Finding Harmony (Katie & Annalise Book 3) (6 page)

When our alarm went off the next morning, I asked, “What time is it?” without opening my eyes.

“Five a.m. I’m leaving to go interview some witnesses.”

“Witnesses for what?” I asked. As if I couldn’t guess.

“Petro-Mex.”

“Are you going to fill me in?”

“Katie, I told you already, you aren’t working on this with me anymore. This feels too dangerous. I have to do this one alone.”

Alone. As in, without his wife around. On the heels of meeting the Mexican Sexpot, lying about meeting a strange man at the Ag Fair, and texting his fingers off, he had to do this alone, without his fat brainless wife who’d just had two babies.

“That’s bullshit, Nick,” I said, my voice low but hard.

“No, it’s the right thing to do,” he said, matching my volume.

“Well, I obviously have no say in this. So, whatever.”

“Don’t be like that, baby. Please.”

“What, you mean like pissed? Too late.” I turned to face the wall and wrapped my arms around a long pillow.

“I love you. I’m sorry I’ve made you mad.”

He slipped his arms around me from behind and molded himself against me. My body responded without considering how mad I was. If a woman’s personal parts could pout, mine did.
Traitors.
His cold nose prodded my neck, looking for warmth. He didn’t find any.

I held firm, and he slipped out, whisper-quiet. I tensed, my body ready to run after him and relent, but the part of me he’d lied to overpowered the impulse.
I showed him.

I made myself stay in bed until I heard him drive away, then I got up to use the bathroom and saw that in my brightest, sluttiest red lipstick, Nick had written, “SMILE, I’m a sucker for you,” on the bathroom mirror. A Blow Pop lay on the counter beneath it. Where had he found the candy? As if that even mattered. He was pulling out all the stops.

Well, I was still upset. He was sorry for making me mad? I hated nothing worse than a non-accountable non-apology. How about sorry for being a big fat Pinocchio? How about being sorry for treating me like a child? He could stew in it for now.

By six a.m. the morning had entered warp speed. I ran around the house with my in-laws and Taylor as the twins took turns crying and the cat and dog wove in and out of our feet. The doorbell rang in the midst of the rush. The last time I had answered this door, it was Officer Tutein. Thinking of him made me think about the wacko who thought Annalise was standing on dead people, which made me think about the dead guy in the driveway. Which made me think about Nick. Nick had not texted me, and his silence was grating on me.

I tried to wipe the crankiness off my face before I threw open the kitchen door, and was relieved to find Rashidi on the porch.

“You,” I said.

“Me,” he replied, holding out his arms for Jess. I handed her over without a word. Jess cooed and her fat little hand reached up toward the Rasta beads in the dreadlocks that swung at her eye level. “Uncle Rash here, Princess, and I’ma spoil you good.” He walked past me into the kitchen.

“Come in,” I said to his back.

All but a few of my friend’s long dreadlocks were tied back into a tail today. This was his formal look, so I knew he must be teaching later. He taught hydroponic farming and other topics I didn’t understand at the University of the Virgin Islands. He gave botanical tours of the rainforest, too, and it was on one of those that he had first introduced me to Annalise. He also ran a lucrative side business as a tour guide to the stars. His Rasta-man looks drew continental women to him like albino bees to dark honey.

“Hi, Rashidi,” my father-in-law said.

“Hello, Kurt. How the old man of the sea today?” Rashidi answered. Kurt had had a long career as a ship pilot back in Corpus Christi Bay in Texas.

Kurt gave his stock answer. “Just another crappy day in paradise.”

“Yah, mon. Where the missus? I wanna feast me eyes on some beautiful women this morning, so I come here first.”

“I hear you, Rashidi,” Julie called out, appearing in the kitchen with Taylor at her heels and Oso at his. She fussed over Rashidi as he kissed her cheek. “Have something to eat. We just finished breakfast and there’s leftover whole-wheat blueberry pancakes. Better hurry before Kurt gives them to the dogs. And we have coffee.”

“Hi, ’Shidi,” Taylor said, head-butting Rashidi’s leg.

