Wild Heart Read online

  We both declined his offer.

  "Did Emmett have any conflicts with any of his coworkers?" I asked.

  "As I said, he really has helped take the clinic to the next level, and I've never heard any of the physicians or staff speak ill of him.” He sighed and shook his head. “He informed us of his vacation plans, but when he didn't show up for work on Monday, it was unusual. I called his phone several times and left messages—no reply. I thought maybe there was some travel delay. Understandable. I called Tuesday—nothing. I was starting to get worried, and I can't say that I'm shocked to see you boys here. I just had this gut instinct that something was wrong. Emmett is not one to leave you hanging. I don't think he's ever taken a sick day since he's been here."

  "How long has he been working for you?"

  "Oh, I'd say about three years now."

  “What was Emmett’s role here?”

  “Operations Manager. Staffing, logistics, advertising—that kind of thing. He really kept this place rolling. Emmett had a knack for people. He could look at a candidate right away and tell if they would be a good fit for this environment. That was one of his main assets."

  "So, he was in charge of hiring and firing?”

  Steve nodded. "That's correct."

  “Has anyone been recently terminated?"

  Steve thought for a moment. "We haven't had to let anybody go in over a year."

  "And who was that?"

  "Stacy Taft."

  "Why was she terminated?"

  "I'd have to check the records, but poor performance as I recall. All employees have quarterly performance evaluations. We measure certain empirical factors as well as intangibles. I like to think we provide a wonderful work environment here. All you need to do is show up on time, do your job, maintain a positive attitude, and treat patients with dignity and respect."

  "I take it Stacy wasn’t doing that?"

  "Again, I would have to check the files, but as I recall, she was quite often late, would miss work without calling, and generally had an unpleasant demeanor. We got a lot of patient complaints. In the end, she wasn't a fit. We’re a high-performance organization.”

  "I'll need her contact information,” I said.

  “Certainly. But she was let go a year ago. Do you really think she’d still be harboring a grudge?”

  "We like to keep all possibilities open," I said.

  Steve's brow knitted together, and he stared at me curiously. "You're treating this like Emmett is deceased. Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "We have no reason to believe that is the case,” I said. “But…”

  Steve frowned.

  He pulled up Stacy's record on his computer and printed a copy of her employment file. He snatched the pages from the printer and handed them across the desk to me. "That's the last known information I have for her. I'm not sure how accurate it is, but I'm sure you two deputies can find her."

  I nodded.

  We thanked him for his time, and Steve escorted us from his office. He ushered us back to the main lobby. "Please don't hesitate to contact me if you have further questions."

  We pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the parking lot.

  "What do you think?" JD asked.

  "I think we need to go to Turtles and ask around."

  We hopped into JD's Porsche, and he cranked up the engine. He dropped it into gear and launched out of the parking lot. We zipped across the island to Oyster Avenue.

  Denise called along the way. “I talked to the airline. Emmett never boarded flight UW 2379."

  "Not surprising. See if the phone company will hand over his records. If not, talk to Daniels about getting a subpoena."

  "Don't you have connections for that?" she asked in a slightly snarky tone.

  "I do. And that's my next call, but we may need legitimate evidence at some point."

  "Is there anything else?"

  "That's all for now. I’m sure I’ll think of something else.”

  "I'm sure you will."

  I ended the call, then dialed Isabella. She was my handler at Cobra Company. The clandestine agency could get their hands on just about any piece of data floating around in the aether. Acquiring phone records would be easy. Cobra Company’s methods weren’t always legal but were effective.

  I asked Isabella if she could track Emmett's phone and give me a current location. I gave her the cell number and heard her fingers clack against a keyboard. Within a few moments, Isabella said, “That phone is not on the grid."

  "When was the last time it pinged a cell tower?"

  "Thursday before last at 1:32 AM."

  "Where?"

  “2222 Buena Vista Drive.”

  That was the address to Emmett's apartment building.

  "Nothing after that?"

