Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(26)

“Yes. The real killer is the guy with the cash. Nelson published three novels about arms dealers, drug dealers, money launderers, gun runners, corporate crooks, shady defense contractors, and so on. Right, Bruce?”

“For the most part.”

“He seemed to really know his subject matter. Let’s assume he pissed off some folks along the way. If so, why would they rub him out now? The books have been published. Most have sold well. It’s all fiction, all make-believe anyway, so why get upset?”

“Your point?” Bob asked.

“My point is that what’s been said has been said, and Nelson is certainly not the first novelist to write about arms dealers. My point is that the next book, the unfinished novel, is what got him killed. Somebody out there didn’t want it published.”

Bruce and Bob nodded along.

Nick went on, “Maybe they knew his subject matter. It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out, since he always did quite a bit of research. Word got out that Nelson Kerr was writing about their business or their crimes. Or maybe they hacked him, read it, and felt threatened.”

Bruce said, “Nelson was afraid of getting hacked and worked offline. His desktop was secure. Other writers have had their stuff stolen. He was a fanatic about keeping his material protected.”

Bob asked, “How did he back up his work? The cloud?”

“Don’t know, but I doubt if he used the cloud.”

“How did he communicate?” Nick asked.

“He used a laptop for emails, but even then he never said much. He was almost paranoid. No social media at all. He changed his phone number every few months.”

“So. He was still an amateur and he could get hacked. There’s always somebody smarter. If the Russians and Chinese can hack the CIA, then our late buddy Nelson could be hacked. Wouldn’t he have sent his manuscript to his agent, maybe his editor?”

“His agent died last year and he was in the process of finding a new one. He and I talked about it at length. A month ago he told me the book was almost finished and no one had read it. He wanted me to have a look and make notes. I’ll bet the manuscript is still in his computer. Where else would it be?”

Bob said, “So after she killed him, she took his hard drive?”

“Don’t know, yet,” Nick said. “But if his hard drive is missing, then one part of the mystery is solved.”

“Why didn’t you think of this sooner?” Bruce asked. “We could’ve checked his computer.”

“We weren’t touching anything,” Nick said. “I got the impression that Butler back there sort of suspects us of something anyway.”

“I’m glad you said that,” Bob replied. “I had the same impression. What will he do when they find our fingerprints?”

“We have solid alibis,” Bruce said.

They inched along in silence, at times approaching ten miles per hour, at times sitting still. Bruce’s phone buzzed and he answered it. He listened, mumbled something about dogs searching, and shook his head in disbelief. He ended the call and said, “You’re not going to believe this. The cops have the road blocked this side of the bridge and they’re searching each car with dogs. Can you please tell me why?”

Bob, the ex-felon, had little use for the police. He shook his head and said, “Because they can.”

Bruce was exasperated. “I mean, these people just had their homes and businesses blown away, so why would they want to sneak explosives onto the island? These cops are out of control.”

Bob said, “For the same reason they send SWAT teams to arrest people for bad checks. Because they can and it’s far more dramatic. These guys think they’re as tough as Navy Seals and they have to prove it. Look at all that military garb they wear. Why does every Podunk police department have a tank these days? Because the Pentagon has too much of the stuff and sells it cheap. Why do they send canine units to sniff around the county fair? Because they have the damned dogs and need to use them. Don’t get me started.”

“I think you’ve already started,” Nick observed from the backseat.

“Why does every fender bender need three cop cars and four fire trucks? Because these guys are bored, sitting around the station, and they get their jollies racing up and down the streets with sirens screaming. Tough boys in action. They like to block traffic in all directions, makes ’em feel powerful. They control the situation. Sniffing dogs. Unbelievable. It’ll be midnight before we get there.”

Bruce paused a few seconds and asked, “Do you feel better now?”

“Not really. I got chewed up by the cops, okay, so I carry a grudge. I’d feel better if this traffic was moving. Whose idea was this road trip after all?”

“Nick’s.”

“Blame me for everything,” Nick said. “I’m just the intern.”

Bruce picked up his phone and said, “Look, I’ve been putting this off, but I need to call Nelson’s father and tell him that his son is not only dead but was probably murdered. You guys want to help?”

“Sorry,” Nick said.

“He named you as his contact,” Bob said. “It’s all yours.”

The Tahoe stopped in a long curve. For miles ahead nothing was moving. Bruce found the number and punched redial.