“Hey, tough stuff, watch me leg.” To Julie, Rashidi said, “Pancakes? Better for me than those mutts.” He grabbed a plate and fork like family. “Katie look in need of the coffee, for true. May I brew me some tea instead?”

“No, no, you eat, I’ll brew,” Julie said, putting a kettle on the stove. Julie and Rashidi had a love fest going that would have made Kurt jealous if Rashidi were twenty years older. Kurt just smiled and wandered into the garage to putter with his tools. He had set up a carpentry shop in there when they followed us from Texas to St. Marcos, and he was working on mahogany side tables for the great room.

Rashidi managed to serve his plate and eat with Jess tucked adoringly into the crook of his left arm. Jess took after her grandmother where Rashidi was concerned. Taylor ran off behind Julie, who had promised to color with him, and I fetched Liv from her bouncy seat and sat down beside Rashidi with another cup of coffee. Immediately Liv twisted her head to fix her eyes on Rashidi.

“Your popularity with the ladies is enough to make me queasy, Rash,” I said.

“Yah, I’ma ladies mon. That why I come here today,” he said between bites.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Nick tell me all about your Day of the Dead, and that old guy who saying Annalise built on a graveyard. I got some information for you, from a pretty lady who work in the gov’ment.” The kettle began to whistle and he jumped up to turn off the burner. He returned to his chair with a cup of chamomile tea.

Nick had told me that Rashidi was working his contacts for information. “Thanks,” I said. “What did she say?”

“She say the boss man at the Department of Planning and Natural Resources the one over antiquities and such, and he make the rules and do what he like. She say he not got enough to do, and he like to stick he nose in other people business.” He shoveled in the last of the pancakes.

“Born and raised in the St. Marcos tradition, it sounds like.”

“Yah, and she say if he hear ’bout old bodies underneath a house he all over it. Last time something like this happened, he haul a continental guy off in handcuffs. But a week later, the boss man show up at work driving a new car, and problem solved. No digging, no jail, no fines. So my advice keep quiet ’bout the skeletons.”

I hated my continental status in situations like this one. “If there even are any skeletons. But I expected as much. Maybe we’ll never hear a word about them again, but I think your information means ‘plan for the worst.’”

“Where Nick?” Rashidi asked. He had taken his plate to the sink and rinsed it. Better than family.

“Interviewing witnesses on that Petro-Mex case. You know, the dead guy we found in our driveway.” I checked my iPhone; it was already 10:45. “I haven’t heard from him since before dawn.”

I texted Nick quickly: “Rashidi came over to update me on DPNR vis a vis Annalise/graveyard. Can you please check in and let me know your plans?”

Rashidi, meanwhile, had taken Jess over to the bouncy seat and buckled her in. She immediately kicked and chortled. Her hand shot out and whapped a spinning duck. “Bye, baby doll. Good day, Kovacs family.”

“You’re off?” I asked.

“Yah, mon, I head to the university to romance some more beautiful women. I see you later. Good day, Annalise,” he said, patting a stout masonry wall as he exited.

“Thanks, Rashidi. Have a good one,” I said.

Later, after Julie and I fed the kids and settled them in for naps, I retreated to the upstairs office and Julie went downstairs to the rooms she and Kurt had moved into six months after we came here from Texas. Their bottom floor apartment opened onto the patio and swimming pool and had a view of the west-end beaches and ocean beyond. The main floor housed the kitchen, master suite, great room, music room, and a guest bedroom, and upstairs Annalise had three bedrooms and a library. One bedroom belonged to Taylor, one was a nursery for the girls, and one we had converted into an office.

I loved the office. While my computer booted up, I threw open the balcony door to let in the breeze and stood at the railing. The view transported me. I imagined myself looking out over this same vista a hundred and fifty years ago, when the sugar mills and plantations were thriving. I could almost hear the creak of leather harnesses in the distance as horses turned the crushers inside the mills, grinding sugar cane into sugar. The scent of fermenting mangoes floated up from the orchard, making me think about the homemade mango ice cream in the freezer—snack for later. I scanned the road through the thick canopy of trees for my husband’s car. No luck.

