Flight

by Laura Griffin

  “These really aren’t bad,” Joel said. “Bollinger’s improving.”

  “He didn’t take those.”

  “Who did?”

  “The photographer lady.”

  He looked up. “Miranda Rhoads?”

  “Yeah. She sent them over around nine.”

  His eyebrows tipped up. “You’re telling me she took pictures of the crime scene before the police showed?”

  Nicole shrugged. “She said she was worried about the storm destroying evidence, so she went ahead and photographed everything. We’re lucky she thought to do it.” Nicole took the overview picture from him and taped it beside the others.

  Joel frowned at the board and rubbed his chin.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I thought you’d be glad to have these. They’re a hell of a lot better than Bollinger’s shots. His are blurry and shadowed, and the canoe was already getting rained on by the time he got his ass in gear.” Nicole taped several more photos to the whiteboard. “She thought to take notes, too, and emailed them with the pictures. Time of discovery: six forty-two.” She uncapped a marker and jotted notes on the whiteboard. “Outdoor temp: seventy-eight degrees. Wind: moderate out of the southeast.”

  She turned around and Joel was staring at a stack of pictures. She leaned closer and saw that he was hung up on a shot of the woman. Her hand rested against her bare thigh. A small gray feather was stuck between her fingers.

  Joel flipped through the pictures. “What kind of flashlight was it?”

  “One of those camping ones that converts to a lantern. If they went out there in the dark, they could have used it as a running light.”

  He flipped to a close-up shot of the unzipped backpack. “Was this dollar sitting in the boat like this?” He held up the photo. A dollar bill sat on the backpack beside a long black feather.

  “Oh, she mentioned that,” Nicole said. “She didn’t have a ruler with her, so she used that for scale.”

  Joel shook his head.

  “What? You should be glad she got these before the sky opened up and all the evidence got ruined.”

  “I think it’s odd.”

  “Odd . . . as in suspicious?”

  “As in unusual,” he said. “So far, Miranda Rhoads is our only witness. No one else has corroborated her story. And she discovered the crime scene and conveniently started documenting it?”

  “So are you saying she’s a suspect?” Nicole had been so glad to have the photos, she hadn’t considered the possibility. Joel was a step ahead of her, as usual.

  He closed the folder and handed it to her. “Everyone’s a suspect until they aren’t.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Joel turned onto the gravel road and saw the glowing yellow windows even before he spotted Miranda’s black Jeep Wrangler parked beneath the house. The kayak was gone now, and she had put the Jeep’s top on.

  He parked behind her and got out of his pickup. The sun had set, and the last traces of daylight were fading over the sand dunes. Beneath the wooden staircase he spied the red kayak facedown in the grass beside a double-bladed paddle. Joel stepped over a pair of sandy purple running shoes and hiked up the stairs, pausing on the landing to admire the view. The old house didn’t look like much and never had, but its location was impressive. To the south was the island’s tourist center, consisting of colorful beach houses, inns, and Lost Beach’s two high-rise hotels. To the north was a state park that stretched for twenty-four miles, or two-thirds of the island, and the distant flicker of a campfire was the only light.

  Muffled barks erupted as Joel reached the top stair. The back of the house was like a fishbowl, and he saw a skinny brown dog with his nose pressed against the glass door. Miranda crossed the living room, and Joel stepped under the porch light so she’d recognize him.

  Gone were the snug-fitting yoga pants from this morning, and now she wore a black miniskirt and a silky gray blouse. She pulled her dog away from the door and opened it.

  “Detective. Hi.” She squeezed through the opening, blocking the dog.

  “Hey there.” He glanced down at her tall black heels. “I catch you heading out?”

  “Coming home, actually.” She tipped her head to the side. “What’s up?”

  “I had a couple more questions, if you have a minute.”

  “Sure.” She scooted backward through the door. “Benji, no. Calm down.”

  Joel stepped inside and reached down so the dog could sniff his hand. Miranda kept a firm grip on his collar as he whimpered and strained against the hold.

  “Sorry. He gets excited for visitors. Benji, sit.”

  He sat.

  Joel crouched down and rubbed his head. “Is he a greyhound?”

  She released the collar. “A mix, actually.”

  Joel was eye level with Miranda’s knees now, and he tried not to stare at her legs. He wondered where she’d gone today all dressed up. Everything on the island was casual.

  He stroked Benji’s neck. A chunk of his right ear was missing.

  “What happened to him?” he asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. He’s a rescue.”

  Joel stood. Even with Miranda in heels, he still towered over her. She didn’t seem intimidated, though, and for a moment, they just stood there looking at each other. Her hair was pulled up in loose bun. In the lamplight he saw that her caramel-brown eyes had gold flecks.

  “Would you like something to drink?” She turned around and walked toward the kitchen, and Benji trotted behind her. “I’ve got beer, wine.”

