Chapter Eight

Nicole strode into the break room with her liquid lunch in hand. The chief had bumped the meeting to eleven, and she hoped it was because he had something new to share.

“Where’s Brady?” she asked Owen, taking an empty seat between him and Adam.

“He and Emmet were meeting with the family,” Owen said.

“Where?”

“They’re staying at a hotel near Aubrey’s apartment.”

Nicole scooted her chair in, not envying Emmet right now. Talking to a victim’s family was the hardest aspect of her job, even worse than observing autopsies.

“Any word on how it went?” she asked.

Owen shook his head.

The chief walked in and dropped a notepad at the head of the table.

“Okay, everyone here?” he asked, taking a seat. His attention landed on Nicole. “How was the crime lab?”

“Good,” she said. “We got some new info.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“You want to start?” She turned to Adam, who looked momentarily panicked. But if he was going to be a detective he needed to get used to briefing the chief.

“We went over the car.” Adam opened his spiral and flipped through a few pages. “The Subaru.” He cleared his throat. “The CSIs recovered some fibers from the trunk that make them think she was put back there.”

Brady frowned. “What kind of fibers?”

Adam flipped through another page, and Brady looked at Nicole.

“Something synthetic. Not carpet,” she said. “We need confirmation from the lab, but it looks like potentially nylon fabric. Miranda thinks the victim may have been placed in a duffel bag and loaded into the trunk.”

Brady’s frown deepened. “When?”

“Based on the video evidence, most likely at the apartment,” Nicole said.

“Walk me through it.”

She glanced at Adam, who looked all too happy to let her do the talking.

“We have surveillance video of her entering her apartment complex around one o’clock the afternoon of the murder. Her roommate left shortly after that, around one forty. Then at three twenty-two her car is captured on video exiting the complex with someone else at the wheel, no sign of Aubrey.”

“Here.” Owen pivoted his computer to face the chief. He had the video footage that they had copied onto a thumb drive pulled up on the screen.

Brady took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slid them on, then leaned closer to the laptop. “We’re sure this is her vehicle?”

Owen nodded. “Correct.”

“Can we enhance this?”

“We already did.”

“This guy in the hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses—he’s our guy.” Brady looked at Nicole.

“We believe so. The car leaves the premises and never reenters,” she said. “So we think Aubrey is inside it and unconscious or dead.”

“In a duffel bag in the trunk,” Brady stated.

“That’s what the CSIs seem to think, based on the fiber evidence.”

Brady leaned back and removed his glasses. “Shoot me that footage,” he told Owen. “I have a contact with the FBI cyber crimes unit in San Antonio. I’ll see what they can do to enhance the image. Maybe we’ll get a better look at this guy. What else do we know?” He looked back at Nicole. “Anything more in the car?”

“No prints except the victim’s. However”—she glanced at Adam, who still looked happy to let her take the lead—“the rearview mirror was adjusted for someone much taller than Aubrey, who’s five foot three.”

Brady’s eyebrows tipped up. “He leave any fingerprints when he adjusted it?”

“No. We assume he was wearing gloves. However, the mirror could still give us a lead. Miranda swabbed it for touch DNA, which could have potentially been transferred to the gloves if he touched his face or something while he was wearing them. Miranda also recovered a single strand of dark hair in the driver’s seat, which is potentially huge.”

The chief stared at her without comment. Evidently, he didn’t see the potential “hugeness” of Miranda’s find.

“The victim has dark hair,” Brady said.

“Yes. But this strand was about three inches long. Aubrey’s is much longer.”

Brady tapped his pencil on his notepad. “So, your theory is that this guy slipped into her apartment. No sign of forced entry—” He glanced at Owen for confirmation.

“That’s right.”

“—and attacked her, had her ingest some sleeping pills, then injected her with a lethal dose of fentanyl, according to our tox report. Then he loaded her into a bag, put her in the trunk, and drove her to the beach to stage her suicide.”

Silence came over the room as the chief looked around the table. His gaze settled on Nicole.

“That’s the theory?”

She nodded crisply. “Yes, sir. Based on the evidence we have so far.”

“Why?” Brady looked at Owen. “What’s his motive?”

Owen’s brow furrowed. This was the weakness, the aspect of the case for which they had zero leads thus far.

“We don’t know,” Owen said. “The lack of forced entry could mean that she knew him and let him in.”

“So, you’re thinking a boyfriend?”

