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  I was in the mood for blueberry pancakes.

  The drunk, late-night crowd was trickling in. People needed to pad their stomachs with food to soften the blow from a night of drinking. They were loud and obnoxious, and the wait staff had a love/hate relationship with them. The extra business was nice, but the attitude and the shitty tips left much to be desired.

  Our waitress sauntered to the table, looking like she was trying to psych herself up for the onslaught. Her tired eyes drooped. She had probably pulled a double. "Are you gentlemen ready to order?"

  Before I could tell her about my craving, an argument broke out between two tables.

  Voices grew loud, and insults were hurled. A chair screeched across the floor as an angry man pushed away from his table. Another guy launched from a booth.

  The two men were on a collision course.

  7

  My gold badge glimmered as I held it high and shouted, "County Sheriff! Break it up!"

  Nobody listened to me.

  The two men were in the heat of battle. Fists flew, smacking against flesh. Blood sprayed from fat lips. Plates and glasses crashed against the floor as the two men tumbled from table to table in a mad embrace, pummeling each other. There were shrieks and howls from the onlookers. Those who weren’t involved tried to clear out of the way.

  JD and I jumped into the fray.

  A stray fist cracked me in the jaw, wrenching my head aside.

  Blood spewed from my lips.

  A few other guys jumped in to assist us, pulling the would-be boxers apart.

  We finally got the situation under control, then wrestled the two goons to the ground and slapped the cuffs around their wrists. The hostess had called the Sheriff’s Department in the midst of the action, and two uniformed officers rushed into the establishment—their hands on their pistol grips—ready to draw their weapons at any moment.

  I pointed at one of the goons. "You can get this one for assaulting an officer. And both of them for failure to obey an officer."

  The uniformed officers dragged the men out of the diner and stuffed them into the back of a patrol car. There were hoots and hollers as the boxers were carted away.

  Waitstaff mopped up bloodstains on the tile and swept up shattered plates. The manager comped the meals of anyone affected, and within a few moments, things returned to normal within the diner.

  "Your breakfast is on me, gentlemen," the manager said as we shuffled back to our booth.

  I thanked him, but I had lost my appetite. My mouth filled with the tinny metallic taste of blood from the stray punch. I moved my jaw from side to side-—it was already growing stiff and sore. I sat in the booth and tongued my inner cheek that had been lacerated by an incisor.

  JD chuckled. "That's why I let you go first."

  I frowned at him. "You got any ibuprofen?"

  "No." JD hesitated. "But, I've got some hydrocodone. You want some?" My face twisted with curiosity. "You're still taking those?"

  "From time to time," he said, defensively. "I still get a few nagging pains here and there. I got shot, remember?"

  "That was months ago. You need to get off that stuff."

  "I will get off it when my shit stops hurting."

  I could tell he was getting frustrated with my inquiry. I dropped it for now, and we placed our order when the waitress came back around. Despite my recent injury, I managed to put down all the blueberry pancakes, and the experience was only slightly less diminished.

  Afterward, JD dropped me off at the marina and I told him we'd connect in the morning to investigate Violet's disappearance.

  There were still damaged boats from the hurricane all across the island. We had made repairs to the marina, but most of the residents’ vessels were still out of commission. I didn't know if the island would ever be the same. The marina felt like a ghost town.

  The moon hung high overhead, bathing the harbor in a pale glow. The air was still, and the gentle waves lapped against the boats. I climbed aboard the Wild Tide and stepped into the salon. Buddy greeted me with excitement, jumping up and down and wagging his tail. I scooped up the Jack Russell and loved on him a bit. I grabbed his leash, attached it to his collar, and took him for a late night walk.

  I had him trained rather well. He took care of his business and we returned to the boat. I found some ibuprofen, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.

  By the morning, my jaw was sore as hell.

  It hurt to yawn. The rays of morning sun blasted through the porthole, and I tried my best to keep my mouth shut, stifling a yawn.