Nick rarely went this long without contacting me. He’d left so early, though, maybe he’d forgotten to charge his phone. I looked down at mine again, and there was a message light. It was from him.

“Busy. Going well. Home for dinner.”

Wow, that was super informative. I checked my inner pulse and it appeared I was still mad at Nick. I didn’t want to spend the evening fighting, but the odds weren’t looking good for me to become the bearer of sweetness and light anytime soon.

In the meantime, I had work to do, and apparently Nick had piled a bunch of crap on my desk before he left. I started to move the stack of paper to the floor but stopped when I recognized maps of the refinery. This was no longer my business, since he had dismissed me from the Petro-Mex case “for my own safety,” but I began to study the pages one by one. They were printouts of the harbor and the huge field of tanks, shipping schedules from the Petro-Mex harbor, and a stack of emails to and from Eddy Monroe. I read every last word of them, but nothing held any significance for me. I set Nick’s papers on the floor and logged into my email at exactly 1:00 p.m. I loved catching a clock with double zeros.

As I browsed my inbox, the power suddenly cut out and my screen went black.
Damn, another power outage?
I looked up as the ceiling fan’s blades slowed. The digital display on the clock was black. I waited a few beats for the generator to kick on—nothing. I walked to the second story landing and leaned out.

“Kurt? Can you hear me?” I called.

“Ye-ah,” he shouted. His Maine accent drew the word out into at least two syllables.

“I think the power is off, but the generator didn’t kick on.”

Silence for several seconds. “Umm, no, the power is working fine down here.” Hee-yah, I heard.

“Weird, because everything lost power in the office.”

“I’ll check the breaker.” Bray-kuh.

As I stood at the railing, galloping my fingers and thinking about Kurt’s Maine accent instead of the oogie things that kept happening in my house, Oso slipped out of Taylor’s room and lay down at my feet.

Kurt returned. “Nope, breaker’s fine.”

“OK, let me re-check. Thanks.”

“Yup.”

I went back into the office with Oso and flicked the light switch on and off. Nothing. The fan was motionless. All screens displayed black. And then I heard the whine of a computer coming to life. That was more like it. I walked over to my computer, but the noise wasn’t coming from there. I looked over at Nick’s desk and my throat constricted as I saw the Windows logo come to life on his screen.
What the hell?
His computer hadn’t even been on before the power went out. And, still, nothing else in the room had powered up yet. I fell back into my chair hard. White spots on a black background danced before my eyes, then thinned out as my focus returned.

I stepped unsteadily over to Nick’s desk and pulled his chair under me. His screen glowed in 256 colors and his Outlook email auto-loaded in its startup sequence. I typed in his password, katie18annalise, and his inbox filled the right-hand side of the screen. Unread after unread message, ten in total, all from today, and several read messages from the Petro-Mex security manager, José Ramirez, last night. I opened each one, looking for a clue to my husband’s whereabouts. The messages from Ramirez were the source of the printouts from Eddy’s computer. Nothing about the site of Nick’s interviews today.

And then his screen went black, and his computer died.

I sat in the silent, dark office with the wind blowing through my hair. Oso whined and I reached down to pet him. The fur on his back stood on end, and that’s when I finally understood.

I would regret the sharp tone of my voice, I knew. “I am still waiting to see Detective Tutein. I’ve been here since seven a.m.”

“Have a seat, miss. Detective Tutein very busy today,” the female officer manning the front desk explained again.

“My husband is missing! I spoke with Detective Tutein last night. He is expecting me!” Sharp became shrill, and my fellow sufferers in the crowded waiting room turned to watch me. “Have you told him I’m here?”

“I sure he come by soon.”

“Is Officer Morris here?” I said, referring to Jacoby’s former partner. He would help me. I knew he would.

“Morris move down island Easter last. His wife homesick.” She sniffed. “Please have a seat, miss.”