“Her roommate thinks she may have stayed with her ex-boyfriend overnight,” Adam said, chiming in at last. “She didn’t spend the night at the apartment. We know that.”

“So, what then?” Brady asked. “You guys are thinking some kind of jealous ex scenario?”

“Could be a crime of passion,” Owen said.

Nicole shook her head. “Nope.”

Brady looked at her. “You don’t agree?”

“What jumps out at me about this crime is that it’s passionless,” she said. “I mean, this guy injected her with a lethal drug, zipped her into a duffel bag, then drove her to the beach in the trunk of her own car, and staged a suicide. He even faked her handwriting.” She looked around the table. “That’s the definition of cold and calculated, not passionate.”

Quiet settled over the room. Nicole glanced at Owen, who seemed to be considering her theory even though she’d contradicted him.

Once again Nicole was struck by the callousness of it all, and the complexity. It wasn’t the sort of crime anyone expected to see in their quaint little town.

But their town was changing.

“But again, motive,” Brady said, pinning his gaze on Nicole. “Why would some stranger go to all that trouble?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“I still think we need to look at the boyfriend,” Adam said.

Owen nodded. “Agreed.”

“Where are we on the phone dump?” Brady asked Owen.

“Supposedly, we’ll have it by end of day today.”

Nicole bit back a comment. Obviously, they needed the victim’s phone records, but she was much more optimistic about the leads Miranda had found.

“I think we should focus on the forensic evidence,” she said. “I think that’s the key to this.”

“The hair,” Brady stated.

She nodded. “Miranda sent it to the lab.”

“One hair.”

“Yes. But the length doesn’t match the victim. So, even though whoever drove her vehicle was wearing a hoodie and probably gloves, too, we might be able to get some DNA from the hair.”

Brady didn’t look convinced. “Did she say how probable it is we’ll get usable DNA off this one hair?”

“Well, no. It’s definitely not a sure thing. There’s no evidence the victim put up a struggle inside the car, so the hair was likely shed instead of being pulled out. So, there may not be a hair follicle attached with DNA on it. Still... if there is DNA on it, it could end up being our strongest lead.”

The office of Alex J. Breda, attorney at law, smelled like fresh paint and sawdust. Cassandra pulled the door shut behind her and glanced nervously across the waiting room at the dark-haired woman standing atop a stepladder.

“Hello?” Cassandra called.

The woman didn’t turn around. She tucked a hammer into her apron pocket and adjusted the framed photograph she was hanging on the slate gray wall. The picture was a seascape at sunset—or was it sunrise? The black-and-white shot showed a tall sailboat silhouetted against an eerie sky with a storm front on the distant horizon. Looking at the scene, Cassandra was taken back to that gusty evening at Lighthouse Point. It was only a few days ago, but she’d been through so many cycles of stress since then that it felt like weeks. Cassandra tried to remember the opening she’d rehearsed on the way over here.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

The woman whirled around. “Oh! Hi.” She plucked a pair of earbuds from her ears and slid them into her apron. “Sorry! Didn’t hear you.” She looked at the picture behind her. “Does this look straight to you?”

Cassandra ventured into the seating area. It was furnished with a glass coffee table and a suede sofa the exact shade of gray as the storm cloud in the photograph.

“Um... I think it’s a bit crooked,” Cassandra said.

“I knew it.” The woman sighed and glanced around. “Where’d I put my level?”

Cassandra spotted it on the reception counter and picked it up. “Here,” she said, taking it over.

Up close, she saw that the woman had vivid blue eyes and the kind of thick, wavy hair that Cassandra had always envied.

“Thanks.” She placed the level on the top of the frame and shifted the picture until the bubble was centered.

“Looks perfect now,” Cassandra said.

“Thank you.” She climbed down from the ladder.

Cassandra took a deep breath. “Are you Alex Breda?”

She smiled broadly. “Close. I’m Leyla Breda. One sec, I’ll get him.” She strode past her and leaned her head into the hallway. “Alex! You have a visitor.”

Then she returned to the seating area, tucking her hands into her apron pockets.

“Can I offer you a coffee?” She nodded at a granite counter along the wall. “Alex only has the Keurig, sadly, but there are some coffee pods.”

“No thanks.”

“You know, you look really familiar. Do you work at the Banyan Tree, by chance?”

“I do, yes. You’ve been in?”

She made a face. “Not in a while. I was doing those stretch classes with Danielle last fall, but then my schedule got crazy, and I fell out of the habit.”

Cassandra smiled awkwardly, wondering how long she was going to have to make small talk. “You should come back, though. Get into the groove again.”

