Whiskey Beach Part 32

Could be coincidence, he thought. Somebody just happens to pick the exact night he reports to his client Landon is in Boston for the evening for a break-in?

And pigs fly south for the winter.

He didn't like being played. He'd stand behind or in front of a client, as need be, but not when the client screwed with him.

Not when a client used him-without his knowledge or consent-to break into a house. And sure as h.e.l.l not when the client roughs up a woman.

He'd have taken a tour inside Bluff House himself if the client had directed him, and he'd have taken his lumps if he'd been caught at it.

But he wouldn't have laid hands on a woman.

Time to put cards on the table, he decided, or for the client to find a new dog, because this dog didn't hunt for clients who knocked women around.

Duncan s.n.a.t.c.hed his cell phone off the charger, made the call. He was just p.i.s.sed enough not to give a good d.a.m.n about the hour.

"Yeah, it's Duncan, and yeah, I got something. What I've got is a county deputy questioning me over a break-in and an attack on a woman at Bluff House tonight."

He poured himself another shot of vodka, listened a moment. "You don't want to bulls.h.i.+t me. I don't work for people who bulls.h.i.+t me. I've got no problem doing a dance for the locals, but not when I don't know the tune. Yeah, they asked who I was working for, and no, I didn't tell them. This time. But when I've got a client who uses me to clear a path to break into the house of the guy I'm paid to investigate, and that client goes after a woman in the house, I've got my own questions. What I do from here on depends on the answers. I'm not risking my license. Right now I've got information about a crime that includes a.s.saulting a woman, and that makes me an accessory. So you better have some d.a.m.n good answers or we're done, and if the cops come back on me, I give them your name. That's right. Fine."

Duncan checked the time. What the h.e.l.l, he thought, he was too p.i.s.sed to sleep anyway. "I'll be there."

He sat at his computer first, typed up detailed notes. He intended to cover every square inch of his a.s.s. And if necessary, he'd take those detailed notes straight to the county sheriff.

The break-in was one thing, and bad enough. But the a.s.sault on the woman? That tipped the scales.

But he'd give the client a chance to explain. Sometimes the dumb s.h.i.+ts just watched too much TV, got in over their heads, and G.o.d knew he'd had dumb s.h.i.+ts for clients before this.

So they'd clear the air, and he'd make his position just as clear. No more bulls.h.i.+t. Leave the investigating to the professionals.

Calmer now, Duncan dressed. He gargled away the vodka. Never a good idea to meet a client with alcohol on the breath. He strapped on his 9mm out of habit, then dragged on a warm sweater, topped it with a windbreaker.

He pocketed his keys, his recorder, his wallet, then slipped out of his room by his private entrance.

That little perk had cost him an extra fifteen a day, but it kept his cheerful hostess from knowing his comings and goings.

He considered his car, then opted to walk. The drive to and from Boston, the hours outside the Landon house, he could use the walk.

While he considered himself an avowed urbanite, he liked the quiet of the village, the middle-of-the-night Brigadoon feel to it with everything shut down, closed up, and the sound of waves rumbling nearby.

A few fingers of ground fog crawled in, adding to the otherworldly atmosphere. The storm had pa.s.sed, but it left the air thick with wet, and the sky too heavy to show the moon.

The flick and flash of the lighthouse on the point added to the out-of-time feel. He headed toward it, using the time to decide just how to handle the situation.

All in all, now that he'd calmed down, it was probably best to call it a day. If you couldn't trust the client, the work suffered. Added to it, Landon didn't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing. After several days of surveillance, of interviewing the locals, the most damaging information was wholesale gossip from a chatty gift shop clerk.

Maybe Landon killed his wife-doubtful, but maybe. But Duncan didn't foresee any major revelations bursting out of the beach town or the house on the bluff.

Maybe he'd be persuaded to stay on the job-if it meant going back to Boston, doing some digging there, taking a look at the reports, the evidence from another angle. Talking the case over with Wolfe.

But question-and-answer time first.

He wanted to know why his client broke into the house. And he wanted to know if it was the first time.

Not that Duncan objected to a little professional B&E. But it was just stupid to think there was something inside that house to tie Landon to the murder of his wife, back in Boston, a year earlier.

And now the local cops would keep closer tabs on the house, on Landon and on the PI hired to snoop.

Amateurs, Duncan thought, puffing a little as he climbed the steep path to the rocky point where the Whiskey Beach lighthouse speared up into the gloom.

Fog swirled, clawing up a little higher here, m.u.f.fling his footsteps, turning the las.h.i.+ng of water against rock into an echoing drumbeat.

Spoiled the view, too, he realized when he'd reached the lighthouse. Maybe he'd make a hike back if the next day came clear, on his way back to Boston.

Decision made, he realized. A job could bore you. A client could p.i.s.s you off. An investigation could hit a dead end. But when you combined all three in one? It was time to cut your losses.

He shouldn't have popped off at the client the way he did, he admitted. But Jesus, what a bone-headed move.

He turned at the sound of footsteps, saw the client step through the fog.

"You put me in a h.e.l.l of a spot," Duncan began. "We need to get this sorted out."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry."

"Well, we can call bygones on that if you-"

He didn't see the gun. As with the footsteps, the fog m.u.f.fled the shots so they sounded low, thick, odd. They puzzled him in that instant of shocking pain.

He never reached for his own gun; it never occurred to him.

He fell, eyes wide, mouth working. But the words were only gurgles. He heard, as if from a great distance, his killer's voice.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

He didn't feel hands searching, taking his phone, his recorder, his keys, his weapon.

But he felt cold-biting, numbing cold. And unspeakable pain through it as his body was dragged to the edge over rocky ground.

For an instant he thought he was flying, wind rus.h.i.+ng cool over his face. Then the thundering water swallowed him as he hit the rocks below.

Not supposed to be like this. Too late, much too late to turn back. Moving forward was the only choice. No more mistakes. No more hiring detectives-anyone-who couldn't be trusted, who couldn't be loyal.

Do what needed to be done until it was done.

Maybe they'd suspect Landon had killed the detective, as they had with Lindsay.

But Landon had killed Lindsay.

Who else could have? Would have?