A haunted house in Key West

Hannah O’Brien, who grew up in the house and now runs it as a B and B, has always had a special ability to see a pair of resident ghosts. But when a man is murdered in the alley behind her place, she’s dismayed when his spirit appears, too, asking for help.

FBI agent Dallas Samson has a passionate interest in the murder, since the victim’s a colleague whose death is connected to the smuggling ring known as Los Lobos—the wolves. Now Dallas is even more committed to chasing them down.…

Unaware that Dallas has certain abilities of his own, Hannah calls her cousin Kelsey O’Brien, a member of the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters, an elite unit of paranormal investigators. The present-day case is linked to a historical mystery involving salvagers, a curse and a sunken ship. Danger and desire bring Hannah and Dallas together, but to survive, they have to solve the mysteries of the past—and stay alive long enough to solve the crimes of the present!

Praise for the novels of

New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham does an amazing job of bringing real-life elements into her fiction worlds….[The] messages are subtle, expertly woven through a story that focuses on solving mysterious crimes using the Krewe members’ unique talents. Graham also brings the surrounding areas of Nashville alive, with vivid details and lush descriptions.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Night is Forever (Top Pick)

“Bestseller Graham launches the third arc in her paranormal romantic suspense Krewe of Hunters series (The Unseen, etc.) with a rousing tale of the intriguing haunted town of Lily, Arizona….Readers will enjoy Sloan and Jane’s interactions as romantic partners and competent professionals, aided by Lily’s ghosts.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Night is Watching

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“I’ve long admired Heather Graham’s storytelling ability and this book hit the mark. I couldn’t put The Unholy down.”

—Fresh Fiction

“The main characters are a great team, both professionally and romantically.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unspoken

“The Uninvited is a saucy romantic murder mystery with ghosts taking center stage.”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest….Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“Great writing and excellent characters make Wicked a terrific read….The undercurrent of mystery and suspense will keep readers riveted.”

—Romance Reviews Today

The Cursed

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Key West—

one of the very special and unique places

that make my home state of Florida so special.

And for Stuart and Teresa Davant and days at the Banyan; Shayne, Chynna, Bryee, Jason and Derek for many trips to the island; Kathleen Pickering, Mary Stella, Connie Perry, Debbie Richardson, Aleka Nakis, Frazier Nivens, Clint Bullard, and so many more friends who make every trip down to Mile Marker 1 a little more amazing.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Prologue

Ghost Stories

“The children screamed in the night as they felt the fire surround them, as they felt the ash...as they breathed in a smell like bad fried chicken that drifted on the air—a smell that must have been the victims’ burning flesh!”

As he emerged from the bathroom, Stuart Bell waved his arms over his head in a ridiculously—he hoped—spooky way. He was trying to be funny. Not that the event had been funny. A dozen children and adults had once been killed in a fire here at their bed-and-breakfast. But that had been a long time ago.

Still, he was apparently not funny at all.

He could see that Shelly was genuinely scared—she had been since they’d embarked on the Key West ghost tour earlier that night.

The friends who’d taken the tour with them had all shaken off anything even remotely scary at their last stop, the haunted Hard Rock Cafe, where they’d imbibed a few island specialties and discussed some of the stories their guide had been telling them—despite having been told that a member of the Curry family had committed suicide in the ladies’ room. Everyone was having a great time—except for Shelly. Judy and Pete Atkinson, married grad students, were living it up away from kids, school and responsibilities. Mark Riordan and Yerby Catalano had kept up, matching them drink for drink. Shelly, however, had sipped at one blue, flowery beverage all night but left most of it behind.

The others had talked about the past and even laughed at the spooky melodramas their guide had recounted.

But Shelly took such stories to heart. She was still nervous.

He and Shelly Nicholson had been a couple since their junior year at the University of Miami, and they both believed they would stay together once they graduated; she was even looking for a graphic art job in the same city, Plantation, where he already had something lined up.

Stuart loved Shelly. He didn’t like to see her genuinely frightened.

She offered him a weak smile. She’d already changed into a pair of Disney pajamas—pretty obvious he wasn’t getting through those cute characters tonight. He didn’t care; he just wanted her to feel better. “I know you’re trying to help,” she said.

He caught her by the shoulders and urged her down on the luxurious bed. “They’re just stories,” he told her. “Sad memories of someone else’s past.”

“Yes, but...I can feel the stories. Does that make sense?” she asked.

In a way, yes, he thought, given where they were staying. The owner of the Siren of the Sea bed-and-breakfast—Hannah O’Brien—believed in doing it up right. The house had been built in 1839, and the care it had received over the years was extraordinary.

He had, he thought, done exceptionally well in choosing a place to stay for their trip down to the southernmost city in the United States.

But Shelly whispered, “If only we hadn’t stayed here.”

Of course. Their tour that night had started out from their bed-and-breakfast. Hannah herself, a lovely young woman not much older than they were, had been their tour guide, and she’d started with the tale of the B and B’s own ghosts.

There were several, supposedly. The most often seen was Melody Chandler, who paced the widow’s walk atop the roof, eternally waiting for her lover, Hagen Dundee, to return from the sea. He had died saving lives rather than cargo when her father’s ship Wind and the Sea had floundered just minutes after striking out from Key West, dashed to pieces on the reef by the sudden rise of a summer storm. There had been rumors of violent fighting with another salvager in the midst of the wicked storm—rumors that suggested Dundee had actually been murdered.

Melody had been convinced he wasn’t dead, that she would have felt it had he perished. Two weeks later, in the midst of another storm, she saw lights on the water and believed her lover had somehow survived in the ocean and been helped by a passing boat that was returning him to shore. She had raced down to what was now Smathers Beach, only to be swept away herself in the raging gale.

Now, Melody was sometimes seen on the beach when the sun set and night came on, while at other times she paced the roof of the Siren of the Sea. Occasionally she was even observed in the backyard, where what had once been a pond was now a small swimming pool surrounded by tiled paths, lush greenery and beautiful flowers.

And Hagen...well, Hagen had been seen opening the doors of the bed-and-breakfast time and again, searching for Melody.

“They’re real,” Shelly said. “I can feel them. I just—I just can’t go to sleep right now. I’m too wound up.”

Stuart felt himself perk up at those words, but the feeling was quickly dashed when she saw the hope in his eyes.

“No, I do not want to fool around,” she said. “Stuart, I’m sorry, but I just...can’t.”

He heard laughter from outside, soft and quiet. There were rules here at the Siren of the Sea. Hannah didn’t close the pool at night; she only asked her guests be quiet and respectful of others.

“Okay,” Stuart said. “That’s okay. But, if you can’t sleep, why don’t we join whoever is out at the pool? There’s even a small hot tub. Maybe that will make you sleepy.”

Shelly’s nod of gratitude was worth a night of not fooling around. He felt like a hero just from the way she was looking at him.

She rose, diving for her suitcase and bathing suit. He quickly grabbed his own trunks and tried not to watch her change. Even though she was scared, he couldn’t help himself and was feeling pretty hot and bothered.

Not much to see, though. She changed quickly then turned and gave him her beaming smile.

“Um, I think there are some beers in our minifridge,” he said.

She shook her head. “No more alcohol, please.”

“Soda?”

“Sure, thanks.”

That was another high point of the Siren of the Sea. Every one of the six large bedrooms contained a minifridge and microwave. Stuart collected two plastic bottles of soda, grabbed a couple of towels and smiled at Shelly, who smiled back, looking a little less frightened.

They left the room quietly and headed down the stairs. Whoever had been there earlier was gone. He set their sodas and towels on the old Victorian lawn chairs by the pool and jumped in. It was a small pool, only fifteen feet by thirty, adjoined by a small circular hot tub.

Shelly followed him in. For a few minutes they swam silently, and then, in unspoken agreement, they slipped over the divide into the hot tub. They sat together for a while, still without talking. The night was beautiful. A full moon rode high in the sky, and nearby hibiscus bushes and tree limbs thick with green leaves moved gently in the breeze.

“You okay?” he asked Shelly finally.

She nodded. “This was good. Thank you.” She smiled. “I love you. Let’s dry off. I think I can sleep now.”

They hopped out and went to get their towels. Stuart loved the period lawn chairs. They made him think of giant mansions and croquet fields, with men in knickers and women in white gowns wearing big white hats to shade their faces from the sun.

“Wanna lie here and dry off for a few minutes?” Shelly asked him.

“Sure, great.”

They stretched out their towels and lay in the moonlight, hands entwined as they looked up at the stars. Hannah kept subtly arranged lights burning in the garden that gently illuminated the lawn with their soft glow. The spring day had been warm, and the night was kissed by a pleasantly balmy breeze.

Stuart closed his eyes. “It’s beautiful here,” he murmured. “Too bad that massive ad agency that wants to offer me the almost-big bucks isn’t down here, because I could live here.”

“Easily,” she whispered.

Peace and serenity surrounded him. He really did love the Keys. There was something magical that happened once you left the mainland behind.

The air was so soft and nice, the lounge so comfortable, that he began to drift off.

Then Shelly screamed. It was a scream of pure and absolute terror.

His eyes flew open as he bolted up and saw...a strange man standing over Shelly. The stranger was gripping his throat with his right hand and making choking noises. Stuart was too startled, too terrified to be sure, but it looked as though something was oozing through the man’s fingers. Blood?

In his left hand the stranger held a knife. A huge bowie knife.

He heard another scream and realized that, just like Shelly, he, too, was screaming in pure, gut-wrenching, primeval terror.

He thought he saw the knife move, glittering silver and red in the moonlight as the stranger raised it and then sent it slashing down toward Shelly.

1

Hannah O’Brien walked into the large kitchen, ready to throw something. The past hour had been pure bedlam—guests hysterical and screaming, she herself completely baffled.

Of course she had offered to refund everyone’s money and suggest a beautiful chain hotel for them to check into.

She opened her mouth, not to scream, but to call out for immediate attention. Because she couldn’t think of anything else that might have happened except that one of her permanent residents had played a not-very-funny trick on her unsuspecting guests.

Melody Chandler was already there, leaning against the refrigerator in her beautiful Victorian glory, staring at her.

“What the hell was that?” Hannah demanded. “Did you bring a friend in? A dying man with his throat slit, carrying a knife and trying to kill my guests?”

“No!” Melody protested.

“That was unbelievable. I’ve never had guests up and leave at 4:00 a.m. before. Never. And I’ve never had to refund anyone’s money before, either.” Angrily, Hannah crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the ghost with whom she had shared this house for as long as she could remember. The original owner had been Hannah’s great-great-great grandfather on her father’s side, but she had actually inherited the house, already a B and B at that point, from her uncle. She had been his favorite niece, and she had loved him and the house. Sadly, he had died in his late forties from a sudden heart attack, and she had inherited the Siren all too soon. He had known how much she loved the place. She’d spent much of her time there with him, since her parents—who had lived a few blocks away on Simonton Street—had both worked.

She knew the house backward and forward—along with its ghosts.

She fought to control her temper. “Melody, a little spooking the guests is fun, but this time you and Hagen went too far. I’m fighting to keep this place, but I can’t do that if I don’t make a profit. You two just scared all our weekend guests away. And Shelly, the poor girl who saw you, was beyond terrified. And from what she described, I don’t blame her.”

“You did not listen to me, Hannah,” Melody protested, staring at her with wide eyes, pleading to be believed. “We did not do it. Hagen would never do anything like that. You know how squeamish he can be. And look at me. Do I look like a bleeding man with a knife? And who do I know? The same spirits you do! I do not know of a single spirit walking around Key West with a bleeding neck and a knife in his hand.”

Melody and Hagen didn’t refer to themselves as ghosts and didn’t like to be referred to that way. Of course, tourists and most locals called the city’s haunts ghosts, but Hannah was usually careful and polite, following their wishes and calling them spirits within their hearing.

And with her temper cooling, now that the brouhaha in the house had died down, she had to admit that she really couldn’t picture her resident ghosts turning themselves into the terrifying apparition described by her now-gone hysterical guests. But if her two known household entities hadn’t been playing tricks...

“Then who...?” she asked.

Someone drifted in through the closed back door and then materialized into an excellent imitation of flesh and blood.

Hannah was accustomed to such comings and goings. Hagen Dundee entered the kitchen and took up a protective stance at Melody’s side, slipping a ghostly arm around her. “I heard, Hannah, and Melody is telling you the truth, I swear it. As if anyone could ever mistake her for a man! And I promise you that it was not me, either. We were not even here. We were at the Hemingway House, playing with the cats.”

“Torturing the poor little six-toed creatures, probably,” Hannah said, still angry. She’d lost business tonight, business she couldn’t afford to lose. And she was fighting to believe it had been someone’s idea of a prank; it was too frightening to think that it might be something else. Something real.

