Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(37)

“I don’t know,” Lindy admitted. “But if they were sneaking out for some other reason, what would make them check the freezer?”

I didn’t have a good answer. Nothing logical. But, somehow, that was the part of Chase’s story I had no trouble believing. They really were looking for vodka, possibly to steel their nerves before…whatever they were going to do.

I looked down at Chris’s cold face. I thought about the little seagulls he’d drawn in his diary, the picture of Waikiki Beach hanging on his dresser mirror.

“Chris wasn’t the guy you’re looking for,” I said. “But he got tangled up with the killer somehow.”

“I’ll find him.” Lindy’s hand trembled as he held his glass of vodka.

“Your plan was to kill Calavera,” I guessed. “You were helping Longoria set some sort of trap for him.”

Mr. Lindy raised his eyebrows. “You understand that I’ll have to deny that.”

“Chris Stowall and Longoria are both dead. Do you even care?”

“Of course I care. I don’t want any more death. Not for anyone innocent, at least.”

I wanted to ask who, if anyone, Benjamin Lindy considered innocent, but I was interrupted by the sound of a woman’s scream.

“He’s in there!” Lane shouted.

She was on the floor behind Garrett’s overturned wheelchair, pointing at her closet. Garrett was sprawled next to her, rubbing his head and looking disgruntled. In her panic, Lane had apparently tripped over him and toppled him out of his chair.

Mr. Lindy and I shone our flashlights on the closet. The door was ajar, but there was no sign of movement. No noise.

“Who’s in there?” I asked Lane.

Her eyes were frantic and unfocused. “Bobby. My ex. I saw him. We came in and he was right there in my closet!”

I looked at Garrett.

“I don’t know, little bro,” he grumbled. “I didn’t see much. Lane backed into me. Next thing I knew we were both on the floor. But there was movement in the room. Somebody was in here.”

Mr. Lindy produced his .45 Colt Defender.

Footsteps came tromping down the hall, and Alex Huff appeared in the doorway. “What is it now?”

I shushed him then followed Lindy toward the closet. The old man threw open the door.

“There’s no one in here,” he said.

“There was!” Lane looked at us like we were about to give her medication. “I saw him!”

“Okay,” I said. “I believe you.”

“Son…” Lindy said uneasily.

“Check the bathroom,” I suggested.

Lindy did. He shook his head. No prowler in the room.

“All right,” I said. “Whoever he was, he’s gone now.”

“Who?” Alex demanded.

I looked at Mr. Lindy and gestured toward the door, hoping he’d get the hint. I figured the fewer men around Lane Sanford, the better.

“Come on, Mr. Huff,” Lindy said. “There’s something you need to see in the kitchen.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Alex said miserably, but he allowed Mr. Lindy to lead him down the hall.

I turned to Lane Sanford. “Why don’t you sit down? I mean…on the bed.”

Garrett helped her up. He righted his wheelchair and climbed back into it, still looking disgruntled. For him, getting tipped out of his chair was about as bad as getting mugged—a complete violation of his dignity, such as it was.

“Lane.” I tried to sound soothing. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“My husband.”

“Back up. You and Garrett were coming down the hall…”

She nodded.

“Were you making much noise?” I asked.

“Just talking,” Garrett said, catching my meaning. “Nothing somebody inside the room could’ve heard over the storm.”

“Was the room locked?”

“Yes,” Lane said. “I used my key.”

I thought about that. A key didn’t make much noise compared to a hurricane. If there had been someone in the room, he wouldn’t necessarily have heard anything until Lane turned the handle.

“Okay,” I said. “So you opened the door and—”

“He was looking through my closet,” Lane said. “The closet door was open.”

“It was dark in the room?”

“Yes. I just had a flashlight. I shone it on him—”

“You saw his face?”

“Well…no.”

“What did you see of him?”

“A shape. But it was a man.”

“Clothing? Skin color?”

She shook her head hesitantly. “Dark shirt? Maybe that was just the shadows. I—I backed up into Garrett and dropped the flashlight…”

“Little bro, there was somebody in here,” Garrett insisted.

“Is there any way he could’ve gotten past you, out the door?”

“I don’t see how,” Garrett said.

I checked the closet. A garment bag hung on the rod. A pair of ladies’ slip-on shoes. Empty coat hangers. An ironing board on metal hooks. An extra pillow on the upper shelf. I checked the bathroom. Nobody was hiding behind the shower curtain. No one had dug an escape tunnel through the floor tiles. Back in the bedroom: nobody was hiding under the bed. The window was boarded over with plywood.