A Clandestine Affair

“That’s the old woman’s apartment,” Bull said, as if reading her mind. “Surely Mr. Cochburn told you about her.”

“He didn’t mention any of the tenants.”

“She ain’t a tenant. More of a permanent fixture, and crazy as they come, that one.” He circled his finger by his right temple to make his point. “Spent too much time sniffing the white stuff, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you talking about Alma Garcia?”

“Yeah. So you do know about her.”

Absolutely. Jaci knew about Carlos Lazario, as well. In fact, they had been the deciding factors for her moving onto the island instead of just hiring a boat to take her out for a day.

Alma had been the nanny for the Santiago family. Carlos was said to have been Andres Santiago’s right-hand man and bodyguard. Reportedly neither Carlos nor Alma had been on the island at the time of the disappearance, but they were now, thirty years after the fact.

Jaci was eager to talk to them, but didn’t plan to tell them why she was here. Better to let them think she was just a tourist in pursuit of a little R and R. It would make snooping easier.

“Carlos, the old caretaker, he’s been here forever, too,” Bull said, surprisingly talkative now that he’d gotten started. “He’s all right, but don’t mess with him if you can help it. He’s tired of tenants. Says all they do is cause trouble. Seems like that’s true of the ones he gets out here. Me, you couldn’t pay me to spend the night. They got bogs out in that swamp that can suck you in and bury you in the mud quicker than you can sing a chorus of ‘Margaritaville.’”

Another little problem Mr. Cochburn had failed to mention. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll make certain to stay out of the swamp.”

“Yeah, and I guess you know there’s no electricity out here except for a generator. You can hear it running all over the island, kind of a constant low drone. Gotta be some kind of dark at night if it ever goes off.”

The wind picked up and Jaci pulled her light jacket tighter while Bull docked and tied up the boat. He helped her out, then unloaded her luggage, dropping it on the edge of the dock.

She stood for a moment, soaking up the atmosphere. Every crime scene she’d ever visited had its own feel about it. Cape Diablo was no different, except that her instant reactions to the place were even more pronounced than usual.

The island had a sinister aura about it, as if the place itself might hold evil. More likely she was letting the seclusion get to her. A good forensics expert wouldn’t be influenced by that, and neither would she. But first impressions did matter.

A gray-haired man stepped into the clearing near the dock, a black Lab following a step behind. For a second it seemed that the man had appeared from nowhere, but a closer look revealed a slightly overgrown path that led back to the boathouse. The two-story structure was at the edge of the clearing, just as described in the police report. Only the reports had not mentioned how spooky the run-down place looked in the deepening grays of twilight.

“Welcome to Cape Diablo.” The man’s tone didn’t match his words.

“Thanks. I’m Jaci Matlock, the new tenant.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And that’s Carlos Lazario,” Bull said.

So that was Carlos. He didn’t look that bad for a recluse who’d spent almost half his life on a secluded island. He was unfriendly as she’d expected. She’d have to play this just right to get him to talk to her about the past, or even let her in the boathouse.

Carlos scanned the pile of luggage. “All this?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I tend to overpack,” she said, tossing the laptop over her shoulder and picking up the two smaller bags. “I can carry my own luggage,” she said. “I’ll come back for the rest.”

“I’ll bring ’em,” Carlos said, “but don’t go expecting me to wait on you.” He turned to Bull. “Did you get my order?”

“I got it right here.”

“Good.”

Bull reached inside an old cooler at the front to the boat and took out a package wrapped in brown paper. “It wasn’t easy to come by,” he said, handing it to the man.

“I appreciate it.”

“You be careful, Carlos. You don’t need any trouble at your age.”

“I’m not going looking for any.”

The verbal exchange between the two men bordered on the surreptitious, and Jaci would have loved to know what was in the package.

Carlos tucked it in the pocket of his tattered black jacket, then bent and picked up the two heaviest pieces of luggage with seemingly little effort. He was strong for a man his age.

“Follow me,” he said.

“Sure you want to stay?” Bull asked, climbing back into the boat.

“I’m sure.”

But an icy tremble slithered down Jaci’s spine as she started up the shadowy path toward the house. The crimes might have occurred thirty years ago, but the air seemed alive with dark and possibly deadly secrets.

The situation was a forensic student’s dream, unless…

Unless it turned into a nightmare.

Chapter Two

Alma stood near the edge of the courtyard watching the new tenant as the young woman completed a series of lunges and squats. Her skimpy black running shorts revealed long, tanned legs, and a white jogging bra stretched across her perky, ample breasts.

Even with no makeup, and her auburn hair pulled through the back of a baseball cap and flowing loose behind her like a horse’s mane, Jaci Matlock was striking.

But then, it was easy to be striking when you were Jaci’s age. Mid-twenties, Alma suspected—young, but still older than Alma had been when she’d first come to Cape Diablo.

She had been striking, too, though she would never have dressed in such scandalous attire. She’d worn white peasant blouses and full cotton skirts that only revealed her ankles when the fabric was billowed by ocean breezes.

Her hair had hung to her waist, straight and black as onyx. Her complexion had been flawless, always carefully protected from the sun by large-brimmed straw hats woven by her grandmother back in their tiny Central American country.

Her face was gaunt now, her once flawless complexion weathered and wrinkled until she was only an unrecognizable shadow of the beautiful young woman she’d once been. Even her hair had betrayed her, lost its gleam and become wiry and prematurely gray.

When Alma had first come to the island, she’d missed her family and friends terribly. Worse, the isolation had frightened her. The wind whispering through the branches of the trees had reminded her of the wailing of women whose husbands and sons had never come home from battle.

But Cape Diablo had been the pathway to her future, the awakening of her dreams. Dreams that had withered and died almost as quickly as the seaweed that washed up on the beach to bake in the noonday sun once the tide had receded.

All because of the events that had transpired one dark night.

The secrets were old and tattered now, threadbare like her white festival dress. And yet they ruled the island like angry demons. The spirits dwelled in every crevice of the crumbling mansion, and had seeped between the tiniest grains of sand.

“Beware, Jaci,” she whispered as she backed into the shadows beyond the courtyard wall. “The curse of Cape Diablo shows no mercy.”

CARLOS PULLED THE WORN fishing hat low on his forehead as he squinted to read Raoul’s letter for the second time that morning. The note hadn’t come by regular mail delivery. His late brother’s only grandson never used the post.