Chapter 3 #2
She found him both warm and intimidating. She guessed him to be in his mid- to late thirties, and his confidence said he was experienced in his job.
“Did you happen to come here on a motorcycle?” she asked.
He cocked his head. “What gave you that impression?”
“Your hair.” She took another sip of warmth. Yeah, this was good and hit the spot.
A taste of normalcy.
“Can I have your name, address, and phone number? That’ll work for now since your identification was stolen.”
She gave him her full name, including the last name Dane. He’d find out anyway, and chances were that last name wouldn’t mean anything to him. “I use my middle name in my work.”
“Your work?”
“I’m a journalist, and I prefer to keep my legal name private.”
“Makes sense.” He scribbled the information down.
“You’re writing this information on a napkin?”
“Full disclosure,” he said. “This was my day off. I was out for a ride when I decided to follow my fellow county law enforcement officer down to the beach. That’s my story, now what’s yours?”
He set his smartphone on the table.
“Are you recording this?”
“Yes. Are you good with that?”
What if she said no? “Of course.”
He clasped his hands and leaned forward with an intense expression to let her know he was listening and might even hear what she didn’t say. She’d chosen to give her statement to him, after all, rather than Deputy Riker.
“This is Detective Braden Sanders interviewing Cressida Valentine Dane at the Bayfront Chandlery.” He added the date and time. “Please tell me what happened.”
What was her story, indeed? Where did she start?
In her previous job as an investigative journalist—that is, before her mother ruined everything with her master plan—she was great at asking all the questions and offering all the answers.
The turned tables threw her off-balance, and her thoughts were scrambled.
“I was sitting on the beach and a man approached from behind. I fought him, but he got the better of me and tried to drown me.”
“How did you escape?”
“I didn’t escape.”
“You’re alive. He didn’t drown you. How did you get out of that?”
The detective was a blunt-force interrogator—right to the heart of things. No coddling for him, except to share his jacket.
She focused on the still-steaming coffee. What did it matter? Why was he asking that question? She tried to shove the drama, the emotion of that moment, behind her. Her breathing hitched.
She glanced up to his eyes. The steel had overtaken the blue and turned dark.
“I pretended to be dead.”
His lids barely narrowed. He definitely knew how to control his expression and body language. “And that saved your life. You fought the guy, so you must have gotten a good look at him.”
“I did, which might put me in danger if he learns I’m alive.”
“It could. Can you describe him?”
She gave him her detailed description, gathered during the fight for her life, so it was probably emotionally distorted.
“We’ll get you with a forensic artist.”
“You have an artist out here?”
His brows shot up, and she suspected he fought a smile. “We can get the resources we need.”
“I understand.” Forensic artists weren’t necessarily easy to come by.
He shoved his mug aside and leaned closer, his eyes piercing, studying, analyzing. She wanted to look away. To shift in her seat, but she held her own. This would be over soon, and then in private, she could lose it. Sob into a pillow. Whatever it took to get over this day.
“Any clue why the man attacked you and stole your bag and possibly your laptop?”
She recognized the trick question. “No. I mean . . .” Oh shoot. If she was going to let him ask the questions, she just blew it.
He stared at her, waiting, as if he might make her feel like she was the guilty party here instead of the victim.
The doorbell rang again, and boots clomped. Deputy Trent Riker stood over them at the table. The two male EMTs joined them too.
Detective Sanders stopped the recording. “I’m in the middle of her statement, Trent.”
“I’ve talked to the few that were on the beach to learn if we have any other witnesses.” His gaze flicked to Cressida, then back to the detective. “No one saw anything.”
Detective Sanders didn’t react to his words. “Get the CCTV recording on all these buildings, every one of them at the marina.”
The deputy gave a slight frown, then nodded.
One of the EMTs stepped forward. “Ma’am, if you don’t think you need medical attention, then we can be of use someplace else.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done,” Cressida said. “Thank you. If I start to feel funny, I’ll get help.”
The two EMTs and Deputy Riker shared a look as if they were friends and left her alone with the detective.
“Don’t think that interruption distracted me.” He switched the recording back on, adding an explanation about the pause. “You were about to explain to me why someone attacked you. Why someone stole your bag on the beach and your laptop from this chandlery shop.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you any such thing because I don’t know.”
“Look, anything you can tell me that would help me find your attacker will help to keep you safe, and also possibly retrieve what he took.”
“I’m here for research so I can finish my father’s book.
He was a maritime historian. I chartered a boat, and the captain dropped me off here.
” Cutting our trip short. He told me to watch my back.
But why? “I took a walk on the beach while waiting on my ride.” She shrugged, fighting the swell of unshed tears.
“You mentioned that you’re a journalist.”
“I was an investigative journalist.” Until my own mother sunk my career.
He’d learn soon enough anyway, if he pulled additional background information.
“I spent the last many months researching and traveling the world, making notes of my own. If I’m going to write his book, I need to experience what he experienced.
And then I arrived here, and this is the first trouble I’ve—” She stopped herself. “Now I just sound plain bitter.”
Well, she was.
Bitter that all her hard work could have been destroyed.
“Ms. Valentine. Please. Take a deep breath. You’ve been through something terrible. Is there anyone I can call for you?”
“No . . . I . . .” She sagged. She hadn’t meant to offer up more than the required information, but she was exhausted and just needed to say the words. “My father died. I’m finishing his book.” She was repeating herself.
“You need to talk to someone. A therapist, someone to help you through these traumatic events. In the meantime, I’m here to help in any way I can.”
“Like find who did this? Get my things back?”
“Yes, of course. Who dropped you off here?”
“Captain Everett Malloy, goes by the name Salty. His trawler is called the Mariner’s Gambit. He cut our excursion short after a near run-in with a possible speedboat just off Hidden Bay, but the Kraken chased them away. He told me it wasn’t safe here and to watch my back.”
At the look he gave her she added, “I know it sounds nonsensical.”
“Watch your back.”
Footsteps behind her. Her face in the cold, salty water. Death so close.
Cressida squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered.
She had to escape!