Dangerous Behavior

by Nancy Bush

Genres: Police Procedurals; Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

SOME COUPLES Just one look, and it’s clear they’re perfect together. It’s in the way they touch, talk, and kiss. They share the same interests. The same twisted passions. They do everything together. Even kill… ARE TOO GOOD Julia St. James Ford has washed up on a beach near her home in Seaside, Oregon, with no memory of how she got there or how her husband, Joe, died. The police rule the case an accident. But Joe’s brother, Sam—Jules’ rescuer and her first love—suspects otherwise. While Sam tries to piece the facts together, Jules fears someone is watching, determined to find out how much she knows. TO BE TRUE Behind closed doors, behind Jules’ neighbors’ smiles, are terrifying secrets. A string of sordid thrill kills…and one survivor who never should have got away. And as she and Sam close in on the events of one tragic night, and the truth comes flooding back, remembering a killer’s face may be the last thing Jules ever does… Praise for Nancy Bush’s You Can’t Escape “One thrilling read.” -- RT Book Reviews

Release date: April 25, 2017

Publisher: Zebra

Print pages: 384

Sample

The woman on the beach slowly came to consciousness, the frigid water sliding up and over her, then receding. Sand beneath her fingers. She curled her nails into it, trying to focus, trying to wake up. She needed to remember something.

Get up or you’ll die.

Apart from her fingers, she couldn’t move. Everything was weighted down. She couldn’t even open her eyes . . . but . . . yes . . . one sand-crusted lid lifted. She was on a beach. And there was something just there . . . beside her on the beach . . . hunched.

She worked to open both eyes and looked right into—

The wide open blue eyes of a dead man.

She shrieked, but it came out as a whimper, and then the next wave hit and it was bigger, lifting her up, slamming her into the dead man, his arm tussling with hers until they tumbled back into the surf.

I can’t . . . she thought.

And then the world faded to black.

Sam Ford rattled his truck along the jetty, scanning the western horizon. The ocean was gray today, restless under a low July sun. A line of smoke could still be seen, drifting above the water the same color as the sand. A boat had caught fire and sank. Was it his brother’s boat? Was she on it? Sam was still waiting to hear.

The back of his throat was gritty and raw, as if he’d been in the way of the smoke, and yet it was a mile from shore. He threw the truck into park and climbed out, grabbing his binoculars. The coast guard helicopter was hovering near the boat on a northwest trajectory from where Sam stood.

The text from Joe ran across his mind, like it had a thousand times since he’d received it: Meet me at my dock at noon.

Sam had been surprised by the message. He and Joe . . . the rift between them had grown over the years and they didn’t speak much any longer. Their father had thrown up his hands that they couldn’t reconcile, though now his mind seemed to be playing tricks on him, so who knew what he thought anymore. Their mother had divorced their father and remarried, stepping away from her sons and starting a new life. She’d had an inkling that things were not well between her two boys, but she’d chosen to pretend everything was fine, right up until breast cancer stole her away.

Meet me at my dock at noon....

Sam gazed up at the sun. It had started its descent to the horizon hours ago, though it was long after Sam had texted his brother back and told him he couldn’t make it, even though he could have. He’d come up with a dozen excuses, but Joe had never sent another text, which kinda pissed Sam off. Joe ordering him around? Playing passive-aggressive? Nope. That wasn’t the nature of their relationship.

But Joe texting him at all was pretty unusual. His brother usually left him alone, and vice versa. Was he imagining the imperative note to the message? At first it had just seemed autocratic; his older brother making demands on him just because he could. But that wasn’t Joe’s way. If anything, he tended to leave Sam be, and that was just fine with Sam. But that text had wormed its way into Sam’s brain, circling around, and he’d started thinking it was something more. A desperate plea? Why had his brother sent the message?

He’d tried to call Joe to ask him. He wasn’t going to go racing down the mountains from his parents’ old cabin to the beach without a good reason. Of course Joe had no way of knowing he wasn’t at the condo he’d been renting, or for that matter that he could be at work. Sam hadn’t told Joe that he’d quit the Seaside PD in favor of a job in Portland, which, in the end, hadn’t materialized—a job that would have been a step up to detective, one Sam was more than ready for. But just as soon as he’d quit at Seaside there’d supposedly been shifts within the Portland PD—a lot of double-talk from everyone involved—the upshot being someone with political ties was slotted into the open position in Portland and Sam was out. He could’ve gone back to Seaside, maybe should’ve gone back to the old job, probably, but instead he’d taken time off to think things over. And he really wasn’t sure he wanted to go backward anyway. Returning to his job as a general cop—Seaside wasn’t big enough for departments—felt like that’s all it would be. Also, his relationship with Dannella had fallen apart because he couldn’t commit, or so she said, although it hadn’t taken her long to find someone else and the last he’d heard she was married with a new baby. He’d felt a twinge of regret over that, but like his job, he’d decided to just wait and let things happen. There was nothing to do about it anyway, and really, Dannella moving on had been a good thing.