  "Nothing,” she said.

  I thanked her for the information and ended the call.

  Jack weaved through town and pulled to the curb on Oyster Avenue, not far from Turtles. Tourists strolled the avenue, staggering from bar to bar. At this time of day, the avenue wasn’t very crowded, but there was always a festive atmosphere on the island. It was never too early for a cocktail.

  The strip was lined with bars and restaurants, and the smell of food filled the air. At night, the avenue would light up with a kaleidoscope of colors, and live music would spill into the streets. There was always a good time, or hangover, to be found on Oyster Avenue.

  Turtles was one of many tropical-themed beach bars. The tabletops were painted to look like turtle shells, and murals of sea turtles were painted on the walls. The place smelled like beer and strawberry daiquiris. There was a good crowd in the daytime, but nothing compared to what happened there at night. The place would pack up with sweaty bodies squeezing past one another.

  We made our way to the main bar, and JD flashed his shiny gold badge. I showed the bartender Emmett’s picture on my phone. “Do you recognize this guy?”

  “Yeah, he looks familiar,” the bartender said. “He’s in here pretty regularly.”

  "Do you remember seeing him Thursday before last?" I asked.

  He thought about it for a moment. "I can't really say. One day blends into the next around here, you know what I mean?"

  A cute waitress sauntered up to the bar. She hovered close and looked at the image on my phone. "Yeah, I remember seeing that guy. But I can’t tell you exactly when."

  "I'll print out some missing fliers,” I said. “You mind if I come back and post them?"

  "Sure, go ahead," the bartender said.

  "If you can remember anything, give me a call.” I handed him a card.

  We left the bar and strolled the sidewalk back to the car.

  Over the next few days, I spoke with Emmett’s parents and pulled his credit card records. There had been no activity since his disappearance. The last charge on his credit card was at Turtles after midnight. He’d closed out his tab and headed home.

  The case went cold, and there was no movement over the next two weeks. I was beginning to think this would slip away into the unsolved abyss.

  4

  “Got any big plans for Valentine’s Day?” Teagan asked. The slight arch in her eyebrow told me this was more than just mere curiosity.

  Teagan had decorated Diver Down with hearts and cut-outs of Cupid ready to sling arrows at unsuspecting lovers.

  "I haven't given it much thought, actually," I said.

  "Well, I've had no shortage of offers since you guys released the music video. It's been insane.”

  It wasn’t surprising. The teal-eyed beauty was gorgeous with a perfect, petite little figure. She wore a teeny bikini top that hugged her all-natural endowments. She had a flat stomach and wore cut-off jean shorts that barely covered her round cheeks. She’d been featured in the music video for All I Need, which had catapulted JD’s band to Internet stardom. Wild Fury needed a follow-up to avoid one-hit wonder status, and I had no doubt they had more hits in them.

  “My soci
al media has totally blown up, and the number of dick pics I get every day is staggering,” Teagan continued. “Why do guys feel the need to do that? It's totally not a turn on."

  “Girls send me topless photos of themselves all the time,” JD said with a grin.

  “Yeah, but that's different," Teagan said. “Guys like that kind of thing. You’re visual creatures. I can guarantee you that no girl ever got a random dick pic and said, oh yeah, I gotta have that."

  We chuckled.

  She sighed. “I don't know, it's kind of freaking me out. Somehow, these people have figured out my address and my cell phone number." She reached under the counter and produced a sub-compact 9mm Bösch-Haüer. “So I got this."

  JD and I both raised our eyebrows.

  "Don't worry, it's not loaded," Teagan assured, setting it atop the bar.

  "Do you mind?" I asked before picking it up.

  She nodded.

  I press-checked the weapon, making sure there wasn't a round in the chamber. My thumb pressed the mag release button, and the magazine dropped into my palm.

  It was empty.

  The pistol felt good in my hand. It was well-balanced.

  "Did I do good?" Teagan asked.

  "Yes, you did. I'm impressed."

