Chapter 6
Gabe stared at his phone for three seconds after Cara Sweet hung up.
Marco Ruiz. Private investigator. Portland.
He pulled out his laptop and opened it on the breakfast table. Even this far away from the water, salt air drifted up from the marina, mixing with the smell of diesel and fish. The public databases loaded slowly on the spotty cell signal but eventually pulled up what he needed.
Marco Ruiz, licensed PI. Portland, Oregon. One-man operation based out of a small office in Southeast Portland. The Oregon licensing board listed him as active, bonded, insured. Standard stuff.
Gabe pulled up the DMV photo.
Dark hair. Medium build. Late thirties. Sharp, intelligent eyes.
The same face he'd seen on the beach this morning.
He studied the image for a long moment, comparing it mentally to the crime scene. Same nose. Same jaw line. Same build.
Preliminary match.
He dialed Price.
"Talk to me," Price answered on the first ring.
"I've got a name on the victim. Marco Ruiz, PI out of Portland. DMV photo looks like a match, but we'll need official confirmation through prints." Gabe closed his laptop. "Can you dig into his background? Off the books for now. I don't want to use Bureau resources yet."
A beat of silence. Then Price's voice came back dry. "A wise choice."
"Exactly."
"What do you need?"
"Anything you can scrape up. Financials. Known associates. A client list would be nice.”
A snort came over the line. “Dream on.”
“Yeah. Well, I guy can dream.”
Keys clicked on the other end. "I'm on it. Give me an hour."
"Thanks, man."
"Gabe?" Price's tone shifted. "If Morrison finds out you're running an off-book investigation—"
"He won't find out."
"Just saying. Be careful."
Gabe disconnected and stared out at the ocean. Sunlight glinted off the waves, turning them silver and blue. Price meant well, but careful had gone out the window the moment David stopped answering his phone.
His phone rang twenty minutes later as he sat hunched over his computer, trying to do his own digging. Price.
"That was fast."
"Wasn't hard. Ruiz didn’t exactly have deep cover skills. Marco Ruiz, age thirty-eight, licensed PI for six years. Mostly handled insurance fraud, cheating spouses, skip tracing. Nothing exciting. Clean record. Paid his taxes and avoided traffic tickets and arrest warrants."
"Recent cases?"
"That's where it gets interesting. The last ping on his cell phone was..." A pause. "Your area. Haven Cove vicinity."
Gabe's grip tightened on the phone. "Client list?"
"Working on it. His office is locked up tight. I’ll need a court order to dig into his files." Price exhaled. "I can push through official channels, but that'll take time. Judge has to review, make sure we're not violating PI-client protections."
"How long?"
"Twenty-four to forty-eight hours minimum."
Time David didn't have.
"One more thing," Price continued. "Ruiz had a concealed carry permit. Applied for a replacement Glock two months ago after reporting his original stolen, but the new one was still pending approval."
"So he shouldn't have been armed."
"Right. Except..." Price paused. "I got a preliminary look at the ME's report. Body shows irritation from a shoulder holster. Fresh. He was carrying recently."
"Weapon's missing from the scene."
"Looks that way."
Ruiz had been armed despite waiting on permit approval. And now the gun was gone.
Either the killer took it as a trophy, or it was evidence that pointed somewhere specific.
"Keep digging on that client list," Gabe said. "I need to know who hired him."
"I'll do what I can. What's your next move?"
Gabe stared through the window at the ocean visible beyond the marina. "Following the lead. If Ruiz was conducting surveillance, he wasn't staying in town. Place is too small. Too nosy. There's a lodge fifteen miles north. Off the grid. Cash friendly."
"Seafoam Lodge," Price said, already typing. "Got it. Want me to call ahead?"
"No. I'll handle it in person." Gabe started the engine. "One more thing." He stopped. He was going to ask Price to run background on the baker, but he couldn’t get the words out. It could wait. He had no evidence that she was involved in either the murder or David’s disappearance. Actually, the total opposite. Being secretive wasn’t a crime.
He could go down that road if necessary. “Never mind. Thanks for everything.”
"You got it. I'll call you back."
Gabe disconnected and grabbed his car keys. Time to see what Marco Ruiz might have left behind.
The drive to the motel took twenty minutes through dense coastal forest. Towering pines crowded both sides of the highway, their trunks dark against the undergrowth. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of wet earth and fir needles. Gabe worked the problem like a puzzle with missing pieces.
David investigating something in Haven Cove. Goes dark three weeks ago.
Marco Ruiz, PI, shows up asking questions around the same time. Now dead on the beach.
Same timeline. Same town. One missing, one murdered.
The connection was obvious. The question was what they'd both been investigating.
And whether it had gotten David killed too.