“I love cats. I would never torture cats. You know that I love all animals,” Melody said regally.

Hannah swallowed, then pursued the hope that perhaps the couple had schemed with one of their island spirit friends to scare tourists.

“Honestly,” she said, “we’ve talked about this before. It’s charming and wonderful and helps business when you guys fool around and moan and groan in the middle of the night. Or, Melody, when you make an appearance at dusk, pacing the roof. Or, Hagen, when someone opens a door in the middle of the night and you’re standing in the hallway, looking tall and strong and desperate to find your beloved. But what happened tonight...it was mean. One of those people could have had a heart attack.”

Hagen looked at Melody and then walked over to Hannah and set his hands on his hips. His sandy hair was worn in a queue, and his bleached cotton shirt seemed to billow around his broad shoulders. She could have sworn she even saw specks of mud on his black leather boots. “Hannah,” he said earnestly, “we did not do it.” Then he turned his back on her and addressed Melody. “Dear, I believe we need fresh air—and different company. Shall we go for a bit of a walk?”

She stepped forward and took his arm. Then, heads held high, they headed toward the back door.

“Wait!” Hannah said. “Please. Help me. If you guys didn’t do it...who could it have been?”

“This island has spirits—and spirits,” Hagen told her. “Most of your ghost tourists stay on at the Hard Rock when you are done talking, and maybe they imbibed too heavily of spirits of an alcoholic nature. What I do know is that we did not do it—and you have deeply insulted us by suggesting we would do something so horrible. I really cannot stand here discussing this any further, Hannah. I am sorry. Melody, shall we take our stroll now? Perhaps down to the beach?” he asked, then bowed in a courtly manner and moved as if he were really opening the door for Melody. She sailed out, and he looked at Hannah again then strode off in Melody’s wake.

Hannah watched them go, surprised—and more than a little shaken.

She’d grown up in this house with the two of them for company. Nothing like tonight’s events had ever occurred before. She couldn’t believe they would do anything so vile, but if not them... She didn’t even want to think that a murderous ghost might be stalking the streets of the city she called home.

She sank down on a chair at the kitchen table, exhausted. She’d been sound asleep when she’d been startled awake, stunned and terrified herself, by the sound of screams. And Melody and Hagen were right. They didn’t begin to resemble the knife-wielding apparition that had threatened her guests out by the pool.

She winced. It hurt to lose so much business. Weekdays in the Keys were slow this time of year. The Siren of the Sea wasn’t a major hotel to be found on every travel site on the web, though she did have a great website of her own. During Fantasy Fest and other Conch holidays, she had it made. And she had wonderful reviews on the sites where she could be found. It was still hard to make ends meet, though. She didn’t want to overprice, but she only had six guest rooms.

Her house was worth a small fortune—she knew that. She’d received enough offers for it. But she didn’t want to sell—there was certainly nothing else in the area she could afford if she sold, and Key West was her home. She’d seen a fair amount of the world, many wonderful places, but she loved Key West.

“So...” she murmured aloud, drumming her fingers on the table.

Petrie, her humongous, long-haired, six-toed “Hemingway cat,” leaped smoothly up into her lap and meowed as if in deep sympathy.

“What’s going on, big guy? You’re a cat—you’re supposed to sense things.”

He merely swished his furry tail.

Hannah stood, gently sliding Petrie to the floor, and poured herself another cup of coffee before giving the cat a few treats.

It had all happened so fast. She had heard the screams and shot downstairs to see what was going on. Everyone in the place had been out by the pool within minutes, one college boy wielding a dive knife and Mr. Hardwicke, an elderly regular along with his wife, a heavy boot. But there had been no one there other than Shelly and Stuart, both of them hysterical. Their friends had been less than kind, insisting she’d freaked out over the ghost tour, that was all. But Stuart had been adamant that there had been a ghost—a vengeful ghost—and only their screams had driven him away. Someone had suggested they call the cops; someone else had snorted and said that cops couldn’t arrest ghosts.

The next thing Hannah knew, they were all leaving. And while they’d spent most of the night, she’d decided it would be bad customer service practice not to refund their money.

Now the sun had risen on another beautiful Key West morning. Bright and early, just about 7:00 a.m., a westward breeze was coming in, the foliage was moving gently in the breeze, and the dead heat of midday was not yet burning the pavement.

She went to right one of her Victorian lawn lounges, which had toppled over in the commotion.

And that was when she saw them.

Drops of red that led off through the bushes and...

Disappeared.

She hunkered down to study the spots and froze.

They were blood. Real blood. Not astral blood, spiritual blood, ghostly blood or imaginary blood from an apparition of some kind. Real blood meant that someone or something living had come through the yard—not a ghost. There were outside lights by the pool, but at night these drops would have been invisible.

Hannah pushed her way through the foliage where the blood trail seemed to end, though the drops might have disappeared into thin air or they might have been soaked up by the dirt. She couldn’t really tell. The yard here in back of the pool grew rich and lush all the way up to the bushes that lined the brick wall and the white wooden gate that led to the small alley behind her house. Vehicles couldn’t traverse the narrow way; it was a footpath, normally used only by those who already knew it was there.

The gate was unhooked. There was a bloody handprint on it.

Gingerly, afraid of what she would find, Hannah pushed it all the way open.

And there he was. A man lying just two feet from the gate, sprawled faceup, staring wide-eyed up at the sun.

A brilliant crimson ribbon ran around his neck.

And his fingers curled as if he had been holding something....

Like the hilt of a knife.

* * *

“How did you know there was a body in the alley?” Dallas Samson asked, after introducing himself and flashing his FBI badge.

The young woman who had summoned the police was standing behind the crime scene tape that now stretched across the alley and up to her gate. Detective Liam Beckett was with her. Beckett was a city cop—and a friend of Dallas’s. Apparently Beckett was a friend of the young woman’s, too. She was extremely attractive, Dallas noted almost dispassionately. He filed away everything he noticed about possible suspects and witnesses in the back of his mind, so it was second nature to make a physical assessment. She was about five-five, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, sleek and slim, with deep blue-green eyes and a mane of golden hair. She was, however, tense. She stood straight—almost frozen. Not panicked, but icy. Almost as if she were battling not to show any emotion, doing everything in her power to remain stoic and calm. He realized he’d barely taken his eyes off her. And the tension he was feeling himself was making him come off like a drill sergeant. He couldn’t help it—not with a dead body lying in the alley and her standing there not answering his question.

He sure as hell wasn’t helping her any, but it rankled that she’d been talking easily with Liam when Dallas had arrived, and now she was just staring at him without saying a word.

Her brows hiked up as she finally considered her reply to his query.

She was taking too long to answer. The tension he was feeling increased.

He pursued his question even more impatiently. “Let me rephrase. Do you usually wake up bright and early and come out to the alley looking for bodies?”

Liam cleared his throat reprovingly, and Dallas winced inwardly. He’d let his temper get the best of him, making him rude and sarcastic. He wasn’t usually that way, but he was feeling a hell of a lot more tense than the blonde—than any of them, at the moment.

But, then, he’d known the dead man.

And he didn’t like the way the man had been found.

“Hannah called me immediately,” Liam said, frowning. “And, I assure you, it’s the first time she’s ever called me about a body.”

“Of course,” Dallas said. “Sorry. So, you knew he was here because—” he paused, looking at Liam “—because he was in your yard—and still alive—last night?” He realized the implication that she might have saved him was in his voice. He hadn’t meant it to be, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

He looked around and noticed that there was a lot of confusion at the scene. A couple of uniformed officers had been first on the scene, followed by Liam—and he’d been right behind. Now techs were dusting and setting out numbers by everything they found, and looking for evidence, and the medical examiner was with the body. She had touched the body, trying to see what she could do for him before realizing he was dead. If she’d been a screaming basket case, he would probably be having an easier time dealing with her. But though she was calm now, she had been screaming when she’d dialed 911. The uniformed officers had probably arrived within seconds—they were just down the street from Duval, because the department always patrolled the bar and club scene there, no matter how late—or early—that was.

“I never saw him in my yard. Two of my guests—former guests—saw him. But they didn’t realize he was real. They thought they were seeing a ghost.”

The young woman—Liam had introduced her as Hannah O’Brien—seemed to be growing aggravated with him. He didn’t really blame her. He was usually a lot better at a crime scene.

“They thought a real man—mortally injured and bleeding—was a ghost?” Dallas demanded.

“Yes.”

“How the hell...?” he muttered.

“I can’t read their minds,” she said sharply. There was something almost regal about her. Maybe that was what bugged him. It compelled him, and that irritated him. He took a breath and tried to regain a professional calm.

“All right. Can you start at the beginning for me?” he asked.

“I was sound asleep. I heard a scream and came running downstairs—they were in back of the house by the pool. I looked out and saw two of my guests. One of them was insisting she’d seen a ghost in my yard,” Hannah explained. “She—her name’s Shelly Nicholson—had been on my ghost tour. She and her boyfriend, Stuart Bell, were absolutely convinced they’d seen a homicidal ghost. But there was nothing there.

“I tried to calm them down. I told them...I told them that ghosts weren’t real, and even if they were, it wasn’t likely they’d be able to kill anyone. I got them to quit screaming and talk it through. Nothing budged them. They insisted they’d seen a bloody ghost holding a bowie knife. By then, everyone in the place was out there and freaking out. So I got everyone checked out and sent them down to the Westin, and then, when it was light, came back out to look around.” She hesitated for a long moment, glancing at Liam. “I don’t even know of any Key West ghosts that supposedly run around bleeding and carrying a bowie knife.” She stopped, struck by the thought that the man on the ground was now eligible to be a Key West ghost legend.

“A bowie knife?” Dallas demanded.

She nodded. “That’s what Stuart said. He was one of the people who saw the...ghost.”

“How did he know it was a bowie knife?” Dallas demanded.

“How do I know? Maybe he saw The Alamo a zillion times!” she snapped back, her irritation showing.

“He doesn’t have a knife now,” Dallas pointed out.

“No. He wasn’t holding it when I found him,” she said. “I looked around, and I didn’t see a knife anywhere. But if you looked at his hand...”

“Yes,” Dallas said. “It does look as if he’d been holding something. You touched the body. Are you sure you didn’t move his hand? Even by accident?”

“No, I definitely didn’t move his hand. I was kneeling on his other side, and I was still there when Officer Mann got here and told me to move away carefully so I didn’t contaminate the crime scene. I did not touch his hand.”

Dirk Mendini, the medical examiner down from the coroner’s office in Marathon, rose and walked over to them just then. He indicated his wish to speak with the detectives by angling his head.

“Excuse us, Hannah, will you?” Liam asked gently.

She nodded. “Okay if I go inside and clean up?” she asked.

She had the dead man’s blood on her, and Dallas found himself wondering if she was compassionate or just stupid. She’d heard the man had been wielding a bowie knife, but still she’d approached him before she was sure he was dead and not a threat.

He realized he was feeling bitter toward her, and he knew he was wrong. He wanted to blame her for the death, even though he knew he had no right to do so. He was frustrated and wanted to lash out, but he had to get himself under control.

Apparently he took too long to speak that time.

She stared at him and said, “I’ve already been photographed and swabbed for blood. Poked and prodded and questioned. The technician said he had everything he needed.”

Dallas nodded curtly. He looked beyond her. It was just after seven in the morning—ridiculously early for a Key West morning—but even so, a few onlookers had gathered in the narrow alley. He let his eyes sweep over them. A tall, bald man who looked as if he had been a prizefighter at one time seemed to be watching Hannah with concern. A young woman with the light coloring and facial features of one of the Eastern European immigrants who made up so much of the Key West workforce was watching the bald man. A slim older woman was staring past the crime tape. A bike messenger was gaping, wide-eyed.

Naturally, the local news had somehow heard all about it already. A Barbie doll of a blonde with a microphone was trying to get something—anything—from the stoic officers guarding the scene, a cameraman following her. When the police refused to cooperate she turned to the onlookers, but none of them seemed to want their fifteen minutes of fame. They replied to her with annoyance, as if she were a fly in the way of the television screen.

“Hang on, Dirk,” Dallas said to the M.E.

He walked over to the newswoman, who was trying to speak to the bald guy. “Miss, so far we have nothing but a dead man. Out of respect, perhaps you could hold off until there’s something to report? When the police have enough information to make a statement, they will.”

“And you are?”

“Not the police spokesman,” Dallas said. “I repeat. When they can give a statement, they will.”

“Wrap it up, Jake,” she told the cameraman. “They’re blocking the body, anyway. We’ll get footage of the house from the street, show the proximity to Duval....” She turned and glared at Dallas. “And we’ll make sure our viewers know that the police are being extremely unhelpful.”

