“My office hears your concerns. They are more than valid,” continues Rhonda. “This unfortunate loss of life is part of a much larger problem, however—vacation rentals. The competitive discord they create and the disruption they cause to our daily life. This is an ongoing problem on the Cape and my promise to you, since the beginning, has been to regulate this market from taking over our Falmouth neighborhood and turning it into a party zone. Today, I want to reassure you that I am renewing my efforts to curb these noisy nuisances so that we can get back to enjoying our quiet summers with family and friends—it’s the Cape Cod way.”
A long pause ensues.
The red camera light turns off.
The mayor’s smile drops as the podium is removed in an efficient rush.
“That was perfect, mayor,” Kurt calls, flashing her an OK sign.
“Let’s have that up on the website immediately, please?” Rhonda says, now scrolling through her phone. “Send it to the local news and ask them for the six o’clock spot.”
Kurt is taking notes on his clipboard. “Already on it.” He turns to us—me, actually—grinning in a more relaxed manner than before. “I have to make sure the mayor makes it to her next appointment.” He rubs his eyebrow with the eraser of his pencil, shooting Myles a fleeting glance. “So you two are just co-workers or…？”
“Beat it, Kurt,” Myles interrupts, making a shooing motion.
A literal shooing flick of his wrist.
Without another word, the assistant turns on a heel and rejoins his boss.
“That was extremely rude.”
And I didn’t like that show of possessiveness at all.
Not one bit.
Right.
“If you’re still surprised by my rudeness, sweetheart, that’s on you.” Through narrowed eyes, he watches the major, Kurt and the film crew climb into their respective vans and cars. “I have to get to Worcester to question Judd Forrester.” He notices my blank look when he looks down at me. “The father of the girl who assaulted Oscar Stanley.”
“Right.” I guess we’re just going to ignore the fact that we almost made out on the floor a few minutes ago. The floor. The letter. The unlikely discovery we made before we almost kissed comes back to me in a deluge. “Do you think that threatening letter is from Judd Forrester? Do you think he wrote it to Stanley?”
“I don’t know.” Myles reenters the house with a heavy stride and I follow, watching him stoop down and pick up the letter where we left it on the floor. He straightens and turns, his eyes dancing across my neck, my mouth. Then away with determination. But not before my erogenous zones shriek for attention. God. What is this voltage between us? Is it normal? “But since Oscar lived in this house for almost a year, it seems more likely he would have known about the loose floorboard. Or even created it. Therefore…”
“The letter was written by Stanley? Meant for someone else?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Which might also mean…the camera wasn’t left here to record the guests at all. It was here to record him.”
“Yeah. He was targeted for a reason. A target for murder.” His eyes move over the three threatening lines of the letter. “Might have even made himself one.”
Chapter 6
Myles
* * *
“I didn’t kill that guy. Swear to God.” Judd Forrester swipes sweat from his brow. “Believe me, I wanted to. I came this close. But he was breathing when I left.”
For once in my life, I wish my gut feelings weren’t so stubborn. Intuition is telling me this man didn’t kill Oscar Stanley and, shitty as it sounds, I wish he had. That would make wrapping up this case and moving on a whole lot easier. As soon as Forrester opened his mouth, unfortunately, a little voice whispered in the back of my head you’re not going anywhere yet.
I left Taylor’s place about two hours ago and rode a couple more to Worcester. The chief of police over at Barnstable PD—the department on the Cape that responded to the crime scene—is extremely reluctant to give me any information pertaining to the case. There isn’t a single cop alive who jumps for joy when a bounty hunter, or in this case a freelance investigator, rolls into town and starts digging into the same crime with a lot less red tape to deal with, but it sure as hell lights a fire under their asses.
It took a promise yesterday to share any information I stumble across for the chief to spill the news that Forrester made bail. Tracking the man down was up to me, though. The chief drew the line at sharing Forrester’s address. Thank God I have the internet for that. And when those searches don’t pan out, I can still tap my contacts in Boston. I guess I can’t be too mad about the police keeping me out of the loop, since I’m not sharing the threatening note Taylor and I found. I’ll share it with them eventually. But there’s no harm in getting a hard start holding the new piece of evidence, if it turns out to be relevant.