Whiskey Beach Part 40

"We can talk to them together."

"Better not. I'm going to call my lawyer, just to let him know. Lock your doors."

"All right, fine. I'll be back tomorrow. I'd like you to call me if anything happens."

"I can handle it."

"I think you can." She angled her head. "What happened, Eli?"

"I had a good day, mostly. There's been more of them lately. I can deal with this."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow." She set the gla.s.s aside, laid her hands on his face. "Eventually you're going to ask me to stay. I like wondering what I'm going to do about that." She brushed his lips with hers, then pulled up her hoodie against the rain and left.

He liked wondering, too, he realized. And sooner or later, the timing just had to get better.

CHAPTER Eleven

HE ROSE AT DAWN, AFTER PULLING OUT OF A NASTY DREAM where he looked down at a broken, b.l.o.o.d.y, 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, a.s.sured them all the house was secure. If he glossed over the death of a Boston PI, he thought he was ent.i.tled. 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 a.s.shole'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 Ess.e.x 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 h.e.l.l, 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 antic.i.p.ation 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."