Liam joined Dallas. “Sunny Smith, right?” he asked the blonde politely. When she nodded, he went on, “Look, Sunny, we don’t know anything yet. We found a body in an alley. That’s it.”

“Who found the body?” Sunny Smith demanded.

“We found a body,” Liam repeated firmly. “When there’s news, we’ll get it to you.”

“Who is the dead man?” Sunny asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Liam said.

“How was he killed?” Sunny demanded.

“I didn’t say that he was killed, Sunny,” Liam told her.

“Which one of these people found the body? The woman you were talking to?” Sunny demanded.

“Hey, Sunny, please, as soon as I have something, you’ll get it,” Liam promised.

“And right now you’re taking up our time and hindering an investigation,” Dallas said.

“We’ll question the pretty woman with the blood on her,” Sunny said, turning and speaking to her cameraman and then looking around for Hannah.

But Dallas was suddenly grateful to Hannah O’Brien, who had taken advantage of the reporter’s intrusion and disappeared.

Frustrated, Sunny went on to the bike messenger.

“You don’t want to let any info out, see if it pulls anyone out of the woodwork?” Liam asked him. “Because we’re going to have to make a statement soon. Too many people know this has happened and have seen the body.”

Dallas shook his head. “We can give a statement—just carefully. I’ll explain later.”

He turned and rejoined Dirk near the body, and Liam went with him.

“Dallas, what are you doing on a Key West murder?” Dirk asked immediately, then turned to Liam. “Is he taking the lead?”

“We’re not sure what’s up yet, Dirk,” Liam said, then shifted his attention to Dallas. “But I’m assuming this has something to do with a Federal case.”

Dallas shrugged. “Yes, well, a Federal lead on a combined case.”

He hadn’t been assigned to the Key West FBI unit long. It was a small office, just as the U.S. Marshals’ office was small here. His headquarters were on the mainland, in Miami.

Oddly, though, despite the small size of the office—or perhaps because of it—his was in an interesting position. Agents here worked closely with the Coast Guard, the city police, the county sheriff’s office and the U.S. Marshals Service—all because of Key West’s location, accessibility and...unique nature, its strange atmosphere. It was a crazy place to call home, but it was his crazy place. The island had a long and checkered history. It had provided a stop for pirates, a haven for wreckers, a hard passage for Confederate blockade runners and now it offered access for smugglers bringing everything from illegal drugs to refugees into the country.

He’d grown up here—grown up most of the way, anyway. In his heart, it had always been home.

And now he was back.

“I’m taking on just about anything, Dirk,” Dallas said. He glanced over at Liam. He was here now, and so quickly, thanks to Liam. When they’d been kids here on the island, they’d been best friends. Then Dallas’s father had been offered a civilian position with the FBI, and Dallas had only been back for a few nostalgic vacations now and then since those long-ago years.

But, he decided, for a pair of kids who had spent a few evil days torturing tourists on ghost tours and stealing beers from the unwary in a multitude of local bars, they’d turned out okay. And they were still friends who respected and trusted each other, something that was all-important right now.

“We may have the best liaison system going just about anywhere,” Liam said to Dirk. “We have to. The island’s so small that every agency is understaffed, so we’ve got to work with each other. No other choice,” he said.

“If you ask me, the Key West cops do a damned good job,” Dirk said.

“They do,” Dallas agreed. “But sometimes cases overlap.”

“Sure. I get it,” Dirk said, nodding. “The murder happened in Key West, but the victim could be from another state. He might have been smuggling drugs, or...hell, the U.S. Marshals Service might have had a warrant out on him.”

Or, Dallas thought—because he knew—he might have been an officer of the law. Either way, I intend to get his murderer.

He didn’t say so, though. Not yet. “So, are we looking at the obvious cause of death?” he asked.

“Throat slit. But the killer only nicked the major bleeder,” Dirk told them. “That’s why he didn’t bleed out immediately. I’m thinking that since he made an appearance in a yard at about 3:00 a.m. he must have been attacked a few minutes earlier. Body temp and rigor mortis agree with that timing. The blood loss would have disoriented him. I have tissue and blood samples out now for toxicology tests, so I’ll be able to tell you more.”

“Damn idiot. Why was he stumbling around in that yard?” Dallas asked, speaking to himself as much as to Liam and the M.E. “If he’d gotten help...”

He immediately regretted the passion he’d allowed to enter his voice. The M.E. looked at him strangely, as if aware there was more here than met the eye.

“I don’t think he could have been saved unless the damage had been done right smack in the middle of an emergency room,” Dirk told him, setting a hand on his shoulder. For an M.E., he seemed to have a decent sense about the living. He asked quietly, “You know him? The local boys were really good about protecting the crime scene, and they checked for identification first thing but came up empty. We’ll take fingerprints, of course, and run them through the system. If he’s got a sheet of any kind, anywhere, we’ll find him.”

“You’ll match them,” Dallas said, looking over at the body. The dead man was Jose Miguel Rodriguez. Dallas had met him briefly once or twice; he’d been an extraordinary agent. Working undercover, he’d done a great deal to stop drug traffic into the South Florida area. Dallas had been due to meet up with Rodriguez the next day on the beach by Fort Zachary Taylor. “But not because of a rap sheet. And when you do ID him, make sure to keep his name and affiliation confidential among law enforcement agencies—the truth can’t leak to the news. This man was an agent working undercover—Jose Rodriguez. You can’t release anything I’m telling you now—and nothing can get out at all except that an unidentified body was found in an alley, with all other information pending the medical examiner’s report. Some things the public can’t get for a while, all right, Dirk?”

“Gotcha,” Dirk said.

“So he’s one of ours?” Liam asked, frowning.

“FBI,” Dallas said. “He was working the Los Lobos case.”

“The wolves,” Dirk said.

Dallas nodded. “We’re all working it, Dirk. I’m not divulging any secrets—you’ve obviously heard about the Los Lobos gang, and everyone from the cops to the military has been alerted to keep an eye out for the members and their activities.”

Dirk nodded. “Who hasn’t? When they started up, I had a few corpses up for autopsy at the morgue in Marathon. Seems they’re run by some big shot out of Colombia—supposedly an American expat. The members come in all colors and nationalities—the one thing is they have to swear absolute loyalty. The smallest betrayal means death—execution style.”

“That’s why they’re doing so well,” Dallas said grimly. “No one knows who they are, and they’re all too scared to turn on the others. They know the islands. They slip in and out at night, moving from the Caribbean to the Keys.”

“But from what I understand, they’re not drug dealers, they’re smugglers, right?” Dirk asked.

Dallas nodded. “Museum pieces, looted artifacts. They’ve gotten into and out of a number of places here in the Keys, as well as in South America, Cuba, Jamaica—they’ve pilfered Mayan artifacts from Mexico. They also smuggle people in and out of the country. Anyway,” he added quietly, “Jose had infiltrated them, he was the first man on the inside ever. He was just getting in deep with the ‘field workers,’ who are at the beck and call of the headman. The thing about this gang is that many of them aren’t what you’d expect. They aren’t tattooed, and they don’t wear motorcycle jackets or lounge around like barflies. A lot of them look like upright and ordinary citizens—businessmen, churchgoers, even cops and politicians.”

“They work like veins and arteries from a heart,” Liam said. “A very peculiar pyramid scheme.” He glanced at Dallas. “How many people do they think are involved all across the country?”

“Our best intelligence officers—CIA, FBI, Homeland Security—estimate about a hundred and fifty scattered across the United States.”

Dirk nodded, taking in their words. He was silent for a moment and then said, “Odd.”

“What’s odd?” Dallas asked.

“Los Lobos...the bodies I’ve had that the county officers think were members were done in true execution style—bullet to the back of the head. This is different,” Dirk said. “I’m not an investigator, of course. I can only tell you what...what the dead can tell. But it’s something to think about, right?”

Yes, it was.

Dallas hesitated before speaking. “Different crimes call for different punishments.” He hunkered down by the dead man. “Look at his hand, Dirk. He was holding something, right? Something somebody pried out of his hand.”

“So it appears,” Dirk agreed.

“Like a knife,” Dallas murmured.

“Hard to tell. I’ll have more for you after the autopsy. Traffic is going to be bad, so it’ll be an hour or so before we even have him on a table.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Dallas.”

“I didn’t know him well. I just know that he was one of the good guys,” Dallas said. At least Dirk had done Rodriguez the mercy of closing his eyes.

Dallas set his fingers lightly on the dead man’s shoulders as he studied him. For a moment he felt the fierce grip of pain and sorrow.

This scene was too familiar. Not that long ago they’d lost another agent. Not that long ago he’d come upon a dead woman—that same agent—in the same position, lying in the street on her back. He had been close to what was going on...close to finding the truth, to rounding up a bunch of greedy bastards who didn’t care who they killed in their quest to amass more and more wealth.

They had made arrests. But he had suspected then, and he suspected now, that the real killer—the man giving the orders—had eluded him.

Jose Rodriguez had died on his back. His left hand was still curved and slightly twisted. His right hand lay in a puddle of blood.

Frowning, Dallas studied the puddle.

Jose had been trying to write something in his own blood.

Dallas took a moment to envision the scene and figure out how Rodriguez had managed to write something while lying on his back. Only one scenario made sense.

Jose had fallen forward, dying. He’d started to write something, but the killer had come up behind him before he finished, and wrenched him around so that he had landed on his back—his hand still in the pool of blood he had been using as ink.

Dallas looked over at Liam. “Can you make that out?”

“Make what out? It’s a pool of blood—oh! I see what you’re saying.”

They both bent closer, trying to read the dead man’s message. “That first letter’s a C,” Liam murmured.

“Yeah. I think you’re right. Then...a U?” Dallas asked.

“Yeah, C-U-R,” Liam agreed. “Cur? Like a dog?”

“I don’t think so. Can you get one of the photographers over here?” Dallas asked.

Liam rose and motioned for a crime scene tech. The man hurried over, took pictures as Dallas indicated, and then moved back to the fence where he’d been working.

“Whoever he was,” Dallas told the dead man quietly, “we’ll find him.”

Two of Dirk’s assistants came for the body, and another tech walked up to Liam. “Sir? Anything specific you want us to look for?” he asked.

“Inspect the alley and all the nearby streets, and the yard, too. Our vic was seen with a knife—a big knife, like a bowie knife. Try to find it. Search everywhere our victim could have been.”

“Do we need a permit for the yard?” the tech asked.

“Hannah is a friend. We have her blessing for anything that’s necessary. Do your jobs, but don’t be careless. Try not to leave the place looking like a war zone,” Liam said.

The tech nodded and moved away.

Dallas shook his head, looking from the yard to the house. “How the hell could anyone think that a dying man was a ghost?” he demanded.

“The power of suggestion, probably,” Liam said. “People love ghost tours. They go on them all the time. They want to be scared. They don’t want real danger, but they want to be scared. Hell, Dallas, nothing’s changed since we were kids. This place survives on tourism. Tourists like stories. We’re full of them.”

“But this guy was stumbling around your friend’s yard and she didn’t wake up until some tourist screamed, and then she was all, ‘Wow, you saw a bloody ghost in my yard? Okay.’”

“Hannah is a good kid, Dallas. Lay off. She was dealing with screaming tourists who told her they saw a ghost, not a man.”

Dallas nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

“Come in and talk to her. Talk. Don’t yell.”

“I was never yelling.”

“You basically accused her of causing his death.”

“The hell I did. I merely suggested that an intelligent and rational human being might have thought from the get-go that there was something more than a ghost in her yard.”

Liam lowered his head, a slight grin on his face. “I’m going in for coffee. If you can be nice for a few minutes, you’re invited, too.” He looked up at Dallas, and his smile faded. “You heard the doc. He couldn’t have been saved unless he’d been in an emergency room when it happened. It’s not Hannah’s fault your man is dead.”

“I know. I just...I just feel like something is escaping me and that I should be able to grasp it, and I can’t. I’ll be pleasant. I promise.”

“No sarcasm?”

“No sarcasm.”

They took the path from the gate past the pool, where the techs were busy stringing tape to try to salvage what they could of the victim’s route from the yard to his death.

There were no blood trails to the yard, which seemed impossible, but unless the techs could find something with their equipment that neither Liam nor Dallas had seen, Jose Rodriguez might as well have appeared in the yard like the ghost those kids had thought he was, because there was no sign of where he had been before he showed up by the pool.

How could that be? He must have been bleeding steadily by that point.

There was a crime scene marker at every spot where Hannah O’Brien had seen blood as she’d followed the trail through her yard to the alley.

Dallas couldn’t help himself. He paused, looking at the lawn chairs beside the pool. He imagined the couple lying there....

Opening their eyes.

