J. Black - The Shop

Mike didn’t know Riley the way Frank did.

Riley couldn’t keep a secret. She would have told Frank about the photos long before now. She would do anything for attention, and if she knew about those incriminating photos on Luke’s phone, it would have come out already.

He’d just have to put it out of his mind.

Today he needed a distraction, and he’d found it.

Franklin still marveled that his cousin, four times removed, was a bestselling author. Frank had written his own book, but it had sat in a drawer for three years because his writing teacher said it needed work.

It had been a fluke, how Nick ended up on his radar screen. Lifeline DNA Genetic Testing offered to trace Frank’s ancestry back four generations. They’d offered the service for free, in gratitude for a favor Frank had done for them in his previous life as a congressman. Since it was a freebie, he took it. All he had to do was supply his DNA, wait for the report to come back, and voilà, turned out he was related to a bestselling author.

When Frank e-mailed Holloway in May, Nick told him he wasn’t really looking for long-lost relatives. He’d had his DNA tested because he was writing an article about genetic testing companies for Esquire , but added, “If I ever get out to your neck of the woods, we should get together.”

And now Nick was here, doing research for his new book.

Frank hoped Nick would take a look at his manuscript. He had little doubt he’d find a publisher—he was, after all, famous in his way—but he wanted the book to be good .

And although Nick didn’t know it, he owed Frank. Big time.

He took the Hinckley under the drawbridge and aimed for Bayou Joe’s. Idling into the Massalina Bayou, watching a pod of dolphins at play in the sequined water, he felt his usual sunny optimism sweep over him. Life was good. He could handle whatever came his way. There had been some rough seas, but it would all turn out all right.

The restaurant straddled a small dock where boaters could tie up on three sides, a maritime spin on the old-fashioned drive-in. It was one of Frank’s favorite places.

A man detached himself from the shade of the overhang, walked down the dock, and helped him tie up. He wore a ball cap, sunglasses, a khaki-colored shirt, and Army-green cargo shorts. Muscular calves, no socks, boat shoes, duffle at his feet, and what looked like an expensive saltwater fly rod case propped up against the wall of the restaurant. Franklin knew immediately it was Nick. Taller than he’d expected, and the stubble from a couple days growth of beard made him look more rugged than both his book photo and the television interview he’d given to Larry King after the Aspen bloodbath. One word came to mind: manly.

Nick Holloway could be a Haddox.

Frank took pretty good care of himself, watched what he ate, worked out every day in his home gym. Pretty decent shape for a man of fifty-five, but he was nothing like this man.

The guy said, “Nick—”

“Holloway. I know. Franklin. But you can call me Frank.”

They shook. Good strong hand. “Nice boat,” Nick said.

“The Hinckley T44 FB. I wanted a sports fisher, but I love the Hinckley, so I had this one modified. Downriggers, live bait wells, all that good stuff. You know your way around a boat?”

“I’ve been on one or two in my time.”

They followed the waitress to a small table on the covered dock and sat down.

“So,” Frank said.

“So.”

“We finally meet face-to-face. Cousin.”

“Cousin.” Nick grinned.

“What made you change your mind?”

The waitress came. Frank didn’t need to consult a menu. He ordered a Trash Burger and a Heineken. Nick ordered a grouper sandwich and water, no ice, lemon.

Nick said, “Nearly getting killed has a wonderful way of sorting out your priorities. To be honest, I didn’t think I needed any more family, but after I got a second chance, I decided I should look you up.”

“I’m glad you did.” Frank leaned forward, elbows on the table. The smell of french fries and battered fish floated on the air along with the subtler smell of the bayou—decaying plants, feeding fish, a hint of petroleum. Waves lapped gently against the dock. Frank said, “I’ve been reading your book. It’s thrilling.”

“Good. It’s a thriller.”

The food came.

“What was it like? Waking up under that Navigator in the garage?”

“Escalade.”

“Oh, it was an Escalade?”

Nick nodded. “Before I even opened my eyes, I smelled motor oil. It was like an out-of-body experience.”

“How did you find out everybody else was dead?”

“A detective told me. For a while, he even suspected me.”

For one dizzying moment, Frank thought about telling Nick the truth, that Nick had him to thank for being here now, eating a grouper sandwich at Joe’s. But as a man once said, that wouldn’t be prudent. It was something he could never tell anyone. “You ready for some fishing?”

That slow grin again. Guy had a way about him. “Absolutely.”

“I think you’re going to like the boat. Kings are running just offshore. Or, if you want, we could go for grouper, you want to go farther out.” The two beers were making him feel benign, expansive. The sun was shining, and the fears he’d had earlier seemed to dissipate into the air. He nodded at Nick’s baseball cap. “What is that, anyway?”

Nick looked confused. “What?”

“A band or a boat?” Feeling jocular. Good food, good company.

Nick looked at him, sunglasses catching the light and bouncing it back.

“The writing on your cap . Chernobyl Ant. Is it a band or a boat?”

“Oh, this?” Nick gestured to his cap. Smiled.

“Neither,” he said. “It’s a racehorse.”

26

Brown water spilled out of the spaces between the tailgate and the truck body as it was raised from the pond outside Gardenia.

It was late morning, not two full days after the drive-by shooting at Maddy Akers’s house.

An hour before, a man walking his dog along his usual route by the highway spotted something in the pond. The something he spotted was the juncture where the top of the tailgate met the side panel of a late-seventies GMC Silverado, two-tone burgundy. The color of a Dr. Pepper can.

This could be the truck the shooters drove.

But it wasn’t Jolie’s case now. She was here as a witness, at her fellow detective Louis Gatrell’s behest. He wanted to see if she could identify the truck.

Jolie had not been in to work since the night of the shooting. She’d meant to drive to Weems Memorial in Tallahassee, had planned to be there in case Amy Perdue regained consciousness. But as soon as the scene at Maddy’s house was secured and Jolie had been tended to by the paramedic, Sheriff Johnson sent a car to transport Jolie back to the Palm County Sheriff’s Office, where she had been relieved of her firearm. She was told to hire an attorney, which she did. Yesterday, Jolie spent the morning answering questions in the officer-involved shooting hearing.

Jolie would not be going to Tallahassee. She would not be allowed to follow any of the leads she had developed. She was on paid leave pending a final report on her disposition as a detective with the Palm County Sheriff’s Office.

It didn’t look good.

But then, nothing looked good. She couldn’t sleep, could barely make herself eat. As much as she needed to make up for all the sleep she’d already missed, Jolie found her mind playing the scene out over and over as she lay in bed at night. She felt lost without something constructive to do to get her mind off the carnage. Jolie couldn’t help but feel she should have been able to stop the shooting. If she had acted sooner—