Constable Rigby drove us back to civilization in the same Jeep Wrangler that had brought us to the scene. Constable Gardiner stayed behind to guard the beach while Stubbs and Kemp were out tossing the Cod Bless Us.

  I asked Musgrove about the need for such tight security. She said that Northwest Point was a high crime area. Taking in the uninhabited landscape and the endless, empty sea, I wondered how that could possibly be, but I didn’t question her statement.

  During the early part of the ride, Musgrove and I compiled a list of troubling issues. A long one. That done, we considered the logical next steps in the investigation.

  Once her signal kicked in, Musgrove’s phone exploded with a series of pings. She abandoned the conversation to focus on reading and sending texts. I went back to my tried and true. Window gazing.

  We were rolling along the Leeward Highway, passing the Graceway IGA, when Musgrove spoke again.

  “Brilliant news. Unless someone throws a spanner in the works, I have the boat inspection and autopsy sorted.”

  I said nothing, awaiting further explanation.

  “When Kemp and Stubbs finish with the Cod Bless Us—” She broke off to shake her head, turn to me, and ask, “Really. What is it with these boaters and their silly names?”

  I had no answer for her.

  “Anyway, when the CSU team finishes and releases the scene, a marine agent will board the vessel, refuel her, and attempt to crank up the Mercs.”

  “The inboard motors.”

  “Yes. If her engines work, the Cod will be piloted to one of our docks. If they don’t, she’ll be towed.”

  Musgrove glanced down at the sound of yet another incoming text. Scanned the message. Resumed speaking.

  “Either way, in the next few days, a forensic engineer will fly here from Miami. He’ll dissect every bloody inch of her. Stem to stern, as they say.”

  “To determine why she ended up dead in the water.”

  Tight nod. “A forensic patho will accompany the engineer.”

  That I understood. The pathologist would analyze the five DOAs now rolling toward the TCI mortuary with the same diligence the engineer would apply to the boat. Stem to stern. Head to toe.

  “Is the patho with the Miami-Dade ME?” The Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner Department is one of the largest in the country. I queried a name, figuring the person coming to TCI might be someone I knew.

  “Sort of.”

  “Meaning?”

  “His name is Harvey Lindstrom. He’s a freelancer, but cuts Ys for Dade County when they need extra hands.”

  “Is he good?” I’d never heard of Harvey Lindstrom.

  “He’s a bit of a tosser but seems to know his stuff.”

  I chose not to follow up on Musgrove’s character assessment. “And the engineer?”

  “No idea. Lindstrom said the fellow was crackerjack and offered to make a call. The chap was available and willing to travel.”

  “When do they arrive?”

  “By Friday.” Musgrove’s lips tightened into a wry smile. “Hopefully.”

  “Unless someone throws a spanner in the works,” I said.

  “Unless that.”

  Unsmiling, Musgrove refocused on her phone.

  A few miles later, she offered to treat me to dinner once I’d had the opportunity to shower and change.

  I expressed a preference for takeout and early bed.

  Looking relieved, Musgrove told Gardiner to swing by a place called Cocovan. In due course we pulled up beside an airstream trailer surrounded by outdoor tables.

  “What do you like?” Musgrove asked.

  “Anything that isn’t puffy.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded. Irrational, I know. But unless it crunches, I dislike airy food. Cheetos, okay. Chilean sea bass and omelets, not my thing.

  Musgrove disappeared, returned shortly with a grease-stained paper sack, which she handed to me. Then we were rolling again.

  The sack’s contents smelled like something that might have earned Gordon Ramsey another star. Or maybe it was simply that I was starving. I couldn’t wait to arrive at wherever I was being taken.

  Still, I felt a hint of unease.

  Musgrove had never described my housing.

  * * *

  The Cocovan sack held duck tacos and gorgonzola fries. Paired with a can of Goombay Punch that I found in the fridge—think bananas and pineapples—the meal was a Caribbean delight.

  I needn’t have worried about the accommodations.