“Ugh! This one’s crooked, too.” Leyla Breda stalked across the room and adjusted the picture beside the door. She took out the level again and placed it atop the frame.

Cassandra walked over to study the picture. It was a framed magazine article with a color photograph of a man and woman, both with their arms crossed and their backs to each other as they smiled for the camera. Breda Braxton Take On H-Town, read the headline.

Thisman was Alex Breda? He looked like someone straight out of central casting.

Yes, we’re looking for tall, broad shoulders, commanding presence. Perfect teeth and golf tan a must. Oh, and make sure he has blue eyes and ridiculously long lashes.

Cassandra’s last lawyer had had bifocals and pattern baldness and was four inches shorter than she was.

The woman straightened the frame. “Doesn’t that look nice now?”

“It does.”

She glanced at the back of the office. “Sorry. One sec.”

She walked to the hallway and disappeared around the corner this time. Cassandra heard a door open, followed by muffled voices.

“Alex, someone’s here.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. A client, I think. Get your ass out there.”

Cassandra tucked her file folder under her arm and turned to look at the seascape again.

A moment later, the woman was back with a smile. “He’s coming.”

“Thank you.”

A man strode into the room. In ripped jeans and a faded Rip Curl T-shirt, he barely resembled the magazine photo.

“Hi. Alex Breda.” He thrust out his hand and smiled, and she caught the perfect white teeth.

“I’m Cassandra Miller,” she said, shaking his hand. “I saw your sign out front. Are you open for business or—”

“Absolutely. What can I do for you?”

“Well. Uh—” She darted a glance across the room, where Leyla Breda was now arranging mugs near the coffee machine.

Alex cleared his throat. “Leyla?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh. Right. I’m out!” She crossed the room and grabbed a tote bag beside the reception counter. “I’ll be back in an hour with sandwiches.” She hitched the bag onto her shoulder. “Alex, chicken pesto or portobello mushroom?”

“Chicken,” he said. “Thanks.”

She pulled open the door.

“Wait. Come on, Ley. Seriously?”

She turned around, and Alex was glaring at the framed magazine article by the door.

“What? It’s perfect there.” She gave him a pointed look and walked out.

The second the door closed, he stepped over and unhooked the frame from the wall.

“Sorry.” He rolled his eyes. “Come on back.”

Cassandra followed him down a corridor and into a semi-unpacked office.

“We’ve gone nine rounds over this thing,” he said, stashing the picture behind the door. “She wants it front and center.”

“Your wife seems proud of you.”

He glanced up. “My sister. She’s very helpful and also very opinionated.” He removed a banker’s box from a side chair. “Please excuse the mess. Here, have a seat.”

He set the box on the floor behind a giant mahogany desk that matched the empty credenza behind it. Then he opened another cardboard box on the floor and fished out a legal pad.

Cassandra lowered herself into the side chair and settled her hands on top of her file folder.

“So.” Alex dropped the legal pad on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He smiled, and she felt a warm tingle that traveled from her stomach to the tips of her toes. “What brings you in today?”

“Well.” She fidgeted with the edge of her folder, then forced her hands to be still. “I wanted to inquire about wills.”

“Wills.” The smile widened. “That wasn’t what I thought you were gonna say.”

“You don’t do wills?”

“No. I do.” He leaned forward and rested his tanned arms on the desk. “Just most of my will clients are, like, sixty. Or new parents.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“I’m neither,” she said, fidgeting with the folder again. “I’ve been pecking around online.” She cleared her throat. “I think I have an idea of what I need? But I don’t want to get it wrong. It’s too important. You see, my brother has special needs. He lives in a group home in Arizona. I want to make sure he’s taken care of.”

He took a pen from the drawer and jotted something on his legal pad. “Age?”

“Me or my brother?”

“Both.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” she said. “Lucas is thirty-one.”

He made a note and glanced up.

“I think I might need a trust? I don’t know. You’re the expert, obviously.”

“Is it just you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have a husband? Kids? Would this be for the entirety of your estate?”

“Oh. It’s just me.”

He nodded and made a few notes.

“As far as my estate... I don’t have a lot of assets right now. Very few, actually, at the moment. But if I were to have some in the future—”

“You want to make sure someone is looking out for Lucas’s best interests after your death.”

“Yes. Is that something you can write up?”

“Sounds pretty straightforward.” He set down his pencil and looked up. “My cousin has special needs, and I wrote a will for my aunt and uncle. I should be able to pull something similar together for you, no problem.”

