“Have a seat,” I tell him, motioning to the cushioned benches along the stern.
The seats are arranged like a squared-off horseshoe. I sit on one side, leaning forward with my arms resting on my thighs. The cop sits opposite me.
My upbringing kicks in. “Can I get you something to drink, officer? Water? A soft drink?” I figure beer is out of the question under the circumstances, even though I could sure as hell use one. Now’s not the time to be playing host, but my mother has drilled proper etiquette into my head if nothing else.
Officer Swanson grins at my obvious discomfort. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Lying back on the long, padded bench, I prop my feet up on the chrome railing and close my eyes. I breathe deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and let the rocking motion of the boat lull me. I find it comforting.
Once my stomach has settled somewhat, I sit up. I puked not half an hour ago, and my mouth tastes like shit. “I need some water.”
When I stand, the officer stands, too, as if he’s going to follow me. But the wet bar is right here on the main deck, beneath the overhang of the cockpit, so I don’t have far to go. When I grab a bottle of sparkling water from the mini fridge, he relaxes and sits back down.
Too restless to sit, I stand leaning against the bar and sip my fizzy water.
Not long after, there he is, Detective Jamison, standing at my railing. When our gazes meet, my belly tightens. Tall, dark, and handsome. I know it’s a cliché, but Detective Jamison meets all the requirements.
He grips the railing. “Permission to come aboard?” he says with a straight face.
Did he just crack a fucking joke? “Permission granted,” I say, grinning.
The detective steps onto the swim deck and climbs up to join us on the main deck. “My condolences. I understand from my colleagues on the forensics team that the victim was your friend.”
A knot forms in my throat as I nod toward Eric’s boat. “We’ve been neighbors for several years.”
“I’m really sorry.” He sounds genuine.
“Eric was a sweetheart. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt him, let alone kill him.” Still feeling a bit dizzy, I return to my seat, leaning forward with my arms propped on my legs.
Jamison points at the section of seating catty-corner to mine. “Mind if I sit?”
“Go right ahead.” It’s then that I notice Officer Swanson is gone, leaving the two of us alone. I’m alone with one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met. No, the sexiest.
“I need to ask you some questions,” he says as he pulls out a small black notebook and a pen.
“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you want to know. We were friends.” My gaze snaps to his. If he was inside Eric’s boat, then he knows Eric’s gay. Or was. Eric was flamboyantly loud and proud. He wore his sexuality draped over him like a gay pride flag. There are framed photographs on his boat, posters… prominently displayed… that leave no doubt as to his sexual orientation. Or as to some of his more unusual proclivities.
“Just how close were you to the victim?” Jamison says, eyeing me directly.
“Are you asking me if I’ve had sex with Eric?” I shrug, outing myself in the process. If the detective was wondering about my sexual orientation, he now knows. I’m tired, though, and I just want to get this interview over with. “No, I haven’t. Eric was into some pretty extreme stuff, like pain. That’s not my thing.”
Jamison makes a notation in his notebook. Then he makes eye contact once more, his expression taut. “Are you aware that two homosexual men have been killed in the city in the past two weeks?”
I’m aware. I read the news. “Gay.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We prefer to be called ‘gay.’”
“All right, then. Two gay men.”
I lean back on the cushioned railing. “Yes. It’s all anyone’s talking about at the clubs.”
“You’re referring to gay clubs, I take it?”
“Yes.”
Jamison nods. “The first two victims were both strangled with a garrotte.”
“Like Eric was?”
Grimly, he nods. “I thought you should know, since you saw the crime scene. In effect, you’re the closest thing we have to a witness.”
“And you think their deaths are related to Eric’s?”
“It’s not conclusive at this point, but based on what I’ve seen here tonight, I have little doubt.”
“Shit. You’re talking about a serial killer.”
“Can I ask what you were doing on the victim’s boat at—” He checks his notes. “—approximately two-thirty a.m.?”
“I’d just gotten home from clubbing, and I saw his lights were on. That’s not unusual for Eric. He’s a night owl, up most of the night and asleep all day. I popped in to say ‘hi’ and found him lying in a pool of blood.”
“Did you see anyone on or near his boat? Did you hear anything unusual?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Did you notice anyone on the pier or in the parking lot?”
“No.”
Jamison makes another notation in his notebook before meeting my gaze once more. “Mr. Alexander—”
“Ian.”
“Ian. Three gay men have been murdered within a five-mile radius of this location in the past fourteen days. One of them apparently lived right next door to your boat, and you discovered the body.”
“What are you saying? That I’m in danger, too?”
“If the killer thinks you’re a possible witness, yes. You should be vigilant until the killer is apprehended. Is there somewhere else you can stay tonight, other than on this boat? Somewhere more secure?”
I nod, my mind reeling. “I have a townhouse not far from here, in the Gold Coast.”
“Then I suggest you go there tonight. I’ll have officers escort you home.”
“Thanks, but is that really necessary?”
“Under the circumstances, I’m afraid it is.” He stands. “Be vigilant, Mr. Alexander. The killer appears to be targeting gay men. I’d advise you to keep a low profile until we catch the perpetrator.”
“I will.”
“One more thing.” He holds his hand out to me. “Give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“I need your contact info. It’s just a precaution.”
I hand him my phone, and he keys in his number and sends a brief text from my phone to his. “Now you have my number, too. If you think of anything else pertinent to this case, please let me know.”
I watch him climb off my boat and stride purposefully back toward Eric’s boat. Damn. He is one fine specimen of a man.
Chapter 3
Tyler Jamison
It’s Saturday morning, just after six a.m., when I finish up at the marina. I head straight to the office to file my initial report. It doesn’t matter that it’s the weekend—my job doesn’t have regular hours.
The moment I saw the murder victim, I knew why the captain assigned the case to me. It’s the same apparent MO as two other cases I’m working. Unless we discover otherwise, I have to assume it’s the same killer. Three gay men, all dead within a two-week period. A knot forms in my gut. I hate serial killers.