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Chapter Twelve
Southern Tip of Blue Harbor
Monday, September 3
12:48 p.m.
Patrick Swain’s beach home on the southern tip of Blue Harbor was pale blue and four stories tall. Beyond were miles of blue water and a small archipelago. It wasn’t exactly a private island, but an underdeveloped and secluded area of beachfront property. If Hurricane Jodie was as strong as they were predicting, this place was toast.
Palm trees framed the home, and it resembled a place for family reunions and vacations, not a den of dark and wicked dreams. Ty stood next to Violet as they surveyed the house. Asa had gone back to their beach house to brief Selah and get her going on anything she could find about Patrick Swain and this lucrative business.
Right now all they had was Ethan Lantrip’s word against Patrick Swain’s, and he wasn’t going to confess. Not when there was no proof and Ethan hadn’t had any proof. He might be lying, and if he was lying about Patrick then he might also be lying about Ahnah.
Ahnah involved in men’s dark fantasies after what she went through as a child? Maybe. But Ty didn’t want to believe it, and until he had concrete proof, he wasn’t sharing her alleged side hustle with Bexley. One more devastation might send her over the edge. He was on the precipice himself.
“Think Selah will find anything?” he asked.
“I doubt it. These kinds of businesses are run through the dark web, and you know how untraceable that is.”
“I was thinking the same thought. He’s smart, and smart people don’t Google or put their nefarious acts online where anyone like us can see it.” No single person about to commit a crime had any excuse, other than idiocy, to Google how to murder or search poisons or best places to hide a body. Not when they had free access to private browsers where search histories were nonexistent. But those idiots did make law enforcement’s job catching diabolical criminals like this UNSUB easier.
Why was he leaving Ty cryptic notes? What was he setting up? The anticipation of knowing he had twisted plans coming down the pike on top of the ticking time and a hurricane that wasn’t ebbing or shrinking was enough to send Ty into a spiral. Rand Granger wouldn’t give them what they needed, and they had no probable cause for a warrant. Nothing was going their way, and this new information given by Skipper didn’t sit right in his gut. What did he have to gain by confessing to a crime he was an accomplice to after the fact?
Violet leaned on the SUV. “You going in or are you just going to enjoy the view?”
He shot her a scowl. “I’m thinking.”
“Can’t multitask? Is that a man thing?”
“That’s sexist.”
“I’ve noticed it’s a man thing.” She punctuated the air with her index finger.
“Whatever. I’m thinking, why would Skipper incriminate himself to give up Patrick Swain? The only goodness in his heart is directed toward his ailing granny, and I’m not even sure that’s true.” When Violet had called the assisted living center, she’d discovered Grandma had dementia, making her no valid use to them, which may be why he gave her as an alibi. Ole Skippy might be smarter than he looked. Maybe that was the point. To appear stupid and unable to pull off this elaborate revenge scheme. By offering information, he would appear to be cooperating, all while having Ty right where he wanted and inserting himself into the investigation. Killers had done it many times before. And no body meant no crime. He might be counting on that.
Violet pulled her credentials from her blazer pocket. “I agree that’s odd. He wasn’t remorseful. He seemed agitated, to be honest. As if he didn’t want to be there at all. But we need to follow the lead, though I don’t like interviewing this guy blind. I wish we had Selah’s findings. Something we knew concretely so we could establish a baseline. Is he a liar? Is he not? Discover any tells.”
“Well, if he’s a psycho, you’ll know it better than anyone.”
She snorted and headed for the door under the carport. A newer navy blue Audi glimmered. Sweet ride.
Violet rang the doorbell. “You want this one? He might respond to a man better. Women are likely nothing but objects of pleasure to him. I’ll get no respect.”
“R-E-S-P-E-C-T—”
“Shut it.”
Aretha’s song died on his lips as a good-looking dude about six-two with dark hair and eyes, wearing a tailored suit, cracked open the door.
Ty showed his creds, and the man’s casual perusing of Violet vanished. “Patrick Swain?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone buttery and baritone.
Ty introduced them. “Could we ask you a few questions?”
“Regarding?”
“Lily Hayes and Amy-Rose Rydell.” He studied Swain’s face, but he showed no recognition, no shock or fear. His early-forties face was smooth, calm and confident. But Ty hadn’t mentioned Jenny Davis yet. He was saving her.
