“Don’t judge,” he told her. “I can’t help what I find hot.”
Bon cocked her head from one side to the other and then dropped her nose to push the root at him.
“Later,” Cloister told her. He braced his elbow on the driftwood log and pushed himself up. It hurt. The sand was damp, and his hip was stiff. It was awkward, but he did it. He didn’t need anyone’s help. He didn’tneedanyone. Cloister had to believe that. It was bad enough when you loved someone and they let you down. If you believed they loved you, that would be worse.
Cloister patted his thigh. “Come on, Bon. We’re going to dinner. You need your fancy harness.”
She nudged the roots again and looked up at him hopefully. When he ignored the hint and waved his hand back up the beach toward the trailer park, she sighed heavily and delicately picked up the salt-toughened bit of flotsam in her front teeth. She loped off up the beach, businesslike as always once she had her orders.
Cloister started to follow her but stopped. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out to sea at the sunset he’d been ignoring. The sky was painted shades of red and gold, clouds torn across the horizon like streamers.
It was beautiful. Cloister knew that, but he could never quite bring himself to appreciate it. Sunrises he could enjoy, but sunsets were just a taunt that he wouldn’t sleep again. He absently scratched at the cast, worked his thumb down under it as far as he could reach, and thought about hard, hot metal cars and why he avoided calls from the one person he wanted to hear from.
There were times he thought he was okay. Sure, he couldn’t sleep, but who could these days? Then someone would go missing or an anniversary would roll around, and he wouldn’t be. All these years, and some part of him was still stuck back there in the night he couldn’t—or maybe his mom was right, and it waswouldn’t—remember. It might always be.
Maybe that was why he wanted answers for Janet.
A tug at his arm made him look down. Bourneville had his cast in her teeth as she tried to pull him up the beach. Cloister laughed and wiped his hand over his face—staring at the sun made your eyes water, who knew—and went along with her.
He hoped she was just hungry and that he hadn’t worried her. Apparently he did that to too many people.
“Okay, okay.” He stooped down to grab the untouched rubber toy from where she’d dropped it and let her walk him up the beach. “Let’s go get gussied up to spend this week’s rent on a beer.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THERE WASsand in Cloister’s cast. He stood in the lobby of The Quail and tried to discreetly work it free. The grains had inched down past his wrist and into the crease of his palm, where sweat had turned them into a sticky, gritty paste, just out of reach no matter what end of the cast Cloister itched at. It wasn’t unbearable—yet—but he couldn’t quite shake the echo of Javi’s warning about gangrene. If Cloister somehow got sand-induced sepsis, he’d never live it down.
“Something wrong, sir?” the host asked as he returned to his station. He peered nervously at Cloister, as though he weren’t sure whether to be dismayed at the bruises or impressed by the uniform. “Do you need a… ummm… toothpick?”
Cloister had to admit he was a little disappointed that the kid didn’t sound snottier. How was he supposed to properly hate a place for being pretentious when the staff were pleasant?
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Is Mr. Sean Stokes here?”
The waiter blinked and nodded. “I’m sorry. Yes, he is, but Agent Merlo isn’t here yet. My manager has set aside a private room for you, if you’d like to wait there.”
Cloister raised his eyebrows. “The dog or the uniform?” he asked.
A quick grin skated over the waiter’s face and away again. “A little bit of both. Sorry. If you’d follow me.”
He grabbed a menu out of habit and led his way through the maze of tables. No one looked at them as they passed—they were engrossed in their plates of pasta or steak—but whispers eddied behind them like a boat’s wake.
“What are the police doing here?”
“That man in the back room, I think I saw him on the news. Something to do with that drug….”
“What do you think is going on?”
Then a child’s voice cut through the speculative murmur with a straightforward question and the threat of tears. “But why can’t I pet the puppy?”
Cloister had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh. He dropped his hand to give the fuzzy tip of Bon’s ear an affectionate tug. She still had it. Children—and adults who should know better—always wanted to pet K-9 dogs. The K-9s were all well-kept and well trained, which could pass for friendly, but Bon always got more than her share because she was the cutest.
The waiter opened the door to the private room and ushered Cloister in. It wasn’t much of a private room—the walls were just smoked glass and die-cut copper dioramas.
Stokes looked up from his menu. The last time Cloister saw him, the cop-turned-PI was hungover and in yesterday’s underwear. He’d upgraded to a suit that even Cloister could tell was fancy for this meeting. A dark gray vest was buttoned closed over his chest, and he’d rolled back the sleeves of a silk shirt to flash the heavy watch on his wrist as he waved his hand to the chair opposite.
“Deputy Witte,” Sean said. He grinned as he gave Cloister a once-over. “You look like someone rode you hard and put you away wet.”
Cloister raised his arm to show off the heavy cast. He’d grabbed a black cover from the pharmacy on his way home, to cover the multicolored “Get well soons” on it. “If your horses end up in plaster, maybe you need more lessons,” he said.