Seeing Rodriguez bleeding, holding a knife, then screaming in terror at what they thought was a ghost.

They had still been out there freaking out when Hannah came out to see what was going on, so why hadn’t Rodriguez stayed there with them and asked for help?

The pool was surrounded by attractive tile work, which gave way to lawn. It appeared that Rodriguez had stumbled past the chairs, then across the grass, past the bushes edging the yard and through the gate into the alley. It hadn’t rained recently, so the foliage was dry and brittle. He had to assume there would be evidence if Rodriguez had gone through it. Since there wasn’t, he had to assume Rodriguez had taken almost a straight line out to the alley.

Had the gate already been open?

He closed his eyes and tried to picture what had happened.

Sliced, bleeding, dying...but he hadn’t headed to the house?

Why?

There could be only one reason.

Rodriguez had come from the alley, trying to escape through the yard, and the killer had been behind him. But he’d seen the kids by the pool and hadn’t wanted anyone else to die, so he’d sacrificed his own life and turned around, back toward danger.

So where was the killer now?

And where was the knife the couple had seen Rodriguez waving?

The answer was obvious.

The killer had followed him until he had fallen, then wrested the knife—which might well have been dripping with the killer’s blood—from Rodriguez’s dying grasp.

2

Hannah had hurried past the pool area and inside without looking back. Once there, she leaned against the door, just breathing.

She still felt as though, even if she were pinched, she wouldn’t feel anything.

He’d been real. The “ghost” in her yard had not been a ghost at all. At least, he hadn’t been a ghost when her guests had seen him. He had been real—he’d been flesh and blood and...

Alive.

But according to the medical examiner, nothing could have saved him at that point.

And still, in her mind, she kept replaying everything about finding his corpse as clearly as if it were happening all over again. First the blood...

And then the body.

She’d rushed to his side, fallen to her knees while fumbling to get her phone from her pocket. She’d touched him, ready to do whatever necessary to help him.

And then she’d seen his eyes.

Dead eyes.

Every corpse she’d ever seen had been laid out tenderly in a casket at a wake or a viewing.

The dead never look right, never, no matter how good the mortician is, Melody had told her once.

But they didn’t look like the dead man in the alley. Lying there as if he’d known death was coming, as if...

As if he had tried to speak, tried to say something before succumbing to the darkness.

If only she’d gotten there sooner.

No. She couldn’t have gotten there sooner; she hadn’t had any idea of what was going on when Shelly and Stuart had started screaming, and it had seemed so cut-and-dried. Shelly, already on edge after the ghost tour, had thought she’d seen a ghost and Stuart had gotten carried away on the wave of her hysteria. And then she’d had to deal with all the other guests shrieking and shouting and just generally going nuts.

There was nothing she could have done. Even if she’d run right out to look for a bleeding man with a huge knife in his hand, it would have been too late. He’d already been dying.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she muttered drily to herself. She realized she felt incredibly guilty, which was ridiculous, because she hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the man had been alive....

And now he was dead.

She pushed away from the door. She didn’t just feel guilty about the dead man, she realized. She felt guilty for suspecting her resident ghosts of being up to no good, which had been entirely stupid of her. They always looked exactly the same. Melody was always beautiful in her Victorian gown, and Hagen always looked like a handsome swashbuckler in his fawn breeches, boots and muslin poet’s shirt. They didn’t change clothing—and they didn’t run around with weapons, much less bleeding.

She needed to do something, get busy. She couldn’t just stand there all day feeling guilty. But she’d already stripped all the beds in a fury and cleaned the house, powered by the adrenalin that had raced through her after the scare and the effort of getting all her guests settled elsewhere. By the time the sun came up, the Siren was ready for business. Too bad she didn’t have that much energy every day.

In the kitchen she poured herself another cup of coffee and took out her scheduling book. Stuart and Shelly and their friends had been due to stay another three days. There were prospective guests who had wanted to come, but she’d had to turn them away. Several had left their numbers, though. Maybe she could call them and...

And tell them that a dying man had walked through her yard before his death and scared everyone else away?

The pages seemed to swim before her eyes.

She thought she heard someone knocking at the back door. She rose and went to check.

No one.

She moved back through the house, looking out the windows as she went. There were people walking along the sidewalk out front, but no one was at her door or trying to get her attention.

She headed back to the kitchen, but once she got there she felt a strange sensation creep along her spine as if she wasn’t alone.

“Melody? Hagen?” she said. Her words were soft—and hopeful.

But neither of her resident ghosts replied. They were angry—they had a right to be.

But, despite their silence, were they here, watching her? Watching everything that was going on?

“Guys, please, I’m really, really sorry,” she said.

No one answered her. She decided she must be feeling off because of the bad night she’d had and all the people crawling around her yard, not to mention that she’d stumbled on a body this morning. She let out a soft sigh and tried to imagine her bank accounts in her mind’s eye, then decided on a course of action. She asked herself again whether she should call the potential guests who’d left their numbers or not. Maybe it was too soon.

Too soon after discovering a dead man.

Hannah drummed her fingers on the table. She was glad that Liam had come when her emergency call had gone through; he had been her friend for as long as she could remember. As for the FBI agent...

She didn’t have anything against FBI agents. Her cousin Kelsey was an FBI agent. She wished fiercely at that moment that Kelsey was still in Key West, but she was in the D.C. area, part of a special unit. Hannah hadn’t gotten to see a lot of Kelsey since she’d moved.

Hannah missed her.

Missed her now more than ever.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, suddenly overcome by the urge to speak with her cousin.

She stopped herself before opening speed dial. She would call Kelsey soon and spill everything that had happened. Kelsey was tough but compassionate. She would put everything in perspective.

Hannah just wasn’t going to call her now, while she was in a panic. She would wait until she was calm, when she wouldn’t sound as hysterical as Shelly had sounded that morning.

Her best course of action right now was to try to come to grips with what had happened. She winced.

She hadn’t even known the man.

But she had held him in death.

She gave herself a mental shake. She needed to be busy so she could take her mind off things.

Hard to do, of course, when her guests had fled.

So she would sit down, breathe, check out her bank accounts and assure herself that she could weather this storm. Yes, a man had died and that was tragic. But she hadn’t known him, and she had done what she could. She had to move forward now.

* * *

Liam was obviously good friends with Hannah O’Brien, Dallas thought when his friend went straight to the back door, opened it without knocking and walked right in.

The house was old—probably one of the island’s oldest. Tongue-and-groove paneling was evident in a rear room that had been set up as a social area, with a large flat-screen television surrounded by old bookshelves that also held a stereo system. The furniture seemed to be what was locally called Victorian Keys—rattan and wicker decorated with cushions covered in period-design fabrics. The drapes back here were sheer and floated through large open windows that looked out over the patio and pool.

“Hannah?” Liam called.

“In the kitchen!” came the reply.

“You should lock your door,” Liam told her.

“I usually do,” she replied. “Honestly.”

By then they were walking through the formal dining room. If it had been 1839, Dallas thought, the room wouldn’t have looked any different. The table was large enough to seat at least twelve and was highly polished. Intricately carved legs each ended in a dragon’s head. Lace doilies, along with a handsome silver service, covered the tabletop. Liam didn’t pause but walked on through to the kitchen. Dallas followed him.

There was another table in the kitchen—this one smaller and far more casually set. It sat six, tops. The kitchen itself was large and in keeping with the rest of the house. The sink had reproduction faucets that resembled old pumps, the counters were butcher block, with marble tops by the stove and sink. Copper pots and pans hung from the rafters, and there was a huge fireplace with a large kettle hanging over carefully stacked wood. Dallas was pretty sure it was just for show.

Hannah was seated at the table. She had changed into a sundress and was no longer covered in blood. Her hair was wet; she had apparently washed it. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes were wide. She was, he thought, very much a beauty, like a classical statue in her near perfection.

She was sipping from a mug as she studied a record book in front of her.

“I’m debating whether to call the people I had to turn away,” she told Liam drily. “My bottom line could certainly use the help.”

“Don’t know how to help you there, I’m afraid,” Liam told her as he pulled out the chair to her right and helped himself to coffee.

“There’s quiche and croissants if you’d like,” she said. “Obviously I’m not serving a dozen guests this morning.”

“How sad. Your guests are gone,” Dallas snapped before he could stop himself.

She stared at him, obviously stung by his tone. “I found that poor man. I saw his face. It was...” She shuddered. “Anyway, think whatever you want of me, but we’re still here and so is the food, so help yourself if you’re hungry.”

He was hungry; the call from Liam had dragged him out of bed early in the morning, and he hadn’t had a break since. But he felt like an ass. No way in hell could he accept her food after he’d just been so rude to her.

“I’m pretty sure you both know I didn’t kill that man,” she said quietly. “But the clothes I was wearing are in that paper bag if you need them for anything.”

“The lab might want them,” Liam said.

“Interesting,” Dallas said. “That’s a good call, but it’s interesting that you thought ahead like that.”

She gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “The techs outside asked me to bag up the clothing I was wearing in case they could find trace evidence from the killer on it.”

Dallas kept his mouth shut and took a drink of the coffee Liam had already poured for him, but inside he was thinking, You ass all over again.

“Hannah, by any chance did your guests tell you what direction the ‘ghost’ came from?” Liam asked her.

She shook her head. “I wish I could tell you more, Liam, but no, they didn’t say anything. I assume you’ll want to talk to them yourself, though. I arranged for them to stay at the Westin. None of the B and Bs would have had room, even if I’d been able to reach someone at that hour of the morning.”

“I’m assuming you have cell numbers for them so we can track them down if they’re out?” Dallas asked.

She nodded and reached for the guest register on the table. “Of course.”

Liam rose, pulling out a small pad and a pen. “What are their names?”

“Stuart Bell and Shelly Nicholson saw him and thought he was a ghost,” Hannah said, and gave him their numbers. “Their friends are Pete and Judy Atkinson, and Mark Riordan and Yerby Catalano. And then there were the Hardwickes. They’re regulars, and much too elderly to be your murderer, if that’s what you’re thinking. They woke up with all the screaming and came rushing down, just like I did. They were just as confused and disoriented as I was. Everyone but the Hardwickes was on my ghost tour earlier. I start off here, and I always end at the Hard Rock—part of their ticket price gets them a drink. I left them there, came home and went to sleep. I didn’t hear them come in. I didn’t hear anything until the screaming started. Just call over to the hotel. I’m sure you’ll reach them there.”

“Thanks,” Liam told her, then got up and walked away from the table as he started making his calls.

“They really thought a dying man was a ghost?” Dallas asked, shaking his head.

“I guess you don’t really understand this island,” Hannah said.

He smiled grimly. “Oh, I think I do.”

“You’re new here, right?”

“I haven’t been assigned here long, no. But I know the island. I was born here, Miss O’Brien.”

“Ah,” she said, studying him. “Really? I’m going to guess that you’ve been away awhile. Because you should know that people like to come here and steep themselves in ghost stories, then party at the bars on Duval Street.”

“They were drunk?” he asked.

That seemed to give her pause. She shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t think they were.”

“There’s a big difference between a supposed ghost and a dying man,” Dallas said. He took another drink of his coffee. It was good. Strong. Exactly what he liked and needed.

“I might remind you, Mr. Samson, that I’m not the one who saw him. My guests told me that they’d seen a ghost, and since they were clearly terrified I did what I thought was the right thing—I gave them their money back and sent them where they’d feel safe.”

He leaned forward, looking at her. “It’s Agent Samson, Ms. O’Brien. And while you were busy doing the right thing, weren’t you afraid yourself?”

“Of a ghost? A supposed ghost? No.”

He leaned closer to her. “What about the knife?”

She shrugged. “They said he had a knife—and no, I don’t know why they thought a ghost was able to carry a real knife—and that he was about to do them in. I never saw the knife.”

Liam returned to the table and told them, “They’re still at the hotel. I spoke to a friend at the desk. She’s slipping a note beneath the door, because they have their phones off—probably trying to get some sleep. We can stop on by when we leave here or wait to speak to them when they wake up. Hannah, the crime scene techs will probably be around for a few more hours. There’s a lot of foliage around the property, and they’re trying to find any clues—blood, broken branches, a scrap of fabric...whatever. Trying to figure out where he came from before he wound up in your yard and where the killer might have hidden.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “We’re just a block off Duval,” she said. “I imagine...well, the backstreets here are pretty quiet once the bars close.”

Liam nodded. “I’m going to take you up on breakfast before we go.”

“Please do,” she said, rising. “Let me nuke it for you.” She turned to look at Dallas. “Agent Samson?”

What the hell. He was hungry.

“Sure,” he said. “Thank you.”

She put the food in the microwave to heat, then set plates before the two of them.

