Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DANIEL
I yanked open the clinic door at the first knock, squinting against the harsh morning sunlight. After the dark of the storm, the fresh-washed blue sky was almost blinding.
A thirty-something black man in a police uniform stood with his thumbs hooked in his duty belt. “You LaRue?”
“I am. You Shelton?”
“Yep.”
I stepped back to let him inside. “Thanks for coming so quick. I figured I’d be bringing him in myself soon as I confirmed somebody was at the station.”
Once the storm passed around six-thirty this morning, I’d radioed local PD to inform them of my captive.
“No problem.” Shelton’s boots squeaked against the linoleum as he followed me down the hall. “How’d our friend do overnight?”
I rolled my shoulders, sore from the fight and stiff from spending most of the night awake and on guard. “Oh, the usual insults when I tried to ask him anything. But not much more trouble he can cause from his position.”
Dark circles ringed Mickey’s eyes, but he looked more pissed than tired where he sat still secured to the break room chair. The moment he clapped eyes on Shelton, he tried to adopt a beleaguered expression.
“I been trying to tell them all night. I only broke in trying to get inside somewhere safe from the storm! They fucking tied me to this chair!”
“Nice try, Doyle. There are multiple witnesses who heard you attempting to break into the pharmaceutical room.”
“It’s a fucking conspiracy,” he insisted. “You and that little doctor have it out for me.”
‘That little doctor’ was in another room, already communicating with the triage group at the community center by radio. She’d gotten barely more sleep than I had, and courtesy of our unwelcome guest, we hadn’t exactly come to a clear resolution about us.
Shelton got Mickey cuffed and on his feet. “Let’s go, buddy. We’ve got a nice dry cell waiting for you.”
“I need to take a piss.”
“You can do that at the station. Come on.”
I followed them back down the hall to the back door. “The task force is gonna want to speak with him.”
Shelton met my gaze and nodded. “Understood.”
I watched them head out into the debris-scattered street, Mickey still protesting his innocence. The storm had passed, but something told me this was just the beginning of the trouble heading for Hatterwick.
I’d need to check in with the rest of my team. By now, they were probably already scattering to help clear roads and do whatever else was needed in the wake of the hurricane. But it could wait another few minutes.
I found Gabi in her office, setting down the radio handset. Her dark hair spilled mostly around her shoulders, save for the hair elastic hanging onto the last two inches, and exhaustion lined her face. She was still beautiful, though.
“Mickey’s on his way to lockup.”
She nodded, rubbing her temples. “Good. The community center’s got their triage running smooth. No major injuries reported yet.”
“Yet being the operative word.” I leaned against her doorframe. “As roads get cleared, people’ll start venturing out to check their properties.”
“Mm.” She straightened some papers on her desk, not quite meeting my eyes. The awkwardness from our unfinished conversation last night hung between us.
“Want to do a damage assessment? Get ahead of what we might be dealing with?” We were both people of action. She’d feel better if she were doing something.
“Yeah. That’s probably smart.” She pulled the elastic out of her hair and shook it out before gathering the thick mass of it back into a ponytail and securing it again.
I followed Gabi out into the aftermath. The air held that particular post-hurricane stillness—heavy, humid, waiting.
Debris littered Main Street like a giant had shaken out his junk drawer.
Palm fronds, branches, and bits of metal roofing scattered across wet pavement.
The salty breeze carried that distinctive post-storm smell—wet vegetation, disturbed earth, and something metallic.
“Could’ve been worse.” I scanned the damage. The roofs of most buildings were intact, though Hook, Line, and Sinker’s front window hadn’t survived. A massive oak lay across the remains of the fence at the Methodist church, but missed the building itself.
“July storms usually are. It’s the September ones you really have to watch out for.” She stepped over a tangle of Spanish moss. “Power’s still out everywhere else, though. Probably will be for a few days at least.”
A couple of teenagers were gathered around the fallen oak, phones out to document the destruction.
From further up the road, chainsaws started up as someone worked to begin to clear a path.
We continued our meandering exploration toward the marina for another couple of blocks, until we found our path blocked by a massive water oak sprawled across the road, its root ball torn free of the saturated ground.
“Looks like we’re not getting through there. Want to cut over to the sound side?”
Gabi nodded, already turning down the side street. Her sneakers crunched over scattered pine needles and chunks of bark. I matched her stride, keeping an eye on loose debris that might still come down. The wind had died, but damaged trees were unstable after storms.
The beach access path opened up ahead of us. Past the dunes, the sound churned gray-brown, still agitated from the storm. White-capped waves slapped against the shore—unusual for this typically calm side of the island.
We picked our way along the debris-strewn beach. Pieces of dock floated in the shallows. Torn fishing nets tangled with marsh grass. A plastic cooler lid stood partly embedded in the sand. Someone’s deck chair had been twisted into an almost unrecognizable knot.
I stopped short. “Hey. You see that?”
Half-buried in wet sand at the water’s edge lay the bow section of what looked like a small fishing boat, perhaps twenty feet long. Even from here, I saw splintered edges where it had broken apart.
“Think someone’s boat broke loose from its moorings during the storm?” Gabi asked.
“Maybe.”
Waves lapped at my boots as I circled around to the back of the wreck. The splintered edges of the bow showed fresh damage. This definitely hadn’t been sitting here long. Sand was already filling the exposed cabin space, but I made out built-in storage lockers and what remained of a small berth.
The break wasn’t clean. The back half had been torn away violently, probably by the force of the waves during the storm.
No signs of blood or bodies, which was good.
