She hurried along the gravel path to Nick’s. She thought about using her key and slipping through the private entrance, but she headed instead to the dockside entrance in the rear.
She saw that a few diners remained on the outside porch overlooking the dock and the boats. She slowed her footsteps, still angry, then paused, looking down the length of the dock.
She saw Dilessio’s boat. And there were lights on inside.
She started down the dock at a brisk pace. Then, as she neared his boat, her footsteps slowed and she stopped for a moment. She didn’t want to be an annoyance, hounding him if he really was taking all possible steps.
Screw that. Stuart was in the hospital, in a coma. His parents were aging by the hour.
She started moving again, then nearly jumped when she saw that he was actually outside on the deck. He was seated in a rattan chair, his legs stretched out, bare feet on the rail in front of him. A bottle of beer in his hands, he seemed to be staring at the nothingness where the darkness of the sky met the darkness of the water. She didn’t know if he saw her coming; he didn’t move. She thought maybe he had dozed off—one beer too many?—he was so still. She wondered about retreating, but as she slowed down again, he called out to her.
“Good evening, Miss Montague. Do come aboard.”
“I hesitate, Detective, since I see you are so busy, pursuing your cases around the clock.”
“Actually, I am pursuing a case right now.”
“I always thought that if I grew up to be a homicide detective, drinking beer and staring out at the water would definitely be the best method of approach.”
“Come aboard,” he told her.
She stepped from the dock to the deck.
“Help yourself to a beer, Coke, whatever,” he told her.
“With an invitation that gracious, I might.”
“Duck down a bit when you go in—the cabin door is low,” he told her.
She didn’t really want anything to drink, but the invitation to enter the inner sanctum of his home was too tempting. She went into the main cabin. Galley, dining room and living area blended in a surprising display of spaciousness. The place was organized, neat and clean, not cluttered, but not sterile. She entered the galley area and dug into the small refrigerator. Soda, juice, beer, water.
“Break down, Montague—have a beer,” he called to her.
She reached for a bottle of Miller Lite, then went back outside to join him on the deck.
He had hardly moved. He was all but lying down between the chair and the railing.
“Nice night, isn’t it?” he said.
“The weather is good.”
“And the last thing you want to do is talk about it, right?”
“Were you able to talk to the investigator on Stuart’s case?”
“Yes.”
She leaned against the railing, staring at him, then lifted a hand.
“And?”
“He’s a good guy, Paddy Carnegie. Old-timer. He knows what he’s doing.”
She let out a sigh of exasperation. “And what did he say?”
“He said he’s doing everything he can. He likes the Fresias, and he wants them to be right. But he has no witnesses. No one has come forward and admitted so much as having seen your friend walk onto the highway. The driver who hit him saw him the minute he stepped in front of him, not before.”
She must have shown her dismay, because he was suddenly impatient.
“What were you expecting? Instant gratification? That’s not the way it works. Trust me, you can put years into a case, and it may still never be solved. There’s a chance here, at least, that there will be answers down the line. Your friend may survive.”
“Not may survive, will survive,” she said, and was dismayed at the rather pathetic quality of her words when she had meant for them to be so strong.
To her surprise, he let out an impatient sound, something of a derisive snort. “Because what? You slept with this guy once, he’s going to survive and the truth will be known. He’ll be totally vindicated and all will be well. Wish it worked that way.”
She stared at him coldly and stepped away from the rail. She wasn’t going to dignify his assumption with a denial. “Are you drunk?”
“No, Montague, I’m telling you the way it is. And sometimes, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“You really are an asshole, you know?” she spat out, and started off the boat.
“Montague!” he called.
She paused; she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t owe him anything.
“You’ve got one smart-ass tongue on you. How about, ‘Thanks, Detective, for taking the time to get involved’?”
“Wow, thanks, Detective. You’ve been just great.”
“Look, it’s just that I understand Carnegie’s frustration. He needs a break in the case or he’s up against a stone wall. No one knows what Stuart was doing over the last several months. His parents didn’t know what he was doing. They referred Carnegie to a rag called In Depth. He was working on a story he didn’t want to share with anyone. The managing editor didn’t have the least idea what he was doing.”
Ashley stared at him. “Well, there it is—an answer.”