Joe hadn’t answered, and he’d never responded to Sam’s further texts. The morning had slipped by and finally Sam had just thought, screw it, and had driven the hour from the cabin to his brother’s house on Fisher Canal, an offshoot of the Nehalem River. He’d braced himself for a run-in with Joe’s wife, but the house had been deserted when he got there. He’d rung the bell and peered in the front windows, able to see through the living room and sliding glass door to the back deck and across the narrow inlet to the house on the opposite side. The neighbor’s boat sat outside their dock, which had made Sam realize Joe’s was gone. To make certain, Sam had tramped around the side of the house and, sure enough, there was no boat beneath the gray canopy over the boat slip, nor had it been tied to the silver cleats gleaming in the sun against the weathered boards of the dock.

While he’d been there a woman had come out from the house across the river and waved at him. Sam reluctantly waved back, aware she probably thought he was his brother, even though Joe was eight years older than Sam.

She called over to him. “Who’s got the boat?”

“I’m not Joe. I’m his brother,” he yelled back.

“Oh!”

She’d clearly been taken aback, and Sam suspected Joe had never mentioned him to her. No surprise there.

“You didn’t see him leave?” Sam asked.

She shook her head and motioned behind her. “Just got home,” she yelled.

Sam had nodded and waved a good-bye as he headed back around the house to his truck. He walked up to the garage and cupped his hands over his eyes, looking through the narrow garage window. Two vehicles were inside. A black Explorer and a light blue Subaru Outback. He surmised Joe’s was the Explorer, a Ford. His brother probably didn’t hear the same grief as he did about driving something other than a Ford when your last name was Ford. His Chevy pickup had been a good deal, period.

With both cars accounted for, he’d asked himself: Are Joe and his wife together on the boat? Maybe on their way back now?

He’d checked his cell phone. Eleven fifty. If his brother was returning by boat, he was pushing it pretty hard to make noon. There were houses on both sides of the narrow waterway that led into Nehalem Bay and further to the ocean. When he shaded his eyes and gazed down the ribbon of water to the sharp bend at the southwestern end, all he saw were the houses. But Sam could tell by sound alone that no boat was approaching.

He’d waited until twelve forty-five, then had climbed back into the cab of his truck and reversed out of the drive. Punching the accelerator, he’d headed toward the bay. As he’d approached he’d seen a crowd of onlookers outside their cars in the marina’s lot who were all staring toward the edge of the horizon where a line of smoke and faint flashes of orange light were a pinpoint to the naked eye.

“Boat’s on fire,” a gravel-voiced man had stated, his baseball cap bearing the name of a local hardware store.

Sam’s heart had clutched. There was no reason other than timing to think it was Joe’s boat, but still . . .

A young woman in shorts that were completely covered by an oversized sweatshirt had said, “Coast guard should be there.”

“Don’t hear the whirly-bird,” Gravel Voice had pointed out, frowning.

At that moment the whup-whup-whup of the approaching helicopter had reached their ears. Gravel Voice gave a quick nod and said, “Thar it is.”

Sam had reached for his cell phone. He’d tried Joe one more time, then sent another text: Where r u? On the boat? Call me.

He’d waited another five minutes, but no answer. With growing alarm he’d gotten back into the truck and put a call in to his ex-partner, Griff.

“Hey, man,” Griff had answered lazily. “I’m off today. Catch a beer later?”

“Griff, you hear about a boat accident south of Salchuk? Looks like one’s on fire, out on the horizon.”

“Coast guard chopper’s out there,” he’d answered after a minute.

“I know.” Sam had debated on mentioning that it could be his brother, but Griff wasn’t known for keeping things to himself. “Let me get back to you on that beer. Got a few things to do.”

“You on the scene?”

“Yep. Gotta go.”

“Okay, I’ll be at the Gull.”

