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stly out of stubbornness, “I’ve got to go back. It will look more suspicious if I don’t go back.”
Kennedy sighed. It was a very weary sound. “We should have access to the island either late today or early tomorrow. That’s the best we can hope for. Pushing for immediate access is going to raise questions. We’ll wait for clearance. Then, after we…retrieve your belongings, we both need to catch planes.”
Jason nodded.
“You need to be aware they may have already got a search warrant for your lodge. In fact, all they really need is permission from the owner to look around.”
“I know.”
Kennedy studied him for a long moment.
“Look, Jason,” he said in a different voice. “You need sleep. You’re dead on your feet. And I’ve got a conference call in eighteen minutes.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Seventeen minutes. I’ve booked us rooms here.”
Jason nodded again. He didn’t trust his voice.
Kennedy started to speak, stopped. He said instead, “One thing at a time, okay?”
“Yep,” Jason said.
They got out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the two-story hotel. The Buccaneer’s Cove was a pink and white clapboard building, which had probably begun life in a spiffy, eye-catching pirate red. Surrounded by tall trees and shady lawns. A pirate flag and an American flag hung side by side. Green Adirondack chairs and large pots of dead or dormant flowers were strategically placed around the building.
Inside it was…dated. Not as far back as the days of buccaneers. More like the days of shag carpeting and crocheted couch covers. The décor leaned starboard. Vintage life preservers, porthole art, and seascapes by, presumably, local artists.
The check-in process was quick and painless, which probably indicated the hotel did not do a lot of trade off-season.
Their rooms were next door to each other on the ground floor. Jason unlocked his room and glanced over at Sam, who was doing the same, a few feet away.
“I didn’t thank you,” Jason said. “For springing me. Thanks. I mean that.”
Sam’s mouth twisted. “Call it an early birthday present.”
Right. In some forgotten corner of the universe life was going on as normal. His sisters were plotting a birthday party he didn’t want, his parents were comfortably unaware their only son was a suspect in a murder case, and George Potts was probably typing up his formal discharge papers right now.
“Does George—my SAC—know what’s going on?”
“This wasn’t a rogue operation. I spoke to Potts before I left Medford.”
Jason nodded.
Once again, he could see Kennedy wanted to say something. Frankly, sympathy from Kennedy was even worse than when he was being a dick.
Jason nodded again politely, stepped inside the room, and let the door swing shut.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
But like Kennedy said, one thing at a time. He was out of the slammer. That was something—and he’d back Kennedy over Detective O’Neill any day of the week. Suppose Kennedy was right and Jason was genuinely under suspicion, the case was entirely circumstantial. Even if he couldn’t get out to the island in time to dispose of physical evidence that he and Shipka had, if only once, done more than collaborate on a case, it was all circumstantial.
He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, then filled one of the glasses and drank a couple of glasses of hose-flavored water.
According to the clock by the bed it was now nine o’clock. Six o’clock in the morning Los Angeles time. He tried George at home and was informed by his wife that George was on the other line, but she’d let him know Jason had phoned.
Conference calls before the official work-day began? Never a good sign.
Well, there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do about it from here.
He phoned George’s extension at the office and left a message explaining that he was out of jail, planning to get over to the island that afternoon to retrieve his laptop and belongings, and hoped to catch a plane home that evening.
He began to scroll through his email and texts, waiting for George to phone back, but his cell remained stubbornly silently.
