Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels (28 page)

“Sure enough.”

I described everything I had seen, and then I gave her the location of the island—the county, the township, even the coordinates. She said it wasn’t going to be easy since she didn’t have the business’ name as a starting point, but that she would try.

“Begin with the boat registration,” I said. “You should be able to trace it to an owner.”

“Will do.”

I thanked her, but before we hung up I told her there was one other matter, another personal favor for a friend.

“I downloaded some financial records from the web and sent them to you,” I said. “For a nonprofit called CNA. Do you think you could give it your usual perusal?”

“I guess so,” she said, “but this crab thing sounds like a lot more fun.”

“Do the crab business first,” I told her. “Then, if you have time, look into CNA as well.”

“You got it.”

“Pay particular attention to the fund-raising area,” I said. “I’ve got some red flags out, and I want your opinion.”

“Will do.”

We said goodbye. I hung up the phone and whispered a quick, silent prayer of thanks for Harriet. If there was a job to be done that involved finances or fact-checking or paperwork, she was the one to do it.

I put away the phone book and the map and tiredly walked back to the bedroom, hoping that, with Harriet’s help, I could verify criteria nine and ten from my list, “believes in full financial disclosure” and “has books audited annually by an independent auditor and receives a clean audit opinion.” If both of those were the case, then maybe we could get to the bottom of the fund-raising questions I had about CNA.

I was also waiting to get the report back from my investigator friend in Ohio.

Yawning, I pulled down the shades and slid under the covers. Sal, lazy creature that she was, was thrilled to be going to bed in the middle of the day, and once she calmed down she found her customary spot next to me and plopped into position. It didn’t take long for both of us to drift off.

I slept deeply, though at some point I was vaguely aware of the phone ringing and then, a bit later, someone knocking on the door. I felt sure it was probably Verlene calling and Kirby knocking. I
rolled over and went back to sleep, planning on calling them both when I got up.

I awoke just as it was getting dark. Disoriented at first, I sat up and then remembered it was sunset, not sunrise. I had a long night ahead of me, so I got up and stretched, and then I went to the kitchen to make some strong coffee to help me wake up.

I was halfway down the hall when I hesitated. Something wasn’t right. I saw that the door to the carport was open a crack. Then I realized there was a figure standing at the kitchen counter—large and hunched over, doing something in my purse.

“Hey!” I yelled. At the same moment, Sal started growling.

Without looking at me, the man turned and ran out of the door. I ran after him, heart pumping furiously. I was half scared and half angry. Sal was hot on his heels.

I ran out into the carport, chilled by the cold cement on my bare feet. I could see the man making his way across my wooded lawn to the main road. He was big but fast—way too fast for me to catch up with him. I noted his clothing, though there wasn’t anything remarkable about it: black coat, brown pants, dark shoes. Shivering, I watched Sal nipping after him and realized he could hurt her much worse than she could hurt him. I yelled for her to return, which she obediently did, still growling, as the man disappeared into the brush.

Back inside the kitchen, I saw that my hands were shaking. I locked the door, hugged the dog to me, and then tried to see what had been stolen from my purse. Fingers trembling, I gingerly checked my wallet, which was lying open on the counter. I counted my cash, which was all there, as were my credit cards. From what I could tell, I had surprised him before he’d had a chance to take anything.

I had one hand on the phone, trying to decide whether or not to call the police, when Sal started barking again. I jumped at a sudden sharp rap at my door.

“Callie? Are you home? It’s Kirby.”

Exhaling loudly, I threw open the door and flung myself into his arms.

“Hey!” he said. “Hey, what’s up?”

He hugged me back tightly, though I’m sure he thought I was nuts. To make matters worse, for some stupid reason, before I could explain what was going on, I started to cry.

“Callie, what’s wrong?”

I cried against him, shocked at how good it felt to have someone broad and strong to hold on to. Had it really been that long since I laid my head against a man’s shoulder?

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was just scared.”

His arm firmly around my shoulders, he led me into the living room and over to the couch. We sat together and I struggled to turn my sobs into sniffles. He handed me a tissue, which I used to dry my wet cheeks.
Breathe in, breathe out,
I told myself. Soon, I had things under control.

“Now, what on earth is going on?” Kirby asked gently.

“I’m sorry,” I said, blowing my nose. “I was taking a nap, and when I got up there was an intruder. I surprised him in the kitchen. He was digging through my purse.”

“What? When?”

“Just now. I chased him off. I was about to call the police when you got here.”

“I didn’t see anybody.”

“He ran away!”

“Are you sure he was alone?”

“I think so.”

Kirby gave my hand a squeeze and stood.

“Let me make sure,” he said. He looked around the room for a moment and finally grabbed the poker from the fireplace. Holding it over his shoulder like a bat, he went through the house, checking each room and all of the closets. When he was finished, he went outside and around the house.

I had to admit I was glad he was there. Though I was trained in self-defense and swung a pretty mean fire poker myself, it felt
good to have someone else ready to defend me for a change—especially now that something like this had happened twice in one week. While he secured the perimeter, I checked the back door to see if I could figure out how the man had gotten inside. I also sniffed around for the smell of bleach, but there wasn’t any.

From what I could tell, there hadn’t been any force used on the door. Tiny scratches near the keyhole might indicate a lock pick, but I could’ve made those scratches in the past, myself, with the key. The man had been wearing gloves, so I didn’t even bother dusting for prints. In fact, it was that realization that made me decide not to call the police. Now that he was gone, leaving no evidence behind, what could they do for me I couldn’t do for myself?

