Damaged

CHAPTER 45

Liz sat in her car on the beach. Scott had dropped her off almost half an hour ago. She needed to drive home, take a shower, get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a long, hard day. And yet here she sat, staring out at the waves, her mind still reeling. Before leaving Scott, she had asked about the marine cooler, keeping her voice light and casual.

"A friend left it here. Just for a day or two," he told her.

"A friend in the business?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No reason. I just ..." She had found herself stumbling because she could still see the plastic-wrapped body parts. "I've never seen one with a measure molded inside the lid like that."

"Oh yeah. I didn't notice that." He had walked around to the front of the cooler to get a better look. "I bet Joe didn't notice it, either. He doesn't exactly use it for fishing."

"Really? What does he use it for?"

That was where she crossed the line. She saw him shut down, a hint of suspicion replacing his need to charm and inform. In the end he shrugged like it was no big deal.

"I don't know. Whatever you use a cooler like that for."

Then he walked her out of the shed.

Liz had already called Sheriff Joshua Clayton only to have one of his deputies call her back, saying this wasn't of an urgent nature.

"We've got a hurricane on its way," the deputy told her. "Sheriff Clayton has already determined this case is on hold until after the storm."

He was right. Finding a fishing cooler that looked like the one filled with body parts didn't seem urgent. But something about finding it in the back of a funeral home kept Liz from dismissing it.

She could see the top floor of the Hilton. She pulled out her cell phone again. Punched 411 and asked for the phone number.

"Hilton Pensacola Beach Gulf Front. This is the front desk."

"Yes, I'd like to talk to one of your guests. Maggie O'Dell."

"All of our guests have checked out. Oh, wait. O'Dell. The FBI agent with Mr. Wurth?"

"Yes, that's right."

"She is here until noon tomorrow." Then he hesitated. "Is this urgent?"

Liz sighed, ran fingers through her hair as she checked the time on her dashboard. It was almost midnight.

"It's just that I usually don't ring my guests' rooms after ten o'clock," he said when she took too long to answer. "I can send you to voice mail and the red light will come on her phone."

"That's fine."

While she waited for the connection, she tried to formulate what to say. Was she simply being paranoid? Overly observant? Obsessive?

At the beep she gave her name and cell-phone number, then simply said she had some information. Lame, she knew, but safe. And maybe in the morning when the outer bands of Hurricane Isaac started battering the area, Liz would think the identical fishing cooler was nothing but a mere coincidence.

There were only a few cars left in the lot and as Liz pulled onto Pensacola Beach Boulevard she recognized the faded red Impala. She had promised her dad she'd check on the surfer kid, Danny. She'd talk to him tomorrow. It was late. No sense in tapping on his car window tonight and scaring the poor kid to death.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 25