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Kennedy’s gaze did not leave the road ahead. “Secondly, you’re a special agent with the FBI, and most people outside the bureau can’t picture an FBI agent having sex with anyone.”
Jason snorted. Now there was the truth. He’d certainly never pictured Sam having sex—until Sam had propositioned him.
* * * * *
“We were wondering if you were going to show up today. It’s all anyone in the village can talk about.” Mrs. Seaport Sloop—whose first name turned out to be Daisy—greeted them. She finished ringing up the rental shop’s only other customer, a stooped, elderly man in a pea coat and navy toque.
Bram came out of the back office, saying cheerfully, “To think you were right there. The FBI was right next door when it happened. That’s crazy.”
Yep. Not exactly a career booster.
“The sheriff’s department was asking for permission to search the lodge,” Daisy said. Her gaze, meeting Jason’s, was speculative.
“Standard practice,” Jason said. “I found the victim, so.” He shrugged and glanced at Kennedy, who was watching him with a curious expression. “This is my, er, boss. Unit Chief Sam Kennedy.”
“Don’t worry,” Bram said. “We told them to get a search warrant. I don’t like Jefferson County poking their nose in. I guess you want to go back to the island?” He looked from Jason to Kennedy—and then back to Kennedy. Kennedy tended to have that effect on people.
Jason said, “Just to pick up my gear.”
“There you go, Mr. Bundy,” Daisy said brightly. “You have a nice day!”
Mr. Bundy gathered his bag of chocolate milk, mini donuts, and cigarettes, and departed reluctantly, with several curious glances over his shoulder.
Bram muttered, “That old busybody. Now it’s going to be all over town. Is it true the sheriffs arrested you?”
“No,” Jason said. “They questioned me. Of course.”
“Well, yeah. You were right there.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t you,” Daisy said. “If there’s a maniac on that island…” She looked at Bram.
He gave her a warning glance.
Now that was an odd little exchange, but it gave Jason the opening he’d been looking for. “I understand Mr. Shipka questioned you about an incident on the island that happened about twenty years ago? Someone from Seaport Sloops picked up a young man who claimed he’d been held prisoner on the island?”
“Oh my God,” Daisy exclaimed. “Was that the same guy? That reporter?”
“I don’t know why he wanted to bring that whole situation up.” Bram seemed to be in no doubt as to who Shipka was. “It’s decades ago. What good was going to come out of it? The guy’s dead.”
“How’d you know Poveda was dead?” Jason asked.
Bram looked blank for an instant. “Oh. The reporter told us. When he was trying to get us to talk. Said the guy was dead now, so he needed someone to corroborate his statement.”
Right. Of course. Obviously.
Kennedy said, “Maybe what happened last night is why it matters.”
The Seaport Sloops looked as startled as if one of the bilge pumps had spoken up. “No,” Bram said. “That was a different kind of thing. That was Shep.”
“Bram,” his wife said in alarm.
“Allegedly Shep,” Bram corrected, proving that he had been paying attention while watching all those FBI movies.
“Are you the one who transported Mr. Poveda from the island?” Jason asked. Twenty years ago Bram would have been in his late teens, early twenties. Not much more than a kid himself.
Bram hesitated. “No.”
“I know it’s awkward,” Jason said. “The Durrands are important people around here. But what if these two crimes are connected? That’s something law enforcement needs to know. It’s too late to pursue the first case. You’re not going to get dragged into a courtroom.”