“And everything we discuss would be confidential, I assume?”

“Yes. Our conversations are covered by attorney-client privilege.”

She nodded. Then took a deep breath. “And how much does something like this cost, typically?”

She held her breath, watching him, thinking about his Rolex watch and suede sofa. His storefront was simple enough, but she was pretty sure now that the black Porsche 911 parked out front belonged to him.

He was watching her closely, and she started to fidget again.

“Ms.Miller, what do you do for a living?”

Her stomach tightened. “It’s Cassandra. Or Cassie. I’m a yoga instructor over at the Banayan Tree.”

He rubbed his jaw and seemed to be debating something.

“Well,” he said. “I’ve got a sliding scale for some clients.”

Relief flooded her. “Really?”

He nodded. “And we can break things into payments, if we need to.”

Tears burned her eyes as his words sank in. “That would be amazing. Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.” A tear leaked out and she brushed it away.

He looked down at his notes. “I’ll just need some basic info about you and your brother.”

“Sure. Yes.” Another tear spilled out and splatted on the folder. She swiped at her cheeks as she handed him the file.

“Cassandra, are you all right?”

“Yes. Sorry. It’s just... been a long week.”

He gave her a crooked smile, and she realized it was only Monday.

“Thank you again. I truly appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he said casually. “I’m happy to help.”

Nicole plodded along the sand, wishing she had stuck with that January spin class. But she hadn’t. And the last time she’d been running was before Christmas.

A muscle cramped, and she clutched her side. Well, maybe it was before Thanksgiving. Either way, it had been far too long, and her body was loudly protesting her decision to jog on the beach in thirty-four-degree weather.

She scanned the coastline, looking for anyone even vaguely resembling the man who Cassandra had described. But not only were there no runners in black clothes this evening, there were no runners at all. The only people out here were an elderly beachcomber and a fisherman up to his knees in the surf.

She kept a steady pace as she watched the waves. She’d always liked it out here. The beach was wide and spacious. As kids, she and her siblings were strictly prohibited from swimming at this point because of the rip current, but that taboo had only given the place more allure. They had loved to come out here with their dad whenever he went fishing. Their mom would pack a thermos of lemonade, and Nicole and Kate and Kevin would dig holes on the beach and search for sand crabs. And when their dad was done fishing, he’d walk them to the old lighthouse, where they would race each other up the grassy hill and log-roll to the bottom.

That was before the lighthouse had been renovated, back when it was still boarded up and empty, and kids used to say you could see ghosts in the upper windows on windy summer nights. Later, Nicole discovered that it wasn’t ghosts doing the haunting but teenagers looking for a place to make out and get high.

Nicole surveyed the lighthouse now as she jogged against the wind. She still found it strange that the crumbling old building from her childhood was now one of the island’s top attractions. So much had changed in her hometown—more tourists, more traffic, more crime—and even though all that growth was the reason Nicole had a job, she couldn’t help being nostalgic for the sleepy little beach town that was gone forever.

The cramp tightened, and Nicole slowed to a stop. Panting, she held her side and checked her watch. It was 6:25, the time Cassandra had said she liked to jog after work. But it was Monday, and she’d said she typically came out here Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, so maybe Nicole should try again tomorrow.

She turned around and spotted a man jogging toward her. Her heart skittered. He wore a black sweatshirt, black shorts, and a black visor. Even his running shoes were black, with the exception of the neon green laces.

Nicole’s feet started moving before her brain could catch up.

“Excuse me. Sir?”

His attention was focused on the horizon, and he didn’t even look at her until she was ten yards away.

“Sir?” She smiled as his gaze settled on her. “Hi. You mind stopping for a minute?”

He halted. “What’s that?” He swiped the screen of his phone, switching off whatever he’d been listening to.

“Hi.” She smiled again, trying to visualize how she must look to this guy. Her cheeks were flushed, and her sweatpants were spattered with wet sand. This man was barely breathing hard, and his legs were sand-free.

“My name is Nicole Lawson.” She pulled her badge from the zipper pack clipped around her waist. “I’m with Lost Beach PD.”

His eyebrows arched as he looked at the badge.

“I’m investigating a recent incident here.”

“Here... as in here on the beach?”

“That’s right. I’m interviewing some of the regulars. You know, dog walkers, wade fishermen, people like that. Do you jog here routinely?”

He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

“Have you ever jogged here before?” she amended, giving him a question it would be harder to say no to.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Are you here often? Like, several times a week?”

