quite exhausted by the evening.”
By then Jake had produced his badge. “Police, Mr. Shea. Detective Dilessio, homicide.”
“Homicide? Surely our dancing wasn’t that bad.”
“Very funny, Mr. Shea,” Jake informed him.
Other people were beginning to note the conversation.
“Shall we go outside?” Jake suggested.
“I told you, I’m going home.”
“I can take you in, you know,” Jake said very politely.
“On what grounds?”
“Questioning. I’ve got twenty-four hours to hold you, sir, before I press charges.”
“Charges for what?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Jake told him politely.
“We’ll go outside—if you insist. You’ve got nothing on me, and trust me, I’ll see you sued for false arrest,” Shea threatened.
Jake took him by the elbow, leading him out. As he did, he said pleasantly, “Actually, I believe that a quick phone call to the FBI is all I need to assure myself that I can’t be sued for anything, Mr. Shea.”
They reached the outside of the club. “Mr. Shea, I believe you own a large amount of property on Mary Street. Would that be correct?”
“It’s illegal to own property?” Shea said.
“And you have major interests in several South American boatyards,” Jake continued pleasantly.
Shea began to frown. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Detective.” He nearly spat out the title.
“You know exactly what he’s talking about!” They all started. Maria Lopez had come out of the club, a shawl clutched around her shoulders. “You killed Ted and Molly, you bastardo,” she accused him.
“Maria, please,” Keith said softly.
“I heard you. I heard you on the phone. You were yelling, saying they were not to be cowards, that they were to show up tonight, that they must not go near the studio to ask you for money. I heard you.”
As he stood by, Keith looked out toward the parking lot. He saw a man in a tuxedo looking around furtively. “Shit,” he swore, and he began to run.
The man turned, saw him and began to run himself.
But this time there was nowhere to disappear, no crowd in which to hide, no mass of tropical flowers to veer around. Keith was down the drive, shouting to the security guard. The “waiter” saw the guard and hesitated a split second too long before veering into the bushes bordering the park.
Too late. Keith tackled him. They both went down hard. The man stared at Keith, who was ready to rip at the man’s mustache. Then he realized it wasn’t a fake—the man wasn’t Brad.
He stared up at Keith, wide-eyed. Caught, he lifted his hands.
By then the security guard had come running. “What’s in your pocket?” Keith demanded. He was losing his own mustache. He ripped it off, leaving only his beard. The man’s eyes widened.
“Your pocket!” Keith said again, rising, grasping the man’s arm, dragging him to his feet. He felt in the man’s jacket. There was nothing there. It didn’t matter. With panicked eyes, the man pointed at Eduardo Shea.
“That man should be arrested for assault and battery,” Shea protested, staring at Keith.
“You’re going in for questioning,” Jake said firmly. “Feel free to call your lawyer.”
One of the plainclothes officers was standing nearby. “I have a car, Detective,” he told Dilessio. Jake nodded. “I think this silent gentleman needs to come in, too,” he said.
“The man has nothing on him,” Shea protested. “By all means bring him in. Let him file charges, too.”
Keith suddenly felt an urgent need to get back inside.
“I can take them both in for questioning,” Jake told Keith. “But I’m going to need solid evidence.”
“You have Maria’s testimony—”
“An overheard conversation. I’m going to need more. Unless you can get the feds in on this,” he said. He followed the officer escorting Shea.
Keith turned to head back in.
THE BAND WAS PLAYING ON UNTIL the bitter end, and there were a few straggling members who intended to stay until that bitter end. Beth had a splitting headache by then. She stood beside the commodore in the main dining room, feeling as if the salsa beat was now smashing into her head.
She was startled when Ashley came up to her, alone.
“Where’s Amber?”
“With her dad. Beth, a man will follow you to my place. You have your key, right?”
“What’s happened? Did—did they catch Eduardo…doing something? Sandy…Brad?”
“Not really, but…Eduardo Shea is going to be questioned at the station. I think Keith is calling his boss so they can come up with something to hold him on. Anyway, I need to get down to the station, as well. You have one of our friends, the big waiter, on guard duty. I’ll be home as soon as I can get there.”
“Ashley—”
“Beth, that’s all I know right now. When I find out anything else, I’ll call you, I promise.”
Ashley murmured good-night to Commodore Berry and started out. Beth looked at him, ready to explain that she needed to be with her niece, then decided not to bother. He would know about the entire events of the evening soon enough, she was certain.
She walked outside. Her brother was nowhere to be seen. The party out here had broken up. A waiter was wandering around, picking up fallen glasses. “Ben?” she called.
Her brother didn’t answer.
Panic seized her. “Ben!” she called again, louder.
Still no answer. She tried to calm herself. Amber was Ben’s child. He might have insisted that they head home. She called her brother’s cell phone. No answer. She tried Amber’s, then remembered that Ashley had said it was dead.
She cursed, and tried her brother’s phone number again. Still no answer.
Then she saw Amber. The girl was striding along the dock. Idly, it seemed at first. She looked up, seemed to see something and started to walk faster. And where the hell was Ben?
“Amber!” Beth called.
Amber apparently didn’t hear her. She kept
