Jaci settled back into the memories. At age thirteen she’d been certain losing him was the end of the world. She still missed him, especially on nights like this when she could all but hear his deep, rumbling laugh and see the sweat trickling down his brow below the grungy old hat he’d worn on their fishing excursions.
He’d considered himself an ordinary cop, but she’d be happy if she could be half as good at locating evidence and solving crimes as he’d been.
“You plan to stay long?”
The boatman’s question yanked her back to the present. “I’m not sure.”
“You brought a lot of luggage.”
“Only four bags and my laptop.”
“That black duffel could hold enough for a year-long stay. Felt like it, too, when I put it in the boat.”
So what was he—the luggage patrol? The duffel contained her research material, and that was none of his business. “I won’t be staying a year.”
“Bet not. Most folks don’t stay more than a few days.”
“Why not?”
“Not much to do there. No TV. No entertainment ’less you like to fish, and you need a large boat to do that right, one you can take out in the open waters of the gulf.”
“No distractions. No demands. That’s the beauty of a secluded island.”
“Cape Diablo’s secluded, that’s for sure. I’m the only one who goes out there regularly, and that’s only ’cause I get paid to do it. Last man who had this job was murdered right there on the island.”
“When did that happen?”
“About three months ago. Pete got mixed up with some crazy broad who went around killing people for the fun of it. That’s the kind of folks you get on Cape Diablo. Woman like you won’t stay long.”
If his plan was to give her the creeps, he was succeeding. She studied him while he steered the boat through one of the narrower channels. He was scrawny with blond scraggly hair that fell a couple of inches past his collar.
Maybe forty. Maybe not. Hard to tell, since his face showed the signs of too much sun and not enough sun block. Looked pretty much like your basic beach bum, but his name had been given to her when she’d made the rental arrangements.
“Do you run a regular shuttle to Cape Diablo?” she asked as he slowed to maneuver through a narrow spit.
He rubbed his fingers through his unkempt beard. “I bring mail and supplies out twice a week. Occasionally I make an extra run to transport a tenant.”
“Only an occasional tenant?”
“Yeah, but then I’ve just been on the job a few months, and we’ve had a run of bad weather this year, tropical storms popping up like mushrooms.”
“Mr. Cochburn said I should call you if I need supplies from town.”
“Mr. Cochburn told you that, did he?”
“Yes, he’s the attorney I talked to when I made the rental arrangements.”
“I know who he is. I just don’t see why he doesn’t level with folks he’s sending out here.”
“Then you don’t deliver supplies?”
“I deliver them, all right—mail and supplies twice a week, like I said—but good luck trying to call, unless you got one of them satellite phones. Other than that, cell service is about as dependable as a FEMA roof in a hurricane.”
Jaci hadn’t considered that possibility. “What do people on the island do in case of an emergency?”
“Tough it out. Guess that’s all part of the beauty of having no distractions,” he said, clearly mocking her earlier optimism. “That’s it up ahead. Not much to see this time of the night, but the house is pretty impressive if you arrive by day, especially while you’re too far away to see its dilapidated condition.”
The narrow dock they were approaching was lighted, but beyond that all she could see was a tangle of tree branches and one light shining from the top of a rambling Spanish villa.
“That’s the old woman’s apartment,” Bull said, as if reading her mind. “Surely Mr. Cochburn told you about her.”
“He didn’t mention any of the tenants.”
“She ain’t a tenant. More of a permanent fixture, and crazy as they come, that one.” He circled his finger by his right temple to make his point. “Spent too much time sniffing the white stuff, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you talking about Alma Garcia?”
“Yeah. So you do know about her.”
Absolutely. Jaci knew about Carlos Lazario, as well. In fact, they had been the deciding factors for her moving onto the island instead of just hiring a boat to take her out for a day.
Alma had been the nanny for the Santiago family. Carlos was said to have been Andres Santiago’s right-hand man and bodyguard. Reportedly neither Carlos nor Alma had been on the island at the time of the disappearance, but they were now, thirty years after the fact.
Jaci was eager to talk to them, but didn’t plan to tell them why she was here. Better to let them think she was just a tourist in pursuit of a little R and R. It would make snooping easier.
“Carlos, the old caretaker, he’s been here forever, too,” Bull said, surprisingly talkative now that he’d gotten started. “He’s all right, but don’t mess with him if you can help it. He’s tired of tenants. Says all they do is cause trouble. Seems like that’s true of the ones he gets out here. Me, you couldn’t pay me to spend the night. They got bogs out in that swamp that can suck you in and bury you in the mud quicker than you can sing a chorus of ‘Margaritaville.’”
Another little problem Mr. Cochburn had failed to mention. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll make certain to stay out of the swamp.”
“Yeah, and I guess you know there’s no electricity out here except for a generator. You can hear it running all over the island, kind of a constant low drone. Gotta be some kind of dark at night if it ever goes off.”
The wind picked up and Jaci pulled her light jacket tighter while Bull docked and tied up the boat. He helped her out, then unloaded her luggage, dropping it on the edge of the dock.
She stood for a moment, soaking up the atmosphere. Every crime scene she’d ever visited had its own feel about it. Cape Diablo was no different, except that her instant reactions to the place were even more pronounced than usual.
The island had a sinister aura about it, as if the place itself might hold evil. More likely she was letting the seclusion get to her. A good forensics expert wouldn’t be influenced by that, and neither would she. But first impressions did matter.
A gray-haired man stepped into the clearing near the dock, a black Lab following a step behind. For a second it seemed that the man had appeared from nowhere, but a closer look revealed a slightly overgrown path that led back to the boathouse. The two-story structure was at the edge of the clearing, just as described in the police report. Only the reports had not mentioned how spooky the run-down place looked in the deepening grays of twilight.
“Welcome to Cape Diablo.” The man’s tone didn’t match his words.
“Thanks. I’m Jaci Matlock, the new tenant.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And that’s Carlos Lazario,” Bull said.
So that was Carlos. He didn’t look that bad for a recluse who’d spent almost half his life on a secluded island. He was unfriendly as she’d expected. She’d have