Second Honeymoon

Chapter 15

SPEAK TO ME, Carter.

“I actually did see them one other time,” he said. “Now that I think about it.”

Carter put down his rum punch, the glass sweating from the heat, and described how he saw Ethan and Abigail Breslow taking a sunset walk on the beach. He thought it was a day or so before they were murdered. A man walking in the opposite direction had stopped to talk to them.

“You hear the conversation?” I asked, still trying to sound casual and chatty.

“No. They were down by the water and I was right here having a cocktail with my wife. All three of them were smiling, but I sensed that Breslow and his new bride were uncomfortable.” He leaned in a bit. “And not just because the other guy was wearing one of those skimpy Speedo bathing suits.”

“How could you tell they were uncomfortable?”

“Body language,” he answered. “I’m good at reading people.”

“You a poker player?”

“Yeah, poker and craps, that’s what I play. In fact, that’s why I’m so surprised I forgot about this guy they were talking to. I’d seen him before…at the casino,” he said. “Shit, I should tell the police about this, shouldn’t I?”

I didn’t say anything. At least I thought I didn’t. But Carter wasn’t kidding; he was fluent in body language.

He leaned in again, this time even closer. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Something like that,” I said.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to elaborate. Maybe it was how fast I bought Carter another rum punch—“Hold the fruit, please”—but he didn’t pursue it. I asked him to describe this guy he saw with the Breslows.

“Dark hair, decent-looking,” he said. “Probably in his late thirties.”

“Tall? Short?”

“Average height, I think. Around the same height as the Breslow boy. He looked to be in pretty good shape, too.”

“Do you think he’s a guest here?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, the only other time I saw him was at the casino.”

“Which one?” I knew there were a couple on the island.

“The Casablanca,” he said. “Speedo and I were at the same craps table, only he was playing the don’t pass line. He was betting a lot. Winning a lot, too.”

“Did he seem to know the dealers?”

“You mean, like, maybe he was cheating?”

“No…like maybe he was a regular, someone who lives on the island.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, the dealers did seem to know him,” he said. “That’s good, right? Chances are you can find him there.”

Down went my last sip of the Turk’s Head beer. Pretty good for an island brew.

I thanked Carter for his time and help. As I was about to push off my stool, though, I saw his eyes go wide.

“I don’t effin’ believe it,” he said, looking over my shoulder.

I turned. “What is it?”

“That’s him…the guy! Coming in on the Jet Ski. See him? Right there.”

I cupped my eyes to cut out the sun’s glare. The guy certainly fit Carter’s description, right down to the Speedo—or, as Susan used to call it, the banana hammock. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.

“As sure as sugar,” he said.

I took that for a yes.