being smart and fearless, a seasoned hotshot with a killer instinct and an unwillingness to say die.
Tragedy forced Rick out of Miami. His wife had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and only a handful of months later, he found himself a widower. And single father to a grief-stricken five-year-old son. Despondent, in need of friends, family and a better place to raise Sam, he’d returned to Key West.
Val had quickly gotten him a spot on his team at the KWPD. Although it had been a big adjustment to go from lead detective on complex and high-profile murder cases to investigating open-and-shut burglary and assault cases, Rick had been grateful for the opportunity. And for the small-town pace.
His peace had been shattered only a matter of months later: two armed men had broken into Rick’s home in the middle of the night. Shots had broken out and Sam, awakened by the commotion, had gotten caught in the cross fire.
Ballistics had proved that Sam had been killed by one of Rick’s bullets.
Val pushed his coffee away and stood. “I’ve worn out my welcome this morning.”
“Don’t be a jerk.” Rick scowled at the other man. “Drink your coffee or I’ll have to kick your ass.”
Val sat, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Kick my ass? You wish. You’re out of shape, my friend.”
The truth was, the two men were as different physically as they were genetically. Val was small, with a wiry build and the coloring of his Cuban ancestors. Rick was big—six foot three—with blue eyes and fair hair.
“You think?” Rick looked down at his gut. “Can’t pinch an inch.”
“It’s all about training, my friend. My body’s a lethal instrument, while yours—”
Rick burst out laughing. “By any chance, is that the line you use with the ladies? Because, well … I think I should warn you, it’s pretty cheesy.”
Val, still single and a self-avowed playboy, grinned. “To you, maybe. But to the ladies, pure nectar.”
“Excuse me while I puke.”
“I know it’s hard to take. But it’s true, I’m a chick magnet. I could fix you up.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “We could double-date, like we did when we were in high school.”
“Pass on that, buddy. Thanks anyway.”
“Jill’s gone,” Val murmured. “Almost four years now.”
Rick averted his gaze, staring at the open doorway and the brilliant rectangle of light beyond. “That guy who was leaving when you walked in, he was complaining about his wife. Envying my single state. And all I could think was how not a day goes by that I don’t wish she’d lived long enough to make my life a living hell.”
Val swore softly. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it. It’s my problem.”
Several moments of strained silence passed between them. Val drained his cup. “Gotta go, crime calls.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Missing person.”
“As in poof, gone?”
“Don’t know for sure.” Val stood. “The supervisor of Island National Bank’s processing center didn’t show up for work yesterday. A friend and co-worker tried to reach her and couldn’t. When she didn’t show up for their morning run this morning, her friend called us.”
Rick frowned. “That’s Naomi Pearson, right?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“I’m a bartender. I know almost everybody on the island.” He searched his memory for how or when he had first met her. “I financed the Hideaway through Island National. I think I met her one time when I was up there. I hope she’s okay.”
“I’m sure she is. Probably met some guy and took off.” Val saluted. “Give me a call sometime. I’m in the book.”
CHAPTER 5
Saturday, November 3 4:30 p.m.
“Hey, boss man,” twenty-year-old Mark Morgan called as he entered Rick’s Island Hideaway. “What’s shakin’?”
Rick sat with his back to the door, head angled toward the television mounted from the ceiling behind the bar. He was watching the five-o’clock local news.
He glanced over his shoulder at him and smiled. “Not much. There was an anthrax scare up in Homestead. A jealous husband sent his soon-to-be ex a letter containing a powdery substance.”
“Which turned out to be?” Mark asked.
“Cornstarch. But the hoax closed the entire office building where the woman works. What’s with these people?” “No joke. Sick.”
Rick glanced back at the tube. “It’s official. Fantasy-Fest attendance was way down this year. No surprise there.”
Fantasy Fest, a nine-day adult Halloween celebration that culminated in a huge costume party on Duval Street, was the wildest thing Mark had ever seen. “If attendance was down this year, I’d hate to be around when it’s up.”
Rick snapped off the TV. “Libby called. She’s running late.”
“No problem. I’ll clock in.”
Libby, one of the nighttime bartenders, was consistently late. The original party girl, she stayed up all night and slept most of the day. In anticipation, Rick had begun scheduling her an hour before he needed her.
Mark smiled to himself, crossed to the time clock and punched in. That’s the kind of guy Rick was. Flexible but demanding; a laid-back perfectionist, if such a thing was possible. He wanted what he wanted but wasn’t averse to finding a roundabout way to get it.
Mark liked that about his boss. He enjoyed working for him. He figured God had been looking out for him big time when he sent Rick Wells his way.
Like a lot of folks on the island, Mark was relatively new to Key West. Two years before, he had graduated from high school in Humble, Texas, concluded much to his family’s dismay that he’d had enough of school for a while and set off to see a bit of the world. After bumming around the Southeast, he landed in south Florida, then Key West.
He had found Rick’s Island Hideaway by chance. A Help Wanted sign in the window had propelled him inside. Rick had hired him on the spot. Mark wasn’t sure if Rick had given him the job because they’d hit it off right away—which they had—or because Mark didn’t touch alcohol, a rare commodity on this island.
“How was your day?” Rick asked from the doorway.
Mark thought of Tara, his girlfriend of three months. He had beeped her half a dozen times throughout the day, but she hadn’t responded.
Had she tired of him already?
He