Griff spent a lot of time down at the Seagull, a decrepit pub overlooking the Necanicum River in Seaside, another of the feeders to the Pacific on this stretch of coastline but thirty miles north of the Nehalem. Sam had lifted more than a few pints with his partner during their five years together on the force. Griff had been against Sam’s decision to quit and was hopeful Sam would return. Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. He’d been tentatively offered a job with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, further south down the coast, as well. He knew people there, too. He just wasn’t certain what he wanted yet and wasn’t sure that job was still on the table, either.

He’d slid his phone back in his pocket, cursed under his breath, and then beaten down the fears that had assailed him. . . told himself his brother was okay—he had to be—then had driven north to a section of sharp cliffs that reached into the ocean, a treacherous spot between Nehalem Bay and the small town of Salchuk, a sleepy ocean village that had recently become the newest, hottest place to be. The cliffs created an isolated beach that was only approachable at low tide around a pair of sheer stone arms that clawed into the Pacific. He’d parked, then half walked, half ran down the sharp, small rocks that tumbled off the massive stone walls. It wasn’t a popular place to come. The beach was too narrow, the view north blocked by the cliff, the stretch of sand on the south end disintegrating into larger rocks that were arduous to cross. If you were a thrill-seeker, then you might attempt a swim around the rock arm to the sheltered beach, but the frigid water, even in the dead of summer, might give you pause.

Now, Sam’s gaze moved across the horizon. He liked this stretch for all the reasons others didn’t. Its inherent loneliness appealed to him. What that said about him he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know, but Joe had been aware how Sam was drawn to the place, so maybe . . . ? The beach itself was deserted except for an enterprising seagull who eyed him with a baleful eye. If it came to a turf war, Sam thought he might win and he strode across the sand. The gull let him get within a foot before it screeched loudly, hopped a few steps away, and flapped its wings.

Sam pulled his gaze from the haze of smoke and that’s when he saw the shoe bobbing among the waves. A woman’s tan, slip-on sneaker. His heart clutched again, and he could almost feel the blood pumping through his veins.

Without serious conscious thought he dropped his cell phone and wallet on the sand and ran toward the surf, meeting a wave as it was coming in. He kept his sneakers on as he dove into water cold enough to stop his breath, and he battled the surf and turned northward as soon as he could to round the stone cliff, glad for the shoes that saved his feet against the rock face.

He caught a mouthful of seawater on his mission and spat it out as he clawed his way around the last part of the jagged stone wall.

He saw the woman’s body immediately. It was being teased by the incoming tide. Soon it would be sucked back out to the sea.

Jules!

He let the next rush of waves hurtle him toward her, then battled the receding waters, staggering up the beach, falling down to his knees and stumbling up again. He grabbed her as she tumbled back toward the waiting ocean, clamped his hands onto both of her arms, and pulled her up the sand. The waves rushed back and he lost his balance and his grip on her. Her brown hair was a mermaid’s floating crown around her head.

“Shit . . .” he whispered.

He grabbed her again and this time he hauled her as far up the beach as he could. He rolled her onto her back. She wasn’t breathing. Immediately he started CPR, rhythmically pushing on her chest while his head jerked around from side to side. Where was the coast guard? Where was Joe? God, was it his boat? Had to be. Why else would Jules be here?

She wasn’t responding. Even though it was no longer protocol, he leaned over her, opened her mouth, blew air into her lungs, then pushed on her chest some more.

“Come on, Jules, come on,” he gritted through his teeth. “Where’s Joe? Come on, come on. Breathe . . . breathe . . . Where’s Joe?”

It seemed like forever before her body lurched and she hawked up a rush of fluid from her lungs. Sam immediately turned her onto her side to help her.

Her lips were blue but her eyelids fluttered.

“Where’s Joe?” he asked, unable to help himself. “God, Jules. What happened? Where’s Joe?”

“Joe?” she warbled, shivering.

“Were you on the boat? Did it catch fire? Was he with you? Jules . . . was he with you?”

Her gray eyes regarded him dully. She was shivering all over and he gathered her close, aware how cold she was.

“I’m going to give you my shirt,” he said. “I’ve got to call nine-one-one. Let them know where you are. My phone’s on the other side of the rock.”

“What . . .” she whispered.

“Stay warm. I’ll just be a minute. You’re safe here.” For now, he thought. But with the tide coming in, maybe not for long. This whole area would be underwater soon.

