Whiskey Beach (16 page)

H
E ROSE AT DAWN, AFTER PULLING OUT OF A NASTY DREAM
where he looked down at a broken, bloody, staring Lindsay on the rocks below Whiskey Beach Light.

He didn’t need a shrink to buy him a clue into his subconscious on that one.

He didn’t need a personal trainer to tell him every bone, every muscle, every freaking cell in his body hurt because he’d overdone the pumping iron the day before.

Since there was no one around to hear, he whimpered a little as he dragged himself to the shower, hoping the hot water would pound out some of the aches.

He sweetened the pot with three Motrin.

He went down to make coffee, drank it while dealing with e-mail. Time, he figured, for another update to his family. He wished he could realistically edit out any reference to break-ins and dead bodies, but at this point, better they hear it from him than elsewhere.

Word always traveled. Ugly words traveled fast.

He took care with the delivery, assured them all the house was secure. If he glossed over the death of a Boston PI, he thought he was entitled. For Christ’s sake, he’d never even laid eyes on the man. Deliberately he left the impression of an accident. It
could
have been an accident.

He didn’t believe that for one quick minute, but why worry the family?

He segued into progress on his book, the weather, made some jokes about the book he’d read on the
Calypso
and the dowry.

He read it over twice, decided weaving the bad news through the center, bookending it with light and positive, equaled the best framework. Hit send.

Remembering his sister, and their bargain, he wrote another e-mail just to Tricia.

Look, I’m not editing . . . very much. The house is secure, and the local cops are on it. At this point it looks like some asshole’s been digging for mythical treasure. I don’t know what happened to the guy from Boston, whether he fell, jumped, or got tossed over the cliff by Captain Broome’s vengeful ghost.

I’m okay here. Better than okay. And when the cops come around—and I know they will—I’ll deal with it. I’m ready to.

Now, stop scowling at the screen, and I know you are. Go find somebody else to worry about.

That would do it, he decided. She’d be a little annoyed, a little amused, and hopefully trust he’d told her the truth.

With a second cup of coffee and a bagel at his desk, he opened the file on his work in progress, and let himself slide back into the story while the sun climbed over the sea.

He’d switched to Mountain Dew, and the last two cookies, when the doorbell no one ever used echoed its first notes from “Ode to Joy”—a favorite of his grandmother’s.

Taking his time, he shut down his work, stuck the half-finished soft drink in the office fridge, then headed down as the notes rang out a second time.

He’d expected the cop at his door. He hadn’t expected two of them, or the unhappily familiar face of Detective Art Wolfe from Boston.

The younger one—military haircut, solidly square face, placid blue eyes and a gym rat’s body—held up his badge. “Eli Landon.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Detective Corbett with the Essex County Sheriff’s Department. I believe you know Detective Wolfe.”

“Yeah, we’ve met.”

“We’d like to come in and speak with you.”

“All right.”

Directly against his lawyer’s advice, he stepped back to let them in. He’d already made the decision, and hell, he’d been a lawyer himself. He understood the idea behind “Don’t say anything, call me, refer all questions to me.”

But he couldn’t live that way. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, keep living that way.

So he led them into the big parlor.

He’d built a fire earlier, in anticipation of just this. It simmered low now, adding warmth and atmosphere to a room comfortable with its art and antiques. One where the high tray ceiling welcomed the light spilling through the tall windows, and the view of the front garden where hardy green spears of daffodils waved and a single brave yellow bloom trumpeted.

He felt a bit like that himself. Ready to face what came and show his true colors.

“Some house,” Corbett commented. “I’ve seen it from the outside, and it sure makes a statement. Makes one on the inside, too.”

“Home’s where you hang your hat. If you’ve got one. We might as well sit down.”

He took an internal scan of himself as he did. His palms weren’t damp, his heart wasn’t racing, his throat wasn’t dry. All good signs.

And still, looking into that bulldog set of Wolfe’s face, those hard, flat brown eyes kept him wary.

“We appreciate the time, Mr. Landon.” Corbett did a scan of his own, of the room, of Eli, as he took a chair. “You might have heard we’ve had an incident.”

“I heard a body was found near the lighthouse yesterday.”

“That’s correct. I believe you were acquainted with the deceased. Kirby Duncan.”

