"We’re on it.”
Paris Delaney’s camera crew soaked up the gruesome footage. She interviewed bystanders and eventually spoke to the girl's mother.
Tears streamed down the woman’s tortured face, and her tousled hair blew in the wind. Her eyes were puffy, narrow slits. "This is obviously the same shark that killed two other people,” she cried. “When are they going to do something about it? That shark needs to be killed or captured immediately before someone else is hurt. If I had money, I’d put a bounty on that shark's head.” She clenched her jaw, and the veins in her forehead bulged. "If it killed somebody important, I guarantee you they’d take care of it.”
Brenda and her crew bagged the body and transferred the remains to a gurney. The crowd began to disperse, and Paris approached me with her cameraman. "Deputy Wild, do you have any more information about the shark?”
"Not at this time.”
"Can you confirm rumors that the shark was genetically modified?”
I hesitated a moment. "The lab results have not come back yet.”
She had as much information about the subject as I did. She was just looking for a story angle.
"When I have something conclusive, you'll be the first to know," I said, then stepped out of frame.
She told the cameraman to cut, then chased after JD and me as we walked back to the car.
"So what's the plan?" she asked. "Off the record."
"We need to corroborate Mr. X's story. Care to tell me his name?”
"You know I don't reveal the identity of my sources."
"I'm going to find out.”
Paris smiled. "I have no doubt.” She paused. “Is there anything I can do?”
"Keep digging into this. Let me know the minute you find something solid.”
“I expect the same consideration, Deputy."
“Are you going to put Mr. X on air?”
“Not unless I can verify his story. Right now, he’s just a guy with an active imagination. I’m reaching out to other employees, but so far, no one is willing to talk.”
“Be careful,” I said.
“Aw, you care,” she teased, then spun around and walked back to her cameraman.
We climbed into the Porsche and headed across the island to the warehouse district for band practice. We pulled into the parking lot, and Jack found a spot. JD and I hopped out and strolled to the entrance, where the usual band of miscreants loitered. We chatted a bit before stepping into the building.
We ambled down the long hallway that always reeked of marijuana and spilled beer. The guys were tuning up as we stepped into the practice studio. We had a big show coming up for the Spring Break Festival. The band was tight, and the setlist solid. But there were a few new songs the band had added that could use a little polish.
A few groupies hung out and soaked up the sound.
The guys pounded out earsplitting goodness for almost two hours.
Afterward, Jack treated the guys to dinner. Then we hit Oyster Avenue as usual, trying to unwind. I couldn't stop thinking about the girl on the beach. It was heartbreaking.
All in all, we kept the night pretty low-key. No after-party on the boat.
I woke with the sunrise, dragged myself out of bed, and staggered down to the galley to fix breakfast. I flipped on the flatscreen and watched the news as I cracked eggs and sizzled bacon in the pan. The smell of fresh coffee swirled.
Paris never stopped. She was on the dock at Salt Point Harbor, interviewing fishermen—weathered guys with lined faces, big forearms, and working men's hands.
"I don’t give two shits if it's legal or not,” a burly guy said, with a barrel chest and a beard that looked like rusty steel wool. “I’m looking to get that son-of-a-bitch before it kills anybody else. If the authorities aren’t going to do anything, we will!”
