It wasn’t so much the flabby jowls or the cruel twist to Biscuits’s small mouth, although those were definitely off-putting. The real kicker was the guy’s eyes. They were black and shiny.
And completely empty.
It was like looking into the gaze of a reptile.
Chrissy gasped, and both Wolf and Dixon turned to her. “What?” the detective demanded, his eyes shrewd on her face. “Do you recognize him?”
Chrissy nodded. “But I don’t remember from where.”
“His name is Mateo Hernandez,” Dixon supplied. “Ring any bells?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But IknowI’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“He tell you what this whole thing has been about?” Wolf asked Dixon. “Why he and his buddy were so intent on offin’ Chrissy and Winston?”
“Nope.” Dixon made a face of disgust. “He’s shut up tighter than a clam at low tide. But hedidask to speak to someone from the DEA, so I’m thinking my initial hunch was right. This is about a drug shipment. He’s probably hoping to cut himself a deal with the Feds by squealing on his contact within the cartel.”
As Hernandez was being loaded onto the ambulance, he lifted his head and looked Chrissy dead in the eye. His tone was full of contempt when he told her, “I’m only the grenade, babe. Someone else pulled my pin.”
“What the hell isthatsupposed to mean?” Renewed anger surged through Wolf’s veins.
He was more than ready to march over to that ambulance and stick the blade he still had in his pocket into Hernandez’s gut. He bethecould get the douche-canoe to talk.
“Oh!” Chrissy lifted a hand to her mouth as the paramedics shut Hernandez into the ambulance.
“What?” This time it was Wolf who asked the question.
“I just remembered where I saw him. I was at the dive shop late one night and I saw him come out the back of Jill’s place.”
“MissJill?” he asked incredulously. “The busybody, know-it-all who seems to run the whole island?”
“Jill Jones.” Chrissy nodded. “Butshecan’t be involved in this. She’s kind and thoughtful, and is always looking out for folks. Surely it’s a coincidence that—”
“Wait a second,” Dixon interrupted her. “Hold that thought.” He turned and marched toward the unmarked police car parked nearby. After scrabbling around in the passenger seat, he came up with a sheaf of papers.
“Printouts of all the vessels the Coast Guard stopped yesterday,” he called as he hurried back to them. “Along with their owners and operators.”
Dixon looked pointedly at Wolf. “The name of the boat Ricky Williams gave you was theCatch of the Day, right?”
Wolf nodded and Dixon thumbed through the papers, his eyes scanning a page before moving on. His was on the sixth sheet of paper when he stopped. “Catch of the Day,” he read. “Says here it’s a fishing charter operated by Mateo Hernandez and Ricky Williams and owned by some outfit named Key West Charters.”
Wolf felt the tension drain out of Chrissy.
“Which is an LLC owned by Jill Jones,” Dixon added.
“Holy shit,” Wolf breathed, trying to square away what he knew of the feisty gal who’d visited Chrissy twice with what he knew now. But if he was shocked to discover Miss Jill was the one behind all this, then Chrissy had to be downright stunned.
Sure as shit.
When he peered over at her, he found her speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy. Her eyes blinking rapidly.
Winding his arm around her waist, he scooted closer to her, remembering how he’d felt when he heard one of his favorite commanding officers had been brought up on charges of—and eventually found guilty of—raping two female recruits.
It hadn’t only felt like a betrayal. It’d made Wolf question his judgment. Made him wonder if he could ever trust anyone.
“Do you know where she lives?” Dixon asked Chrissy, and she blinked at him like she’d lost the ability to comprehend English.
Then she seemed to snap out of it. Her voice was hoarse when she answered, “Um, yeah. On Olivia Street, between Center and Simonton. I don’t remember the number. But it’s the green conch house with the white shutters.”