I flopped back into the hard chair I had been sitting in for the past three and a half hours. Tears pushed the limit of my eyes’ fill capacity but did not spill over, and I stared at the wall plastered with memos, announcements, and fliers without seeing any of it. I clasped my purse hard with both hands to still their shaking. I needed food soon to absorb all the coffee in my stomach or I would vomit. The slightest bad odor at this point could trigger the nausea response.

A baby screamed with gusto while its mother ignored her and continued filling out paperwork on a clipboard balanced on her knees. For the love of God, I thought, stick a bottle in her mouth, woman.

I ran to the bathroom and heaved black bile into the toilet. Better. I got up and splashed water from the faucet on my face. I wiped my face and neck with a scratchy paper towel, then trudged back to my seat in the waiting room. The baby had quit screaming, thank God.

The wall clock’s second hand mocked my impotence. Tick. Tick. Tick. Nick. Nick. Nick. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Shuddup shuddup shuddUP.

After I had finally realized the day before that Annalise was sending me a message, I’d filled Kurt and Julie in on my concerns. Nick didn’t show up for dinner, and when we’d had no word from him by seven o’clock, I called the police.

The officer I spoke with rebuffed me, explaining that the police did not consider an adult missing until twenty-four hours after he’d disappeared—if then. A frantic discussion with my in-laws led to an idea: maybe I could convince them that Nick’s disappearance was related to the Eddy Monroe investigation. It probably was, after all. Or it could be one of a million anythings, none of them good. Like the long reach of Taylor’s father Derek, or Derek’s little brother Bobby. Nick had sent Derek to jail and gotten Bobby shot. Both were pretty good reasons for revenge  I found Detective Tutein’s card in Nick’s Petro-Mex file and called him. I got the same twenty-four-hour rule response, but he agreed under pressure to see me if I came in to the station today.

“I sure he come by soon. Please have a seat, miss.”

I flopped back into the hard chair I had been sitting in for the past three and a half hours. Tears pushed the limit of my eyes’ fill capacity but did not spill over, and I stared at the wall plastered with memos, announcements, and fliers without seeing any of it. I clasped my purse hard with both hands to still their shaking. I needed food soon to absorb all the coffee in my stomach or I would vomit. The slightest bad odor at this point could trigger the nausea response.

A baby screamed with gusto while its mother ignored her and continued filling out paperwork on a clipboard balanced on her knees. For the love of God, I thought, stick a bottle in her mouth, woman.

I ran to the bathroom and heaved black bile into the toilet. Better. I got up and splashed water from the faucet on my face. I wiped my face and neck with a scratchy paper towel, then trudged back to my seat in the waiting room. The baby had quit screaming, thank God.

The wall clock’s second hand mocked my impotence. Tick. Tick. Tick. Nick. Nick. Nick. Gone. Gone. Gone.
Shuddup shuddup shuddUP.

After I had finally realized the day before that Annalise was sending me a message, I’d filled Kurt and Julie in on my concerns. Nick didn’t show up for dinner, and when we’d had no word from him by seven o’clock, I called the police.

The officer I spoke with rebuffed me, explaining that the police did not consider an adult missing until twenty-four hours after he’d disappeared—if then. A frantic discussion with my in-laws led to an idea: maybe I could convince them that Nick’s disappearance was related to the Eddy Monroe investigation. I found Detective Tutein’s card in Nick’s Petro-Mex file and called him. I got the same twenty-four-hour rule response, but he agreed under pressure to see me if I came in to the station today.

So here I sat. I had filled out the Missing Person Report three hours ago, and no one had called me in for an interview. Tutein had not acknowledged my repeated requests to see him. Every second that passed was another lost second of search time for my husband.

Damn.

Kurt and I had combed the island looking for Nick all night long. I hung out the window with a flashlight, searching for signs of Nick’s Montero along the sides of the main roads between our house and town, but my beam barely penetrated the dark. Rashidi and Ava had organized searchers to cover the neighborhoods, even a contact in the Petro-Mex housing compound who would look there, and between all of us we’d blanketed the island, searching for any sign of his SUV in parking lots, driveways, roads, anywhere.

Nothing.