  Parked smack in the middle of Grace Bay beach, the Villa Renaissance describes itself as a boutique resort featuring elegantly styled one-to-seven-bedroom condos. Niceties include daily maid service, a pool with a waterside bar, tennis courts, a fitness center, and a spa.

  I learned all of this by flipping through the management’s propaganda materials while enjoying my island repast. But I was already aware of the amenities. I’d stayed at the complex before. In a rented condo two stories up.

  My sister, Harriet Brennan Jeter Howard Daewood Crone, currently single and living in Houston, has been married four times. Thus, the impressively long list of names.

  Harry wed her teen sweetheart, Brad Jeter, before the ink had dried on their high school diplomas. Brad aspired to ride the rodeo circuit but developed a severe allergy to horses. You can imagine how that worked out.

  Husband number two, Howard Howard, was a west Texas oilman who lasted a few heartbeats longer than Brad. When Howard moved on, he left baby sister and their son, Kit, with very deep pockets. Estaban Daewood came and went so quickly I can’t recall his face.

  Harry’s fourth nuptials were with Striker Crone. Their short-lived vows were exchanged under a floral trellis spanning the beach access path over which my windows now looked. The wedding party and most of the guests stayed at the Villa Renaissance.

  Entering my unit felt like walking back a decade in time. Same Italian marble floor. Same granite countertops. Same fans rotating slowly overhead. Same sliding glass doors opening onto a balcony view of the spectacularly turquoise water and white sand of Grace Bay.

  The Villa Renaissance was as distant from the scene at Northwest Point as Hollywood is from Appalachia. After my dinner and a very long shower I should have felt satiated and cleansed.

  I felt agitated as hell.

  Moved by nostalgia, I tried calling Harry. Got voice mail.

  Ryan. Voice mail.

  Katy. Voice mail.

  Didn’t anyone answer their goddam phones anymore?

  But the arduous day had left me exhausted. And Musgrove would be picking me up at seven a.m. I wasn’t clear why she wanted me to view the dead boaters at the morgue. But her reasoning had been persuasive. I suspected her arguments always were.

  Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe Musgrove was right. Whatever. I’d agreed.

  After rinsing my utensils and discarding my empty soda can and trash, I headed to the bedroom. Screw unpacking. Leaving the drapes wide, the sliding door open, I killed the light and dropped into bed.

  Beyond the balcony, the pool, the dunes, and the beach, the ocean throbbed its steady rhythm. A sound that should have lulled me to sleep.

  It didn’t.

  Like the waves, flashback visions rolled in my head. A propeller-slashed body on stainless steel. Bones in a culvert. Desiccated corpses on the deck of a boat.

  Questions pounded.

  Who were the “poor souls” on the Cod Bless Us? From what port had they sailed? When? For what purpose?

  Why had they died on a vessel equipped with powerful engines? Had the system failed? Had the boat run out of gas? If so, why hadn’t the skipper radioed or called for assistance?

  Were the deaths accidental, a cruel but all-too-common toll extracted by the briny deep? Had the Cod encountered a violent storm? A rogue wave?

  Or was foul play involved? Had the Cod Bless Us crossed paths with a malevolent human force? Had hostiles boarded the vessel and murdered everyone on it? If so, why kill the passengers and leave behind the hundred grand Sea Ray?

  I’d spotted no evidence of physical trauma while bagging the bodies. No slashes or stab marks, no gunshot wounds, no blunt-instrument fractures.

  I’d noted only one commonality among the dead. Every corpse looked appallingly wasted and gaunt. Was the shrinkage relevant to cause of death? A postmortem alteration caused by prolonged exposure?

  Who killed Deniz Been? Was his death gang related? Was it connected to the murders here in TCI?

  What had happened to Bobby Galloway, Ryder Palke, and Quentin Bonner? Were they specifically targeted? If so, why them? By whom?

  At some point exhaustion won out.

  I fell into a troubled sleep peopled by shadowy phantoms. Some I knew. Most I didn’t.

  None I would remember.

  13

  THURSDAY, JULY 11

  Musgrove arrived bearing cellophane-wrapped muffins and lidded Styrofoam cups containing good island coffee. By seven-ten we were motoring along the Leeward Highway, following the same route we’d taken with Gardiner and Rigby.

