Damaged by Alex Kava

wanted to bury Uncle Mel before the storm hit.
    Promising to help board up had seemed to satisfy Trish. So maybe she wasn’t calling just to nag at him. He pulled out his cell phone as he sat down at the hotel’s deck bar. He was just about to listen to Trish’s voice message when the blond bartender appeared in front of him.
    “Your friend’s already here,” she told him with a smile. “He said to tell you to meet him inside the restaurant. He’s buying you dinner.”
    “Really?” But Scott was more impressed with the attention she was paying him than the dinner invitation.
    “Why don’t you guys stop out here later for a drink,” she said, then hurried across the bar to wait on another customer.
    Her smile made him forget why he had his cell phone out and he simply slipped it back into his shirt pocket. As he headed into the restaurant he vowed to assuage all the stress of the day. Assuage. Yes, that was a cool word, one that Joe Black would probably use. Scott decided he’d find a way to use it in their conversation.

CHAPTER 24

    Maggie’s knees felt weak. Her ears still hummed and if she looked, she knew she’d see a slight tremor in her fingers. But she was relieved to be back on the ground, away from the thumping rotors and the nerve-rattling vibration.
    Escambia County sheriff Joshua Clayton was waiting for her, and everything about his tall, lanky body—from his tapping toe to his erratic gesturing—told Maggie that he wasn’t happy. But he’d promised Charlie Wurth that the DHS and FBI would have full disclosure of the evidence. Clayton didn’t seem to have a problem with allowing access. It was his time he had a problem sparing, and at one point he mumbled, “I don’t have time for this. There’s a hurricane on its way, for Christ’s sake.”
    Maggie had barely peeled out of her flight suit. She thanked the aircrew and they agreed to meet later for drinks on her. Clayton stood at her elbow the entire time, twisting his wrist in an exaggerated show of checking the time. Now, in his cruiser, the man was tapping out his impatience on the steering wheel.
    Back at the office he handed her a form to sign then led her to a small room at the end of a hallway. There was nothing on the walls.Only a table and two folding chairs sat on the worn but clean linoleum. On the table was the battered white fishing cooler.
    “Contents were photographed and bagged,” Clayton told her. “They’re all at the ME’s office. We haven’t processed the cooler yet,” he said as he handed her a pair of latex gloves. “We’ll dust it for prints, but with it being in the water I suspect we won’t find much.”
    His cell phone rang. Clayton frowned at it.
    “I’ve got to take this. You mind?”
    “Go ahead.”
    He was out the door in three strides. Maggie couldn’t help but notice that despite his initial frown, he looked relieved to have a reason to escape. His voice disappeared down the hallway. It was just as well. She preferred taking a close look without him standing over her shoulder.
    She began opening the lid but snapped it shut after just a whiff of the rancid smell. She prepared herself, took a deep breath, and tried again. No wonder they hadn’t processed the cooler yet. About two inches of pink liquid covered the bottom, residue from melted ice and at least one leaky package.
    Maggie let the lid flap open. The initial smell would be the worst. Adding some air would dilute it. She stepped away and pulled her smartphone from its holder at her waistband. She pushed a couple buttons and activated the camera.
    The cooler was huge, white paint over stainless steel. A popular name brand that even Maggie recognized was stamped on the side. The inside of the lid was unusual, with an indentation of a large fish and slots of measurement alongside it. What drew her immediate attention was the tie-down, looped around the cooler’s handle.
    She took several pictures, close-ups to focus on the blue-and-yellow