system, Philip beckoned me back to the bedroom.
“I am very sorry to report that Angus John Cartright perished in the explosion last night,” Philip said. “That was, as you no doubt suspected, my informant in the Bradenton Police Department.”
Still clutching my coffee cup, I more or less collapsed on the bed, mourning Angus for real and in earnest now that his death was confirmed.
Philip sat beside me. He took my hand, and held it in both of his own big hands. The pressure was light, the touch reassuring. Perhaps he was done with being mad at me over our broken date. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, very sorry.”
“Me too.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. Perhaps I was done being mad at him too.
Then I thought about the living. My head popped off Philip’s shoulder. “What about Miguel?” I asked, wondering where he was and if he was safe.
“There was only the one body. No one has been arrested. No one named Miguel was mentioned by my informant.”
“But…” So, what exactly did that mean? Had Miguel run off too?
“Angus died around eight-fifteen p.m. People from the other boats told the investigators that two men—both tall and dark haired and thin—were seen running from the area of the explosion and escaping in a red pickup.” Philip paused, but I didn’t speak. “Lilly, did you and Miguel run off together? That appears to be what the witnesses are saying.”
“No, I told you. He shoved the keys at me and told me to save myself, and then he dove into the water, looking, I guess, for Angus.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You don’t think I’d’ve noticed if Miguel had hopped into the truck with me?” I didn’t care for Philip’s tone or his question, either one. Maybe we weren’t 100 percent over being mad at each other.
“They said two men ran away in a red pickup. Who would those two men be? Or, in the unlikely event that you were mistakenly identified as a man, who would that second man be?”
“I ran away in his red pickup. There was no second man. I was wearing jeans and a man’s shirt, and my hair was in a ponytail. The streetlights on the pier had blown out. Maybe I looked like a man. Maybe I looked like two men. I don’t know. Nobody was looking at me, anyway,” I said. But I wondered: Did I look like a man in jeans? Whoa, no more ponytails and men’s shirts for me.
“Where did you leave the truck?”
“I told you. At the Southgate Community Center.”
“What are you hiding from me?” Philip asked.
“Nothing.” That is, nothing other than the fact that I had been entertaining serious sexual fantasies about another man. Oh, and there was that fake-panther trespassing thing I hadn’t bothered to mention.
“Did you wipe down that truck? If any of your prints—”
“I wiped down the pickup. I told you.” I heard that shrill tone I don’t much care for kicking into my voice, and I stopped, closed my eyes, and visualized my calming waterfall.
Apparently Philip didn’t know I was trying to visualize inner calm, and he said, “If that truck is linked to Miguel and the explosion, you don’t want your fingerprints on it.”
“I know that,” I snapped. Yep, that shrill tone was definitely there. “I know enough to wipe off my prints in a getaway vehicle after fleeing a homicide, okay? I wasn’t raised in Disneyland by Pollyanna.”
But then I thought—oh, damnation. What difference would wiping off my prints really make? Now in the caffeinated clarity of post-panic, I remembered that Officer Detective Josey knew I had been with Angus and Miguel before the explosion. With Angus dead, the police would surely look for Miguel, as the sailboat’s owner, and Josey would no doubt confer with the city police, putting me smack-dab in the middle of the picture quick enough.
“Now what?” Philip said, apparently reading my expression correctly.
“A homicide detective from the sheriff ’s office, Josey Something Farmer, saw
“I am very sorry to report that Angus John Cartright perished in the explosion last night,” Philip said. “That was, as you no doubt suspected, my informant in the Bradenton Police Department.”
Still clutching my coffee cup, I more or less collapsed on the bed, mourning Angus for real and in earnest now that his death was confirmed.
Philip sat beside me. He took my hand, and held it in both of his own big hands. The pressure was light, the touch reassuring. Perhaps he was done with being mad at me over our broken date. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, very sorry.”
“Me too.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. Perhaps I was done being mad at him too.
Then I thought about the living. My head popped off Philip’s shoulder. “What about Miguel?” I asked, wondering where he was and if he was safe.
“There was only the one body. No one has been arrested. No one named Miguel was mentioned by my informant.”
“But…” So, what exactly did that mean? Had Miguel run off too?
“Angus died around eight-fifteen p.m. People from the other boats told the investigators that two men—both tall and dark haired and thin—were seen running from the area of the explosion and escaping in a red pickup.” Philip paused, but I didn’t speak. “Lilly, did you and Miguel run off together? That appears to be what the witnesses are saying.”
“No, I told you. He shoved the keys at me and told me to save myself, and then he dove into the water, looking, I guess, for Angus.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You don’t think I’d’ve noticed if Miguel had hopped into the truck with me?” I didn’t care for Philip’s tone or his question, either one. Maybe we weren’t 100 percent over being mad at each other.
“They said two men ran away in a red pickup. Who would those two men be? Or, in the unlikely event that you were mistakenly identified as a man, who would that second man be?”
“I ran away in his red pickup. There was no second man. I was wearing jeans and a man’s shirt, and my hair was in a ponytail. The streetlights on the pier had blown out. Maybe I looked like a man. Maybe I looked like two men. I don’t know. Nobody was looking at me, anyway,” I said. But I wondered: Did I look like a man in jeans? Whoa, no more ponytails and men’s shirts for me.
“Where did you leave the truck?”
“I told you. At the Southgate Community Center.”
“What are you hiding from me?” Philip asked.
“Nothing.” That is, nothing other than the fact that I had been entertaining serious sexual fantasies about another man. Oh, and there was that fake-panther trespassing thing I hadn’t bothered to mention.
“Did you wipe down that truck? If any of your prints—”
“I wiped down the pickup. I told you.” I heard that shrill tone I don’t much care for kicking into my voice, and I stopped, closed my eyes, and visualized my calming waterfall.
Apparently Philip didn’t know I was trying to visualize inner calm, and he said, “If that truck is linked to Miguel and the explosion, you don’t want your fingerprints on it.”
“I know that,” I snapped. Yep, that shrill tone was definitely there. “I know enough to wipe off my prints in a getaway vehicle after fleeing a homicide, okay? I wasn’t raised in Disneyland by Pollyanna.”
But then I thought—oh, damnation. What difference would wiping off my prints really make? Now in the caffeinated clarity of post-panic, I remembered that Officer Detective Josey knew I had been with Angus and Miguel before the explosion. With Angus dead, the police would surely look for Miguel, as the sailboat’s owner, and Josey would no doubt confer with the city police, putting me smack-dab in the middle of the picture quick enough.
“Now what?” Philip said, apparently reading my expression correctly.
“A homicide detective from the sheriff ’s office, Josey Something Farmer, saw
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