Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(46)

Lindsey flashed a knowing smile and said, “That’s all we need. Our guys can get in with that.”

“I’m drowning here. This is way over my head.”

“Mine too. We’ll let the experts worry about it.”

“So you’ll need the thumb drive?”

“Of course. I want to read the novel, and we’ll use it to try to penetrate Nelson’s hard drive.”

“I’ll bet you don’t find much. He was secretive and didn’t trust the Internet, hated the cloud, refused to shop online, said nothing important in emails, ignored all social media, paid cash for most of his purchases. I doubt if Nelson left too many footprints behind.”

“And the condo is on the market?”

“Oh, yes. It’s been scrubbed, painted, emptied, as good as new. The police released it three weeks ago. The market is very soft, though.”

“And you can arrange a meeting with Polly McCann?”

“I’d be delighted. I have nothing else to do. No one’s buying books on the island and I’m bored to death.”





4.


The middle-aged man had the jaded and shaggy look of a veteran reporter. He stopped by the bookstore, found Bruce bored at his desk, and helped himself to a chair. He said he was a freelancer for Newsweek and tossed over a card that was supposed to verify this. Bruce examined the card. Donald Oester. Washington address.

Oester was sniffing around trying to put together a story about the death of bestselling author Nelson Kerr. He had done the legwork that one would expect. He had examined the file in probate court but found little. The inventory of assets and liabilities wasn’t due for several months. He had pestered Carl Logan, Santa Rosa’s police chief, but got nowhere. He had made contact with Captain Wes Butler of the state police, but was told that there was nothing to discuss because it was an ongoing investigation.

“Aren’t all homicide investigations ongoing until they find the killer?” Oester asked with a laugh.

Bruce talked, cautiously, about Nelson and his time on the island, and his books, but he was careful not to say anything about the crime scene or anything else. Several days after Nelson died, there were brief stories in a few newspapers about his death during the hurricane. An online publishing magazine mentioned the police involvement but revealed nothing. The Jacksonville daily ran a short obituary, then followed it with a slightly longer article about the investigation. Before Oester, no reporter had contacted Bruce.

“Was he working on a novel?” Oester asked.

“Don’t know about that,” Bruce replied. “But most writers are usually working on something.”

“I chatted with his ex-editor at Simon and Schuster, guy said Kerr was jumping ship, looking for a new house, and working on something big.”

“I believe he was still looking. To my knowledge, Nelson was not under contract when he died. He was also between agents.”

“How much do you know about his past, his old days as a lawyer?”

“How much do you know?”

Oester laughed again, nervously. “I tracked down a former colleague out there but the guy said it was ten years ago. Not much, really. I tried his ex-wife, a tough one.”

“Never met her.”

“Is it fair to call him a ‘bestselling author’? I mean, I know that gets thrown around all the time, but did he really sell that many books?”

“He did. All three of his novels hit the lists, the Times and Publishers Weekly. And each book did better than the last. I encouraged him to write more, but he enjoyed travel, sportfishing, life on the beach.”

“A hundred thousand copies each time out?”

“I’d guess. You can find his numbers online.”

“I’ve looked, and I’ve been told those numbers are not that accurate. Did you sell his books?”

“I did. Nelson had a following.”

“You think he was murdered?”

“I’m not saying anything that you might want to print. The state police are investigating, that’s all I can say.”

“Fair enough. Do you know his sister, Polly McCann?”

“I do.”

“Would you ask her to talk to me? She’s hung up twice.”

“No, sorry. Don’t know her that well.”

Oester jumped to his feet and headed for the door. “I’ll be back. Give me a call if you hear something.”

Don’t bet on it. “Sure.”





5.


The boredom ran on unabated as the days finally cooled. The week after his trip to D.C., Bruce welcomed Lindsey Wheat and Polly McCann to Bay Books. They met in his newly renovated office on the first floor, in his First Editions Room, the walls lined with hundreds of autographed books. It was a Saturday morning and for a change the store was busy as young mothers brought in their children for story time upstairs in the café. Normally, Bruce would have been up there among them, sipping cappuccino and flirting with the ladies, but he had important business at hand.

The day before, Polly had met with Wesley Butler at the crime lab and received yet another useless update. Little progress had been made. Indeed, so little that she could not remember anything new. Butler did hand over Nelson’s laptop, desktop, cell phone, and two leather briefcases. He admitted that their tech people had been unable to penetrate the encryption codes Nelson had used. Again, he did not have the presence of mind to ask Polly if she knew anything about her brother’s novel-in-progress. He gave every indication that he wasn’t sure what to do next and was generally not that concerned with solving the crime. And, he made a point of letting her know that he did not want Bruce Cable calling again and sticking his nose into the investigation.