He raced back into the water, calculating how much time he had. If worse came to worst, he would swim with her around the rock, but it would be harrowing. For now he just needed the chopper or a rescue boat.

He worked his way around the cliff face again, was slammed into it by a sudden, powerful wave, banged the side of his head. His vision spun for a moment before he gathered the strength to push himself around the last jut of stone, then let the waves shove him up the beach. He stumbled to his feet with an effort and staggered to where he’d left his phone. Thank God it was still dry. He dialed 911 and spoke to the dispatcher calmly, telling them exactly where they were.

Then he left the phone again, but slipped his wallet into his back pocket. It would be soaked, but he wanted the identification, just in case.

Just in case.

His trip back around the rock seemed to take forever. Inch by inch, holding on to the sharp edges, trying to gain purchase with his feet, every movement was sluggish, every stroke felt as if he were losing ground. His vision swam, his head throbbed. Aching, he realized he was hurt. A concussion, possibly. Well, hell. He’d had a few in his time. Football. . . Maybe he shoulda stayed away from that game.... He forced himself forward, around the damned rock, bracing himself against the battering, icy surf. Gritting his teeth, he squinted against the spray and saw her.

She was lying on her side, still out of reach of the waves, though their fingers were reaching ever closer. The tide was coming in. He ran toward her; at least he thought he did. More like lurching, he dimly realized.

“Wake up, Jules,” he ordered sternly, seeing her eyes were again closed.

He leaned down to her, alarmed. She was breathing raggedly. But alive. From the corner of his eye he saw it: a sneaker wave that suddenly jumped up the beach, racing across the sand to snatch at her. It splashed over both of them, arctic cold, dragging them both toward open sea. With a supreme effort of willpower he held on to her and pulled against it, muscles straining, strength waning, until the wave finally reluctantly released its death grip and receded.

She’ll die of hypothermia. . . .

He pulled her up to the base of the cliff, as far up the beach as he could possibly, then lay down atop her, warming her, making sure his weight didn’t interfere with her breathing. He had to find Joe . . . had to . . . But Jules beneath him . . . ? All he could think about was her dove gray eyes, her ironic smile, the feel of her silky skin....

Just like old times, he thought.

In a strange twilight consciousness, he remembered making love to her. Being in love with her. Thinking of making a life with her, before everything happened. He’d been an asshole, he knew. But she’d proved her faithlessness in the end, just like he’d feared. She’d married Joe, for God’s sake, and then—

Joe.

Where was Joe?

He awoke, startled to full consciousness. God, where was the ambulance? The EMTs? He was shaking violently. Another wave raced up the beach, climbing up his pant legs.

The woman beneath him stirred. Opened her eyes. He looked down into dull gray depths that stared back at him blankly. Then her eyes widened and she screamed with fear, though she could barely muster more than a whimper.

“Jules . . . Jules . . .” Sam said helplessly.

“What . . . what happened . . . ?” she choked out.

“I’ve called nine-one-one. They’re coming.”

“Oh . . . oh . . .”

Sam struggled to keep his wits about him. “Jules, where’s Joe?”

“Joe . . . ?”

“Yes, Joe. My brother. Your husband,” he snapped. He was filled with nebulous alarm. “Where is he?”

She stared past his ear, into some distant horror. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to answer, she said, “You’re dead,” and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Far in the distance, he heard a faint woo-woo-woo, the welcome wail of a siren. They were coming. He hoped they had a rescue boat. Had he told the 911 dispatcher he needed a boat? A wave inundated them up to their waists, then receded. His ears were full of the ocean’s roar. His face was wet with spray.

As the wail grew louder, Sam looked down at Jules. She was still unconscious but breathing. He realized an ambulance had pulled up on the southern side of the arm of rock. He felt relief when he understood they were using an inflatable to circumvent the cliff. He had told the dispatcher and now the boat was riding the waves, growing closer, two rescuers guiding the craft toward the shore. He tried to get to his feet and help them but felt too lethargic. When he rubbed a hand across his head it came back bloody.

“We’re here,” he chattered, as if the two men in wet suits who’d materialized from the surf with a stretcher could hear him. “For God’s sake, hurry. . . .”

“We’ve got you,” one of them said as if from a distance, and Sam rolled off Jules and reached a hand to be helped to his feet.

She awoke in what appeared to be an ambulance, looked around, didn’t have a clue where she was. There was a mask on her face, regulating her breathing. I’ve been injured, she thought. She tried to lift her right arm and pain stabbed her.