“No, I wasn’t. I never met him.”

“But you knew of him.”

“I know he said he was a private investigator out of Boston, and he was asking questions about me.”

Corbett took out a notebook, as much a prop as a tool, Eli knew.

“Isn’t it true you stated to the police you believed Kirby Duncan had broken into this house on Thursday night?”

“He was my first thought when I learned about the break-in, and I gave his name to the responding officer. That’s Deputy Vincent Hanson.” As you damn well know. “However, the woman who was attacked during the break-in, who had met and spoken with Duncan earlier, stated unequivocally that it wasn’t Duncan, as the man who grabbed her had a taller, leaner build. Added to that, when Deputy Hanson spoke with Duncan that night, Duncan produced receipts that proved he was in Boston at the time of the break-in.”

“Must’ve pissed you off, him coming here, stirring things up.”

Eli shifted his gaze to Wolfe. There’d be no polite Q&A here, Eli thought. “I wasn’t happy about it, but more, I wondered who hired him to come here, follow me around, ask questions.”

“Easy answer is somebody interested in finding out what you’re up to.”

“And the easy answer to that is I’m up to adjusting, working, taking care of Bluff House while my grandmother recuperates. Since Duncan wouldn’t have had any more than that to report to his client or clients, I have to figure they were wasting their money. But that’s their choice.”

“Your wife’s homicide investigation’s still open, Landon. You’re still on the list.”

“Oh, I’m aware. Just as I’m aware it would be neat and convenient if you could tie me to a second homicide investigation.”

“Who said anything about a second murder?”

Smug bastard, Eli thought, but kept his tone even. “You’re a murder cop. If you believed Duncan’s death was an accident, you wouldn’t be here. That means it’s either murder or a suspicious death. I used to be a criminal attorney. I know how this works.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you know all the ins and outs.”

Corbett held up a hand. “Can you verify your whereabouts, Mr. Landon, between midnight and five Friday morning?”

“Friday morning? I went into Boston Thursday. I was at my parents’ when I got the call about the break-in. I drove straight back. I think I got here about eleven-thirty, before midnight anyway. I’m not sure of the exact time. I went to check on Abra—Abra Walsh, the woman who was assaulted in Bluff House.”

“What was she doing in the house when you weren’t?” Wolfe demanded. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“And how, exactly, is my sex life relevant to this inquiry?”

“Apologies, Mr. Landon.” Corbett’s warning glance at Wolfe, while subtle, held a charge. “Can you tell us why Ms. Walsh was in the house at that time?”

“She cleans here, and has for my grandmother for a couple years. She’d been in that day and couldn’t remember if she’d closed all the windows. We had a storm. I imagine you’ve already spoken to her, but I’ll take you through it. Knowing I was in Boston, she came down to check the windows and drop off some stew she’d made for me. Someone grabbed her from behind—our power was out, so it was dark. She managed to get away, drove to her friends’ house—her next-door neighbors, Mike and Maureen O’Malley. Mike contacted me, and the police. I left Boston immediately after Mike called, and drove back to Whiskey Beach.”

“Arriving sometime between eleven-thirty and midnight.”

“That’s right. Abra was shaken up, and as she’d injured her assailant in her struggle to get away, she had the assailant’s blood on her clothes. The responding officers took her clothes in evidence. I spent some time at the O’Malleys’ before coming here. Abra came with me. We met Deputy Hanson.”

“A friend of yours,” Wolfe put in.

“I knew Vinnie when we were teenagers, into our twenties. I haven’t seen him for a number of years.” Eli let the implication go, kept his voice even. “The police who responded found the power had been cut, the alarm deactivated. At that time I couldn’t find anything missing or out of place. I told Deputy Hanson about Kirby Duncan, and as I previously stated, Ms. Walsh described her attacker as a man with a different body type. Being thorough, Deputy Hanson indicated he would interview Duncan, who was, I believe, staying at the Surfside B-and-B. Again, I don’t know what time, exactly, Deputy Hanson left. My guess would be around twelve-thirty or a little before.”

Too bad, Eli thought, he hadn’t logged the times.

“When he did, I went, accompanied by Ms. Walsh, into the basement. We have an unreliable generator, and I’d hoped to get some power on. When we were downstairs, and I was hunting around for tools, I found, in the oldest section of the basement, a large trench. There were still tools, which the police have since taken into evidence—picks, shovels, that kind of thing. It’s clear whoever broke in had done so before.”

