Page 123 of The Deadly Shallows

Noah waited impatiently.

“He’s listed as Gator, with a capital G on the backside.”

“The word Connor Andrews whispered to Brooke was a name?”

“Yep. Do you think he’s the one behind all this?” Finn asked.

“Very possibly, but the key question is, Who is he really?”

FIFTY-NINE

While Caleb was busy tracking down Malone, Austin had a person of her own to question. No sense tagging along for something unrelated to their chemical case, not when she could get one more interview under her belt.

She’d called to schedule the appointment with Mr. Valdez as soon as Emmy provided the information, assuming Caleb would be free to go with her, but when Noah sent him to check out the no-show interviewee, she decided she could handle Valdez.

She noted a gold-tinted Nissan sedan in the driveway—probably the car the plate had supposedly been stolen from. She wished she could get a quick glimpse inside the two-car garage, but she was pressing her appointment time, so she announced her presence with the gold-lion door knocker.

The door opened, and a burly man with dark wavy hair stepped forward. “Yes.”

“I’m Austin Kelly. We spoke on the phone. Thanks for seeing me,” she said.

“Let’s just make it quick. I have an errand to run.” He stepped back, allowing her into his ranch-style home.

“You said this was about my car?” He gestured for her to take a seat in the front room facing Water Street. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains pulled across the bay window.

“Yes. About your stolen license plate.”

“Oh.” Hector Valdez visibly relaxed, which set Austin’s investigative antenna pulsing. He sank down into the floral-upholstered chair opposite her. “That makes sense.”

She studied Hector—stout with dark freckles covering his caramel skin. “Could you tell me what happened?”

His chocolate brown eyes narrowed. “I already told the cops.” He sat forward on the chair. “Who’d you say you are again?”

“Austin Kelly with Kelly Investigations.”

“Like a private eye?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Exactly,” she said.

“What kind of business does a PI have with my stolen plate?”

“I’m looking into the people who stole it.”

His eyes narrowed again, his shoulders widening as his chest puffed out. “You know who stole it?”

“Not their identity, but they followed my colleague and me.”

He shifted again, his dress shoes sliding through the high-pile cream carpet. “They followed you?”

“Yes, sir.” Hoping to ease his tension by making a personal observation, she glanced around for pictures of a family, or at least of a wife, based on the female decorating touches, but found none. “Your wife has wonderful decorating tastes.”

“Yes, she did,” he said through thinned lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’re widowed.”

“Not widowed. Divorced.” He stood, smoothing out the thighs of his trousers. “Look, lady, I get that you want to investigate whoever stole my plate, but people following you has nothing to do with me.”

“If I could just ask you a few more questions.”