“Did you know who he was?” she asked. “Was he a criminal—or just a good guy who happened to be walking around carrying a bowie knife?”

Dallas looked at her. She could also have an acid tongue when she chose.

Liam said, “It’s a closed investigation, so I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”

Hannah turned from Liam to stare at Dallas. “I see. I’m not sure how you’re going to keep a lid on things, but I guess I don’t really need an answer.”

“Yes,” Dallas said quietly, making the decision to let her into the zone of trust. “He was a good guy walking around with a bowie knife. He was one of ours, an agent named Jose Rodriguez. Luckily he doesn’t have a wife or kids, and his parents died a long time ago in a South American coup. When the Bureau spins what happens, they’ll probably let the media think that he was a criminal—and he would have approved of that. It took him forever to get undercover. They won’t want that information getting out.”

“I’m really sorry,” she said quietly. “And I won’t say a thing.”

“Thanks,” he told her.

An awkward silence reigned. Liam broke it. “Great quiche, Hannah. There’s a reason you’re known for having one of the best breakfasts in town.”

“Glad you liked it, Liam.”

“Very good,” Dallas agreed.

She nodded. “Thanks.”

“Was anyone else here?” Dallas asked suddenly.

Hannah frowned. “What do you mean?”

He thought she sounded a little defensive. “Exactly what I said. Was anyone else here? Do you run this place by yourself?”

She let out a breath. “Valeriya Dimitri helps out with housekeeping, but she goes home at night. Bentley Holloway takes care of the grounds and does repairs. He works for a few other people, too, and lives in the little shotgun house next door. Neither of them is here in the middle of the night, and I called Valeriya this morning and told her to take today off because of what happened. She emigrated here from Russia about ten years ago, and she’s a lovely young woman who’s just happy to be living with her family here in Key West. And Bentley is almost as much an island icon as Fort Zachary Taylor. Neither of them would ever hurt anyone. Actually, you probably saw both of them earlier. They were out back in the alley. Valeriya was already on her way in to work when I reached her, and Bentley—well, like I said, he lives next door. The commotion probably brought him out.”

“Bentley was the bald guy standing in the back,” Liam said to Dallas. “And Valeriya is a pretty blonde, so I doubt you missed her.” He grinned.

“But they weren’t there when you found the body?” Dallas pressed.

“No. I guess Valeriya decided to come see what was going on. I did tell her the cops were here and that I’d found a dead man. You can’t think her being there means anything,” Hannah said.

“People do stop and stare at accidents,” Liam added.

Maybe. But she and the handyman would both be worth talking to, Dallas thought. Liam caught his gaze. He was thinking the same thing.

Just as they were swallowing their last bites, Liam’s phone rang. He answered it quickly and listened. “We’ll be right there,” he said, looking over at Dallas. “That was Shelly Nicholson. She and Stuart are up and anxious to speak with us. They’ve decided to cut their vacation short and head back to Miami.”

“Then we need to get over to see them,” Dallas said, and stood. “Ms. O’Brien...”

“Don’t worry, Agent Samson. I don’t intend to leave town,” she said drily.

“Actually, I was going to say thank-you for breakfast.”

“Oh.” A slight flush suffused her cheeks. “My pleasure,” she murmured.

He nodded, still studying her. He hadn’t known her when he’d been a kid; he would have remembered her. Her eyes were unforgettable.

“Please remember, don’t say anything about Jose,” he told her.

“I don’t know anything, do I?” she asked innocently.

He smiled. “Thanks.”

Liam gave her a quick hug as she rose. “See you later,” he told her.

Dallas followed him through the front of the house. The entry and parlor were large with a check-in counter created from an old telephone desk. The place was Victorian to a T and beautifully kept.

He found himself pausing to look back. He knew that Hannah had stayed in the kitchen, but despite that, he had the feeling that he was being watched.

“What is it?” Liam asked him.

He shook his head and looked at his friend. “What the hell happened to the knife?” he asked.

“Dallas, the crime scene techs are good. Really. This may be an island paradise and we may only be a small department, but we’re up to par. If there’s a knife out there to be found, they’ll find it.”

“That’s just it...it should be out there to be found, but I’ll bet you it isn’t.”

“You think the killer hung around to see him die, then took it?” Liam asked.

“Have you got another answer?”

“Let them do their work,” Liam said quietly, then opened the front door and stepped outside.

Dallas nodded and followed.

He still felt as if the house—or someone in the house—was watching him.

Had Hannah O’Brien really been alone?

* * *

Hannah rose when they left and looked outside. From the kitchen window she could see that her yard was still crawling with cops and crime scene techs.

She headed to the front and bolted the door, feeling suddenly nervous in her own house. She generally kept the house locked, and guests were given keys. But she’d never been particularly worried before about making sure that it was locked, especially during the day.

She headed to the back of the house and made sure that door was locked, too. She found herself looking out at her usually peaceful yard. It really was beautiful. She paid for someone to come frequently to clear the pool of leaves from the foliage that surrounded it, because she just couldn’t make herself screen it in. There was something too pretty about the crotons and palms and old banyans. But today her normally serene view felt disturbing.

She couldn’t stop herself from thinking about the dead man. His face was burned into her brain; she had knelt by his side, ready to administer help, until his wide, sightless eyes had assured her it was too late.

Undercover agent.

She hadn’t suspected. He’d been perhaps thirty or so, nice looking, dark haired, with a slightly scruffy jawline. He’d been wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

He’d looked like any tourist, or even a local.

Good thing Agent Dallas Samson wasn’t trying to go undercover. The man reeked of law enforcement. He was tall, with exceptionally broad shoulders and a lean, muscled physique that probably came from hours at a gym. His sandy hair was cut short, and his gray eyes looked as predatory as an eagle’s. He’d worn jeans and a short-sleeved tailored shirt, not a suit, but even so, she’d pegged him as some kind of a cop even before he flashed his badge. He’d said that he was from Key West. She sure as hell didn’t remember him. And if she’d known him, she didn’t think she would have forgotten him. But then, he was a friend of Liam’s. Liam been a few years ahead of her in school, and they hadn’t really become friends until they’d both come back to the island after college, though she’d been close to Katie O’Hara, now Liam’s sister-in-law. The island could seem small, with everyone knowing everyone else, and then you’d find yourself surprised when you met someone new who turned out to have lived there all his life. It was also the kind of place where some people stayed forever and would never leave, while others were just passing through.

She winced as she looked out the window. It wasn’t as if Key West didn’t have crime. Any place that dealt with that much tourism—hundreds or even thousands of people coming and going daily—was going to have crime. Paradise could be a great place for a thief.

But murder was a rarity.

And she had never—never!—discovered the victim before.

She jumped back suddenly as she realized that someone was looking in.

It must be one of the crime scene techs standing at the back door.

But as she stared out, she froze.

Her eyes met those of the man staring in. They were dark and brown and expressive. She knew those eyes. She knew that face.

Jose Rodriguez—a dead man—was standing at her back door.

3

Stuart Bell and Shelly Nicholson seemed to be an intelligent young couple.

They’d taken a small suite, so it was easy just to speak with them in their room. The couple was seated on the sofa, and Liam and Dallas had chairs facing them.

“You’re saying that was a real man—and now he’s dead?” Stuart asked, staring at the two of them blankly.

“Oh, God,” Shelly said, her eyes fixed. “Oh, God. He was alive.”

Liam wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to ease their guilt. “You couldn’t have saved him. The M.E. said that unless he’d literally been in an emergency room when it happened, there was nothing anyone could have done.”

“We’ll never know, will we?” Stuart asked, wincing. “We screamed. We panicked. We were just so...”

“I was terrified already,” Shelly said. “We’d been on the ghost tour. And there’s something about the way Hannah tells the stories.... She doesn’t get dramatic or anything, but all that history, it gets to you. We were down at the pool because I was too scared to sleep.”

Stuart cleared his throat. “And we’d been drinking,” he admitted as if they’d committed a horrible sin.

“It’s okay. This is Key West. Everybody drinks here,” Dallas said, glancing over at Liam. “But...it never occurred to you that he was real?”

The two looked at each other. Shelly lifted her hands. “No.”

Stuart said, “When Shelly screamed, I opened my eyes. I saw him and screamed, too. And then I blinked and he was gone.”

“Okay, this is important,” Dallas said. “Think back. Do you have any idea where he came from? We think he was out back in the alley before he came into the yard. Did you see anyone else?”

“Like I said, my eyes were closed,” Stuart said.

“So were mine,” Shelly said. “When I opened them, he was just...there.”

“Did you see or hear anyone before he appeared?” Liam asked.

Stuart shrugged. “We heard someone when we were upstairs, but they were gone by the time we went down.”

“No,” Shelly said. “I didn’t see anyone because no one was around. I mean, even when we came in things were pretty quiet.” She stopped to think for a moment, then said, “Wait! Stuart, remember when we were walking back? There was a group of people ahead of us. They were crashing into each other as if they were really drunk.”

“They probably were,” Stuart said. “But, yeah, I remember them.”

“Maybe the dead man was with them,” Shelly said.

“How many were there?” Dallas asked.

“Four,” Stuart said.

“Five,” Shelly corrected. “I remember counting them. I was a little nervous, but I was thinking that there were six of us, so at least we had one more in our group in case they caused some kind of trouble. Of course, they were all guys and we only had three guys.”

“I don’t know,” Stuart said. “That short one might have been a woman. Hard to tell. They were all wearing hoodies. Pretty weird, considering it was about fifty.”

Interesting, Dallas thought. Someone else might remember a group like that, because most tourists didn’t bundle up when it turned sixty. Time to go and follow up on this first lead.

He and Liam seemed to be of one mind. They rose together. Dallas handed them his card. “If you think of anything else—anything at all—please call me.”

“Are you going to speak with the others? They might remember something,” Stuart said. “I mean, not about the—the dead man, but maybe about the group we saw when we were walking home.”

“Yes, we’re just waiting for them to wake up,” Liam told them.

Shelly looked over at Stuart. “That may be awhile.”

Stuart nodded. “They’re going to be really hungover.”

“We’ll be gentle,” Dallas promised.

* * *

Hannah blinked. The dead man was still there, looking at her beseechingly.

He could—though he apparently wasn’t aware of it yet—just walk in through the door if he wanted to. Should she let him in?

According to Agent Samson, Jose Rodriguez had been one of the good guys. Florida—especially South Florida and Key West, had a long history of Spanish settlement and Cuban immigration. His family might have been in the area for centuries. But wherever he had grown up, it seemed someone had taught him manners.

He was knocking. Hoping she would let him in.

She lowered her head for a minute. No, go away, please, she thought fervently. I don’t want to be ghost central. I don’t want to get involved with your murder.

She felt immediately embarrassed, because she knew that attitude was wrong. She had to help if she could.

She opened the door, swallowing hard. “Hello, Jose.”

At least his apparition wasn’t as bloody in the afterlife as his body had been in death. He looked as he must have soon before death, wearing a typical Cuban guayabera shirt and khaki pants. His hair was sleek, dark and combed back. He was clean shaven, with dark eyes and handsome features.

“You—you know me?” he asked her.

His voice was brittle, a little like sandpaper, as if he was just learning to speak.

She nodded. “I found you.”

He nodded. “I remember. You tried to help me, but it was too late.”

“Yes.” She studied him for a minute. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I hear that you were an undercover agent, one of the good guys.”

“Yes.”

“I guess you know you were murdered. My friend Liam Beckett, a police detective, has had some experience with...the dead. He doesn’t see as easily as I do, though—lucky me,” she couldn’t help but add a little bitterly. “But if you tell me who did it, I can tell him.”

A grim smile curved his lips. “If only it were that easy.”

“Your throat was slit. You really don’t know who did it? And you were carrying a knife—a big bowie knife—with blood on it. Of course, it’s gone now. The crime scene techs are still out there looking for it,” Hannah said.

“Yes, I see them. But they won’t find it,” he said.

Hannah realized that the techs in the yard could see her through the back window; they probably thought she was standing there talking to herself.

Maybe she was.

“May I come in?” Rodriguez asked politely.

She nodded. “Oh, of course. Please. Let’s move into the parlor.”

She led the way through to the front, taking an armchair by the fire and curling her legs beneath her. The ghost took a seat across from her on the sofa.

“I’m so sorry,” she said aloud. It seemed lame. He should have had a lifetime ahead of him. She took a breath. “I want to help you. But...how can you not know what happened?”

“Because whoever got me came up behind me. We—I was with a bunch of guys—had just turned the corner from Duval and I heard someone behind us. He grabbed me, and the other guys saw. One of them screamed ‘Run!’ and we all took off. I think the other guys had to be in on it—either that or they’re running scared, thinking they’re about to get the same,” Rodriguez told her. He stared at her for a moment. She thought he was assessing her. Perhaps he was deciding if she could be of any help.

