Flight (The Texas Murder Files #2) - Laura Griffin Page 0,1
old Suburban that belonged to the Lost Beach police chief.
Joel surveyed the two-story building as he got out. The marina occupied the first level, and a seafood restaurant with sweeping views of Laguna Madre occupied the top. Neither was open yet, but the weathered wooden bait shop near the docks would have been busy since sunrise. The shop owner stood beside his hut now, smoking a cigarette and watching a cluster of boats about a hundred yards offshore.
“Thought you were in Corpus.”
Joel turned to see Nicole Lawson trudging toward him. She wore a blue Lost Beach PD golf shirt and black rubber waders that were covered in muck.
“Not anymore,” Joel said. “Who’s here?”
“McDeere got here first. Then the chief. Still no sign of the ME.” Nicole turned toward the water, and Joel followed her gaze to the boats. An LBPD speedboat and several small skiffs blocked his view of the crime scene.
“What do we know?” Joel asked.
“So far, not much. Two victims, both shot in the gut. Randy called it in.”
Joel cast a glance at the bait shop owner as he flicked his cigarette to the ground. Randy chain-smoked when he was nervous. He’d probably gone through half a pack by now.
Nicole turned to face him. Her long auburn hair was tied in a messy bun instead of her usual braid, which made Joel think she’d been called out of bed.
“Male and female?” he asked.
“Yep. And they’re young, too. Maybe early twenties.”
Something in her tone caught his attention. He eased closer and lowered his voice. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, just . . . freaky crime scene.”
She’d been out there already, and Joel felt a stab of regret that he’d been off island when he got the call. He lived less than a mile away from here and should have been the first one on scene.
He studied Nicole’s tense expression. “Does it look like a murder? A murder-suicide? A suicide pact?”
“Don’t know.” She wiped her brow with the back of her forearm. “Could be any of those. I didn’t see a weapon aboard, though. Course, I didn’t touch anything.”
“Good.” Joel stepped around her and reached into the bed of his truck to unlock the chrome toolbox.
“Don’t bother with waders,” she told him. “With the storm coming, they’re bringing everything in.”
He glanced at the sky. Given the angry gray clouds rolling in, it wasn’t a bad call. He shoved his waders aside and grabbed his binoculars.
“Sure you want in on this?” she asked. “Technically, you’re on vacation till Thursday.”
“I’m sure.” The department had only three full-time detectives—himself, Emmet, and Owen. Nicole was good, but she was still in training.
“I’m just saying,” she went on. “You could probably let Emmet take the lead on this one.”
Joel slammed the toolbox shut, not bothering to argue about it. “Fill me in as we walk.”
She fell into step beside him, and her waders made little squeaking sounds. “So. How was the wedding?”
“Fine.”
She cut a look at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. Anyone call the sheriff’s office?” he asked. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the wedding he’d just attended.
“The chief called them. They’re sending down one of their CSIs.”
“Who?”
“Bollinger, I think.”
Joel winced.
“You don’t like him?”
“No.”
“Well, he should be here soon.” She checked her watch. “We called them forty-five minutes ago.”
“He’ll be late, count on it.” Yet another reason the chief had probably decided to tow the canoe in. Joel passed a row of fishing rigs and catamarans, all neatly covered and secured in their slips. He reached the end of the dock and lifted the binoculars.
The distant crime scene snapped into focus. Chief Brady stood at the helm of the police boat as Emmet and Owen attached a line to the bow of the canoe. Joel studied the long green boat. It didn’t look like a rental from one of the island’s rec shops.
The police boat got moving, and the bow of the canoe tipped up. Joel muttered a curse as he imagined the canoe’s contents shifting to the stern.
“We don’t have much choice with the rain coming,” Nicole said, clearly picking up on his concern.
“Tell me they got pictures.”
“Emmet had the camera.”
“Who found them?”
“Some woman in a kayak. She paddled to the marina to report it.”
Joel lowered the binoculars. “Why didn’t she call it in herself?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is she now?”
“Um . . .” She turned around and scanned the parking lot. “McDeere was getting her statement. I’m sure she didn’t leave yet. There she is. Just past the boat trailers.”