotted Plutes on top of the fridge, sitting tall, tail switching slowly, as though he were a juror waiting for a prisoner to take the stand in his own defense. Just below the Black Death, on the sole in front of the fridge, was the small philodendron that used to sit where the cat was sitting now. It lay limbs akimbo in a pile of potting soil, like a hit and run victim in a pool of their own blood.
Evan glared at the cat. “Why are you such an ass?” he asked. Plutes narrowed his eyes, and the tip of his tail ticked upward just slightly. Evan grabbed a small spray bottle of water from the counter and gave Plutes a quick misting. The cat’s skin visibly crawled, like a small tsunami was passing just underneath his fur, and he flatted his ears, jumped down, and ran up the galley steps past Evan.
Evan grumbled to himself as he swept up and repotted the plant, and tucked it into a corner on the counter. Then he methodically prepared his routine evening drink, a warm mixture of cashew milk, coconut oil, honey, and turmeric. He poured it into one of the four white mugs he owned, and carried it out onto the deck.
The rain had slowed from a downpour to something more gentle, and Evan inhaled deeply of salt water, turmeric, and marine polish. The lights, and the noise, from the Dockside Grill were muted and dulled by the sheets of rain, and Evan felt like he and the boat were tucked into an air bubble.
He wished they could stay for just a while.
EIGHT
WHEN EVAN WOKE UP the next morning, he was relieved to find that nothing in his locker had been peed in, though one pair of dress shoes was out on deck and the other was in the trash. He dressed in his usual uniform, though today’s suit was navy rather than black.
Evan’s cell rang as he was putting sugar in his café con leche. The display showed it was Vi’s line.
“Hi, Vi,” he answered.
Not to be relieved of her identification duties, Vi intoned, “This is Vi,” anyway.
“Okeedoke,” Evan replied.
“Young Mr. Coyle just called,” she said.
“Who?” As Evan crossed the salon, he glared at Plutes, who didn’t care.
“The intern with the medical examiner’s office,” Vi said, clearly disappointed.
“Oh, the skinny kid, right,” Evan answered as he stepped out onto the sun deck. It wasn’t particularly hot yet, but the humidity was enough to dilute his coffee.
“He advised us that your autopsy results are ready,” Vi said.
Evan looked down the dock, where The Muffin Girl was dropping newspapers at each occupied slip. “Okay, I’ll head over there in just a few minutes,” Evan said. “Anything else?”
“That’s all you need until you get to the office,” Vi said.
“Thank you, Vi,” he replied, and clicked off.
He drank his coffee while he watched The Muffin Girl making her way toward his slip. He called her that because he didn’t know her name, but she delivered complimentary newspapers every day, and on Sundays she also brought two muffins to each boat. This was the first time he’d actually been out on deck when she’d come by.
She was a tiny little thing, maybe five feet tall at most, and probably ninety pounds if she was wearing a heavy backpack. With her dyed black hair cut in a pixie, her ripped jeans, and her various piercings, Evan thought she looked like the love child of Thumbelina and Sid Vicious.
She didn’t seem to see him leaning against the rail, but she didn’t startle when he said, “Hey,” either.
“Hey,” she said back. Her voice was stronger than he expected it to be. Now that she was just a few feet away, he realized that she couldn’t be more than sixteen or so.
“Go ahead and toss it,” he said, holding out his free hand. She tossed the paper to him and he caught it. “Thank you.”
She looked off to the side of him, then said, “Oh, hey, so he is your cat.”
Evan thought her smile was much more delicate and pretty than the rest of her appearance led him to expect. He turned his head and saw Plutes inside, perched on the wooden shelf below the window.
“Him?” he asked unnecessarily. “We’re roommates.”
The Muffin Girl nodded. “Yeah, he walks around a lot,” she said. “Up and down the docks and whatnot.”
“Really.” Evan was surprised to hear that. Although he always left a window open so Plutes could jump down to the sun deck and do his business, he’d never seen the cat actually get off the boat.
“Yeah. Like, he wanders around, you know?” She squinted up at him through the morning sun. “Like he’s looking for somebody.”
Evan felt something small lurch in his chest. He ignored it by taking a sip of his coffee. “Well,” he said after a moment. “She’s not here.”
The girl looked at him like she was going to ask.
“What’s your name?” he asked to head her off.
“Sarah,” she answered.
“Your parents own the marina?”
She blew a bubble with her chewing gum. “No, I just work here.”
Evan considered her for a moment. “What are you, sixteen?”
She shifted the canvas tote of newspapers from one hand to the other. “Seventeen.”
“You seem to work here days and nights,” he said.
“I know you’re a cop or whatever,” she said. “I got my GED and my mom could care less. It’s legal for me to be here.”
“Okay,” he said simply, giving her a reassuring shrug of one shoulder.
“I deliver the papers and the muffins and stuff, clean up around the place, and help out in the office, you know?”
Evan nodded. “Sounds like a cool gig,” he said.
“Yeah, I get paid minimum wage, but they let me stay on this little sailboat somebody dumped here and I can eat at the grill for free.” She swiped her black athletic shoe on the dock. “I’ve been here almost a year,” she said, and Evan heard a hint of pride in her voice.
“I would have liked that arrangement when I was your age,” he said. He took another sip of his coffee and let her squint at him a bit.
“So, you’re the new sheriff,” she said.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
She jiggled the canvas tote in reply.
“Right.”
“So, did you catch the guy that did it yet?”
“No, not yet,” h
e answered, and drained his mug. “Which is why I need to get to work. But it was nice meeting you, Sarah. Thanks for the papers. And the muffins.”
“Sure,” she said, popping another bubble. “I’ll see you around.”
Evan nodded, and watched her turn and head back up the dock. Then he went inside to feed the nemesis.
The Gulf County M.E.’s office was in a one-story, tan stucco building with a rock garden and one palm tree out front. It looked like the average Florida dentist’s office until Evan saw the small, tasteful sign.
A middle-aged African-American woman served as the office’s receptionist, and she offered Evan a cup of coffee before leading him back to the autopsy room. He declined politely.
She opened a stainless-steel door at the end of a short hallway, and told him to have a nice day as he went through.
The autopsy room was small but pristine, and an ocean of white and stainless steel. There were four examination tables in the room, but only two were occupied. One had black toes sticking out from under the sheet, and the other had white toes, and the skinny kid in attendance, so he figured that was his destination. The kid looked up as Evan made his way over there.
“Oh, hey!” Danny Coyle said. His smile was huge, his teeth blindingly perfect.
“Where’s Dr. Grundy?” Evan asked, trying not to sound like the kid was a nobody.
“Yeah, he had to run,” the kid said.
Evan took a second. “Did he perform the autopsy on Sheriff Hutchins?”
“He had a gander at it.”
“What?”
“I’m kidding, sorry,” the kid said, then poked his glasses back up onto his nose before continuing in his rapid-fire manner of speaking. “Sure, he conducted the autopsy and I assisted. But, you know, conveying the results to law enforcement is part of my training.”
“Okay,” Evan said. “I get that, but this is the murder of a sheriff, and I’m the investigating officer for that murder. It’s kind of customary for the M.E. to want to handle that conveyance himself, don’t you think?”
“Sure, sure,” Danny said. “But you know, he’s, uh…he’s a bit on the alcoholic end of the spectrum, you know what I mean? Only I’d appreciate you not mentioning that I said that, because I’m having a blast here. You know?”
Dead Reckoning (The Still Waters Suspense Series Book 1) Page 7