Except a painful dream in the few hours of sleep I caught before dawn, in which I chewed out my husband for not coming home on time. In my dream Nick said, “I wouldn’t ever choose to spend a night apart from you. Shame on you for thinking I would.”

Ouch.

Double damn.

My phone rang. Julie.

“Anything?” I answered.

I could barely hear her over the scream of the baby across from me. “Kurt found Nick’s car. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this sooner. He parked it inside the hangar.” She paused. “The plane’s gone.”

Oh. Oh, Nick. He’d left the island and told none of us.
Baby, what have you done?

“Katie, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

The officer behind reception finally called my name at that very moment. “Mrs. Kovacs, Detective Tutein will see you now.”

I stood and moved toward her, juggling my purse and coffee while trying to keep my phone to my ear to hear Julie.

“Kurt’s going to update me after he finds out more. He’s at the airport. I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” Julie said.

The reception officer returned my sharp tone from earlier to me. “Mrs. Kovacs? You no longer wish to see Detective Tutein?” Hard to believe, coming from a public servant, but the woman chuptzed me. Very softly.

I held up one pleading finger as I said, “Thank you, Julie. I’m heading in to meet with Detective Tutein now. I love you. Bye.” I clicked off.

“My apologies. The call related to information about my missing husband. I am very eager to meet with Detective Tutein. Thank you, miss.”

She lumbered to her feet. Fifty pounds too many would slow me down, too. In fact, it had, not too long ago. The officer’s extra poundage clung to her hips, thighs, and bosom, but there was no sign of a baby on board. Her uniform fought to hold her in. As she walked ahead of me with a roll-jerk-hesitate rhythm, her thighs swished against each other. We moved slowly. Achingly so.

Several minutes later, after passing a number of interior offices and cubicle pods, we arrived at an office with an exterior wall. Big shot office. She knocked—tap tap—on the gunmetal gray door, then opened it without waiting for a response and stepped inside, blocking me from doing the same.

“Mrs. Kovacs to see you, sir, about a missing person she believe related to one of your cases.”

A bass voice so deep it vibrated my chest wall said, “Come.”

“Thank you again,” I said to the retreating back of my escort. No response.

I rubbed my wedding ring for courage and stepped into the office.

The imposing charcoal-skinned figure standing before me would rattle most people. But the sight of Detective Tutein affected me in a singular way: I plummeted.

He hated me. He positively radiated it from every pore.

“Mrs. Kovacs,” he rumbled. “Sit.”

I sat.

“I believe we meet before,” he said.

“Yes, sir, we have, when you came into my house looking for a phone. We spoke last night, too, and I believe you know my husband, Nick Kovacs.”

“Yes,” he said, making the word shorter than three letters.

“As I told you on our call, he’s disappeared. I filled out a Missing Person Report this morning.”

“Good. Someone will get back to you to assist you. Will that be all?”

Shit!

“Oh, no—please. I hoped you could talk to me. Nick was investigating the death of Eddy Monroe on behalf of Petro-Mex. Yesterday he left our home at five a.m. to interview witnesses on that case, and he never came back.”

“Yes, well, if Petro-Mex want to throw their money away and mock the results of my investigation, they free to do so. But it sound as if your husband on a fool’s errand. Monroe clearly kill himself. I doubt Mr. Kovacs’ disappearance anything sinister, and I see no reason it relate to a suicide.”

His sour tone curdled my blood. I tried to reason with him. “I met with the widow. I can’t believe any newlywed man would kill himself with her waiting for him.”

“What? You mean the mail-order mamí that his refinery friends give him as a retention bonus? Please.” He flipped his hand away dismissively.

My jaw opened and fell an inch. Oh. That was certainly relevant, at least. And appalling.

“I understand your position, Detective Tutein, but—”

He cut me off. “There no ‘but,’ Mrs. Kovacs. An officer will call you in to process your Missing Persons Report. You should wait in the lobby until this happens. I cannot help you.”

“I’ve waited for four hours already. My husband is missing!”

“You continentals all the same. You expect special treatment. You think we locals stupid and incompetent.”