He glanced over his shoulder, as though she might be talking to someone else.

“I guess you’d say that,” he replied. “Five or six times a week, usually.”

“Great.” She stepped closer and tipped her head to the side. “Then maybe you can help me. Were you here last Saturday evening?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? I’m talking about this last Saturday. Just a couple days ago.”

Something flitted across his face, and she could have sworn it was panic.

“Saturday, yeah. I think I was here.”

She smiled. “You mind pinning it down for me? I’m talking about February fourteenth. Were you jogging on this beach that evening?”

“I was, yes.” He nodded. “The fourteenth.”

“Great, then. Can you tell me who else you might have seen out here? For example, did you see any other joggers or walkers? Any parked cars?” She nodded toward the exact sand dune where Aubrey Lambert’s car had been parked less than thirty yards away.

“No.”

“No... what?”

“No, I didn’t see anyone else out here,” he said.

She stared up at him, trying to get a read. His eyes looked nervous and slightly hostile, too. Fair enough, though. Who liked having their workout interrupted by a police interrogation?

“Are you sure?” She smiled, hoping he’d relax. “Did you notice any vehicles parked near any of the sand dunes here?”

“No.”

“Anyone walking around who maybe looked out of place? Maybe they weren’t dressed for the weather? It was cold and windy that day.”

“I didn’t see anyone out here.”

“No one at all? Think back. Were there any people flying kites, maybe? Or people out with their dogs?”

He shook his head. “I told you. I didn’t see anyone.”

Nicole stared up at him. He looked hostile again, and again, she felt like something was off. Clearly, he wanted to end the conversation.

“All right.” She tugged a little notebook from her pack. “Let me just get your contact info.”

He gave her his name and number and then he took off toward the lighthouse at a faster pace than before.

Nicole zipped her notebook into her pack and watched him go. Then she retraced her route, scanning the beach for other potential regulars. But evidently she and Black Visor Guy were the only people crazy enough to be out jogging in this weather as the sun went down.

She replayed the interview as she made her way back. Finally, she reached the beach access road where she’d parked her pickup—less than half a mile away from where Aubrey Lambert’s body had been discovered.

Nicole hitched herself into the driver’s seat and held her feet outside the door as she pulled off her sand-caked sneakers. Her socks were sandy, too, and she dropped everything into a plastic bag and chucked it into the back to deal with later. Then she slid her freezing feet into flip-flops and reviewed her interview notes as she waited for the heat to get going.

The passenger door jerked open, and Nicole’s heart lurched.

“Hey.” Emmet jumped into the passenger seat.

“God. You scared me.”

He smiled. “How’d it go?”

“How’d what go? What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are.” He pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his arm over his forehead. He was dressed for running, too, but instead of sandy sweatpants, he wore athletic shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

He grabbed her water bottle. “No. I just went running.”

She shook her head as he took a swig.

“So, how’d it go? That was Cassandra’s runner dude, right? The man in black?”

Nicole watched him, wondering how Emmet knew about the runner. But of course he did. He would have reviewed her report, if not memorized it. Emmet was thorough. And conscientious. His carefree, surfer-boy thing was just a persona he put on—probably because it appealed to women. But the real Emmet was a competitive workaholic, same as she was.

“His name’s Chris Wakefield,” she said, “and he said he didn’t see anything.”

“No?”

“No. He says the beach was empty.”

“Hmm.”

“I swear.” She pulled off her baseball cap and tossed it in the back. “I can’t catch a break with anyone. No one saw anything. I mean, how is that possible? This is one of the most popular spots on the island.”

“Yes, but it’s winter.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been out here for half an hour freezing my ass off.” She put her fingers in front of the vent and felt nothing but cold air.

“Let’s get something to eat.”

She glanced at him. “What, now?”

“Yeah, I’m starving.”

Her stomach fluttered as she watched him sitting there in her passenger seat, all slick and energized from his run. She hadn’t seen him in shorts in a while, and now she was reminded of his muscular legs and how he’d played football in high school. He smelled like sweat, which should have been off-putting, but she didn’t mind, really.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So let’s have dinner. You can catch me up on what you got today.”

She bit her lip.

“Unless you have plans,” he said.

“No. But I need to shower first.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You do, too.”

He pushed the door open. “Go home and change, don’t shower. I’ll meet you at the Shrimp Hut in twenty minutes.”

“There’s no way I can—”

“Twenty minutes, Nicole.”