Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(16)

“Of course. Stop worrying. Tell me what you found.”

I got the feeling she was just trying to change the subject, but I told her about the bloodstain in the kitchen, and the business card and candy skull in Longoria’s briefcase.

“Bad,” she said.

“That was my expert opinion, too.” I nodded toward the AM radio on the dresser. “Any news come through before the generator went out?”

“Couple of garbled alerts. Power’s been knocked out in Corpus Christi. Some smaller coastal towns are underwater. The rainfall is setting records.”

“So the earliest we could expect the ferry—”

“Twenty-four hours at least. We’ll have to hope the phone lines get reconnected sooner than that. Or maybe a Coast Guard patrol will come by.”

“Damn, I would love that.”

She touched the space between my eyebrows—her way of telling me I was scowling too much. “You did the right thing, taking charge.”

“I didn’t take charge.”

“They need you to, Tres. I know you want to switch off that ability—”

“What ability?”

Instead of answering, Maia rested her head on my chest.

The wind outside battered the hotel. I could almost feel the storm pushing us toward the mainland, carving new channels out of the coastline.

“Who do you think killed the marshal?” Maia asked.

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“But you can’t help it.”

I hated that she was right.

“Chris Stowall’s business card was in Longoria’s suitcase,” I said. “And now Chris has disappeared.”

Maia picked at a button on my shirt. “Chris Stowall doesn’t strike me as much of a killer.”

“And yet he’s missing.”

“Whoever the killer is, he’s still in the hotel.”

“Are you sure it’s a he?”

“Unless you think Lane or Imelda did it. Or me.”

“Hmm. Probably not Lane or Imelda.”

She elbowed me. “Lane was telling me some disturbing things about her ex-husband. She made him sound abusive. And relentless.”

“Homicidal?”

“Possibly.”

“I doubt there’s a connection,” I said. “Lane admitted she hasn’t seen her ex here. With this storm, he couldn’t be outside. He’d have been blown all the way to Kingsville by now. And why would he target Longoria?”

“One of the other guests, then? Or the staff? Your friend Alex?”

My friend Alex.

I thought about the time Alex pushed me against a window on the third floor when I was around ten years old. I think I’d asked him what his parents did—some stupid, innocent question like that. He held me so far out my shoulders cleared the windowsill, his fingers digging into my forearms. None of your goddamn business, mama’s boy, he’d told me. Nobody asked you to come here! You got that?

Still, it was difficult to imagine Alex Huff shooting a law enforcement officer at point-blank range. As far as I knew, his only flirtation with guns had been his time in the military, which from his own account had been undistinguished—something about serving breakfast in Kuwaiti mess halls. Since then, his most dangerous hobbies had been his amateur fireworks, buying questionable real estate and hanging out with my brother.

“I don’t know about Alex,” I said halfheartedly. “He got scuffed up pretty bad somehow, and he’s acting nervous. I don’t trust him.”

“Because he’s capable of murder, or because he’s Garrett’s friend?”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

She kissed me. She was pretty convincing. “What about the old lawyer, Mr. Lindy? He had a gun. He was in the hallway.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t understand what he’s doing here. On the other hand, he’s a lawyer. He’s got to be close to eighty. He could barely hold that .45. Did that look like a .45 wound in Longoria’s chest?”

Maia shook her head. She looked a little green.

“Sorry,” I said. “Forgot you were feeling squeamish.”

“It’s okay. But that doesn’t leave many people. At least…people we know of.”

“If the killer wants to get off the island, there aren’t many options.”

“None,” Maia agreed. “It doesn’t make sense that Longoria would bring a fugitive here. This island’s a dead end.”

I closed my eyes and listened to the storm.

The sound was familiar. Then I realized the storm sounded just like a freight train—the way the Kansas-Texas used to roar past the Arguello family house, back in high school. I wished it didn’t sound like that.

“I don’t want to solve this problem,” I said. “I’m an English teacher.”

“You’re thinking about Ralph.”

The image never went away—Ralph lying on the shoulder of Mission Road, staring into the sky. He’d taken a gunshot to protect Maia. He’d died and left a wife and kid behind. No matter how many times I replayed it, trying to convince myself there was nothing I could’ve done…PI work had brought me nothing but pain. It had never been just a job. It had seeped into every part of my life, endangered everyone I was close to.