a hand in dismissal. “Well, he may not have known I looked, but I told him afterward I’d seen that feller over at the Blue Pelican a few nights ago. He was a-sittin’ at the bar like he was waitin’ for somebody.”
“Had you ever seen him there before?” Scott asked.
“No, but it seems like I saw him somewhere else. If I think of it, I’ll let you know. You got any idea who he is?”
Scott shook his head, put his hand on Grady’s shoulder and ushered him to the door. “I’ve got nothing to tell you, Grady, but thanks for stopping by and let me know if you think of anything else.”
When the door closed behind Grady, Scott turned around. “I’ll tell Brock we need to check out the Blue Pelican and see if anybody knows who Draper met there. Grady always knows just enough to try and find out more. He’s faster than a text message when it comes to spreading gossip. Now how about that coffee?”
Mark shook his head. “I think I’ll pass. Maybe I’ll get some later. I need to talk to my superiors and see where we go from here.”
Scott nodded. “See you later.”
Mark nodded to Lisa, who glanced up as he strode toward the door, exited the police station and hurried to his car. Once inside he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the DEA office in Raleigh. Moments later he was connected with his superior and related the account of John Draper’s death.
“What about this girl who was with him?” the special agent in charge asked.
Mark hesitated before he answered. “She’s a local artist. She says he didn’t give her anything, and I’ve told you what she said were his last words.”
“I don’t know, Mark. There may be something she’s forgotten. I think you need to question her again.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I believed her.”
“Nevertheless, I’m telling you to talk to her. Don’t give up until you know for sure. Understand?” The voice vibrated with authority, and Mark knew it would no good to argue.
He sighed. “Okay, whatever you say. I’ll keep you posted.”
Mark ended the call and started the engine. Where was it Betsy said she was going? Some cemetery, but where?
He pulled into the street and spotted Grady Teach standing on the sidewalk outside the Coffee Cup. Mark pulled to the curb and rolled down his window. “Hey, Grady. I met you over at the sheriff’s office a few minutes ago, and I wondered if you can help me.”
Grady sauntered over to the car and leaned against the door. “What with?”
“A friend of mine was going to some special cemetery this morning, but I’ve forgotten the name.”
“Oh, that’s easy. All the tourists want to see the British Cemetery. Take Highway 12 until you come to British Cemetery Road and turn left. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, Grady.” Mark waved and rolled the window up.
Taking a deep breath, Mark eased down on the accelerator. His boss was right. He needed to question Betsy more and see if there was something she’d forgotten. He didn’t want to intrude into her life, but a DEA agent had been killed. She might know something that would help them find the killer. Another thought struck him. She also might know something that would put her in danger. If so, he needed to find the killer as quickly as possible.
* * *
His fingers tightened on the cell phone when the name flashed on the caller ID. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Do you have it?”
“No. There was a problem.”
He sank down in his desk chair and wiped at the perspiration that popped out on his forehead. “What do you mean there was a problem?”
“Draper is dead, but he got out of the forest before we could reach him. We followed his trail out to the Point, but there was a woman with him. I had her in my sights and was about to shoot when this guy ran out of the forest. We heard her say the police were on their way. We couldn’t risk sticking around.”
He jumped to his feet, and the chair tipped backward and landed on the floor. “But you could risk the police finding what Draper had?”
The sigh that answered his question chilled his blood. “What Draper had is your problem. We were only trying to help you out. Our friends sent us here to make sure this next shipment gets to the mainland. After that, you’re the one who’s going to have to answer to why you couldn’t stop a DEA agent when you found him rifling through your office files.”
His heart slammed against his chest. “You don’t have to remind me. I need to recover whatever Draper found out. I’ll make it well worth your while if you can get it for me.”
Silence greeted his offer. He waited and finally his caller spoke. “We’ll see what we can do. We have information that there was nothing on his body when he was brought in. We also know the woman at the Point is an artist named Betsy Michaels. We think Draper probably gave the item to her, and the police may already have it. Want us to put some pressure on her to tell us where it is?”
A smile pulled at his lips, and he reached down and set the chair upright. “Yes, but be careful. Everybody in her family works for the sheriff’s department.”
“In that case, this could be trickier. It’s going to cost you twice what we usually get paid.”
“No problem. Just get it back for me before that shipment leaves.”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
He disconnected the call and tossed the cell phone on his desk. “Betsy,” he muttered, “why did you have to get mixed up in this? It would have been better if you had stayed home this morning.”
He sat at his desk for a few moments thinking about John Draper and wishing he had killed him when he’d caught him snooping. Instead the man’s escape had put the entire drug cartel in jeopardy. When the bosses on the mainland looked for the weak link in their organization, he knew they would look to him for answers. He had to do whatever was necessary to protect himself, even sending those hired assassins after Betsy Michaels.
That decision should bother him, but it didn’t. He had too much riding on this last shipment to worry about Betsy. The Michaels family had a reputation as protectors of the island and its residents. Too bad they wouldn’t be able to do anything to help their sister. She had just come on the radar of the wrong people, and they never stopped until they got what they wanted.
THREE
After an hour of weeding the British Cemetery, Betsy began to feel more relaxed. Her time spent in the small plot the island residents held in high esteem always made her misty-eyed and thankful for patriotic men like those buried here. They’d given the ultimate sacrifice in the pursuit of freedom. Her brother, Scott, had almost met the same fate, and she thanked God every day for his life.
Kneeling beside the sign that identified the small cemetery as a piece of English soil, she patted the last pansy into the flower bed and sat back on her heels