The turnoff appeared suddenly, marked only by a faded sign half-hidden by overgrown ferns. The access road curved through towering pines, their branches filtering the afternoon light into green shadow. Moss hung from the lower branches like tattered curtains.
Seafoam Lodge materialized through the trees like something from another era.
Single-story, paint peeling in long strips that exposed gray wood beneath.
Twelve rooms facing a gravel parking lot pocked with puddles.
Two cars sat outside units at opposite ends, both covered in a fine layer of pollen.
The office squatted at the near corner, its windows reflecting nothing but forest and sky.
Gabe's instincts prickled. This was exactly where someone would stay if they wanted to disappear.
The office smelled like cigarette smoke and Pine-Sol, underlaid with the musty scent of old carpet.
A man in his sixties looked up from behind a desk cluttered with paperwork and a small television playing a game show with the sound off.
His eyes tracked Gabe's movement with the wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust strangers.
"Help you?"
Gabe badged him. "FBI. I need your guest registry."
The man's expression closed down faster than a slammed door. He didn't even glance at the badge. "Can't do that."
"Murder investigation. Marco Ruiz. He was staying here."
"Don't know the name." The manager crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. The vinyl creaked. "Can't show you anything without a warrant."
Gabe studied him. Nervous twitch in his left eye. Gaze kept darting to the phone mounted on the wall. Defensive posture that screamed someone had gotten to him first.
"Homicide," Gabe said. "Man's dead. Anything you know could help us find his killer."
"I know my rights. And my guests' rights." The manager's jaw set. "No warrant, no information. That's the law."
Gabe could push. Could threaten obstruction charges. Could probably intimidate this man into cooperation. But it would take time he didn't have. And the fear in the manager's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Someone had warned him. Told him to keep quiet. Made it worth his while to stonewall any investigation.
"What room was he in?"
"I told you—"
"What room?"
The manager's eyes flicked involuntarily toward the window. Just for a second. Then back to Gabe's face.
Gabe followed the glance. Room 12. Far end of the building.
"Appreciate your cooperation." The sarcasm was subtle but present.
Outside, the air was cooler, cleaner. Pine sap and damp earth. Gabe moved casually toward his SUV, then kept walking past it toward the tree line. From there, he had a clear view of Room 12 without being obvious.
The curtains were drawn. Door closed. But even from here, Gabe could see fresh scuff marks on the window frame. The kind made by someone prying at the latch. And the lock itself looked old, easy to manipulate.
He crouched low and moved closer through the trees. Pine needles crunched softly under his boots.
Footprints in the needles. Recent. Size nine or ten, probably men's. The impressions were clear, pressed deep into the soft layer of forest debris. Someone had stood right here, in this exact spot, examining that window.
Someone else was interested in Room 12.
Gabe's gut clenched. Another investigator? One of the locals who'd stonewalled him? Or whoever killed Ruiz, coming back to clean up loose ends?
He straightened and scanned the area. No security cameras. No witnesses. The two occupied rooms were too far away to see anything. The manager had probably been paid to look the other way.
Perfect setup for evidence to disappear.
He walked back to his SUV, jaw tight. The gravel crunched under his feet, loud in the forest quiet. Climbed in. Gripped the steering wheel, the leather warm and slightly tacky from the sun. He stared at Room 12 through the windshield.
No warrant. No legal authority to search. No backup.
But whatever Ruiz had left in that room could vanish at any moment. Files. Notes. Evidence. The name of whoever hired him. Maybe even information about David.
The manager's fear wasn't random. Someone with power had made sure this place stayed locked down. The same someone who'd convinced an entire town to develop selective amnesia about a dead PI asking questions.
Gabe checked his watch. Four-thirty. Still light for another few hours.
He'd come back tonight. After dark. When the manager was asleep and the other guests were locked in their rooms. He'd break in, search the room, find whatever Ruiz had left behind.
And if he found information about David, nothing else mattered.
God, if he's alive, help me get to him in time. Please.
The prayer was raw. Desperate. The kind of bargaining he'd done every night since David stopped answering his phone.
Gabe started the engine and pulled out of the lot. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage as he headed back toward Haven Cove, a checklist for tonight already forming in his mind. Morrison would fire him for sure if he found out.
The thought didn't bother him as much as it should.
He passed through Haven Cove's main street as the late afternoon sun painted everything gold and amber. Shadows stretched long across the pavement. The bakery sat dark and closed, its windows reflecting the ocean beyond in sheets of orange fire.
Cara Sweet had IDed the victim before he’d even had a chance to interview the people in town. Gabe filed that away with all the other inconsistencies that didn't add up. Tonight, he'd find out what Marco Ruiz had been investigating.
He couldn’t help wondering if it was Cara Sweet.