  “I’m still on duty.”

  “Iced tea?” She looked over her shoulder.

  “Sounds good.”

  He paused beside the window in the living room. “Nice view up here.”

  “That’s what sold me.”

  “You bought it?”

  “I’m renting.” She pulled open the fridge. “The owner isn’t interested in selling.”

  Joel smiled. “He’s stubborn.”

  “You know him?” She set a pitcher of tea on the counter and took a pair of glasses down from a cabinet.

  “I know his son,” Joel said. “His family used to spend summers here. He and my brother were lifeguards together.”

  She took a lemon from a bowl and sliced two wedges.

  Joel stepped into the kitchen and leaned back against the Formica breakfast bar. The place was just as he remembered it, including the dingy linoleum floor. Looking into the living room, he recognized the striped blue sofa and the black steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. He’d bet there was still a Monopoly game inside with half the hotels missing and a game of Clue with no revolver.

  Miranda handed him the drink.

  “Thanks.” He took a sip. It was cold and sweet, and he chugged half of it.

  She leaned her hip against the counter and watched him.

  “Thanks for sending your pictures over.” He set the glass down. “They’re really good. Better than good. They’re excellent.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me you were a CSI?”

  She lifted her shoulder. “I’m not anymore. I left my job five months ago.”

  “But you’re still licensed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you teach?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

  He smiled. “I was curious. Is that where you were today?”

  She didn’t answer, and he got the sense she wanted to tell him it was none of his damn business. She turned and put the pitcher back into the fridge. She was stalling for time. She leaned back against the counter and looked at him.

  “Today I had a deposition in San Antonio,” she said. “A case from last year that’s on its way to trial.”

  He nod
ded. “And how many courses do you teach?”

  “Just one. Beginning Forensic Photography at St. John’s College.”

  “Good school. But that’s what, a three-hour drive? You do that twice a week?”

  “Only on Tuesdays.”

  “Pretty long haul to teach a class.”

  “I don’t mind.” She gave a tight smile. “Nature photography doesn’t pay all the bills, unfortunately.”

  Joel watched her. She seemed guarded, and he could tell she didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken.

  “Your photographs are going to be critical to our investigation,” he said. “We called a CSI from the county down here, but by the time he showed up and got started it was too late for some of the trace evidence. Your crime scene pictures really saved our bacon.”

  “Well. I was glad to help. Evidence is ephemeral.”

  He nodded. “Especially here. Weather changes on a dime. Half the time we’re dealing with outdoor crime scenes and we’re up against the elements.”

  She folded her arms over her breasts and tipped her head to the side. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come here to talk about the weather?”

  “You’re right. I came to see if you’d be interested in helping us.”

  “Us?”

  “The department. Lost Beach PD.”

  When she didn’t respond he kept going.

  “We haven’t had a CSI on staff in six months, and now we’ve got this murder case in our lap. The high season starts in two weeks, and that means our crime rate doubles. More car thefts, break-ins, assaults. We’re buried already, and it’s not even Memorial Day.”

  She just looked at him. “So . . . let me get this straight. You came here to hire me?”

  “We could use your expertise.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Miranda stared at him, trying to get her head around the idea.

  “You want me to work for you,” she stated.

  “No, actually.” He rubbed the stubble along his chin. He had a strong jaw—strong features in general—and she was trying not to get distracted by his looks.

  “You’d report to Chief Brady,” he said. “He authorized me to offer you the job.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested.”

  He smiled, and a warm flutter settled in the pit of her stomach. “You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”

  “I’m not looking for a job, Detective.”

  “It’s Joel. And I thought nature photography didn’t pay the bills.” His tone was easygoing, which made it hard for her to be annoyed that he was tossing her own words back at her.

  “Nevertheless, I’m not in the market.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She forced her arms to her sides because she didn’t want to fidget. She wanted to be decisive. “But thank you for thinking of me.”

  The side of his mouth curved with amusement, and the warm flutter was back again. Joel Breda was sexy and charming, and she’d already noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. But she wasn’t about to let him come in here and upend her life. She’d left her job without a backward glance, and she hadn’t regretted it.

  His phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket. His expression quickly turned serious.

  “Sorry,” he said without looking up. “I have to go.”

  “I understand.”

  He glanced up at her, and the intense look in those blue eyes caught her off guard. Wow. Smiling, he was attractive. But his serious look ramped it up to a whole new level.

  He tucked his phone away and headed for the door. Benji followed him.

  Miranda walked around them and opened the door. “Thanks again for the offer. I’m sure you’ll find someone to fill the bill.”

  He lifted an eyebrow skeptically instead of agreeing with her. “Be sure to lock up,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Good night, Miranda. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The police station was practically deserted. Their receptionist had long since gone home for the night, and the only officer in the bullpen was the rookie, Adam McDeere. He sat at his computer, probably dealing with the blizzard of paperwork that had resulted from the day’s events.

