Page 84 of Ground Truth

“Turn the phone off and take the SIM out. They might still be able to track it, but we don’t want to destroy the phone.” Flint’s thinking felt sluggish, and his head buzzed with dizziness. “We’ll exit through the front door. If they’re out there, they won’t attack us in full view of the neighbors.”

“You hope.” Drake gave him a level stare for a couple of seconds before he replied. “We go out through the front. Then what?”

“Find the mistress,” Flint said.

“Be a lot easier to pull that off if we knew anything at all about her,” Drake said sardonically.

“That’s why Hanna hired such high-priced talent like us,” Flint deadpanned.

Drake grinned. “Because we’re not clairvoyant?”

“This whole island has only two thousand residents. If we had a couple of days, we could knock on every door in the place until we found her.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have a couple of days.” Drake checked his watch. “We’ve got a couple of hours before we confront Brand at the hospital.”

“How about lunch? I noticed a couple of busy restaurants near the main drag. Local hangouts. Someone will know who’s been spending time with Dr. Stephen Brand,” Flint said. “Small towns are the same everywhere. They all know each other. And they’re all up in each other’s business.”

“Okay.”

“Follow my lead,” Flint said as he opened Brand’s front door and waved Drake onto the porch.

He followed Drake outside. He turned toward the doorway, pretending to talk to someone inside as he pulled the door closed. “Thanks for the coffee. See you again soon.”

Flint donned his sunglasses. Drake shoved his hands into his pockets, and they walked along the sidewalk toward the street. A group of laughing women was passing. Two were dressed in pink hospital scrubs. Drake gave them a friendly wave, but they barely noticed.

Flint and Drake sauntered along the sidewalk across the street. “As long as we stay visible among the citizens, Hedinger won’t come after us.”

“You hope,” Drake replied flatly.

“More to the point, that guy’s partners haven’t moved in yet,” Flint said casually, as if eavesdroppers might believe the topic of conversation was innocuous. Like last night’s Marlins game or the one scheduled for tonight.

They continued along the sidewalk to the crosswalk. When the light changed, they crossed the street. Flint kept his hands in position to reach his weapon as his eyes scanned the area and the people around them.

When they reached a quaint wooden building on a side street boasting “the best conch chowder in Atabei,” Flint walked toward the restaurant’s entrance. Drake followed.

Breeze In was a casual restaurant. The square building was constructed with wooden clapboards and a metal roof. The walls were hinged shutters that stood wide open extending the look and feel of the tropical paradise outdoors.

Inside, the breezy, open interior was equally inviting. The floors were wide mahogany planks worn smooth by hundreds of feet shuffling along the wood’s surface over time.

The center of the square building was occupied by an inviting bar, also square shaped. The casually dressed bartender and all his supplies rested inside the square.

Wicker stools painted in tropical colors and sporting comfortable floral cushions were arranged around the perimeter of the bar were. Guests leaned on the carved wooden bar top where hundreds of others had polished the mahogany to a high gloss.

The remainder of the Breeze In was furnished with square tables and ladder-backed chairs, also painted in bright tropical orange, pink, green, blue, and yellow. Floral cushions perched on the seats. Tabletops matched the mahogany of the bar and the floor.

Cheerful calypso music played through the sound system speakers mounted in the corners.

Overall, the Breeze In’s ambience was relaxed and pleasant. Comfortable. The kind of place tourists, if there had been any allowed on Atabei, might have spent happy days and nights mingling in a relaxing tropical vacation paradise with Atabei locals.

It was still early for lunch, but a couple of two-tops and a four-top were occupied. A few singles gathered around the bar dressed in brightly colored hospital scrubs.

Strangers were unusual here. Patrons noticed when Flint and Drake moved past. Flint felt their eyes following him and pretended he didn’t.

They approached the bar and climbed onto barstools offering a clear view of the main entrance and the doorway in the back that led to the kitchen. If the dead guy at Brand’s house had called for backup, Flint hadn’t seen anyone. But smarter to keep his guard up.

The bartender was a dark-skinned man with a snake tattoo winding around his shaved head and an easy smile.

Along with water glasses, he offered suggestions in the friendly way of bartenders everywhere. “The luncheon special is our conch chowder. Fresh bread baked in the kitchen every day. If you’re hungrier, add the grouper sandwich and plantains.”

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