Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(26)

The printout read:

We can talk, but it has to be in person. Specify a time and place.

Below that, apparently clipped from the email to which Berry was responding:

At least twelve names. Payments. Instructions. Enough to put my employers in jail for a long time. But I need ABSOLUTE assurance. Any leak, broken promise or hint of betrayal, and I vanish.

I was still sitting on Chris’s bed, staring at his picture of Waikiki Beach, when Alex came in and yelled, “You did WHAT to my boat?”

I didn’t so much placate him as wear him down. He was too drunk and tired to do much more than yell and complain and throw Chris’s clothing around.

“Damn it,” he muttered at last. He sank on the bed and buried his head in his hands. “That’s it. That’s just about everything gone now.”

I felt no satisfaction at his misery. As much as I’d begrudged him buying Rebel Island, I knew he’d be facing hundreds of thousands in repairs, assuming we weathered the storm at all. He had his life savings tied up in this hotel.

I thought about Chris Stowall’s diary, his descriptions of Alex’s drunken paranoia. I’m afraid what he might do if I left.

“Alex, when we first got here you wanted to ask a favor. What was it?”

He laughed—a broken, unhappy sound. “Doesn’t matter now. I was going to ask you to help me convince Garrett.”

“Of what?”

“I’m selling the island. Or I was, before this storm.”

“Selling the island? You’ve wanted to own this island since—”

“I know.” He stared at the boarded-up window. “I used to believe in this place. Now…I don’t know, Tres. It’s falling apart. This was my last weekend for guests. I have a couple of potential buyers. Thing is…I’d rather you and Garrett have it.”

“What? The island?”

He nodded. “I thought Eli would’ve liked that. The idea of you guys keeping it running. You could do better than I did.”

It seemed unnecessary to point out just how crazy that idea was. How could Alex think we’d have the money? How could he think I’d want Rebel Island? Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little honored.

I remembered all the summers I’d come here before my parents got a divorce, in that small window of years when my childhood had seemed somewhat normal, before the day Alex took me out in that boat.

“Neither of us has the money,” I told him. “Even if I did…there’s too much history here for me. This is a goodbye visit.”

I hadn’t thought about it until I said it, but it was true. I’d come here to bury a lot of things—my memories of Dad, my PI work, my years as a bachelor. The whole idea of possessing this island made me feel kind of like Ty—like the walls were closing in.

A cracking noise echoed through the house. Alex closed his eyes, as if he were trying to sense where the damage was. “I’d better go check that.”

“Tell me about Chris,” I said. “Were you two getting along?”

He hesitated. “I told you, we’ve known each other forever.”

I waited, but Alex didn’t add anything.

“Did Chris have a personal computer?”

“He used the office computer,” Alex said. “That’s it, I think.”

“Do you have one?”

“A computer? Hell, no. I hate the things. Chris did most of my spreadsheets and stuff.”

“I need to check the office.”

“The power’s out. Computer won’t work.”

“I still want to look around. Maybe sift through paperwork, any printouts Chris might have made.”

“You’re not thinking Chris murdered that marshal.”

“I don’t know.” I held his eyes. I didn’t mention the cash in the duffel bag. If Alex had heard about it, he didn’t mention it either.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll get Jose to show you. He helped Chris sometimes. Knows more about computer stuff than I do, anyway.”

He took a deep breath, like he was preparing for another round of battle. “Now I gotta get upstairs. I think the damn roof just blew away.”

16

Maia hated the staircase. It seemed to get steeper every time she climbed it. She wasn’t sure why Imelda decided to escort her, but she welcomed the help. Imelda held her arm, steadying her, encouraging her when she was out of breath.

“I feel like an invalid,” Maia said.

“You are doing well, señora. Someday you will tell your child about this weekend.”

“He’s never going to hear the end of it.”

“It is a boy?”

Maia stopped for a breath. “Imelda, I don’t know. I just started calling him ‘him.’ I think so.”

“My abuela used to dream the gender of babies before they were born. She told me—” Imelda stopped herself. “She was never wrong.”

“About your own children?” Maia asked.

Imelda nodded reluctantly. “We are almost to the top, señora. A few more steps.”

They took the rest of the climb in silence. Maia imagined she was back at the house in Southtown, just going upstairs to the bedroom. No storm. No killers.