“Player, do you have anything to say?” Jonas prompted. He pulled out two photographs and, shielding Anat from seeing the grisly sight of the remains, he shoved them under Player’s nose. “You ever see these men before? The photographs won’t help, but the artist’s sketches might bring back a memory.”
Player forced himself to look. He gripped Zyah’s hand to keep himself anchored in the present. His brain would take one look at dead bodies pulled from the sea and have a field day with that whacked-out, fucked-up shit. If Jonas was going for shock value, he was on the right track. The pictures were truly gruesome. The remains had been in the sea for a couple of weeks, enough time for fish to find them. Waves had smashed the bodies against rocks, the shore, rolling them in sand. Crabs and other small creatures had invaded. There wasn’t much to tell from the actual photographs, but a sketch artist had drawn the faces from bone structure, and the drawings were clipped to the photographs.
Zyah closed her eyes and pressed into Player’s shoulder as if for comfort. He glared at Jonas. “Take those things away. Get them away from Zyah.” He wrapped his arms around her, anger stirring in him. “I’ve never seen either man.” He hadn’t. Not their faces. He wouldn’t recognize them if he saw them on the street. He’d know them as enemies, because they’d feel that way to him, but he wouldn’t physically recognize them. “There was no need to shove them under her nose like that.”
“But I have seen them,” Zyah said. She kept one hand over her mouth, muffling her voice. “They came into the store a few weeks ago. Inez was still training me; she might remember. They had another man with them. They laughed a lot and bought tons of groceries as if they were staying for a long while. I asked if they were local or just vacationing. That’s pretty standard for me. The man with the very angular face answered me.”
Jonas took the photographs from Player and passed them to Maestro. “Were they local, Zyah?” he prompted.
“No. They said they were on business but . . .” She trailed off and looked up at Player as if he would be able to help her out.
Player cupped the side of her face with one hand, his thumb sliding over her cheek and the fine bones that gave her such a classic, beautiful look. “What is it, baby?”
“They laughed when they said it. I know this will sound silly, but sometimes I get a feeling when people are talking and I just know things. They were talking about very unpleasant business, and I had a bad feeling it had something to do with me or someone I knew. Even, possibly, the store. I took a good look at their faces because I wanted to remember them.”
There was a small silence. Player leaned over her to reach the cup of tea. “Drink this, Zyah. Is there honey in it, Jonas? She likes honey in her tea, and that will help with the shock.”
“I’m not in shock. It’s just that those pictures were awful.”
Again, she pressed into him. Player could feel her vulnerability and knew she would detest that the others would see her that way. He glanced up at Maestro, who immediately took the teacup from Zyah’s trembling hand and added two teaspoons of honey off the tray, keeping his body between Zyah and the two cops. He took his time stirring the tea until Player nodded, and then he handed back the cup.
“Ms. Gamal,” Jonas said, addressing Zyah’s grandmother. “Anat,” he hastily corrected himself. “There are a traveling band of robbers who target smaller towns and retired people, particularly ones who are grouped together. They seem to have inside information on those living in the town. They rob and beat up the occupants of several of the homes and leave quickly. When they go, a body is usually discovered a few days later, one suspected to be the local informer. That person is a member of the family or a trusted neighbor of one of those robbed. The point is, the band hits fast, robs quickly and is gone. They don’t stick around. So, the question is, why are they staying here? They’ve hit four homes. They came back to your home twice, and perhaps a third time.”
Anat shook her head. “What do you mean, four? I know of only three, counting me. Phillis and Benjamin and Gabe and Harmony both got robbed. Who else?”
“Last night Lauren and Sean Barbery were robbed. Fortunately, a neighbor heard Lauren screaming and called it in fast. Jackson was able to get there before too much damage was done. But it doesn’t explain why these thieves haven’t moved on. They’ve never stayed so long in one place. And they’ve never hit a home more than once. Have they come back to your house again, Anat? After the second time? What are they looking for?”
Player could feel anger rushing through Zyah. He put his hand gently over hers. “Are you implying that Anat somehow knows these people, Harrington? How could she possibly answer that? Is she psychic? Are you psychic, Anat?”
“No, I’m not, Player, but I suppose Jonas thinks these people tried to rob me more than once.”
“You know they did,” Jonas said. “They came here when Inez and Frank were here. I think they came back a month ago and met up with Torpedo Ink. I can’t prove it, but I think it happened and they got the worse end of the fight. If that’s true and they still haven’t left town, what is keeping them here? What do you have that they want?”
“Blame it on the bikers,” Maestro groused. “We’ve got broad shoulders. We can take it. But you know what? I’m friends with Hannah, your wife, and she isn’t going to like you harassing us. And she likes Blythe. They’re cousins. Did you know that? Cousins. As in family. Which makes us family.”
Player tucked Zyah’s hand over his thigh and let Maestro take Jonas’s attention away from the two of them. Especially away from his head. If the two cops insisted on looking at what was under the bandages, he could be in trouble. His brain might be healed, but the outside flesh still looked as if a bullet had fucked him up. And Deveau hadn’t taken his eyes off him. That was the trouble with Jackson. He was too good at his job.
“If you’re family, Maestro, you’ve got to be at least ten billion times removed,” Jonas snapped. “I’m investigating a murder, so let me get on with it.”
“How do you know it’s a murder? It could have been self-defense. Or suicide. Isn’t that jumping to conclusions? What kind of sheriff jumps to conclusions? You might be family, but you still have to do a decent job if you want to be reelected,” Maestro pointed out in his most pious voice.
Zyah laughed. Anat joined her. Player couldn’t help smiling. Maestro had given him enough time to orient himself firmly in the present, to know what was going on and how best to do damage control. Zyah had done her best to protect him. She knew damn well he’d shot both those men—and that he’d been the one to kill them. She’d taken that fact fairly calmly, just like she’d taken everything else about him.
He couldn’t help himself, he had to indulge. He had managed to be sitting right next to her, thigh to thigh, her body tucked under his shoulder, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. He wrapped a length of her thick, dark hair around his hand and closed his fingers, making a fist around it. Pure silk. He fucking loved her hair. He loved lying in bed with her, all that long hair sliding over his chest because he deliberately refused to wear a shirt, knowing she’d lie with him at night after his nightmares and he’d feel the silk of her hair and the satin of her skin, see the sweep of her long lashes.