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We escort Kayla out of the hospital to her friend’s waiting car. I give her my card. “Call me or email me if you remember anything or have questions. Either way, I promise I’ll keep in touch.”
Jameson drives and doesn’t say much. He plays Bob Marley while I tap away on the laptop in his car, searching for the nail salon owner where Kayla and her friends went.
Because if there’s anything Sheriff Gloria Bryant has taught me, if you want to find a criminal… start at the top.
That’s where most of them are.
“Guess who owns that nail salon?” Fury strikes me at the find.
“The same man who owns half this island?”
“Yep. Senator Gentry Evans.”
I text Penny. When she’s on shift, she can go check that salon out.
While we continue our drive, Jameson finally cracks. “Did you let him stay?”
“It’s complicated.”
His lips press in a line of anger. “Broken hearts and Redix Dean aren’t complicated. It’s his M.O. It’s clear as fucking day, Bryant.”
I stare out the front windshield, unsure how to answer.
He’s not wrong.
“I’m sorry I got you in the middle of all this,” is all I can say.
“I’ll get in the middle of anything for you.”
I’m about to thank him, but he parks the car with a hard brake. We’re at The Pelican, and work is the priority.
“Let me handle this one.” I see a woman, a server taking a smoke break by the back door.
I get out of the car and signal her my way, out of the camera’s range at the door, while I ask her if the owner or manager are in.
“Not yet,” she says. “They always run late.”
“Typical.” I keep my smile true, and she grins back. “What’s the manager’s name?”
“Our Bar Manager, he’s Derek Baucom and a new, giant pain in the ass.”
“Really?” Yep, loose lips and pissed-off women can sink ships. “How so?”
“He brought in his man-crew from New York and won’t let us women tend bar anymore and make the good tips. It’s bullshit.”
“Sounds like it.” And it sounds like the perfect cover for a crime. “Did he work last night?”
“Yep.”
“When’s he usually back in?”
“Late.” She flicks her cigarette. “But he’ll be here early Tuesday because like hell if I’m opening for him all week.”
“Thanks.” I shake her hand and step back toward Jameson’s car, all that intel swimming in my skull.
In the minutes it takes for Jameson to get me back to my car at the crime scene, I search social media for Derek Baucom and my starving stomach twists.
“Look at this.” I show him my phone screen. “Derek Baucom, their new Bar Manager, posted a month ago. Seems he owns a long-sleeved navy and white striped pullover.”