“Whoever he was,” Kirby said, stepping back into the house, the poker dangling at his side, “he’s long gone now. Are you sure he didn’t take anything?”

I shook my head no, my mind racing.

“Not from my purse, at least,” I said. I walked around the kitchen and then the living room, but nothing was gone, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. There was only my wallet, open on the counter, my own face peering up at me from the little window that held my driver’s license.

Perhaps, I realized, that was the point. Maybe the man had been digging through my purse not to rob me but to
identify
me. Maybe he was trying to find my license, or some other ID, so he could figure out who I was and why I was poking around in things that were none of my business. If that were the case, then that meant I had struck a nerve somewhere—probably at the island.

“Do you have a gun?” Kirby asked me.

I looked at him blankly.

“A gun,” he repeated. “You’re an investigator. Don’t you carry a gun?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t like guns,” I said. “Long story.”

I didn’t add that years ago my brother, Michael, a cop, had been shot on the job and nearly died. The experience had been traumatic for the whole family, and after that I found I was not comfortable around guns or ammunition.

“So how do you protect yourself?”

“I have my ways,” I said defensively. The truth was, I rarely found myself in much danger anymore. These days the majority of cases I worked had nothing to do with murder or death.

Suddenly, I was feeling very stupid for having cried in front of Kirby. I knew it had been mostly physical—a combination of having been so tired and then having been so startled. But now here he was thinking I was a helpless female, when in fact I could probably have him on the floor begging for mercy by the count of three.

“If you really want to know,” I said, “I can do street fighting.”

“Street fighting?”

“My dad taught me when I was a teenager.”

“What is that, exactly?”

“Strategic defense. I’m not as big and strong as you are, but I can go for your weak points. Grind my heel into your instep. Knee you in the groin. Poke my car keys into your eyes.”

“What if I grab you before you have a chance to do any of that?” he asked, looking skeptical.

“Then I use your weight and momentum as my defense.”

“Hey, I know you’re in good shape and all, but I doubt you could hold your own against me if push came to shove.”

“Wanna try me?”

For some reason, I felt the need to prove my toughness. I knew it was immature, but there you go. I stared at Kirby with challenge, promising myself I wouldn’t cry in front of a man again for a long, long time.

“You serious?” he said.

“Let’s take it outside.”

Grinning, Kirby followed me out the door and across the lawn to the softest part of the grass. I turned to face him and bent my knees slightly, arms loose at my sides.

“Attack me,” I said.

“I’m not sure if I can.”

“Scared?”

“No,” he said, “but you’re a girl.”

“Don’t think of me as a girl. Think of me as a victim. And you’re the bad guy.”

“If you say so.”

He came at me halfheartedly, without much movement. The best I could do was grab his wrist and twist it around behind him, my knee to the small of his back.

“Ouch!”

“Do it again,” I said, pushing him away. “This time try to act like you mean it. Don’t be such a wimp.”

He shook out his shoulders, obviously aggravated.

“Go ahead,” I goaded. “Give it your best shot. You big baby.”

Sure enough, this time he lunged. I turned and bent, using my body as a fulcrum, pulling him forward over my back until he flipped and was suddenly on the ground, upside down, staring up at me.

“That’s street fighting,” I said with a grin.

Groaning, Kirby got up and dusted off his pants, his pride obviously wounded more than his body. He rubbed the small of his back and grimaced.

“Okay, so maybe you don’t need a gun,” he said.

Together we went back inside. I felt much better, as if the score had been evened out somehow.

“Would you mind making me a cup of coffee?” he asked, sitting gingerly at the table. “I usually like a warm beverage after I’ve been ground into the dust by a girl.”

I laughed and stepped toward the counter, more than happy to comply.

Thirty-One

A half hour later, the coffeepot was empty, Kirby seemed to almost have recovered from our bout in the ring, and I had filled him in completely on my morning’s adventure at the island. He wanted me to call the police and tell them everything, but I forcefully declined. If I was already getting on their bad side, it would only be to my detriment to call them in now. I was afraid if that Litman guy heard about this he might try to put the brakes on my entire investigation, and that would leave poor Shayna without any outside help save for her overworked public defender.

Once Kirby got over his shock at my audacity for going to the island disguised as a tourist, he agreed with my thought that today’s intruder in my home might’ve been on a fact-finding mission—and that I had probably stirred up a hornet’s nest at the island with my appearance there this morning. He didn’t necessarily agree that this was the road that would lead to Eddie Ray’s killer, but he said that since it was a possibility it was probably worth pursuing. I told him that sometimes you have to follow your instincts, even if they seem a bit far-fetched.

Finally, we began to brainstorm about the island and what might possibly be going on there that would require the presence of an armed guard. Our suggestions ranged from “religious cult” to “crack laboratory”—and those were the least ridiculous of the bunch.

“Doesn’t have to be crack,” Kirby said. “Could be man-made heroin, ecstasy, or amphetamines. Maybe they’re producing drugs there and smuggling them out with the seafood.”

“Okay, so let’s say it is a drug lab of some kind masked as a seafood processing plant, and Eddie Ray found out about it. What would have been his next move? Do you think he would’ve just gone out there and signed himself up as part of the team?”

“No telling,” Kirby said. “More likely, he tried to steal some of the drugs and got caught. Or, maybe he was blackmailing someone with what he knew. Any of those actions could have led to his being murdered.”

I stood and began pacing, thinking of what Eli had said about junkies using bleach to clean their needles.

“I’ve got to get back on that island and get a good look around,” I said.