  Though still post-dawn groggy, I was determined to make this outing quick. I hadn’t come to TCI to inspect dead boaters. I was anxious to begin my analysis of the remains that might be Ryder Palke and Quentin Bonner. Remains that had been lying out in the elements for far too long.

  Musgrove was driving a fire engine red VW Taos displaying no police logo. An air freshener in the shape of a potted plant projected from an AC vent. I suspected the small SUV was her personal vehicle.

  “How’s the flat?” she asked.

  “Far beyond expectations.” It was true. I’d anticipated an unmemorable but adequate hotel room. “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s no biggie. The place belongs to a cousin who spends most of his time in London.”

  “It’s very generous of him to allow a stranger into his home.”

  “Let’s just say the bloke owes me.” Delivered in a tone suggesting the topic was closed.

  Today Musgrove wore jeans and a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her hair was pulled into a spiky pony at the back of her head. Military shades and concealer failed to hide a bruise on her right cheek.

  Sudden flashback image. Musgrove in my office on our first meeting. Monday’s crescent-shaped discoloration was now largely gone.

  This time I asked.

  “Have a run-in with a door handle?” I said lightly while gesturing at her face.

  Musgrove snorted a laugh. “That nails it, no pun intended. Have I told you I’m a bloody klutz? Recently I had a wall cabinet installed in my loo, and I keep forgetting the thing is there. And I keep leaving the door wide open. Not a good combo.”

  “You look good in black and blue,” I joked, a bit uneasy.

  Musgrove nodded but said nothing. Had the mood in the car suddenly changed? Or was I imagining it.

  When I’d finished my muffin, which contained unidentifiable gummy masses but tasted pretty good, I asked about policing in TCI, mainly wanting to relieve the tension. Imagined tension?

  Some of what Musgrove told me I already knew. Some I didn’t.

  “Only Provo and Grand Turk have detectives,” she began.

  “What happens on the other islands?”

  “We use police boats. Or planes.”

  “Explain rank.”

  “I’m a superintendent. Below me are ASPs, assistant superintendents, and SIOs, senior investigating officers. These are the folks in charge of murder investigations. Below that level are the IOs, investigating officers, mostly detective constables or detective sergeants who deal operationally with the murder, complete the file, and attend court.”

  “What about forensics?” I asked, feeling this was much more detail than I needed.

  “Officers in the FSU, the forensics support unit, are well trained in the collection of evidence. But the only analysis they can perform start to finish is for prints. All evidential comparisons must be sent away.”

  “To Miami.”

  “Usually.”

  “Tell me about the coroner.”

  “The coroner operates as you’d expect, in terms of notification of next of kin, death certificates, authority for autopsies, et cetera. That’s how cause of death will be determined for the boaters.”

  “By the pathologist from Miami.”

  “Yes. Harvey Lindstrom.”

  “Where were the bodies taken?” I asked.

  “To the morgue by the Cheshire Hall Medical Centre. Lindstrom prefers to do his cutting at the hospital. But the free-standing morgue isn’t bad.”

  When I said nothing in response to that ringing endorsement, she expanded.

  “The Provo mortuary isn’t as big as the one on Grand Turk. That facility can store up to twenty cadavers. Ours can take six. It lacks a few things, radiology, a decent microscope, but still beats the snot out of the local funeral homes,” Musgrove went on. “They have no refrigeration at all.”

  “Must be a motivator for quick turnarounds.”

  Musgrove chuckled softly at my lame joke. “The Cheshire Hall Medical Centre houses a pathology department. The catch is, as you already know, there’s no resident pathologist on the island.”

  “So Lindstrom commutes as needed.”

  “He, or some other patho, is supposed to come weekly. But that doesn’t always happen.”

  “Must be frustrating for families.”

  “Indeed. After an autopsy, getting the registered death certificate signed might take up to three weeks. Waiting that long can be torture for those wanting to bury a loved one.”

  “No death certificate, no repatriation of remains back to home soil.”

  “Exactly.”

