Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(15)

There were no fireworks in the cellar now. Jesse Longoria’s body had been laid out on a butcher-block table.

A single bare lightbulb flickered dimly above us, but we relied mostly on a flashlight, which cast long shadows across Longoria’s face. He didn’t look like a man at peace, even if one ignored the bullet hole in his chest. He looked like a man who needed to use the restroom.

“I hate dead bodies,” Garrett mumbled.

I couldn’t tell if my brother was really pale and sweaty, or if it was just the light. His color wasn’t much better than Longoria’s. Of course, Garrett was at a height disadvantage. He’d had to hand-walk his way down into the cellar. Now, sitting in a metal chair, he was eye level with the gunshot wound.

“Hold up the flashlight,” I told him.

The body was wrapped in a plastic tarp. The inside of the tarp was spattered with blood, but there was none that I could see on the outside, or on the floor, or the steps into the cellar. Jose and Chris may have ruined a crime scene, but they seemed to have done it without making a mess. It seemed unlikely that the blood smeared in the kitchen had come from this corpse.

I checked through Longoria’s pockets. I came up with a wallet, car keys, an Aransas Pass ferry schedule and thirty-six cents. In Longoria’s wallet were his badge, sixty-five dollars in cash and the usual credit cards.

“So you knew this guy?” Garrett asked.

“He killed a client of mine.”

“Before or after the client paid you?”

“You’re just Mr. Sensitive, aren’t you?” I put Longoria’s wallet back in his coat pocket. “Longoria had a reputation in the South Texas Marshal’s Office. He apprehended something like fifty fugitives in twelve years. Once in a while, as he was bringing them back, the fugitives would, ah, try to escape.”

“And this dude would use force.”

“Deadly force. Every time, Longoria was cleared of wrong-doing, but—”

“I gotcha,” he grumbled. “Fucking cops.”

“Dad was a cop.”

“What’s your point?”

He had me there.

I scanned the room. Chris or Jose or somebody had set the dead man’s suitcase in the corner. I hauled the brown Tourister to the table and opened it at the dead man’s feet.

Garrett shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “So this client of yours…he was a fugitive?”

“Charged with arson. He had a felony record. He panicked and skipped town before his trial. The wife paid me to find him and convince him to turn himself in. I didn’t have time. Longoria found him first and killed him.”

“You know that for sure?”

“The body was never found. My guy’s officially still listed as a fugitive. But I asked around. The guy had had a run-in with one of Longoria’s SAPD buddies the year before. Longoria took matters into his own hands. Settled the score.”

Garrett looked down at the dead man’s face. “See, ass**le? This is what we call karma. Now can we get out of here, little bro?”

I rummaged through the marshal’s suitcase. I found two changes of clothes. No paperwork, no files from the Marshal’s Office. Nothing interesting, until I checked one of those easy-to-miss side pockets that I’d trained myself not to miss. Stuck inside were a crumbling candy skull wrapped in plastic and a business card that read:

Chris Stowall

Manager

Rebel Island Hotel

510-822-9901

Handwritten on the back was a date.

“June fifth,” I read.

“That’s today,” Garrett said.

“Yeah.”

“So what’s important about it?”

“Good question.” I slipped the card in my pocket and examined the candy skull. There was nothing special about it. Any Mexican candy store would sell them.

“That’s one of those Day of the Dead candies,” Garrett said. “Your friend here have a sweet tooth?”

“Maybe,” I said.

But something about the skull bothered me. It reminded me of something I’d read, or heard on the news…

Above us, the lightbulb flickered and went out completely, leaving us with nothing but the flashlight beam shining on the dead marshal’s face.

Garrett took a shaky breath. “Okay. Now can we get out of here?”

Maia had lit candles in the Colonel’s Suite.

Against my better judgment, Garrett took charge of Lane Sanford and led her away. He said they’d go find Alex, maybe drop in on the college guys, who’d resumed their hurricane party above us. Garrett would teach them how to make a good margarita. They could listen to Jimmy Buffett until the batteries in Garrett’s boom box wore out. It would cheer Lane right up.

Once they were gone, I lay down on the bed next to Maia and listened to the rain pounding the walls. There was a leak in the corner of the roof. Maia had put a silver cup under it. The drops sounded like tiny bells.

“Are we having a romantic getaway yet?” I asked.

Maia nudged my foot. “With a homicide magnet like you? A girl can’t help but have a good time.”

She snuggled next to me, wincing as she changed positions.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just my back.”

“You sure?”