Page 87 of Deep Tide

“He has dark hair,” Nicole pointed out. “And a similar body type.” She nodded toward the sketch of the man stretched out in bed. If she’d been in a room full of women, she would have made the obvious observation that the guy in the drawing was hot. “The sketch shows someone muscular, and we know Luc Gagnon is athletic.”

“How to we know that?” Emmet asked, and she detected a trace of snark in his voice.

“According to People magazine, he does mountain biking. And surfing. And he plays golf.”

Emmet rolled his eyes.

“You’re right, though,” she said, turning to Brady. “There’s nothing conclusive in the sketch. No tattoos or anything, and the face is barely filled in. All we know is the guy in her sketchbook has dark hair.”

“Okay, I think we can disregard the sketchbook for now,” Brady said. “Unless we get a fingerprint.”

Nicole sighed with frustration. She’d gone over to that apartment and had the shit kicked out of her, and she had nothing to show for it.

“Let’s focus on San Antonio now that we have a confirmed link,” Brady said. “Nicole, I want you to juice that connection.”

“Juice it?”

“The detectives you’re talking to up there—keep working that. They’ve been on this case much longer than we have. They’ve got leads that would take us months to develop, like the carpet fiber thing. They’ve completed tons of interviews, and all their lab work has already come back. We should take advantage of that.”

“So, you want me to circle back with them?” she asked. The San Antonio detectives hadn’t exactly prioritized her calls. She’d had to hound them for days and make a pest of herself.

“Yeah, and do it in person,” he said. “Drive up there. Get them talking. Take them out for beers if you have to. Find out what they have that they’re not saying.”

“You think they’re holding out on us?” she asked.

“Hell yes. They’re San Antonio. We’re not,” Brady said. “The last thing they’re going to do is share everything they have and watch some beach town police department crack their case for them.”

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Sean waited for an empty elevator and got on by himself. He was sweaty, smelly, and his muscles were on fire. He’d spent ninety minutes in the building’s windowless fitness room trying to work out his frustration with Leyla. But it hadn’t helped because he knew she was going to ignore his advice and take that catering job. He didn’t doubt it for a minute.

Stepping out of the elevator, he smelled deep-fried shrimp coming from one of the units. His stomach began to rumble. He was starving, but he’d finished off the last of his frozen burritos and his fridge was empty.

Sean paused at his door, and his pulse picked up. A TV was on. He leaned close to listen. His TV.

He reached under his T-shirt for the Sig tucked in the neoprene holster around his waist. Who the hell was here?

Leyla.

Still holding his gun in case he was wrong, he slipped the key card from his pocket, unlocked the door, and eased it open.

Dwight Moore sat on his couch, feet propped on the coffee table, watching a baseball game. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said in his deep voice.

“Hi.” Sean turned and tucked his gun away before walking into the kitchen. “How’d you get in here?”

Moore got up and came over, and the smirk on his face told Sean he’d noticed the Sig. “They gave me two keys when I rented the place.”

Sean grabbed a dish towel from the oven door and wiped his face as he looked at his boss. A former Naval Academy defensive end, Moore was six four and outweighed Sean by about sixty pounds. Sean always felt small in the guy’s presence.

He tossed the towel on the counter. “Want a beer or anything?”

“I got one.” Moore’s brow furrowed, and Sean could tell he was noticing the cut on his cheek.

“What’s up?” Sean asked.

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