“Anyway, like I said, we all took off,” Jose went on. “I threw the guy off me and crashed through the yard next to yours. That’s when he caught up with me. I didn’t have a gun on me, only my knife. I got a slice of him, but since I couldn’t see anything, I don’t even know where I cut him, but I know he...he got me. Slit my throat. I kept running, and that’s when I scared your guests. But I heard him coming after me. I knew I didn’t have a chance, and I didn’t want him to kill anyone else, so I kept running. I ended up in the alley, tried to write...” He trailed to a stop. “And then I...died. He followed me—must have, if the knife is gone. But he couldn’t leave it. They would have gotten his blood off it.”

Hannah found herself suddenly fighting tears. Even as he was dying, he had thought to save others.

“You’ve heard of Los Lobos?” he asked her.

She nodded. “I think most of the country has heard of them. Every once in a while there’s something in the paper about a body popping up somewhere and they’re suspected of the murder, or a treasure goes missing and they’re the only suspects. They’re like the mafia, or that’s what it sounds like, anyway.”

Rodriguez nodded. “More or less. Every agency from the FBI to the Coast Guard has been trying to turn one of the members. The problem is, they’d rather die or go to prison than take what they’ll get if the organization turns against them. Case in point,” he said, indicating his throat.

Hannah exhaled. “But...this isn’t so much a Key West thing as it is a national one, right?”

“It’s at least partly a Key West thing, because Los Lobos specializes in treasures from the New World.” He paused. “I’m not sure where to begin. Do you remember hearing anything around a year ago about a small research-slash-salvage operation at a recently discovered shipwreck? The crew disappeared in the midst of a storm.”

“Yes. It was on the news and in the paper. The Discovery went out with a captain, a mate and three scientists. They were all lost in the storm,” Hannah said.

“I don’t believe the crew was lost in that storm at all.”

“You think Los Lobos killed them?” Hannah asked, horrified. “The storm wasn’t that bad on land, but a lot of other ships were caught in it, too, and barely made it out. The remains of the Discovery eventually turned up, but none of the crew’s bodies were ever found, although that’s not uncommon when someone is lost at sea. And now you’re telling me that—”

“The storm didn’t kill them.”

“So someone went out in that storm and—and murdered them?” Hannah asked, appalled. The loss of the crew had been a local tragedy. To think that they might have survived Mother Nature only to be murdered made the situation all the more terrible.

“There was a rumor that the treasure chest from the Santa Elinora was aboard the Discovery.”

“What?” Hannah demanded. “That treasure has been the subject of rumors for years! It was supposedly on the Wind and the Sea when she went down.”

“Supposedly,” Rodriguez said. “Key word—supposedly. Where it is now, no one knows. A historian wrote a piece on the Santa Elinora and the treasure about a year and a half ago, which started people speculating that it was still off Key West somewhere. Legend always had it that the chest was aboard Ian Chandler’s Wind and the Sea when she went down in the 1850s, but no one really knows if that’s true, and since the wreck was never found, no one’s been able to confirm that it was there.”

“So how did it end up on the Discovery?” Hannah asked, confused.

“There are thousands of undiscovered shipwrecks out there—the ocean along the coast was once like a marine I-95. And since no one could predict storms, over hundreds of years, thousands of ships went down. And those looking for them are often cutthroat and are perfectly happy to commit murder over even the hint of something valuable turning up. Honestly, I don’t believe the treasure chest was ever aboard the Discovery. What I do believe is that members of Los Lobos heard the rumors that it was there, and that they caught up with the Discovery right before the storm and killed the crew—for nothing. Since they didn’t find it, they’re searching in Key West again, because at this point no one really knows where the treasure is—on land or underwater. The items in the treasure chest are supposed to be so rare and historic that it’s impossible to estimate their value—jewels set in the purest gold ever mined in South America.”

“I’ve heard about the treasure my whole life,” Hannah said. “According to legend, the Santa Elinora was discovered and salvaged when David Porter and his Mosquito Squadron came down in the 1820s, back when Florida was still a territory, to clean out the pirates. But Porter didn’t keep any documents because officially they were supposed to be stopping pirates, not salvaging wrecks. But lack of proof didn’t stop people from claiming that Porter found the chest and kept it in Key West until he tried to send it up to D.C. on the Wind and the Sea. Most of the people on the island at the time believed that the treasure went down with the Wind and the Sea when she sank, and to this day most people think it’s still there.”

Jose nodded and smiled slowly. “You would know. Your home is part of the legend of the treasure, and that makes you involved. Are you a descendant of the original owners? Not many left these days who go that far back.”

“In a roundabout way. I’m a descendant of the original owner’s first cousin.”

“And you give ghost tours.”

Hannah lifted her hands helplessly.

He laughed. “Not to worry—it’s a legitimate business. And people like to be remembered. They like to have their stories told. I’d like my story to be told, one day.”

Hannah hesitated and then said, “I know that you were working undercover. My friend Detective Beckett was here, along with a Federal agent.”

“Dallas Samson,” Rodriguez said, nodding.

“They said you were a good guy.”

Jose knitted his fingers together and then released them, looking at her with a grim smile. “I’ve been with the FBI about five years. I made a point of getting this case. I’ve spent the past six months trying to get in with Los Lobos. I just made it in, but evidently I did something suspicious, or someone in the gang had seen me when I wasn’t undercover. Or someone betrayed me. I have some ideas. But this case meant more to me than just bringing down the gang.”

“Oh?”

“Los Lobos concentrates on ‘priceless’ treasures they can sell on the black market. But when their cash flow is down they deal in anything. Drugs. Human cargo.”

“Human cargo? Are you talking about slavery? Today?”

He nodded. “Trust me, it still goes on.” He shook his head. “One case—which at least had a happy ending—involved a young girl in Texas who was set up by a wealthy friend. A man in Eastern Europe offered a multimillion-dollar sum for a blue-eyed redhead under twenty-five. Los Lobos got wind of the offer and acted fast. The young woman went to a party at her friend’s mansion, where she was drugged. Luckily we already had a man watching the friend and she was rescued. As for her millionaire friend, he mysteriously killed himself in lockup while waiting to be taken in for arraignment.”

“You mean the millionaire was part of Los Lobos?”

“There are very rich people out there who covet things—and they know that Los Lobos can get whatever will make their collection complete.”

“How horrible.”

He nodded. “And we still don’t know who the leader is or the gang’s exact hierarchy. I’d hoped I would figure that out, but so far all I had discovered was that they only communicate with prepaid phones that they use once and toss. But,” he said, “I never reported the real truth of my involvement to my superiors. They won’t let you work a case when you have a personal interest in it.” He seemed to inhale deeply, as if unaware that ghostly lungs didn’t need oxygen. “My sister disappeared almost a year ago. I have reason to believe she fell into the hands of a Los Lobos general.”

“You mean she was kidnapped?” Hannah asked.

“Yes. And either she’s being held for the highest bidder or she’s already been murdered, or...”

“There’s another ‘or’?” Hannah asked.

He nodded. “I was likely killed because the leader, a man they call the Wolf, discovered that I was FBI. And it’s possible my sister...might have joined them—and that’s why I’m dead.”

* * *

Dallas and Liam met Mark, Yerby and the Atkinsons at a little coffee and ice cream shop on Duval. All four looked as if they’d had a long night. Judy and Pete Atkinson were in their late twenties, possibly early thirties. Pete was already balding, but he was slim and fit—even if he was looking haggard right now. Judy was tiny, maybe a full five feet in height, and a little round. Her eyes were a red-rimmed bright blue, making Dallas think of the American flag. Yerby Catalano was pretty, about twenty-two, with dark eyes and long dark hair, while Mark Riordan was probably a year or two older, tall and broad and muscled, as if he played sports. All four were more than willing to talk, they just didn’t seem sure what to say.

They sat huddled over triple lattes, as if that could drive away the memory of the previous night.

“Shelly and Stuart are already packing up to head home, you know,” Yerby told them. She shook her head. “Shelly was so freaked out.”

“I wanted to kill her this morning,” Pete said. He winced. “Bad choice of words. But...we thought that she and Stuart were just freaking out over something imaginary.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen her so upset,” Judy offered. “And Stuart was just as freaked out.”

Yerby laughed. “We were all thrown—you should have seen us stumbling around like idiots.”

“Maybe you were stumbling,” Mark said.

“Hey, you were no better,” Yerby said.

“None of us was any better,” Judy said apologetically. “We were just...well, for Pete and me, this was our big weekend out. My folks have the kids. We have a four-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy, and we’re both teaching and getting our doctorates. We came down to go a little wild.”

“Hannah was great, though—you know, Miss O’Brien, the owner,” Mark said. “She calmed them down, and who the hell else is going to give you your money back and send you to a nice hotel in the middle of the night just because you got scared?”

Yerby lifted her sunglasses to stare at him. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush on her.”

Dallas could understand that. There was something unique about Hannah. She could snap back with precision, but she was also careful and wary—older than her years.

“Yerby!” Mark protested.

She smiled. “Just kidding. I almost have a crush on her and I’m straight,” she said with a grin. “She was pretty cool. But we were wrong—all of us except for Stuart and Shelly. They did see something. A dying man.”

“And I thank God we didn’t,” Judy breathed.

“Yeah, that’s why I can’t figure out how we can help you,” Pete said.

“Shelly and Stuart remember a group leaving Duval about when you did. Do you remember anything about them?”

“I don’t remember anything about anything,” Yerby said.

“I do!” Judy said, perking up. “Shelly was kind of unnerved all night. She took all those ghost stories to heart. Anyway, Shelly was walking with me, and she grabbed my arm. Said we should slow down and let that group get ahead of us. Just in case. They looked like trouble, you know? They were all wearing hoodies, so we couldn’t see their faces.” She hesitated for a moment. “It was almost like they were trying to look stoned or drunk when they really weren’t.”

“Did you see them anywhere else earlier in the night?” Dallas asked.

“We didn’t really go anywhere except for the tour and the Hard Rock,” Pete said.

“I didn’t notice them until Shelly pointed them out,” Judy said.

“Do you remember seeing anyone else that night who stood out?” Liam asked.

They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Okay,” Dallas said. “What do you remember after you were woken up? Did you hear anything from outside?”

“Except for Shelly screaming? Because I don’t know if we could have heard anything from outside besides that,” Judy said.

“Shelly screamed really loudly,” Yerby said, nodding.

“And, by then, even Stuart was pretty hysterical,” Mark added.

“Wait a minute,” Pete said, frowning. “I do remember hearing some kind of...thrashing. I went to the window in the back to look out, but I didn’t see anything. Although I didn’t look long. Shelly was hysterical, and we all ran out to see what was going on. But you have to remember—they were convinced they’d seen a ghost. None of us even began to imagine she might have seen a real man.”

“Back to the drunks in the hoodies. Did you notice any of them earlier?” Dallas asked. “Think about it. You notice people in hoodies down here. This is a vacation city. You mostly see shorts, halter dresses, tank tops, swim trunks.”

Pete frowned thoughtfully. “You know, earlier in the evening—before the tour—we were having a drink, and I do remember seeing at least one hoodie hanging over the back of a barstool.”

“Where were you? Do you remember?” Dallas asked.

“Yeah. A really cool Irish bar toward the south end of Duval. O’Hara’s,” Pete said.

Liam groaned.

Dallas turned to look at him. “Someone should be able to help us out there, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah, I think so,” Liam said.

“Yeah?” Pete asked. “How come?”

“My sister-in-law’s family owns the place,” Liam said.

4

“I’ve been watching the news all day. They still aren’t letting out much information,” Katie O’Hara said. She indicated the television above the bar and the wide-screen in the main room. “They went over the same few facts so many times it was ridiculous.”

“What exactly have they said?” Hannah asked.

“That an as-yet-unidentified man was found in an alley, his throat slit. That even once he’s identified his name will be withheld pending notification of next of kin. They’re warning people to stay in groups and stick to well-lit streets.”

“Hmm,” Hannah murmured. She’d told Katie about what had happened, and she didn’t feel she was violating anyone’s trust. She hadn’t revealed anything Agent Samson had told her, only confided in Katie regarding the ghost of the dead man. Besides, Katie was married to David Beckett, Liam Beckett’s brother, and she was sure to know what had happened through the family.

And, like Liam, Katie and her brother, Sean, had their own strange and unearthly Key West experiences. They all shared a strange bond because of that.

Hannah had desperately needed to talk to someone, and Katie was not just a good friend, she was a friend who knew all about souls who hung around after death because something was keeping them from moving on.

“What about Melody and Hagen?” Katie asked.

