Chapter 3
“Is it true Yan Zheng is dead?” Paris asked.
I glared at her. “I can’t discuss ongoing investigations.”
She knew better but asked anyway, “Do you suspect foul play?”
The ambitious blonde reporter was persistent. Nobody could ever say otherwise.
JD and I stepped out of frame and declined to answer any more questions.
We hustled down the path toward the lobby, made our way around the crystal pool, taking in the sight of teeny bikinis and sun-drenched skin. This was paradise, alright.
JD and I hurried inside and made our way to the front desk, bypassing the line of tourists. I flashed my badge. "What can you tell me about the gentleman in the Pineapple Cabana?”
The cute clerk tapped the keys with her long manicured fingernails. She studied the screen, then looked up at me with those adorable blue eyes. "Mr. Yan checked in yesterday afternoon.”
"Did he have any guests?”
She studied the screen. "Not to my knowledge.”
"Any phone calls to or from the room?”
After another glance at the screen, she said. “No. Not on the landline.”
"Do you know who checked him in yesterday?”
"I did.”
"Did he make any chit chat?”
The blonde shook her head.
I dug into my pocket and handed her a card. "Get in touch if you remember any more details."
She smiled, and the smile held possibilities. "I will.”
I thanked her, and we jogged to the bar. Time was running out before the place was crawling with feds.
The bar had a decent crowd at this hour. Chill and casual. Not loud and overcrowded.
Jack and I ambled up to the bar and leaned against the counter. I flashed my badge and got the bartender's attention. He was a tall guy with short, wavy dark hair and a muscular physique. His gold name tag read: Evan. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"
"Were you working last night?”
"Yeah, and I'm pulling a double again today.” It showed in his weary brown eyes.
I displayed a picture of the deceased that I had snapped on my phone. It wasn’t the most flattering shot of Mr. Yan—pale and lifeless, staring into the void. “You remember serving this guy?”
Evan cringed when he saw the photo. "Yeah. He looked a lot better the last time he was in here,” he said in a dry tone. "Is that the guy who died in the Pineapple Cabana?”
Word had spread through the staff.
I nodded. "He was in here with a blonde. What can you tell me about her?”
Evan shrugged. "Hot. 5’3”, 5’4”. I had never seen her before. Walked right up to him and started a conversation. Hot blondes can do that. They had a few drinks, then left. Not uncommon around here. I figured she was fresh blood looking for new meat.”
"You happen to catch her name?”
Evan’s mouth tightened, and he shook his head. "Sorry, pal. I can't tell you much about her.”
"Did Mr. Yan say anything to you about his business here in town?”
Evan shook his head again. "He just ordered drinks and found himself preoccupied with the lady. I don't blame him. She was quite distracting.”
I dug into my pocket and handed him a card. "If anything else comes to mind, get in touch."
"Will do. I take it she killed him?”
I shrugged.
JD and I left the bar and hurried back toward the cabana, making our way around the pool. A few of the cute girls smiled at us, and we smiled back.
Jack muttered, "Since we’re about to lose this case, we might as well hang out by the pool. Let the feds handle it.”
"I'm sure somebody here saw something," I said with a grin.
By the time we returned to the cabana, the FBI had arrived.
I flashed my badge at the door to a blue flamer with a crew cut.
He wore a navy suit, and dark aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes.
He displayed his credentials. "This is an FBI investigation now, gentlemen. Thank you for your assistance. We’ll be in touch if we need anything. ”
I did my best to hide my displeasure.
Daniels was inside, giving them hell. His voice echoed down the foyer. "This is my county, and I want to be kept in the loop!"
"I can assure you, Sheriff Daniels, we will disseminate information to your department as it becomes available," a special agent said. “We look forward to your cooperation and a speedy resolution of this matter."
The sheriff marched out of the bungalow a moment later with a scowl on his face. He muttered under his breath to me, "I don't like getting kicked out of my own crime scene.”
"Join the club," I said.
"These assholes are making an international incident out of this,” Daniels said. “I think a guy came into town, picked up a hooker, and got rolled.”
It was the simplest explanation, and probably not far from the truth.
It wasn't long before a dapper gentleman wearing a designer suit showed up. He cut through the crowd like he owned the place. In his mid-30s, he had stylish dark hair, brown eyes, and a chiseled jaw. His athletic frame told me he did more than just push pencils around a desk.
The man pulled his credentials from his coat pocket and flashed them to the special agent at the door.
He looked ready for a bureaucratic fight, and he was going to get one, too.
“My name is Wei Jin. Cultural Affairs, Consulate General. Mr. Yan is a Chinese national. I demand access to the crime scene now.”