James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

I cooled off with a quick shower in the room before changing into my blending-in clothes for the afternoon: a bathing suit, T-shirt, and some SPF 30. I was now just another registered guest, heading off to the pool and ready to mingle. Discreetly, of course.

Did anyone witness anything strange before Ethan and Abigail Breslow were murdered?

Unfortunately, if anyone did, he or she wasn’t hanging out at the pool. Talk about discreet: the place was just about deserted. One empty chaise lounge after another.

My next stop was the beach, a beautiful strip of white sand sloping gently down into what was called Grace Bay.

I saw some guests sunning themselves, but they were spread out, literally few and far between. Not exactly conducive to striking up a conversation.

Plan D. When all else fails, start drinking.

I sidled up to the resort’s beach bar, a small hut with a half dozen empty stools and a lone bartender, who looked bored. I ordered a Turk’s Head, the local beer, and considered my next move.

It turned out I didn’t have to move at all.

Five minutes later, a man who looked to be in his midsixties approached the bar and ordered a rum punch. While exchanging friendly nods, I noticed that his sunburn was just beginning to turn into a tan.

In other words, he’d probably been at the resort for more than a few days.

I took a sip of my Turk’s Head, turning to him. I had my opening line all planned out. “Boy, it’s dead around here, isn’t it?” I said.

The man suppressed a chuckle. “So to speak.”

I smacked my head, as if to say, “I could’ve had a V8!”

“Jesus, that’s right. Poor choice of words,” I said. “I just got here today, but I heard all about it. Scary, huh? I guess that explains why the place is so empty.”

“Yeah. A lot of people skedaddled right after it happened. I suppose I can’t blame them.”

The man had remnants of a Western drawl. Texas, or maybe Oklahoma. Business owner, maybe a lawyer. Not a doctor, though. Doctors usually don’t wear gold Rolexes.

I smiled, pointing at him. “But you decided to stick around, huh? How’s that?”

“It’s like that movie,” he said. He thought for a second, his forehead scrunching as he came up with the title. “ The World According to Garp. You know, when the plane flies into the house and Robin Williams still buys it?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” I said. “What are the odds that it’s going to happen again, right?”

“Exactly.”

“My name’s John, by the way.”

“Carter,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Of course, I’m sure everyone would feel a lot better if they caught the killer. Have you heard anything?” I asked.

The bartender placed a rum punch in front of Carter, who immediately removed the slice of orange and tiny umbrella from the rim of the glass as if they threatened his manhood.

“I haven’t heard boo,” he said between two quick sips. “It’s all been very hush-hush. Obviously, the hotel—make that the entire island—doesn’t want any more publicity.”

“What about before the murder?”

“How do you mean?” asked Carter.

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. Nice and easy now, O’Hara . “Did you notice the couple talking to anyone in particular?”

“No,” he said. “I only saw them one time. They were having a late dinner at the restaurant here. Very lovey-dovey, keeping to themselves.”

Swing and a miss with my new buddy Carter, I thought. But then I watched as his forehead scrunched up again. This time real tight.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I just remembered something,” he said.

Chapter 15

SPEAK TO ME, Carter.

“I actually did see them one other time,” he said. “Now that I think about it.”

Carter put down his rum punch, the glass sweating from the heat, and described how he saw Ethan and Abigail Breslow taking a sunset walk on the beach. He thought it was a day or so before they were murdered. A man walking in the opposite direction had stopped to talk to them.

“You hear the conversation?” I asked, still trying to sound casual and chatty.

“No. They were down by the water and I was right here having a cocktail with my wife. All three of them were smiling, but I sensed that Breslow and his new bride were uncomfortable.” He leaned in a bit. “And not just because the other guy was wearing one of those skimpy Speedo bathing suits.”

“How could you tell they were uncomfortable?”

“Body language,” he answered. “I’m good at reading people.”

“You a poker player?”

“Yeah, poker and craps, that’s what I play. In fact, that’s why I’m so surprised I forgot about this guy they were talking to. I’d seen him before…at the casino,” he said. “Shit, I should tell the police about this, shouldn’t I?”

I didn’t say anything. At least I thought I didn’t. But Carter wasn’t kidding; he was fluent in body language.

He leaned in again, this time even closer. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” I said.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to elaborate. Maybe it was how fast I bought Carter another rum punch—“Hold the fruit, please”—but he didn’t pursue it. I asked him to describe this guy he saw with the Breslows.

“Dark hair, decent-looking,” he said. “Probably in his late thirties.”

“Tall? Short?”

“Average height, I think. Around the same height as the Breslow boy. He looked to be in pretty good shape, too.”

“Do you think he’s a guest here?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, the only other time I saw him was at the casino.”

“Which one?” I knew there were a couple on the island.

“The Casablanca,” he said. “Speedo and I were at the same craps table, only he was playing the don’t pass line. He was betting a lot. Winning a lot, too.”

“Did he seem to know the dealers?”

“You mean, like, maybe he was cheating?”

“No…like maybe he was a regular, someone who lives on the island.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, the dealers did seem to know him,” he said. “That’s good, right? Chances are you can find him there.”

Down went my last sip of the Turk’s Head beer. Pretty good for an island brew.

I thanked Carter for his time and help. As I was about to push off my stool, though, I saw his eyes go wide.

“I don’t effin’ believe it,” he said, looking over my shoulder.

I turned. “What is it?”

“That’s him… the guy! Coming in on the Jet Ski. See him? Right there.”

I cupped my eyes to cut out the sun’s glare. The guy certainly fit Carter’s description, right down to the Speedo—or, as Susan used to call it, the banana hammock. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.

“As sure as sugar,” he said.

I took that for a yes.

Chapter 16

I WALKED QUICKLY across the white sand of Grace Bay beach, the various studies and statistics I’d read over the years about criminals returning to the scene of the crime running through my head.

Burglars? About 12 percent of the time.

Murderers? Nearly 20 percent. Kick it up to 27 percent if there was a sexual component to the killing.

I didn’t want this guy to think I was making a beeline for him, so I stopped first to dip my toes in the water. From about twenty feet away, I watched as he began to pull his Jet Ski up on the sand so the waves wouldn’t take it.

“Need a hand?” I asked, meandering over.

“No, thanks, I’m good,” he said without even looking at me. “I’m good” was an American expression, but his accent wasn’t American. Mr. Speedo was Monsieur Speedo. A Frenchman.