  Ray, from Cycle Universe, called bright and early. "Your bike’s ready."

  "Fantastic! What do I owe you?"

  Ray spit out a number that was more than fair, considering the damage, and the fact that I didn't have insurance. "It wasn't that bad. We replaced the fairings, the tank, new handlebars, grips, new front fork. She runs great and is rocksteady at high speed. I tested her out myself."

  "I really appreciate this, Ray. I'll swing by this afternoon to pick her up."

  "Be careful. At least now your first crash is behind you."

  I climbed out of bed, got dressed, fixed breakfast, and took Buddy for a walk. JD picked me up around 10 AM, and I tossed my helmet and gloves onto the back seat. We raced out of the lot and headed over to Renew.

  JD had taken Scarlett up to Miami for her rehab. For the most part, it seemed to have stuck. He had looked into the local option for Scarlett, but the facility in Miami seemed to have a higher success rate.

  The facility in Coconut Key was more like a luxury resort than an institution. Renew had its own private beach. There were swimming pools, basketball courts, a rec room with video games, pool tables, foosball, and a large flatscreen display. The rooms were like college dorms. They were mostly semi-private with two patients to a room, but if you had money, you could spring for a private room at nearly double the fee.

  Each wing had a registered nurse that helped manage patient needs, administer medication, and monitor health and welfare.

  We strolled into the lobby and were greeted by a woman behind the reception desk. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

  I flashed my badge. "We're investigating the disappearance of a patient, Violet Scarpetti."

  "Just a moment. Let me see if Dr. Matheson can speak with you."

  The woman dialed an extension and whispered into the line. A few moments later, Dr. Matheson rounded the corner and greeted us with a smile. She wore a white lab coat, had short brown hair, cut in a bob, and a slim, athletic figure. She looked like she spent a lot of time on the tennis court. She had olive skin and brown eyes, and a calm, soothing voice.

  "I'm Dr. Jill Matheson. Please, come with me. We can talk in my office.”

  She led us down a maze of hallways and ushered us into a room with a desk, several chairs, bookshelves full of medical texts, and framed certificates on the wall—diplomas from medical school, board certifications, awards of recognition. A floor-to-ceiling window offered a stunning view of the ocean.

  Matheson sat behind her desk, and we took a seat.

  "Linda told me you are here about Violet?"

  "What can you tell me?" I asked.

  "A troubled young girl with a bright mind and a serious addiction problem. Not unlike many kids we see here."

  "When was the last time anyone saw her?"

  "The logs have her present for dinner on the night of her disappearance. The residents are given magnetic cards which provide access to their rooms and also double as a credit card for meals, snacks, drinks, etc. All charges above the base fee are billed on a monthly basis."

  "Do you have any surveillance cameras?"

  "Resident privacy is a top priority here. As such there are no cameras on the premises. We want our residents to feel comfortable. This is a very vulnerable time in their lives. We have many high profile guests."

  "I noticed you refer to them as residents or guests, not patients," I said.

  "I think the ter
m patient implies illness. And while addiction is an illness, I personally believe it's more beneficial not to be labeled."

  "So, I'm guessing the term junkie is frowned upon?" JD asked.

  His attempt at humor did not go over well with Dr. Matheson. She stared at him, blankly. "That's exactly the type of thing that I believe is counterproductive. Many people who suffer from addiction lack self-esteem and self-worth. They turned to the substances to bolster their confidence and alleviate their pain."

  "So, Violet could have slipped out of here anytime that evening?" I asked.

  "Most of the people we see here have entered into the program on a voluntary basis. They are free to go at any time. Unless it’s a court ordered, mandatory committal."

  "Was Violet close to anyone here?” I asked. “Did she have friends she would have confided in?"

  "You might want to talk to her roommate, Camilla. Though, I wouldn’t call those two friends. She seemed to get along well with Penelope. You'll find both of those girls in the B wing."

