Flight

by Laura Griffin

  Nicole emerged from the Airstream with the cat bundled in a T-shirt, probably to keep it from scratching her arms to ribbons. The cat hissed and squirmed as she lowered it into the cardboard box.

  Miranda turned to Joel. “Off, as in something illegal going on or—”

  “Just, I don’t know, off.”

  “You should track down their social media accounts,” she said. “And I’d do it soon.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m betting they’re pretty active. Or she is, at least. The place has a certain staged look about it.”

  “Not the bedroom.”

  “Besides that.” She surveyed the silver camper, gleaming in the morning sun. Everything from the twinkle lights to the mismatched-yet-color-coordinated coffee mugs had looked Instagrammable. “It’s very photo ready, you know? Even the Airstream itself looks like an ad for glamping. And then the bedroom is a pigsty, which makes me think that’s where they really lived.”

  “Interesting point.”

  She shrugged. “It’s just a hunch, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they post a lot. You could learn about their friends, their lifestyle, wherever they’ve been lately.”

  Nicole walked over, dusting tufts of fur off her shirt. “I’m headed out,” she told Joel.

  “Quick question before you go,” Miranda said. “Have you touched any of the windows since you’ve been out here?”

  “You mean the camper? No.”

  Miranda glanced at Emmet, who was on his phone now. “What about Emmet?”

  “Not that I saw, and he would know better,” Nicole said. “Why?”

  “I lifted a karate-chop print from the outside surface of multiple windows.”

  Joel’s eyes flared with interest. “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  “A ‘karate chop’?” Nicole asked.

  “The side of the hand,” Miranda said. “The FBI’s got a database. It’s not nearly as extensive as their database of fingerprints, but it’s worth a shot. I mean, it could be nothing.”

  Joel looked at Miranda, and she could tell he understood what she was thinking.

  “Or,” he said, “it could mean someone came by here and cased the place.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The Island Beanery was busy with the lunch rush when Joel walked in. They made the best paninis in town and attracted a crowd seven days a week.

  He caught the eye of the barista and took a seat beside the big bay window overlooking the sand dunes. The weather was clear today. Parents with beach toys and sunscreen-slathered kids crossed the bridge spanning the dunes. May was a big month for families with toddlers whose lives weren’t yet ruled by the school calendar.

  Joel tapped a quick message to his team letting them know that Brady wanted all hands on deck for a press conference at four. Another media gig that no one wanted to do. Nicole replied to his text with a gagging emoji.

  “Hey.”

  He glanced up. Leyla slid a plate with a croissant in front of him and plunked a water bottle beside it.

  “You look like shit,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  His sister took the seat across from him and dusted crumbs off her apron. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she tucked a loose strand back in place.

  “Busy morning?” he asked.

  “We’ve been slammed since six.”

  Leyla ran two coffee shops in town, the Beanery and the smaller but even more popular Java Place at the Windjammer Inn. The hotel provided a steady stream of customers year-round.

  Joel picked up the croissant. “Thanks for this. I’m starving. Is it cheese?”

  “And jalapeño.”

  He chomped into it, and the flakes practically melted on his tongue. His sister made the best pastries he’d ever put in his mouth. She’d won awards and been written up in magazines.

  Like Joel and his two younger brothers, Leyla had moved to the mainland after graduating from Lost Beach High School. She’d gotten a degree in psychology from UT but then decided therapy was too depressing and applied to culinary school in New York. She’d lived in the city for five years before moving back following a bad breakup.

  “How was the wedding?” she asked. Leyla was one of the few people with the guts to ask him about Elaina.

  “Fine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s it? Fine?”

  “What?”

  “I want details.”

  He twisted the top off the water. “There was a church, a cake, flowers. Your basic wedding.”

  “What kind of cake?”

  “No idea.”

  “Open bar?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled. “Did you get drunk?”

  “A little.”

  “Good.” She picked up the water bottle and took a sip. “Maybe you’re not totally in denial, then.”

  “Listen,” he said, ready to change the subject. “I came by to ask something. The press doesn’t have this yet, but we’ve IDed our two victims.”

  “Hey, that’s good.”

  He picked up his phone and pulled up the pair of driver’s license photos from the Oregon DMV. He slid the phone across the table. “Do you recall seeing these two around recently?”

  She picked up the phone and studied the photos. “Her, yes. Him, no.”

  “She came in here?”

  “Yeah. I think it was Sunday.”

  That would have been the day before her murder, which made it critical to the timeline. Joel and his team were still piecing together the victims’ movements leading up to their deaths.

  “Was she with anyone?” he asked.

  “Nope. Came in by herself. She ordered a soy latte.”

  “Damn. You remember her order?”

