Flight (The Texas Murder Files #2) - Laura Griffin Page 0,2
red kayak?”
“That’s her. Here, let me use your binocs while you talk to her.”
Joel handed them over and returned to the parking lot, watching the woman as he approached. She stood on the running board of the Jeep, struggling with a bungee cord as she secured her kayak to the roll bar.
“Need a hand?” Joel asked.
“I’m good.” The woman didn’t look up. She had honey-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore stretchy black pants that clung to her curves and a loose white top over a black sports bra. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, but the pissed-off look on her face warned Joel not to intervene as she wrestled with the final hook. After getting it attached, she stepped down.
“I’m Joel Breda, Lost Beach PD.”
She gazed up at him and dusted her hands on her pants. “Miranda Rhoads.” Her gaze dropped to the detective’s shield clipped to his belt. When she looked up again, her caramel-colored eyes were wary.
“I already gave a detailed statement to Officer McDeere,” she said. “And I talked to someone named Lawson.”
“I understand, ma’am. I just have some follow-ups.”
She blew out a breath and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “All right.”
“Care to sit down?” He nodded at a picnic table not far from the bait shop.
“No, thanks. One second.” She eased past him and opened the door of her Jeep, then reached across the seat and popped open the glove compartment. She pulled out a small red zipper pouch. “I just need to clean this,” she said, propping her foot on the running board.
She wore silver flip-flops, and Joel saw a gash on the side of her little toe. The cut was bleeding. He hadn’t noticed, probably because he’d been distracted by the rest of her.
“What’d you do there?” he asked.
She tore open a sterile wipe and dabbed at the cut. “I got out of my kayak to look at the canoe and stepped on a board covered in barnacles.”
“You had a tetanus shot recently?”
She laughed. “Uh, yeah.”
Joel looked at her. “Why is that funny?”
Her smile disappeared. “It’s not.”
She reached into the Jeep again to get rid of the wet wipe and tossed the pouch on the seat. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders.
“Sorry. Okay. What were your questions?”
Joel looked her over, puzzled by her brisk attitude. Typically, innocent witnesses were pretty deferential with cops. Then again, she’d had a rough morning and people handled stress in different ways.
“Tell me how you found the boat,” he said. “What were you doing out there?”
She rested her hands on her hips and gazed at the bay. Her arms were tanned and toned, as though she spent a lot of time in her kayak.
“I got to the marina about five fifteen,” she said.
“That’s early.”
“I was photographing the sunrise.”
“Okay. And you were coming from where?”
“The north end of the island. I’m renting a beach house about a mile from here.”
“All right.”
“I put in my kayak. Paddled about a hundred yards out, toward the marshes near the nature center. As the sky brightened, I took a series of photographs. Nautical twilight is the best time to get silhouettes. That’s between first light and sunrise.” She looked at him, probably sensing that he didn’t know shit about photography. But fishing he knew, and he understood the different phases of daylight on this bay.
“Anyway, as I was paddling, I scared up some birds.” A lock of hair blew against her face, and she peeled it away. Joel noticed her hand was trembling. “That’s when I spotted a yellow line.”
“A fishing line?”
“No, like a rope. A thin one. It was attached to a canoe hidden in some cattails.” She paused, and a somber look came over her face. “That’s when I saw them.”
“The couple.”
“Yeah.”
“And you could tell they were dead?”
“Yes.” She broke eye contact and looked at the bay again. The wind had picked up, and the water was getting choppy. “There was no mistaking it. I mean, you’ll see when they bring them in.”
“You know what time this was?” he asked.
“About six forty.”
Joel watched her face as she looked out over the water. The boats were coming in, and he could hear the motors getting closer. But he was more interested in Miranda Rhoads’s carefully calm expression.
“Do you recall any noises?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Noises?”
“When you were out on the water taking pictures. Did you hear any gunshots? Or yelling, screaming, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Think back. Sometimes seagulls screeching can sound similar to—”