“I haven’t seen them since early this morning,” Hannah said, and winced. “I accused them of playing tricks. I think they’re mad at me.”

“They’ll come back. They love you—and the house,” Katie said drily. “But you say this Agent Samson is a hard case?”

“Rude. Obnoxious. And suspicious of me, for whatever reason.”

“I don’t think I know him,” Katie said.

“He said he grew up here.”

“It’s an island, but people come and go. Did he leave the Keys when he was young?”

“He’s supposedly friends with your husband.”

“Really? Well, he might have been. But he hasn’t been back here long, right?”

“I don’t really know. He and Liam seem to work well together, but I’m in a difficult situation.”

“Because he’s on your case and you have information that can help him, but you can’t tell him what you know because a ghost told you,” Katie said.

“Something like that. Except, of course, I can tell Liam.”

“I say you call Kelsey,” Katie told her. “Your cousin Kelsey O’Brien, not Liam’s wife.”

“I thought about that. I mean, she’s FBI, too—with a special unit that handles this kind of thing.” Hannah paused, then said decisively, “All right. I’ll call her.”

“No, I mean, like, now,” Katie said.

“I just hate to bother her,” Hannah said.

“Let’s see—dead FBI agent in your alley and another one thinking maybe you had something to do with it. And she’s not only an agent, too, she’s part of the Krewe of Hunters and specializes in paranormal cases. I don’t think calling her in these circumstances counts as bothering anyone,” Katie said.

Even as she spoke, Hannah’s phone—sitting on the table by her coffee cup—began to ring, and the screen identified the caller as Kelsey O’Brien.

Katie stared at Hannah. “You two have telepathy now?”

“No,” Hannah said with a dry smile. “She probably heard about what happened.”

She picked up the phone, and Kelsey started off by asking her how she was. Hannah lied and said she was fine. “But I was about to call you,” she added. “Have you guys up there heard about the murder in the Keys?”

“We always hear when something like that goes down. This is...bad. I’ve spoken with Logan, and we’re coming down.”

Logan Raintree was the head of Kelsey’s special unit. They were also a couple. Hannah was pretty sure they had either gotten married already in secret or were planning on a quiet wedding soon. She would have expected their relationship to be taboo, but apparently they really were very special agents and the tight-knit community in which they worked didn’t discourage close—even intimate—relationships between agents.

“That’s great,” Hannah said. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Katie, watching her, nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“But until I get there, hang with Liam and Katie, okay? Just to be safe.”

“Because this has to do with Los Lobos?”

Kelsey was quiet for a minute and then she said, “Yes. So you do know.”

“Yes, I know it’s all related. But, why would I be in any danger? I didn’t see what happened,” Hannah said, surprised.

“There were cops, agents and crime scene techs stomping all over your yard today, right?” Kelsey asked.

“Yes, but...the only two people who saw any part of what happened are headed back to Miami—or there already, depending on who was driving,” Hannah said.

“Los Lobos has a long reach. I wouldn’t count on them being safe,” Kelsey said.

“They didn’t see the killer, just the dead man.”

“I’m sure the police are doing everything they can,” Kelsey said. “And there’s always the possibility that Jose Rodriguez can help us himself.”

“He can’t.”

“You’ve seen him already?” Kelsey asked, surprised.

“Yes, and he gave me the names of the people he was with, but he’s not sure whether they were involved or not. And he has no idea who came up behind him.”

“What else did he say?” Kelsey asked. “Did he tell you he was going to be working with Dallas Samson? You met him, right?”

“Yeah, I met him. You know him?”

“Uh-huh. I took a class from him when I was at the academy.”

“In?”

“Self-defense. Good class. The guy looks like he’s made out of iron, and he was teaching a class to show female agents how to deal with that kind of strength. Mind and balance over brawn. It was an excellent class. I loved the man.”

“Wonderful,” Hannah said.

“Anyway, I’m not sure how many of us will be coming. Logan needs clearance from Adam Harrison for a big operation, so I’ll tell you as soon as possible. Do you have any rooms free?”

Hannah laughed drily. “All of them. In fact, when word gets out, I may have all of them free for a very long time.”

“Don’t kid yourself—haunted rooms are always in demand,” Kelsey told her. “Okay, stay safe. I’ll be in touch.”

Hannah’s phone rang again the minute she and Kelsey hung up. She picked it up and saw that it was her reservation service. She winced and answered. A recorded message came on. “Good evening. This call is to inform you that your tour reservation cap for this evening has been reached. Guests have been told to arrive no later than seven-thirty this evening. All credit cards have been applied and have cleared. Thank you so much for using Zoom Reservation Services.”

She hung up the phone and looked at Katie morosely. “I have a tour tonight. It’s filled.”

“It is a Saturday night,” Katie pointed out.

“Right. And what do you want to bet that people expect me to show them where a man was killed last night?”

“Want me to get this place covered and come with you?” Katie asked.

“No, don’t be silly. I’m not afraid of tourists.”

Katie laughed. “Be afraid—be very afraid,” she teased. “Seriously, I can go with you.”

“And seriously, I’m okay. And when I get back, since I don’t have a single guest, the night will be all mine.”

“You’ll get guests back, I promise you.”

Katie would know. Her husband, David, had once been accused of killing his high school sweetheart. In proving his innocence, he’d caught the real killer. And the museum where the killings had taken place belonged to Katie now—and it was thriving.

“Hey,” Katie said. “There’s Liam.”

Hannah jerked around quickly. Liam was blinking against the darkness of the pub in contrast to the brilliance of a Key West summer afternoon.

Katie jumped up to greet her brother-in-law. Hannah followed and then stopped. Liam wasn’t alone. Agent Samson was with him.

There was no way to miss him when he walked into a room. He was tall—six-three or -four—but it wasn’t just his height. It was the way he carried himself. She couldn’t help but note that every female in the pub was staring at him. The men were watching him, as well—wary, perhaps.

“Hey, Katie,” Liam said, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. “I guess Hannah’s brought you up to speed.”

“Yes, she told me she found a dead man in her alley,” Katie said, giving nothing away. She looked inquiringly at Agent Samson.

“Katie, this is Dallas Samson. We were best friends until his dad got himself a top job in Washington. He’s down here again, and we’re working on this case together.”

“Hey,” Katie said, studying the man, then glancing at Hannah with a little grin. “Nice to meet you, Agent Samson. I heard you were here.”

“And we need your help,” Samson said. He, too, looked at Hannah—suspicious, probably, that she was there.

“I need to head back home,” Hannah said. “I’ll see you soon, Katie.”

“Don’t leave,” Samson said.

It sounded like an order given by a drill sergeant. Hannah instantly felt her temperature rise.

Then he added, “Please.”

It still sounded like a command.

“You want me to stay?” she asked, her skepticism clear.

“For a few minutes. Liam and I can talk to the Hardwickes later, but for now I’d like you to take me back to your place after I talk to Katie.”

“Oh?” She knew her one word had attitude, but she couldn’t help it. He was obnoxious.

“I was hoping you would come with me to meet your handyman neighbor, Mr. Holloway.”

Hannah nodded slowly. “All right. If it will help, if you think it’s necessary.”

“Katie, the group that was staying at the Siren of the Sea noticed a group wearing hoodies who might have been in here earlier in the evening. Do you remember seeing a bunch of guys like that?” Liam asked.

“Let’s see, it was Friday and pretty busy. You know I’m not here all the time, right? I just run the karaoke and help out Uncle Jamie when needed,” Katie said.

“Were you here around seven, by any chance?”

“Yes, I was,” she said, frowning. “Let me think. Hoodies?”

“Dark hoodies,” Liam said.

“I don’t remember anybody wearing one, but I do remember seeing one on the back of a barstool,” Katie said. “I saw some guy pick it up, and it looked like he was with three or four friends. They were young—early twenties, I’d say. One looked a little older. They looked like they were in town for a bachelor party or a frat weekend, something like that.”

“Would you recognize any of them if you saw them again?” Liam asked her.

“I might,” Katie said.

“Can you come with me to the station?” he asked her.

Katie looked at Hannah worriedly. “Yes, I guess so. Karaoke doesn’t start until eight.”

“Hannah, you can take me to meet your neighbor and see what he can tell us,” Agent Samson said. “If you don’t mind?”

She shook her head. As soon as Katie gave the staff some instructions, the two of them left with Liam and Dallas Samson.

Liam drove the few blocks south down Duval and then around the corner to drop off Hannah and Dallas.

“Do you want me to call Bentley and see if he’ll come over here?” Hannah asked.

“No, let’s just see if he’s home. I’d like to see his place.”

Holloway’s property was separated from Hannah’s by tall cherry hedges. Hannah looked at Dallas for a moment, shrugged and started up the old coral pathway to the house. They climbed the two steps to a small porch.

“Do we let him know that you’re a Federal agent?” Hannah asked.

“I think he’s figured that out already, since you said he was in the alley this morning,” Dallas said.

“Probably. But the body is still officially unidentified, right?”

“Yes, until we say otherwise. You can handle that, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I can handle that.” She knew that her voice had attitude again. She couldn’t seem to help herself, but then he couldn’t seem to help being obnoxious.

Hannah knocked on the door. Dallas had a feeling that Bentley Holloway had been watching them from inside, because the door opened almost immediately.

The man was wearing khakis and a Doors T-shirt. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, and his eyes were sharp as he studied them. He appeared to be about forty-five or fifty, bronzed deeply with features lined by years in the sun. He was leanly muscled, and his arms bore a number of tattoos. He looked like a seaman, as so many Key Westers did.

There didn’t appear to be any defensive wounds on his arms, neither did he appear to be in any pain, as if he’d been in a fight.

There really was no reason to suspect the man. Still, Dallas studied him carefully.

“Hey, Hannah. And...?” Holloway asked, looking at Dallas.

Dallas offered Bentley Holloway his hand. “Dallas Samson.”

“You’re a cop, huh?” Holloway asked.

“Agent—Federal,” Dallas said.

“Oh. I saw you out in the alley this morning. How come the Feds are on a local murder case?”

“Oh, there aren’t many of us in the office down here,” Dallas said. “We step in wherever we might be needed.”

“Liam is a good detective,” Holloway said defensively.

“The best. He’s a friend,” Dallas said. “Okay if we come in and ask you for some help?”

“Help? Hell, I wish I could,” Holloway said. “But sure, come on in.”

The door opened right into the living room. Dallas quickly noted that it was filled with plain furniture that looked as if it had come from the mix and match department at the Salvation Army, but he’d spruced it up nicely. The walls were decorated with watercolors of various scenes of Key life: sailboats in the harbor, kids playing on a beach and also an arresting picture of the local lighthouse. At first glance, it sure as hell didn’t appear that he was living the high life.

“Sit down, sit down,” Holloway said. “You want lemonade? Iced tea? Something stronger?”

“Sure, I’d love iced tea or lemonade—anything you have handy,” Dallas told him.

He sensed that Hannah was surprised that he’d accepted the offer, but he wanted to see as much of the house as he could without a warrant. There was no reason in particular to be suspicious of Holloway. He was just suspicious of everyone, and he was pretty sure Rodriguez had cut through Holloway’s yard after he was attacked.

Which meant the killer had probably come through, too.

“Make yourself at home—have a seat,” Holloway said, heading toward the kitchen.

But Dallas didn’t sit; he followed Holloway, with Hannah at his heels.

“Great place,” Dallas said.

The house wasn’t as old as Hannah’s. Originally built in the shotgun style, you could see straight through from front door to back door as one room opened straight into the next. It was obvious that over the years—and with the advent of electricity and air-conditioning—the house had been enlarged. Now additional rooms branched off to either side.

They walked through the dining room to get to the kitchen, but Dallas noticed that there were doors leading off both sides of the dining room.

“Yeah, thanks. I inherited it. Property values down here are killer now. I’ve had a lot of friends sell out, move up to the center of the state then wish they were back here, only they can’t afford it. Key West kind of gets in your blood. I’ll never let this place go,” Holloway said. “It was originally built by my however-many-greats grandfather around 1875.”

“Nice,” Dallas said. “Really nice.”

The dining room, furnished with a table that sat eight, a cupboard and a buffet, had seascapes on the walls.

The kitchen had been remodeled. There was a granite island in the center, with four stools around it, pots and pans hanging from the overhead rafters and brand-new appliances.

Holloway stopped when he got there and looked around as if surprised he had been followed. Dallas stopped so short that Hannah crashed into him.

She steadied herself with her hands on his back.

He was startled to discover that he liked her touch.

“I love old houses,” he told Holloway.

“Yeah? Well, then Key West is the place to be. People tend to think of South Florida as a twentieth-century invention. Not down here. We’ve got some of the richest history in the nation—and one of the largest concentrations of old Victorians anywhere,” Holloway said proudly.