  She shrugged. “It was late afternoon, just before close. We were out of soy milk, so she got a berry frappé instead.” Leyla nodded at the table behind him. “She sat in that chair right there until closing and looked through her phone.”

  Leyla was a good resource because she interacted with people all day long and she had a steel-trap memory. She was particularly good at picking up on people’s quirks.

  “Was she alone the whole time?” Joel asked.

  “Yep. We were pretty empty by that point.”

  “You remember how she paid?”

  She blew out a sigh and paused to think. “Probably credit. That’s what most people use here.”

  He’d been hoping she might have used a phone app, which could have given them a new lead.

  “Sorry,” Leyla said. “That’s all I remember. You have any idea how long they were in town?”

  “We’re working on that. They were down from Oregon, possibly on a road trip. We’re trying to piece together their movements over the last few weeks.”

  “Well, I definitely don’t remember the guy in here, but I can ask the staff in both of the shops.”

  “Thanks. After the press conference, I’ll shoot you these pictures.”

  She crossed her arms and watched him. “So, I hear you hired a new CSI.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “And I hear she’s pretty.”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  She smiled. “Owen.”

  Joel felt a prick of annoyance. As far as he knew, his brother hadn’t actually met Miranda, but he’d probably noticed her at the crime scene. Every man there had noticed her.

  Leyla lifted an eyebrow.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Is that why you hired her?”

  “We’ve been looking for a crime scene tech for months.”

  “But not actively recruiting.”

  “We’ve got a double homicide,” he said. “We’re underwater
, and we’re about to be neck-deep in tourists.”

  He sounded defensive now, and Leyla raised her brow again. She communicated a lot with that eyebrow. In this instance Joel knew that she—like every other business owner in town—was hoping Joel and his team would solve the case quickly and make an arrest before Lost Beach got more bad publicity ahead of the high season.

  Joel wanted nothing more, and it wasn’t only about tourism. He’d felt a weight on his shoulders from the moment he’d seen the victims’ bodies intertwined in that canoe. They had been posed. Whoever had done that was sick, and the thought of that person roaming his hometown with impunity made Joel’s blood boil. As lead detective, he was responsible for bringing that person to justice. The investigation was off to a slow start, but things were ramping up now, and Joel planned to be laser focused until he had the killer in custody. He couldn’t let anything, including Miranda, distract him from that goal.

  “So, is Owen on this case, too?” Leyla asked.

  “Everyone’s on it. We’re thinking of forming a task force and bringing in some resources from the sheriff’s department.”

  She looked surprised, probably because she knew about the turf wars around here. Lost Beach was like any other small town.

  “Whose idea was that?” she asked.

  “Nicole’s.”

  “You should do it. Tell Brady to get over his ego and get some help.”

  Easier said than done.

  Joel finished off his croissant as some new customers walked in, all men wearing dress shirts and ties.

  “Geez, more media bros. I have to go.” She slid back her chair.

  “Thanks for lunch.”

  “Sure.” Leyla squeezed his arm. “And don’t work too hard,” she said, even though she knew he would. “I’m serious, Joel.”

  “Same to you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Miranda hefted her tripod onto her shoulder and trekked through the cordgrass. The last bit of daylight faded over the wetlands as birds and other creatures settled in for the night.

  The marina glowed like a lantern, and the parking lot was busy with fishermen securing their boats before taking home their catch or heading to the upstairs bar for a beer. Even on a weeknight, the place was busy.

  Miranda’s duck boots squished in the mud as she neared the parking lot. A man stood there watching her, and his tall, wide-shouldered build was unmistakable. A warm tingle went through her as he walked out to meet her.

  Joel looked good again. His hair was windblown, and he had the scruffy-beard thing going. He was attractive. Very. There was no denying it, or denying the zing of excitement she felt every time she saw him.

  He stopped in front of her. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said, suppressing a smile. “What brings you out here?”

  “Interviewing regulars.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not much. Here.” He reached for her tripod, and she handed it over.

  He swung it onto his shoulder as they set off toward the lot. He was in his work clothes still, with his gun and badge clipped at his hip.

  She matched her stride to his as they crossed the field. She felt ridiculously happy to bump into him here—a pleasant surprise at the end of a tedious day.

  “I talked to a couple fishermen,” he said. “They were out on the bay early Monday morning around the time of the murders, but no one saw anything.”

  “Bummer.”

  “No one heard anything, either.” He glanced toward the bay. “That’s three people—including you—who were out there that morning but didn’t hear any gunshots.”

  Scanning the parking lot, she spied a white LBPD pickup next to her Jeep.

  “Wind does funny things to sounds out on the water,” she said.

  “True.”

  They walked in silence, and she glanced at him. He looked tense, and his thoughts seemed far away.