But something about this wreck nagged at me.
The storage spaces looked custom-built in a way that wasn’t consistent with a craft of this age.
Someone might have renovated the craft. Or it might be something else.
“Daniel!” Gabi’s voice carried over the sound of the waves. She stood about thirty yards down the beach, crouched near some debris tangled in marsh grass.
I picked my way across the wet sand to where she waited. As I got closer, I saw what had caught her attention—a rectangular white package wrapped in heavy clear plastic, around a foot long and four inches thick. The kind of professional-grade waterproof packaging used by drug runners.
My jaw tightened. Even partially buried in sand, there was no mistaking what it was. Pure, uncut cocaine. Worth tens of thousands on the street.
“Don’t touch it,” I said, though Gabi had already backed away.
I pulled my radio from my belt, keeping one eye on the package half-buried in the sand. “Echo Two-Seven, this is LaRue. Need immediate assistance about one click north of the marina on the sound side. Evidence recovery situation.”
“Copy that,” Vance’s voice crackled back. “En route. Five minutes.”
“Make it three.” I scanned the beach in both directions. No movement except waves and wind-blown debris. “We’ll need additional units to secure at least a quarter-mile perimeter.”
“Understood.”
I clicked off and turned to Gabi. “You should head back to the clinic.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m already here. I can help.”
“You’ve helped enough finding this. But now it’s an active crime scene.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “And if whoever was running these drugs is still around, I don’t want them getting a look at you and thinking you can do anything to help recover their product.”
“Fine.” She backed further away from the package. “But come by the community center later to check in. Please.”
I saw her uncertainty. The assumption that my job was going to take over everything again. I’d just have to do everything possible to show she was a priority, no matter what happened with the investigation.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The distant rumble of engines grew steadily louder from the north end of the beach, cutting through the constant crash of waves against the shore.
Two ATVs appeared around the rocky outcropping, their riders navigating carefully around the storm debris scattered across the sand.
Rawlings and Martinez brought their vehicles to a stop about twenty feet from where I stood, engines sputtering to silence as they dismounted.
Both men were already pulling evidence collection gear from the reinforced cargo boxes mounted behind their seats—cameras, measuring equipment, evidence bags, and marking flags.
Martinez straightened up, adjusting his tactical vest as he surveyed the scene before us. His dark eyes took in the damaged package, the scattered debris, and the general chaos in the wake of the storm. "Found more than storm damage, huh?"
"Yeah. And there's a wrecked boat about thirty yards that way that needs processing too." I pointed south along the curve of the beach, where pieces of fiberglass and metal glinted in the morning sun. "Looks custom-modified. Could be our transport vessel."
Rawlings nodded grimly, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. His weathered face was set in a focused expression. "Peterson is coordinating with local PD to get help securing the perimeter. Might take a bit though. It's not a big department."
I wasn't surprised by that assessment. Sutter's Ferry Police Department probably had maybe a dozen officers total, and half of them were likely dealing with storm cleanup and emergency calls across the island. "Figured as much. What about Vance?"
"Helping clear the main road into town. Tree came down across the intersection near the marina. He'll be along shortly once they get that sorted."
I watched as Martinez began systematically photographing the package and the surrounding area, his camera clicking steadily as he documented the scene from multiple angles.
The incoming tide was my biggest concern now—we had perhaps an hour before the water reached the evidence, and possibly less if the swells kept building.
"Let's work fast before the tide comes in much further.
And keep your eyes open—whoever dumped this cargo might still be around looking to recover it.
I'm gonna notify Hayes, then I'll join you. "
I moved several yards away from the evidence collection team, close enough to keep them in sight but far enough to ensure privacy for the call.
Pulling out my satellite phone, I checked the signal strength.
The regular cell networks were still down after the storm, but this military-grade equipment would get through to headquarters regardless of local infrastructure damage.
The phone rang twice before a familiar voice answered. "Hayes."
"Sir, LaRue here. We've got a situation developing on Hatterwick Island."
"Go ahead."
I filled him in on everything. Hayes listened without interruption, though I heard him tapping something against his desk, as he did when processing complex information.
He was silent for a long moment after I finished my report. "That break-in at the clinic last night. You think it's connected to what you found this morning?"
"Don't know for certain yet, sir. But the guy we caught, Mickey Doyle? He was already in our task force files. He's got multiple priors for possession with intent to distribute. Local PD has him in lockup right now, awaiting interrogation."
"Alright. Document everything you find out there.
I'll send Bradley's team down from Norfolk to assist with evidence collection and run an expanded beach sweep.
The storm might have washed up more than just one package.
And Daniel? Make sure you get in on that interrogation with the local police.
Could be our first real break in this trafficking network. "
"Yes, sir. Will do."
I ended the call and headed back toward the wreckage site.
Martinez had already tagged and bagged the damaged package, sealing it in a waterproof evidence container that would preserve whatever remained of the contents.
Meanwhile, Rawlings was methodically photographing the splintered remains of the craft.
The tide was creeping steadily higher now, foamy waves lapping at the orange evidence markers they'd placed in the sand to mark the debris field.
Each wave erased a little more of the storm's revelations.
We had a lot of ground to cover before the water erased whatever other evidence the hurricane had exposed along this stretch of coastline.
But after months of dead ends and false leads, we finally had concrete proof of active trafficking operations on Hatterwick Island.
Now we just had to figure out who was running the network and how deep their operation went into the island's community.
I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and grabbed an evidence bag from the kit. Time to get to work and see what other secrets the storm had decided to give up.