  Musgrove made a left.

  “The good news is that our mortuary has a trained technician. You met him.”

  I must have looked blank.

  “Iggie Bernadin. The chap knows nix about bones, but he’s affable and a quick learner. You’ll like working with him.”

  Musgrove made another turn, this time onto Hospital Road. Again, I admired the straightforward approach Provo took toward naming its streets.

  The Cheshire Hall Medical Centre lay straight ahead, beyond moderately well-populated parking lots, given the early hour. The lots were separated by a triangular expanse of very green, very well-manicured grass.

  The hospital was larger and more modern than I expected. The front-facing portion was two-tone white and yellow stucco, long and low, with narrow white columns supporting a central overhang shading double glass doors.

  Blue hurricane shutters jutted out over windows running both levels of the building. A hedge, flowering shrubs, and precisely positioned palms graced its front.

  An elderly man waited in a wheelchair outside the main entrance, gnarled hands resting on the curved handle of his cane, legs covered with a homemade multicolored wool blanket. The patchwork pattern made me think of the many afghans Gran had crocheted. Or maybe it was the old gent’s knobby fingers.

  I flicked a wave at Gramps as we rolled by. He didn’t respond. Perhaps didn’t see. Maybe didn’t care.

  Musgrove continued past the hospital to a small building of similar design but significantly less elegant landscaping. She parked on the strip of asphalt abutting the structure and we both got out.

  An unmarked glass door gave onto a no-nonsense lobby. Mint green cinder block walls. Gray tile floor. Wooden chairs lining two sides. Unmanned desk straight ahead.

  Our entrance must have triggered an alarm in back. Almost immediately, a man appeared through a door to the left of the desk.

  I hadn’t taken much note of Iggie Bernadin the previous day. Now I couldn’t imagine how that had happened.

  Bernadin was thin—very thin—with purple-black skin that gleamed like a well-polished eggplant. His hair, fast retreating from his forehead, was gray and buzzed close to his scalp. A raised scar squiggled like a night crawler beside his left eye.

  “Iggie, this is Dr. Brennan.” Musgrove made introductions. “You two met yesterday.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Iggie said, smiling with rows of teeth that testified to years of smoking.

  “You did a terrific job with the body bags,” I said, extending a hand.

  When we shook, Iggie’s palm felt rough as steel wool.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I does my best.”

  Musgrove got straight to the point. “Since Dr. Lindstrom won’t arrive until tomorrow, I’d like to get on with prelims. Take photos. Search for IDs. You know the drill. If we pull any names, my investigators can begin making inquiries.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I roll them out to you one by one?”

  “That would be good.”

  As Bernadin disappeared down the short hall, Musgrove turned to me. “In the meantime, hopefully I’ll get word regarding the boat’s registration. You ready?”

  “Always.”

  Musgrove led me to a bank of lockers where we suited up over our civvies. Paper caps, gowns, and shoe covers. Masks. Gloves. From the dressing area we crossed to an unremarkable autopsy room outfitted with the usual paraphernalia.

  Bernadin joined us shortly, similarly garbed. The gurney he was pushing held a black body bag.

  Following a nod from Musgrove, Bernadin prepared a handwritten ID card and shot several pics. Then he unzipped the bag.

  The teen lay inside, his skin more shriveled, his orange hair damp with refrigeration. Otherwise, he looked as I remembered him.

  “Check his labels, his pockets,” Musgrove directed.

  The neon green shirt yielded nothing. A quick two-handed pat down, then Iggie pulled a plastic rectangle from a side pocket of the shorts. Gingerly laying his find on the counter, he stepped aside so Musgrove and I could see.

  “Kyle Samuel Overby.” Musgrove read the name from a driver’s license issued by the state of Florida. “Lived in Vero Beach. Born in 2008.”

  “Sixteen years old,” I said, feeling the same gut twist I’d felt at first seeing the kid on the boat.

  “Note the expiration date.”

  “Jesus. He’d had his license less than a year.”

  The twist tightened as I imagined the boy’s joy at having successfully navigated that adolescent rite of passage.