  "When was she discovered missing?" I asked.

  "Edgar is the RN for that wing. He typically does a bed check around 10 PM. We have a very strict curfew and try to keep our days as regimented as possible with counseling, classes, and activities."

  Dr. Matheson remained calm and spoke in a monotone voice. She didn't seem to have a feeling about Violet’s disappearance one way or the other. Maybe it was just her stoic, clinical face.

  JD mentioned that to her.

  "Sadly, young girls run away from the facility all the time. We can't force a person to change. They have to want it from within. It doesn't matter whether you're 18 or 80. If you have a substance abuse problem, you are the only one that holds the keys to your future. Once the physical symptoms of addiction are gone, this game is all mental."

  Dr. Matheson paused.

  "How well did you get to know Violet?" I asked.

  "I like to think I get to know our residents as well as I can, given the amount of time I spend with them. I do all the new visitor evaluations. I tailor programs for each individual. I try to get a sense of their mindset, their hopes, their fears, their insecurities."

  "So, you think Violet decided to leave the program?" I asked.

  Dr. Matheson shrugged. "Maybe her urges were too great to overcome? Maybe she missed her boyfriend? Maybe she met somebody new? Maybe she received peer pressure from her friends on the outside? The possibilities are endless, and I don't like to speculate about these things."

  Matheson frowned.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me,” she continued, “I have rounds to make. Please make yourself at home. Stay as long as you like, and feel free to interview as many residents as you wish, but please do not be disruptive to the program."

  "Sure thing," I said. "Thank you for your time."

  JD and I left her office and strolled over to B wing.

  The sounds of a scuffle filled the corridor as we approached.

  8

  There is nothing more vicious than a catfight. Claws out, backs hunched, screeches filling the air. Two girls charged each other like rabid animals. Fists flew, nails gouged skin, tufts of hair were yanked from scalps. If the RN wouldn't have pulled them apart, the two girls would have killed each other. As it stood, Edgar had a hard time separating them—and Edgar was a big guy.

  "Knock it off, or you’re both going to jail!” Edgar shouted. He was between the girls, holding them apart at arm's length.

  JD flashed his badge. "We'll be happy to arrest the lovely ladies and charge them with assault and battery."

  That got the girls' attention, and they attempted to stifle their anger.

  It just so happened that the girls we were looking for were the two that would have happily participated in a cage fight on pay-per-view.

  "She stole my cookie," Camilla said.

  "I did not," Penelope replied.

  "That's bullshit. I saved my cookie from dessert last night, and I put it in the drawer in the nightstand by my bed."

  "Your fat ass ate your cookie."

  "Bitch, I will fuck you up!" Camilla shouted as she charged toward the skinnier girl.

  Edgar struggled to keep them apart.

  Camilla was tall and thick and could certainly inflict damage. Penelope was skinny, with long stringy hair, and she didn't back down a bit. She had that crazy fearlessness about her. She was either extremely brave, or incredibly stupid.

  Edgar looked like he could manhandle just about anyone, but these two girls were giving him a run for his money.

  "Seriously, cut the shit, or you're both going to jail," I said.

  They were fighting in the commons area of B wing. There was a large flatscreen display, a few couches, a couple chairs, and a vending machine. There were women of all ages. Pimply faced teenagers that were in for huffing paint all the way up to wrinkly old ladies strung out on meth.

  The facility separated the men from the women. Recovery was tough enough dealing with the addiction. Many people would tend to satisfy their urges with sex, which presented a different type of addiction. Since the residents weren't allowed to bring in personal items, condoms weren't readily available. The last thing Dr. Matheson needed was an outbreak of STDs in her revitalizing rehab. Of course, it wasn't too difficult for the girls to sneak across the facility to the men's wing. And it wasn't uncommon for the women to hook up with each other. The separation of the sexes was a mere formality.

