Price still felt he owed Gabe for that help years ago. Gabe didn't agree, but he was deeply thankful for his assistance now.
He texted back.
Not David.
Price: Great news. Connected?
Maybe. Victim was asking questions around town three weeks ago. Same time David went dark. ME will send me autopsy report, but any chance you can monitor the investigation & keep me clued in? Local LEOs aren't going tobe helpful.
Price: No surprise there. I got you, dude.
Gabe pocketed his phone and headed toward the bakery. Behind him, Hale and Brewer were loading into their squad car, probably trying to figure out ways to write this off as a tragic accident before the coroner even started his autopsy.
If the vic questioned Cara Sweet, he probably interviewed a lot of other people in town. And Gabe needed answers before Hale locked everything down and declared it an accident.
As he clomped through the sand, he studied the building. Second-story apartment, single street entrance, back deck with ocean view. Good sight lines. Easy to monitor who came and went.
Through the window, he could see the woman restocking a display case.
Twelve years as an FBI agent, most of those in Internal Affairs, had taught him how to spot people hiding something. And Cara Sweet was definitely hiding something.
Not for long.
4
The bellover the door chimed. Cara glanced up from wiping down the counter. An electric charge zinged from her head all the way to her toes.
Mr. Tall, Dark and Very-Much-FBI filled the doorway.
She forced a smile. "Coffee?"
"Sure. Black."
"Coming right up."
She turned to the espresso machine before he could read her expression. She was good. But so was he. The filter slipped through her fingers. She caught it, fumbling the coffee grounds. Most made it into the basket. The carafe rattled against the warming plate.
Smooth, Cara. Definitely not suspicious.
She forced a laugh that sounded wrong even to her own ears. "Sorry. Long morning."
The man said nothing.
She could feel him watching her, his stillness somehow louder than shouting.
He wasn’t here for coffee.
She couldn’t stop replaying the scene on the beach. The dead man’s blank face. The purple-black bruising on his wrists. And Gabe Sawyer, taking in every detail of the scene.
The coffee brewed with agonizing slowness. She poured it into one of the handmade ceramic mugs Pearl had donated when Cara first opened. The steam curled up between them like smoke signals she couldn't decode.
"Here you go." She slid the mug across the counter. "On the house. Welcome to Haven Cove."
He wrapped both hands around it but didn't drink. Just held it like he was testing the temperature. Or maybe testing her.
Then, casually, like he was commenting on the weather: "You noticed the marks on the victim's wrists before anyone else."
Cara's throat went dry as week-old bread.
