A Bone to Pick (Page 16)

Logan drank milk and tried not to laugh at his grandmother’s use of the words shady and stiff. “Do you know how long he’s been there?”

She nodded. “He checked in yesterday.”

Dante had been from New Jersey, and now a stranger with a New York accent was staying at the inn. After dinner, Logan was going to drop by the inn’s lounge for a beer.

“Are you going to check him out?” Jane asked.

“Probably,” Logan answered noncommittally.

“Will you take Tessa? It’s cold, but the sky is clear tonight. The view of the harbor would be romantic.”

Logan shook his fork at Jane. “I do not need a matchmaker.”

“You’re thirty-five and still single. Do you even have a girlfriend?” At Logan’s silence, she said, “Then maybe you do.” Leave it to Jane to tell it like it was.

“Considering how widows vastly outnumber widowers on this island, maybe I should stay single,” he joked. “Besides, I’ve known Tessa since we were kids.”

“She’s a grown woman now,” his grandmother said.

“Yes. I’m aware of that.” Very aware.

“Good.” Her smile was far too pleased.

“Anyway. Tessa doesn’t like to leave her mother alone at night. I’ll check out the guest before I bother Tessa. It’s not a crime to have a New York accent.”

He ate a slice of homemade apple pie. Then he carried the dishes to the kitchen, scraped them, and put them in the dishwasher.

“You don’t have to clean up,” Jane protested as she put the leftovers in the fridge.

“Between you and the army, I am as trained as a man can get.” Logan grinned.

She flicked a dish towel at him. “In that case, you can put out the trash before you leave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

An hour later, Logan parked in front of the Harbor View Inn. The moon glimmered on the shifting waters of Harlot Harbor. He jogged up the wide steps and onto the porch. The dark-wood lobby smelled like furniture polish over mustiness. Logan paused as the sound of Elton John’s “Honky Cat” being played on an oboe reached him.

Logan went through a doorway next to the registration desk into the Breakneck Taproom. A fire blazed in the fireplace. In front of it, Herb Lawson finished his song and lowered his oboe. Three people seated on the couch clapped. Someone brought Herb a beer. He and his oboe had been a Thursday-night tradition for generations.

He slid onto the leather barstool, waved for the bartender, and ordered a local ale on tap. Only three other stools were occupied, with men watching a hockey game on the TV over the bar.

George had been the bartender at the taproom for as long as Logan could remember. At least seventy years old, he didn’t need a wig or beard to play Santa every Christmas. His bartending job supplemented his Social Security.

George tilted and filled the glass, then set it in front of Logan. “You want to run a tab?”

“No. I’ll cash out.” Logan sipped his beer. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” George wiped a water ring from the bar.

“Have you seen a New Yorker in the hotel lately?”

George nodded. “There was a guy in here last night with a heavy East Coast accent.”

“What did he look like?”

“About six feet tall, dark hair, maybe thirty years old,” George said. “He was wearing a black leather jacket. He didn’t stay. Took his burger to go.”

Logan rested both elbows on the bar and leaned closer to George. “Too bad it would be against the rules for you to tell me what room he was in.”

“It sure is.” George flipped through a stack of receipts.

Logan dug out his wallet. He removed a twenty and handed it over. George went to the cash register and punched some buttons. Ripping off the receipt, he wrote something on the back, then turned around and handed it to Logan with his change. Logan turned over the receipt and read 224 Nick Garcia.

“I also can’t tell you that he called in a room service order about thirty minutes ago.” George smiled. “Or that the kitchen has been slow tonight.”

So Garcia is probably in his room.

“Do you know if the ferry is running tonight?” Logan asked. There was only one way off the island.

“It is.”

“Thanks, George. Keep the change.” Logan stuffed his wallet back in his pocket.

George waved his thanks and turned toward another customer. Abandoning his beer, Logan walked out of the bar, crossed the hotel lobby, and hustled out into the cold.

Room 224 was a ground floor end unit in one of the long buildings on the hillside that overlooked the harbor. Logan debated his options. He could stake out the room. The parking lot would grant him a clear view of the entrance. Then again, if Garcia had just ordered takeout, maybe he was in for the night. Logan did not feel like sitting in a cold SUV all evening.

He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. The last ferry would leave in an hour. He’d watch the room until then. Once the ten o’clock boat had left the dock, Garcia couldn’t leave Widow’s Island until the seven a.m. ferry.

He moved his SUV to a shadowed space facing the unit. A few minutes later, a hotel employee carrying a tray approached the room and knocked on the door. Logan lowered the vehicle window to listen.

The door swung open, and a man in jeans and a too-tight long-sleeved T-shirt stepped into the light cast by the porch lamp. “My food better be hot.” His New York City accent was slurred. His lip was swollen and scabbed in the middle. He signed for his food and closed the door.

Had Garcia received his fat lip in the scuffle with Tessa?

Anger surged in Logan’s chest. Though a fat lip was not hard evidence that the New Yorker had been the man who’d attacked Tessa, Logan didn’t like the coincidence. But Logan had limited authority outside of the park.

What to do?

He didn’t have to debate the issue for long. Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again, and Garcia stepped outside, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He hurried toward a path that led to the parking lot closest to the main road. If Logan had been preparing to make a hasty, quiet exit, that’s where he would have parked.

Logan climbed out of his SUV. He couldn’t let the man leave the island. He crossed the asphalt and stepped onto the path, intercepting Garcia.

“Nick Garcia?” Logan stared at his fat lip. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Garcia sized Logan up, his gaze settling on Logan’s park services patch. “Who the fuck are you, head of the Boy Scouts?”

“Logan Wilde, state forest ranger.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“No,” Logan admitted.

“Then it looks like you’re lost. This ain’t the park.” Garcia moved to step around Logan.

Logan blocked his movement. “Where were you this morning?”

“None of your business.” Garcia sneered.

“I’m working with the local sheriff’s department on the investigation of Frank Martin’s murder. Did you know Frank?”

Moving with an agility Logan did not expect, Garcia ducked around him and sprinted for the lot. Logan went after him. The road sat on higher ground than the hotel. The parking lots were terraced and separated by strips of grass and trees. Each tier was higher than the previous one, with the final parking area level with the road.