  "Tell you what," I said. "Answer my questions, promise to behave, and I won't make you spend the night in jail."

  "Fuck you. I ain't afraid of your jail," Camilla snapped.

  I exchanged a glance with JD.

  My eyes blazed into Camilla. "You seriously do not want to test me."

  "You ain't going to do shit," she said, shifting her head from side to side.

  I arched an incredulous eyebrow.

  My hand snatched a pair of cuffs from my pocket. Camilla didn't know what hit her. In a flash, I had her arm wrenched behind her back and cold steel cuffs slapped around her wrists. She was down on the ground, her face against the carpet. Lord knows how dirty that floor was.

  She howled, "This is mother-fucking police brutality!"

  "No, it's not. This is you being a dumb ass and getting yourself into a situation that could have easily been avoided."

  I yanked her to her feet, and she groaned as the cuffs dug into her wrists. I hated to be an asshole cop, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

  "Okay, okay!" she cried. "I'll answer your stupid questions."

  I flashed JD a wry grin, then looked to Edgar. "Is there somewhere private we can talk?"

  "Yeah, my office.” Edgar led the way.

  He pulled a key from a retractable chain on his waist. He had about a dozen keys on the ring that opened storage compartments, offices, the main building, the cafeteria, and a number of other rooms on the premises. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  I escorted Camilla to a seat opposite a desk in Edgar's office. I asked Edgar to stay during the interrogation. I wanted another set of eyes present. With as combative as Camilla was, I didn't want her making false accusations later. It didn't seem like that type of thing would be beyond her.

  She sat in the chair and sneered at us. "Are you going to take these damn cuffs off?"

  "Play nice, and I might," I said.

  Her eyes darted to each of us. "What do you want to know?"

  "Tell me about Violet?"

  "She's a Bitch."

  "I take it you two didn't get along?"

  "You're a real genius. Do you actually get paid for this job?"

  I bit my tongue. JD and I were volunteers. We didn't get paid for this.

  "Do you know where she went?" I asked.

  "How the fuck should I know? She probably needed a fix." Camilla shrugged. "Maybe she OD’d? The girl’s probably dead behind a dumpster somewhere. Good riddance."

  My brow lifted, astonished.

  "Tell us how
you really feel," JD said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  "I'm just telling y'all the truth. There ain't no love lost between me and that girl."

  "How come you two didn't get along?" I asked.

  "How come the sky is blue? You know, some people just don't mix. Oil and water. You know how that shit is."

  "When was last time you saw her?"

  "Why are you asking me this stuff? I didn't pay attention to what she was doing. As long as she stayed away from me, we didn't have no issues."

  "Did you two ever get into a physical altercation?" I asked.

  "Do I look stupid? Do you think I'm going to admit to smacking that bitch upside the head?"

  "So you hit her?"

  Camilla sighed, exasperated. "I want to speak with my attorney."

  JD and I exchanged another glance.

  "I'll be happy to arrange a phone call from jail," I said.

  "You cops are all the same."

  There was a long pause as we stared each other down.

  I could stare all day. She wasn't going to break me.

  "Okay, fine. You know how things are. You have to establish your dominance, or people will test you. I like to set my boundaries up front."

  "What did you fight about?" I asked.

  "I don't know. Stupid shit. Maybe she looked at me wrong?"

  "You express animosity toward Violet. You get into a physical altercation. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think you may have assisted in her demise."

  Camilla's eyes widened. "What? You think I killed her?"

  I shrugged.

  "I don't believe this shit." She stared at us for a moment. "Do I need to spell it out for you. No. I did not kill her. I don't know why she's missing. I don't know where she went." She huffed. "I've said everything I'm going to say. If that ain't enough, you can take me to jail. I'm not saying another word without an attorney."

  I glanced to JD, then pulled the keys from my pocket and unlatched the handcuffs. We weren’t going to get anything useful out of her. "Thanks for your cooperation. We may have more questions for you at a later date."