  Joel traded nods with him as he cut through the cubicles. McDeere didn’t stop typing. Given his agonizing hunt-and-peck method, he was going to be here all night.

  Nicole stepped out of the interview room and caught Joel’s eye. She closed the door behind her and walked over to meet him.

  “Who is she again?” Joel asked.

  “Her name’s Jennifer Meznick, forty-six.”

  Joel ducked into the break room, and Nicole followed. He hadn’t eaten anything since a chocolate glazed doughnut six hours ago, and he was running on fumes. He went straight for the vending machine and fed in some quarters. “Meznick. I don’t recognize that name.” He jabbed a button for Dr Pepper, and a bottle thunked down.

  “They’re weekenders. Were weekenders,” Nicole said. “They’ve owned a house on Bay View Drive for sixteen years. Now they’re going through a divorce, and she’s moved down temporarily to fix the place up to sell.”

  Joel twisted off the top and took a swig. It was fizzy and cold but didn’t compare to Miranda’s home-brewed iced tea.

  “How come we didn’t talk to her this morning when we canvassed?” he asked.

  “She was off island. Visiting her mother in Kingsville, apparently. Said she didn’t hear about everything until tonight when a neighbor called her. She said she came straight over.” Nicole crossed her arms. “And that’s about to be a problem, by the way. The word is out about the murders, and it’s only a matter of time before we get big-city media down here. Brady’s in his office fielding calls, and his phone’s been ringing off the hook for the last half hour.”

  “We haven’t confirmed manner of death,” Joel reminded her.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Two dead bodies, possibly tourists, and summer season’s about to kick off.”

  Joel glanced through the door at the chief’s office. Brady hated dealing with reporters, and this was the second time he’d had to do it in less than a week. On Friday a group of protesters had showed up to picket the resort being built at the southern tip of the island. Police had arrested half a dozen people for criminal mischief, and photos of vandalized construction equipment had landed on the front page of the Corpus Christi Gazette. The media fallout from today was going to be worse by a magnitude of a thousand. Joel was glad he didn’t have the chief’s job.

  He looked at Nicole, who was watching him expectantly.

  “What’s your impression of this witness?” he asked. “She on the level?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “You want to sit in on the interview?”

  “Sure.”

  Joel recapped his drink and stashed it in the fridge.

  “So, did you talk to Miranda Rhoads about the job?” Nicole asked.

  “She’s not interested.”

  “Really? I’m surprised.”

  “I’ll work on her.”

  Joel wasn’t ready to give up on Miranda yet. He’d caught a tiny spark of interest when he’d first made the offer. He could build on that. She’d seemed intrigued by the case, and she didn’t strike him as the type to want to sit this one out.

  Miranda had an obvious talent for CSI work, and he was determined to convince her to join the team.

  Nicole checked her watch.

  “Let’s get this interview done,” he said. “Then you can get out of here.”

  “Roger that.”

  He led the way to the interview room. Opening the door, he was immediately hit by the smell of paint thinner. Jennifer Meznick wore a white T-sh
irt and torn jeans that were spattered with seafoam green. Her short dark hair was pulled back in a stubby ponytail.

  “Ms. Meznick? Joel Breda, Lost Beach PD.”

  “Hi. Are you in charge of the case?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He and Nicole sat down in plastic chairs across from the witness, and Nicole pulled out a spiral notepad. Meznick eyed it nervously.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Joel said, trying to put her at ease.

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Well, I don’t know if this is helpful, but I thought I should talk to y’all.”

  “Can you reiterate what you went through with Detective Lawson?”

  Another deep breath. “Well, I was gone all day, like I said. My mom lives in Kingsville, so I had to run up there and take her to a doctor’s appointment.”

  Joel nodded. “Let’s start with this morning.”

  “Well.” She paused and seemed to gather her thoughts. “I got up early to fish. I’d checked the tide chart last night, and I wanted to get a line in the water while the fish were moving. I slept through my first alarm and—”

  “What time was that?” Joel asked.

  “That was five a.m. It went off again at five ten and I got up to put a line in.” She folded her hands together and rested them on the table, and Joel noticed her fingers were smeared with more seafoam green. “I wanted coffee, so I put my fishing rod in the holder down by the dock—I’ve got one of those PVC things attached to the post on the boathouse? Anyway, I put the rod there and ran up to make some coffee. A few minutes later my dog—she’s a Lab—she starts barking like crazy, and I knew I had a bite.”

  “Okay. You know what time this was?”

  “I think about five thirty-five? So, I went down there, and sure enough I had a nice-size redfish. I reeled it in and was getting the hook out and putting it in the cooler; that’s when a boat zipped by. It was going fast, like a bat outta hell.”

  “Which direction?” he asked.

  “From the marina,” she said. “North to south, right past my house.”