He was in luck, and he punched in Morrissey’s number, wondering if the detective might be regretting the fact that he’d given Zach his own cell number. Apparently not, because he didn’t sound upset when he picked up and heard who was calling.
“I need help,” Zach said. “I’m out on Cow Cay, and I think I’ve figured out something important. I think Eddie was killed because of a discovery he made. I think he figured out where a bunch of historical documents and a good-sized treasure were buried out here, and someone killed him for it. They’ve been digging for it, but they haven’t found it yet, and neither have I. I can’t exactly stay out here, though. Any possibility of sending an off-duty officer or two out to keep an eye on the place? I’ll see that they’re paid.”
Morrissey wasn’t that easy. He thanked Zach for sending Jorey to him, though he admitted nothing he’d said had helped much, then asked a lot of questions. Zach answered them honestly—this wasn’t the time to be evasive.
“I’ll make some calls,” Morrissey promised finally. “The island is actually under the jurisdiction of the Park Service, so it’s a little complex.” As the other man talked, Zach watched the birds warily. “And where are your funds coming from?”
“Sean O’Riley. But I want the whole thing kept secret. I want guards here to see who comes out here and tries to dig again.”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” Morrissey said. “Cops are always underpaid, always looking for some extra cash. I hope you’re on to something. We’re doing everything by the book, and we haven’t got a clue. So getting you someone to guard a sand pile and a big old boulder shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You’ll need guys with boats who aren’t afraid of a little weather.”
“This is Newport. Like I said, shouldn’t be a problem,” Morrissey assured him.
“As soon as possible.”
“You want them there twenty-four/seven?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, I’m on it,” Morrissey said, then hung up.
Zach finished packing up with Caer, toted their equipment back to the boat and helped her aboard. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. There were no storm clouds in the darkening sky, but the wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped.
And the damn birds followed them all the way back.
When he brought the boat into her berth at the dock, the streets were empty.
The O’Riley’s office was closed.
But the birds still circled overhead, letting out their horrible cries.
Zach wasn’t as disturbed by the birds as he was by Caer. She tried not to let him see her, but she kept glancing toward the heavens and the night sky.
And the birds.
The black birds.
Circling.
14
Gary Swipes was sixty, but still in excellent shape, a big, muscled guy, nearing retirement—and embittered by that fact.
He had lived here all his life. He’d watched people come and go from mansions so self-indulgent that no one person should ever have had the bucks to live in them. He’d watched the yacht owners come and go—modern-day men who had the money to own massive three-masted vessels with state-of-the-art fixtures and electronics and multi-person crews kept on retainer.
It was a money town, but somehow he’d managed to be born to a maid and a gas station attendant. No great schools in his life, no frat parties and cushy career in Daddy’s company. Just work.
He’d been a cop most of his adult life, and just because he’d acted like a cop now and then, he’d gotten nowhere.
Once he’d been reprimanded because of the way he’d treated a batch of drugged-out high-school kids. Hell, their pockets had been full of ecstasy, but somehow he’d still gotten in trouble for being too brutal.
As if they would have handed over the drugs without a little…convincing.
Then there was the matter of the money.
There hadn’t even been all that much of it. He’d found it in the back of the car driven by a guy high on cocaine who’d hit a kid in the street. Drug money. He’d forgotten to turn it in right away, and he’d almost faced charges.
So he had a temper. Big deal. He’d become a cop to uphold the law, and he had never meant to break it. Teachers couldn’t discipline kids these days, and parents didn’t—and cops had to jump through hoops to arrest perps. It sucked.
He’d been married, once. She said he had too much of a temper, too. He didn’t get women, either. It was okay for them to get mad, slam a fist against a guy’s chest, but if he so much as pushed her an inch away, he was an abuser.
Job, life, women, they all sucked.
At least Morrissey had offered him this chance to make some extra cash.
He didn’t mind the cold. And he’d indulged in an iPod, so he didn’t mind being alone out on the island. The wind might be blowing like a mother, and the temperature at night dropped like a stone out here, but he didn’t mind. He’d sailed all his life—crewing on rich guys’ yachts just because he loved it so damned much—and the wind and cold motoring over here hadn’t mattered a damn to him.