“To dig a trench in the basement?” Corbett suggested.

“If you’ve been around Whiskey Beach for any amount of time, you’d have heard about the legend—the dowry, the treasure. For every person who believes it’s bullshit, there’s another five who believe it’s gospel. I can’t swear to the purpose of the break-in, the excavation, but it’s a pretty educated guess somebody figured they’d unearth a fortune in jewels.”

“You could’ve dug it yourself.”

This time Eli barely spared Wolfe a glance. “I wouldn’t have to break into a house I’m already living in, and I’d be pretty stupid to show the trench to Abra or the cops if I’d been spending my time digging. In any case, we were down there awhile. I managed to get the generator going for emergency power. When we came up, I built a fire. It was cold in here, and Abra was still upset. We had some wine, sat in here. She fell asleep on the couch. I do know it was about two in the morning when I went upstairs. I got up about seven-thirty, maybe closer to eight the next morning. She’d gone, left an omelet in the warming drawer. She feeds people, can’t seem to help it. I don’t know what time she left.”

“So you don’t have an alibi.”

“No,” he said to Wolfe. “By your standards I guess I don’t. Exactly why do you think I killed him?”

“No one’s accusing you, Mr. Landon,” Corbett began.

“You’re sitting here asking for my whereabouts. The head investigator from my wife’s murder is with you. You don’t have to accuse me to let me know I’m a suspect. I’m wondering about my motive.”

“Duncan was a solid investigator. He was investigating you, and you knew it. And all of his records on that investigation are missing.”

“You know him.” Eli nodded at Wolfe. “Odds are he was a cop at some time. You knew him. Did you hire him?”

“We’re asking the questions, Mr. Landon.”

Eli swung back to Corbett. “Why don’t you ask why the hell I’d kill somebody I never met.”

“He could’ve dug up some evidence on you,” Wolfe began. “Could’ve made you nervous.”

“He dug up evidence on me in Whiskey Beach on a crime I didn’t commit in Boston? Where the hell is it? A solid investigator keeps records, makes backups. Where’s the evidence?”

“A smart lawyer who knows the ins and outs would make sure he destroyed that evidence. You took his keys, drove to Boston, walked right into his office and got rid of his records, his computer files, the works. Did the same at his apartment.”

“His office and apartment in Boston were rifled?” Eli sat back. “That’s interesting.”

“You had the time, the opportunity, the motive.”

“In your mind, because you’re so damn sure I killed Lindsay, I had to have done this.” Eli continued before Wolfe could speak. “So, walk it through. He either agreed to meet me at the lighthouse in the middle of the night—in the rain—or I somehow lured him there, and that’s after he dug up evidence that proves I already killed once. It also means I snuck out of the house while Abra was sleeping—not impossible, I agree. I then killed Duncan, went to the B-and-B, snuck in there, got all his things, took them and his car. I assume I drove his car back to Boston, went to his office and apartment, took care of that. Then drove back. It would be stupid to drive his car back here, but how else do I get back? Then I have to ditch his car somewhere, walk back to Bluff House, get back inside without Abra knowing I ever left.”

He knew better than to appeal to Wolfe, so turned to Corbett. “For God’s sake. Just looking at the logistics, the timing, I’d’ve needed some incredible luck to get all that done before Abra got up to make a goddamn omelet.”

“Maybe you didn’t do it alone.”

Now Eli felt his temper snap, and rounded on Wolfe. “You’re going to drag Abra into this? A woman I’ve only known a few weeks suddenly decides to help me commit murder? Jesus Christ.”

“You say a few weeks. Duncan was working the case here, and here’s where he found enough to be a threat. How long have you been banging the
housekeeper
, Landon? Screwing around on your wife, she finds out. It just gives you another reason to kill her.”

The anger he’d managed to hold at a steady simmer boiled over. “You want to come after me again, you come. But you leave her out of it.”

“Or what? Are you going to try for me next?”

“Detective Wolfe.” Corbett snapped the words out.

“You think you got away with it once, so you figure you can get away with it again.” Ignoring Corbett, Wolfe slapped his hands on his thighs, leaned forward.