Dallas nodded. “I actually grew up here.”

“No kidding?” Holloway asked.

“No kidding. I left when I was sixteen. I’ve gotten back every chance I could since, though.”

“You living here now?” Holloway asked.

“I’m assigned here for now, yes.” Dallas nodded.

“Oh, right. You’re a Fed. You could wind up anywhere,” Holloway said.

He took lemonade from the refrigerator and glasses from the cupboard. When the glasses were filled, he indicated that they might as well take a seat at the granite island.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked. He looked at Hannah with a frown, as if wondering what she was doing there.

“I wanted to ask you what you saw this morning, Mr. Holloway,” Dallas said.

“Bentley—just call me Bentley. We’re still casual down here,” Holloway said with a smile. “What did I see? A bunch of crime scene tape.”

“You didn’t see or hear anything before you came out and the police were already on the scene?” Dallas asked.

“Sorry. I was sleeping. I woke up when I heard the ruckus out back. Went on out to watch. I wish I could help. I really do,” Holloway said.

“Bentley, you can help,” Hannah said, speaking up with a smile. “I’m pretty sure after the man was attacked he stumbled through your yard into mine. They’ve searched my property and the alley. Would you mind if they searched your yard, too?”

Before the man could answer, Hannah touched his arm. “I know it’s an intrusion. But I’d be grateful. I found him, Bentley. I can’t tell you how that felt...to bend down and see him there, dead. Please?”

Holloway stared down into Hannah’s beseeching turquoise eyes.

Dallas was sure he couldn’t have refused her or remained unmoved.

Holloway shook his head ruefully and looked at Dallas. “Since Hannah asked...go ahead. Look wherever you need to look.”

“Thank you,” Dallas said. He wondered how she’d known the scenario the cops had settled on. It was almost as if she’d known what happened when Rodriguez was killed.

“Thank you, Bentley,” she said, smiling. “You’ll help put my mind to rest.”

Dallas swallowed the last of his lemonade. “I’ll step outside, then, and let the techs know to get started.”

Leaving the two of them in the kitchen, he went outside and walked half a block toward Duval, then turned around and retraced his steps. He tried to envision what had happened—and where.

He moved slowly, checking for signs of blood on both the sidewalk and the grass.

He knew he wasn’t going to find anything like the kind of high velocity spatter a bullet created. According to Dirk, Rodriguez’s jugular had been nicked, leading to a fatal loss of blood.

But Rodriguez had cut his attacker, as well.

He gave up searching for blood drops and walked through the yard. If Rodriguez had crashed through the hedge, he should be able to see where.

The door to the house opened, and Hannah came out. He paused. He should thank her. She had gotten him the clearance he needed to examine Holloway’s property without a warrant. If there was evidence he had to find it now, and getting a warrant would take time.

“Here’s my theory. I think he came from the street...that way,” she said, and pointed to the right. She wasn’t looking at him as she approached. “He heard his attacker coming up behind him. He was with a group of new...friends, but they took off when he was attacked from behind. He got away and ended up here. Somewhere along the way he drew his knife and fought back, managing to slice his attacker, which gave him time to get away. He gripped his throat and staggered through the hedge and into my yard.”

Hannah walked to what had to be the exact spot where the dying man had gone through the hedge. As he followed her, Dallas could see the trail.

“Here,” she said softly, coming to a stop by a lounge chair near the pool. “Here’s where he scared Shelly and Stuart half to death. But he must have heard the killer coming, so he staggered out to the alley. He needed to lure the killer away. But I think the killer saw where he went and never even came through my yard, so Shelly and Stuart never saw him.”

Dallas stared at her. She didn’t appear to be in a trance, hadn’t claimed to be a psychic, but somehow she seemed to know exactly what had happened.

Of course, any good detective would have figured out the course of events; the evidence was clear.

She wasn’t a detective, yet she had homed in so exactly on the truth....

She walked from the pool through the yard, her footsteps faltering. She wasn’t staggering the way a dying man might have done, she was just following the path Dallas knew he had taken.

Dallas followed her out to the alley. She stopped just outside the crime scene tape.

She met his eyes at last.

Dallas was very still, watching her.

“Anyone would think you’d been with Agent Rodriguez.”

“It’s just...apparent.”

“Apparent, yes. But...”

“But?” she asked.

“It’s as if you know something,” he said.

She flushed. “Are you accusing me of—?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

“The house? The killer was nowhere near the house.”

“I want to rent a room,” he told her.

“What?”

“You operate a bed-and-breakfast, right?”

“You have a home here. You work here,” she said.

“I want to rent a room.”

It was obvious she didn’t want him staying in her house.

“My cousin is coming soon, maybe as early as tomorrow. I’m not sure how many people are coming with her, but they’ll probably need all my rooms.”

“Not a problem. I only need a room for tonight,” he said.

“Why?” she asked him.

“Do you have a guard dog?” he asked.

“A guard dog? No.”

“Do you have an alarm system?”

“Oh, please. Didn’t you listen to me? Jose led the killer away. There’s no reason for him to come here looking for me or anyone else.”

He turned and walked back through her yard, then waited at the rear door. She followed him, still confused and a little belligerent. “I don’t understand—”

“You were thinking about calling people you’d turned away to see if anyone still needed a room, so I know you have space. How do you work things? Do guests get two keys? One for the door to the house and another for the door to their rooms?” he asked her.

“Why the third degree? Are you still suspicious of me for some reason?”

He let out an impatient groan. “No, I’m not suspicious. I’m worried, and I’m thinking like a cop. The killer was, to all intents and purposes, right here. He almost certainly saw you and knows that you found the body.”

“How?” she demanded.

Dallas hesitated. “It might be a cliché, but killers do sometimes return to the scene of the crime. Sometimes, they’re sick bastards who come back to enjoy the kill all over again. Sometimes they come back to watch the cops and see what they’ve discovered. There’s every chance the killer was in that alley this morning. But say he wasn’t. That newswoman shot a lot of footage, and you’re bound to be in it. Just as a precaution, rent me a room.”

She stared at him, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She was too damn good at keeping her face expressionless.

“I have good locks.”

“You could have the best locks ever invented,” he told her, “and if someone wants to get in, they’ll get in.”

She moved ahead of him and unlocked the door. She went inside without looking back to see if he followed, but she didn’t slam the door on him, either. He followed her to the reception desk, where she opened a drawer and produced a set of keys.

“The whole house is empty, right?” he asked her.

“At this moment? Yes.”

“Then I’d like the Melody Chandler room, please.”

“What?” she asked.

He let out a sigh that he hoped didn’t sound as impatient as he felt. His start with Hannah had not been a good one, and it didn’t seem as if they were going to get along any better now.

“I told you,” he said quietly, “I’m from here. This was Melody Chandler’s home. She lived here when the man she loved, Hagen Dundee, died trying to save passengers off the Wind and the Sea when she went down. When I was a kid, I took a ghost tour and the guide pointed out her window. I’d like to stay in her room.”

“I sleep in Melody Chandler’s room,” she told him.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Then give me her father’s room, the Ian Chandler room.”

For a long moment she stared at him.

“Please,” he said. His tone was gruff, and he realized that even when he was trying to be polite, he sounded like an ass. And he didn’t know why. What was it about her that brought out this side of him?

He couldn’t help it. He pictured Jose Rodriguez. Dead.

And he pictured Adrian Hall where she, too, had lain dead in a pool of her own blood.

He pulled out his wallet to produce a credit card.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You’re staying here for one night to make sure I don’t get killed. I’m not going to charge you.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll put it on an expense report.”

“You want to stay here—stay here. If not, leave. I won’t charge an officer of the law for doing what he sees as his duty.”

“Fine. Keys, please.”

She slammed a set of keys down on the desk. “I give a ghost tour at eight. I never take more than sixteen people out. They start arriving around 7:30 p.m. We’re here for about thirty minutes, starting from eight. I’m back at about 10:30.”

“Great. Sign me up.”

“I’m fully booked for tonight.”

“Consider me a special guest.”

“I only take sixteen.”

“Then think of me as an annoying fly following you wherever you go.”

She looked at him, her face giving everything away this time. She was tense and exasperated.

“Don’t you have some investigating to do? You’re not going to find Jose’s murderer by following me around.”

“Jose?” he asked. “You’re talking as if you knew him. As if you two were on a first-name basis.”

“Why shouldn’t I use his name? It was Jose, right?” she demanded, her voice as tight as her jaw.

“Yes. His name was Jose,” Dallas said. He pointed at the desk. “Are those my keys?”

She nodded, still staring at him.

He took the keys. “Keep the doors locked at all times, at least until this guy is caught.”

“What about people coming for the tour, or, eventually, guests, who arrive at all times during the day?”

“Let them ring the bell.” Unwilling to argue anymore, he started upstairs before he remembered he didn’t know where he was going.

He started back down.

“Turn left at the landing. Ian Chandler’s room is the first one on the left. You’ll find it easily enough. All the rooms have plaques by the doors that identify them.”

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, but he didn’t move. He didn’t know why he was hesitating.

“Hey,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you want Melody Chandler’s room?”

“I heard the legend growing up. She’s still supposed to haunt the room.”

“And you want to see a ghost?” she asked.

“You never know. Maybe her ghost could be helpful. Maybe she saw something no one else did.” He turned then and hurried up to his room. When he reached it, he found that the door was open. He walked in and looked around. The decor was masculine and nautical. A heavy wooden cabinet complemented the antique captain’s bed. A ship’s wheel decorated one wall, along with various flags and paintings of sailing ships at sea.

He checked out the bathroom. It was small but had been updated in the not too distant past. Returning to the bedroom, he sat on the bed.

He wasn’t really sure what he was doing. He hadn’t intended to take a room here when he had headed with her to visit her next-door neighbor.

But watching her...

She knew too much. He didn’t know how, but she did. And that meant she might put everything together and come up with answers that were too close to home.

And someone else—like a killer—just might realize that.

* * *

Machete hid in the hedges and carefully watched the Siren of the Sea.

The house was quiet. He’d seen the man and the woman enter the house. He knew them, of course. Well, knew that the tall sandy-haired man was an agent. And Hannah was a local; everyone knew her. So pretty and blonde. So full of life—at least for now.

He felt his phone vibrate and answered it. He’d been expecting the call. It was the Wolf.

“So?” came a single sharp word.

“The Fed went inside with her. He didn’t come back out.”

“When he leaves, make your move.”

Machete said, “Her tour customers will start arriving in a few hours.”

“Get in there when they’re gone. Find the key.”

Find the key? Search an entire house in a few hours and find something as small as a key?

“It’s not going to be easy.”

“Of course it won’t. Someone would have found it by now if it were obvious. Check the attic. It’s probably up there somewhere.”

“I can’t promise—”

“Oh, yes, you can. The place is empty. No guests. Stay in there until you get me that key.”

“But she could catch me!”

“I doubt she wanders around her attic at night, but if she does catch you,” the Wolf said softly, “you know what to do.”

Machete had never argued with the Wolf before. Never questioned him. Until now.

“I think going in now is a mistake. The key will still be there, and she’s not a threat to us. She knows nothing. She saw nothing. She came out when it was over. But if something happens to this woman now, when the police are already looking for a killer, they will rip the city apart—and we’ll never get in there to find the key.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. Machete didn’t dare breathe. The Wolf had eyes everywhere, and he had assassins everywhere, too. Machete didn’t know who the Wolf was—no one did. And no one who didn’t need to know had any idea of Machete’s real name, either. Everything in Los Lobos was on a need-to-know basis.

Most of all, no one argued with the Wolf.

But the thought of killing her...

For a moment, Machete thought his infatuation with Hannah O’Brien might have been his undoing. He wished he could take back his words. The silence from the other end of the line stretched for what seemed like hours.

“I just don’t want to lose this opportunity,” he finally said quickly—desperately. “It could take time for me to find the key, and if something happens to her before I do, it would draw attention to the house. The Siren of the Sea could be closed down, and it would certainly be swarming with police. I would never be able to get inside then. I need to be able to go in and out safely until I find what we’re looking for.”

Again his words were met with silence. He felt sweat bead his brow and drench his shirt.

At last the Wolf spoke.

“Get in and get out, then. But remember, you’re on your own. And remember, too, if that woman finds you and you don’t do what’s necessary, I will.”

The phone went dead.

Machete stood there shaking and hot with sweat.

Finally the breeze began to cool his skin as he waited for the Fed to leave.

Except...

He didn’t leave.

The sweat on Machete’s skin began to turn to ice. He didn’t want to make another call.

What the hell was he going to do if the agent never left?

Or, worse, if Hannah O’Brien didn’t leave, either?

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