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Husband number two, Howard Howard, was a west Texas oilman who lasted a few heartbeats longer than Brad. When Howard moved on, he left baby sister and their son, Kit, with very deep pockets. Estaban Daewood came and went so quickly I can’t recall his face.
Harry’s fourth nuptials were with Striker Crone. Their short-lived vows were exchanged under a floral trellis spanning the beach access path over which my windows now looked. The wedding party and most of the guests stayed at the Villa Renaissance.
Entering my unit felt like walking back a decade in time. Same Italian marble floor. Same granite countertops. Same fans rotating slowly overhead. Same sliding glass doors opening onto a balcony view of the spectacularly turquoise water and white sand of Grace Bay.
The Villa Renaissance was as distant from the scene at Northwest Point as Hollywood is from Appalachia. After my dinner and a very long shower I should have felt satiated and cleansed.
I felt agitated as hell.
Moved by nostalgia, I tried calling Harry. Got voice mail.
Ryan. Voice mail.
Katy. Voice mail.
Didn’t anyone answer their goddam phones anymore?
But the arduous day had left me exhausted. And Musgrove would be picking me up at seven a.m. I wasn’t clear why she wanted me toview the dead boaters at the morgue. But her reasoning had been persuasive. I suspected her arguments always were.
Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe Musgrove was right. Whatever. I’d agreed.
After rinsing my utensils and discarding my empty soda can and trash, I headed to the bedroom. Screw unpacking. Leaving the drapes wide, the sliding door open, I killed the light and dropped into bed.
Beyond the balcony, the pool, the dunes, and the beach, the ocean throbbed its steady rhythm. A sound that should have lulled me to sleep.
It didn’t.
Like the waves, flashback visions rolled in my head. A propeller-slashed body on stainless steel. Bones in a culvert. Desiccated corpses on the deck of a boat.
Questions pounded.
Who were the “poor souls” on theCod Bless Us? From what port had they sailed? When? For what purpose?
Why had they died on a vessel equipped with powerful engines? Had the system failed? Had the boat run out of gas? If so, why hadn’t the skipper radioed or called for assistance?
Were the deaths accidental, a cruel but all-too-common toll extracted by the briny deep? Had theCodencountered a violent storm? A rogue wave?
Or was foul play involved? Had theCod Bless Uscrossed paths with a malevolent human force? Had hostiles boarded the vessel and murdered everyone on it? If so, why kill the passengers and leave behind the hundred grand Sea Ray?
I’d spotted no evidence of physical trauma while bagging the bodies. No slashes or stab marks, no gunshot wounds, no blunt-instrument fractures.
I’d noted only one commonality among the dead. Every corpse looked appallingly wasted and gaunt. Was the shrinkage relevant to cause of death? A postmortem alteration caused by prolonged exposure?
Who killed Deniz Been? Was his death gang related? Was it connected to the murders here in TCI?
What had happened to Bobby Galloway, Ryder Palke, and Quentin Bonner? Were they specifically targeted? If so, why them? By whom?
At some point exhaustion won out.
I fell into a troubled sleep peopled by shadowy phantoms. Some I knew. Most I didn’t.
None I would remember.
13
THURSDAY, JULY11
Musgrove arrived bearing cellophane-wrapped muffins and lidded Styrofoam cups containing good island coffee. By seven-ten we were motoring along the Leeward Highway, following the same route we’d taken with Gardiner and Rigby.