  “What about you?” he asked. “You get any good photos?”

  “Some wade birds. Mostly ibis.”

  They reached her Jeep, and she unlooped the camera from her neck.

  “You want this in back?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He stowed the tripod on the floor, securing the end under the passenger seat so it wouldn’t bounce out. He turned to her and rested his hands on his hips, and she marveled again at his broad shoulders. He somehow managed to look athletic just standing there.

  “What were you hoping for?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your photo shoot.”

  She stashed her camera bag in back with the tripod. “A reddish egret. Preferably a breeding adult male.”

  “Why?”

  “They have the best plumage.” She dusted her hands on her pants and turned to face him. “Seen any around?”

  “No idea. How do you tell an egret from an ibis?”

  “An egret’s bill is long and pointed. An ibis has a curved bill for hunting prey in the shallows. The ibis is closely related to spoonbills, actually, but those have a spatulate bill.”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Sorry.” She grinned. “Bird nerd here.”

  He smiled slightly. But his expression turned serious as he looked out at the bay. “You should be careful hiking out there alone.”

  “I am.”

  “Especially at night.”

  “I am. Anyway, I saw Nicole out there earlier. She was alone.”

  “Nicole is armed. You’re not.”

  “Says who?”

  Interest sparked in his eyes as he looked her over, and his gaze lingered on her hips. Her form-fitting yoga pants didn’t leave room for a pistol.

  “I carry pepper spray.” She patted the zipper pouch clipped around her waist. “Never leave home without it.”

  He scoffed.

  “What? This stuff could fell a bear.”

  “Not much good unless you’re quick on the draw.”

  His tone was joking, but his eyes were deadly serious. His protectiveness put a warm glow inside her. How did he manage to do that? Usually men telling her what to do pissed her off.

  Their gazes locked, and she felt another buzz of physical awareness. She wondered what he was doing tonight. She pictured him going home to an empty apartment and had the sudden urge to invite him to her place. How would he respond if she asked him?

  Of course, she shouldn’t ask him. They were working together now, and she should keep things professional.

  She unclipped her pouch and dropped it into her back seat with her camera. “So.” She cleared her throat. “Where are you off to now?”

  “Work.” He cast another glance at the bay. “I need to write up these interviews and go through some reports.” He heaved a sigh and looked at her. “You?”

  “Home,” she said lightly, covering her disappointment. “Benji’s been cooped up awhile now, so he needs a walk.”

  He opened the door for her and stepped aside.

  “Thanks.” She looked up at his somber blue eyes. He seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders tonight, and she felt a pang of empathy. He was under intense pressure right now. Yet he still found the time to carry her tripod and show concern about her safety.

  She went up on tiptoes and kissed him. His mouth was firm and warm, and she eased back to see his startled expression.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  She stepped back, and he caught her hand.

  “Do it again.”

  Her heart skittered. She went up on tiptoes again. This time he slid his hands around her waist, pulling her snugly against him as she pressed her mouth to his.

  He tipped his head to the side and coaxed her lips apart, and she slid her tongue against his. He tasted sharp and musky, and every nerve
in her body caught fire as his big hands glided over her hips and squeezed. She combed her fingers into his hair, pulling his head down, drinking in his kiss and letting it go on and on until she felt dizzy. His mouth was demanding, like he wanted more of her, and she pressed against him, feeling the hard ridge of him against her stomach. He made a low sound deep in his chest, and lust shot through her.

  Finally, she eased back and blinked up at him. Holy hell.

  Heat flared in his eyes, and something else. Frustration. His fingers curved into her hips, holding her in place.

  Then he loosened his grip.

  “Wow.” Her lips tingled as she stepped back.

  “I’m still on duty,” he said, and his gruff voice sent another shot of lust through her.

  “I know. I didn’t mean to . . .” She slid into the driver’s seat, needing to put some space between them.

  “What?”

  “Start something.”

  She should really shut up now. And leave before she did something else that was stupid. Like ask him what time he was getting off work.

  She reached for the door, and he closed it for her with a soft click.

  His eyes simmered as she started the Jeep. She fastened her seat belt and hoped he didn’t notice that her hands were trembling.

  “Be careful,” he told her.

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Emmet stopped by Nicole’s cubicle and dropped into a chair.

  “You get rid of the devil cat?”

  She didn’t look up from her computer. “No.”

  “No?”

  “They were full.”

  “So, where is it?”

  Sighing, she swiveled her chair to look at him. Emmet had cleaned himself up for the press conference earlier and somehow still managed to look cool and collected more than five hours later. He picked up the stress ball on her desk and tossed it into the air.

  “You ate already, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Grabbed a burger. Why?”

  She growled. “I skipped dinner to work on this.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” He tossed the ball and caught it one-handed.