  "I had to fill out one of those forms and pass a background check. Does that mean I'm in some type of database now?"

  "Technically, no. But those forms are kept on file with the firearms dealer, so that weapon would be traceable back to you in the event of a crime. And the ATF has been known to photograph the records when they do inspections."

  Teagan gave me a sassy look. "I can assure you, I'm not committing any crimes with that weapon. This is for emergency self-defense purposes only. I have no intention of ever using it outside the range." She paused, then made an adorable face. "So, maybe that can be my Valentine's Day present? You can take me to the gun range. I’ve already taken a basic gun safety course, but I want some expert guidance.”

  "Where do I sign up?” JD asked.

  She smiled. "I'm off tomorrow. Does that work for you guys?"

  "I believe we can make that work," I said

  Teagan bounced up and down with excitement. "Yay!”

  She had a nice bounce. Things jiggled in magical ways, and I think Cupid fired a few arrows.

  "You might want to put that away before you scare the customers," I said, nodding to the pistol.

  Teagan grabbed the weapon and put it back beneath the bar.

  "Do not let that out of your sight. You don't want that thing walking off."

  "I know,” she said. "I'll take good care of it."

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. It was Sheriff Daniels. I swiped the screen and held the phone to my ear.

  "Tell me you've got a lead on Emmett Forrester,” I said.

  The sheriff’s gruff voice filtered through the speaker, “Nope. But I've got something else you boys might be interested in."

  I cringed.

  "Get down to the station ASAP,” Daniels continued. “The Coast Guard found a boat with two dead bodies on it.”

  “We’ll be right there.” I ended the call and filled JD in on the situation.

  I said goodbye to Teagan, and we pushed out of the bar, darted across the parking lot, and hopped into the Porsche.

  Sheriff Daniels had a patrol boat ready by the time we arrived at the station. We hustled down the dock and boarded the aluminum Defender class patrol boat. Brenda, the medical examiner, joined us along with a forensics team.

  We cast off, and Sheriff Daniels idled out of the marina. He throttled up, bringing the boat on plane, and the hull carved through the swells, spraying salty mists. The engines rumbled, spitting a frothy trail as we headed across the turquoise water toward Eel Reef.

  5

  A 131-foot, tri-deck SunTrekker yacht was moored to a buoy near Eel Reef. Crafted with sleek lines and made from the finest materials, the SunTrekker was the pinnacle of luxury. With a 27’ beam, a draft of 9’6”, and accommodations for 12, the oasis on the water was the ideal cruiser for those chasing an endless summer. It could accommodate a crew of 8 and had a range of 1,600 nautical miles.

  A shiny chrome name board read Dirty Talk across the garage.

  A Coast Guard patrol boat hovered nearby, and two petty officers waited on the aft deck of the Dirty Talk.

  We pulled to the swim platform, tied off, and boarded the vessel. Sheriff Daniels, Brenda, and the forensics team followed.

  A petty officer greeted us. We made introductions, then he said, "I'll show you to it."

  We crossed the aft deck that had an alfresco dining area. The petty officer pulled open the sliding glass door to the salon and led us forward across the lounge, past the formal dining area.

  The fit and finish of the boat were second to none. The furniture was modern and elegant. There was a minibar in the lounge and a day head to port. Large windows allowed copious amounts of light to bathe the compartment. The boat had clean, graceful lines. The design had been well thought out.

  We followed the petty officer through a passageway on the starboard side that led to the master stateroom. We passed a central staircase that spiraled above and below deck. To port was a full galley with a stovetop, ice maker, refrigerator, microwave, dishwasher, a breakfast table and settee.

  The petty officer paused just outside the master stateroom and cautioned, “I have to warn you, it's pretty rank."

  He took a deep breath, held it, then pushed open the hatch. With a grimace, he stood aside and allowed us to enter.