The memory of Olive Oyl and her redneck friend at the Yacht Club made me cringe. This was what locals thought of us. But I was not like that. Nick was not like that. “Detective Tutein, I’m—”

“Enough! It not the concern of the police when a man cat about.”

That did it. Red hair trumped common sense. “
Cat about
, Detective Tutein? You have no right making accusations about something you know nothing about. And I assure you, you know nothing about me or my husband.”

“I know you, I know your husband, I know your parents, Mrs. Kovacs. And you should ask why Eddy Monroe kill himself in front of
your
house. Good day.” He flipped his fingers to shoo me away.

I couldn’t process his words. How did he “know” my parents? And how should I know why Eddy Monroe died in front of Annalise? I gulped air. Could I do nothing to enlist the help of this man? I stood with my purse and coffee in hand, staring at the top of his close-cropped head, ready to put my anger aside and beg if necessary, but no strategy came to mind. I turned and walked to the door.

He stopped me. “One more thing, Mrs. Kovacs.”

Hope. “Yes, Detective?”

“About the dead bodies under your house. I hate to think you haven’t reported this to the proper authorities.” He tapped his pen three times on his desk.

No. Please, no
. All the saliva in my mouth dried instantly and I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t answer.

He continued, “I think I have to look into this matter of desecrating a graveyard myself. You hear from me soon.” At that, he resumed reading and marking the papers on his desk as if I was not standing before him with my very existence in his hands.

My steps echoed down the barren halls as I returned to reception. Sweat beaded my forehead. I stepped back into the waiting room, and the receptionist pointed me to an open door to her left. I obeyed and with my last reserves of strength propelled myself into another hard-backed folding chair at a small table in a windowless room. My head landed on the table with a thump. I closed my eyes and left it there.

“Good day, Mrs. Kovacs,” a woman’s voice said.

I jerked my head up, out of the habit of island manners, and replied, “Good day.”

For five minutes, Officer Ferber worked with me to take down the Missing Person Report, professionally, kindly even. Between my stress over Nick’s disappearance and the meeting with Officer Tutein, I was operating with minimal brain activity, but if she thought me a simpleton, she didn’t show it.

Halfway through our conversation, Julie texted me: “No one at the airport knows where Nick went. Kurt still working on it.”

Questions ricocheted through my head. How could no one know where he went
?
Didn’t he have to file a flight plan?
What if someone else took the plane?

I told Officer Ferber that Nick’s plane was missing, too. The news discombobulated her, and she informed me she would consult with a superior officer on protocol for handling missing persons cases for individuals who had left the Virgin Islands.

“But we don’t know if he left St. Marcos,” I said.

“No, but just in case, I will ask. He could be anywhere, you know,” she said.

Yes, I know.

I left the station drained and numb. Even in the worst days of my battle with alcohol, I couldn’t remember feeling this emptied out.
Nick.
I pointed my truck toward home and somehow, half an hour later, made it back to Annalise and pulled to a stop in my own driveway.

Inside, Julie had just put my kids—Nick’s and my kids—down for a nap. We hugged each other, dry-eyed and exhausted, and traded meager updates.

“Kurt told me he’s calling the FAA to let them know the plane is missing,” Julie said.

“Oh, thank God. I had no idea what to do, and the police were no help,” I said.

“Kurt made me promise we would both sleep now, Katie. Take something, rest, and we’ll be refreshed so we can work again when we wake up. I’m going to see if I can fall asleep in Taylor’s room. Maybe Kurt will have more information when we wake up.”

I retreated to the master bedroom. She was right, I had to sleep. But I had to do something, anything, first. I sat at the writing table and flipped open one of the spiral notebooks Nick kept in a stack there. Across the top of the page in strokes so firm the pen ripped the paper, I wrote “To Do List.” Just to make myself feel better, I wrote Search on the top line and Call Police on the next line, and then drew a line through each. Airport. FAA. Line. Line.
Now move it forward, Katie.
Call Ramirez. Check Nick’s email. Ransack files. Go through his clothes pockets from yesterday. Search Montero. Although Kurt had probably already done that. I chewed on the pen cap, but I couldn’t come up with anything else.