  The pungent smell was like a punch to the nose. Sour and rotten. It instantly twisted my stomach and activated my gag reflex. Breakfast rumbled in my belly in an uncomfortable way. I'd smelled some pretty atrocious things in my day, but this was up there with the worst of them. My face twisted, and so did the expressions of my compatriots—except for Brenda. Brenda was immune to this kind of thing.

  Flies buzzed about as we stepped inside. My eyes scanned the horrific scene.

  The luxurious stateroom spanned the full beam of the ship. From the ceiling, a flatscreen display folded down. There was a small lounge area with a table and two chairs to starboard. To port, there was a dresser. There were his and hers closets, and a full beam en suite with his and hers sinks, tub, and shower stall. Windows opened on the port and starboard sides to allow a seamless blend of interior and exterior spaces.

  It would have been paradise but for the crimson blood that speckled the bed sheets and splattered the bulkheads.

  The body of a naked man lay on the deck beside the bed.

  A naked woman lay atop the queen berth—her arms were outstretched, and her legs spread wide. The body had clearly been positioned after death. In her mouth, the killer had stuffed an oversized silicone sex toy, and her blank eyes stared at the ceiling. They were now milky with haze.

  There were two small-caliber bullet wounds to her chest—probably from a 9mm. At first glance, there didn't appear to be any ligature marks or bruising on her body. Judging by the smell, they had been here for a few days.

  She had been a gorgeous woman when she was alive. Even dead, she still had a radiance about her. The long-haired brunette once had piercing blue eyes. Her petite figure was now rapidly decaying.

  The camera flashed as Phil began documenting the scene.

  “Do we have IDs for the victims?” I asked.

  “The boat is registered to Nina Harlow,” the petty officer said from the hallway.

  JD’s eyes rounded. “I’ll be damned. That is her.”

  My eyes narrowed at the woman’s corpse. “You’re right.”

  “I should have known from the name of the boat,” JD said.

  “What about the guy?” I asked.

  A pile of clothes lay on the deck. There were frilly lace panties and a black bra. Not far away, a pair of cargo shorts lay crumpled in a haphazard manner near a T-shirt.

  Brenda dug into a pocket a
nd pulled a black leather wallet from the shorts. She flipped it open and looked at the man's ID. "Sebastian Simonton."

  The name didn't ring a bell.

  I spotted several shell casings on the floor. I nudged Phil and had him take photographs. I snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and waited for the evidence to be chronicled. They were 124 grain, 9mm rounds.

  “You guys know the girl?” Brenda asked.

  “Well, not personally,” JD said. “But I know of her.”

  “Is she somebody famous?”

  "You don't know who Nina Harlow is?"

  "Should I?"

  JD’s face twisted. "She's like the biggest thing on the Internet, next to me, of course,” he said without a hint of modesty. "She's got the #1-rated podcast. Dirty talk.”

  “That doesn’t really sound like my kind of show,” Brenda said. “Is it as lurid as it sounds?”

  "She's a former porn star turned sex therapist,” JD continued. “She does a live show, and people call in with questions about their sex life, dating, etc. It's really great. You would not believe some of the questions people ask. I try to catch just about every episode."

  “Figures you would be a fan,” Brenda said.

  "Man, this is a total bummer. She was smoking hot, too.” He thought for a second. “She dated that guy from that band for a while…” JD's face twisted as he tried to recall the name.

  "Guess she's not dating him anymore," Brenda said dryly.

  JD shot her a look. “Nina was a very intelligent woman,” he said, defending her. “She got her Ph.D. and was licensed. She did couples counseling, that kind of thing. She was a sex coach, and people gave rave reviews about how Nina saved their marriages and improved their sex lives. She even had a line of sex toys. I'll bet you anything that dildo in her mouth is one of hers."

  Phil snapped close-up pictures of the silicone device.

  We stepped to the bed and leaned in for a closer look. The putrid stench intensified.

  "You gotta sell a lot of dildos to afford a boat like this," JD muttered, looking for a logo on the base of the rubber dong.