An attendant looked over at her and said, “Try not to move. We’re on our way to the hospital now.”

“What . . . happened?” Her head hurt like a son of a bitch.

“The doctor’s meeting us in the ER.”

“I was in the water,” she murmured, feeling a gray numbness descend on her like a shroud.

“You’re safe now,” the voice said, but it sounded wavy and far away and she didn’t believe it.

They put Sam in an ambulance, a different one from Jules’s, even though he protested that he was fine. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t think he’d ever be fine again. He wasn’t sure he had ever been fine.

“My brother,” he choked out, struggling upward from the gurney.

The EMT put a light hand on his chest. “We’re looking for him. The coast guard’s alerted.”

“The boat . . . the one on fire . . .”

“Sir, we just need you to lie down.”

“My phone was on the beach on the other side of the rocks.”

“Someone will find it,” a confident male voice told him.

“Was that Joe’s boat? Was it?”

You’re dead.

Had Jules said that? Were those the words, or had he imagined it?

Half an hour later the ambulance screamed into the hospital drive and swept beneath the portico outside Emergency. The EMTs leapt out and yanked open the back doors. They pulled Sam out and he wanted to protest that he could walk on his own, but no one was listening. Jules’s ambulance was in front of his, and she was already being pulled out. They snapped the gurney’s wheels down and pushed through the automatic doors into the hospital’s ER.

As soon as he was on the ground, Sam once again tried to get off his own gurney. A young female nurse warned, “Sir? Sir? We need you to lie back. We’ll be there soon.”

“My cell phone,” he said again. “Can you find who has it? Or any phone, for that matter. I need to call the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.”

“The doctor will see you and decide,” she answered.

It kind of pissed him off. No, it really pissed him off, but he let it stand because his head hurt and he felt dull. But his mind was also on fire, full of questions and fear. Was Joe on that boat? Did he survive? What happened?

He was given a cursory check over by an ER doctor who looked to be in his early thirties, about Sam’s same age, then he was deposited on a hospital bed in a cubicle with curtains for walls. He could hear them working with Jules. He lay staring at the ceiling for about five minutes before throwing off the covers. He was still in his pants, shirt, and sneakers, which were damp and uncomfortable, but he scarcely noticed.

“I need a phone,” he said.

“Sir . . .” A young woman in blue scrubs frowned at him from across the room.

“Sam Ford,” he told her. “I’m a policeman and I need a phone.” Was a policeman, but she didn’t have to know that.

An older, heavyset woman, also in scrubs, lumbered his way, her thighs making a scritching sound as she walked. “Mr. Ford, please go back to your bed.” She made a shooing motion. “We’re doing everything we can for your . . . wife? Or sister . . .”

“Julia Ford.” He didn’t want to waste time on explanations.

“Yes.”

“How is she? Is she all right?”

“She’s in good hands.”

“Is she alert?”

“She’s been communicating. Now, please?” She held out her arm toward his cubicle. Sam hesitated briefly before complying and returning to his room.

Though her words had been a request, her tone had held a warning that Sam was unlikely to miss. Authority trip, he decided. He was too quick to judge; he knew that about himself. But he also knew he was generally right, so he didn’t much care.

He suffered through nearly an hour of waiting, his mind searching for answers when there wasn’t enough information to find any. He could hear Jules’s voice occasionally, which mostly eased his fears where she was concerned, but he was sick with worry over his brother.

And then the doctor—the senior one with decision-making capabilities, apparently—checked him over and pronounced him able to leave, as long as someone drove him home. “You’ve suffered a minor head injury, and I’d like you to be monitored.”

“I’ll call my sister,” he said, “but I don’t have my cell phone.” He also didn’t have a sister.

“I think the police brought it in. One of the EMTs said you were missing it.”

“Do you know where I can find it?”

“Ask Jan at the desk on your way out. She knows all.” The doctor gave him a brief smile. “We’re still assessing your wife, but you can see her for a few minutes. But you should go home and take care of yourself. Can you call someone?”

“I will . . . my sister,” Sam said, thinking hard. They thought Jules was his wife and that gave him a kind of access to her and information about her he might not be granted if they found out he was her brother-in-law instead.

On slightly unsteady legs he walked toward her cubicle. The curtain was closed on his side, but open on the other. As he came around, he was a bit startled that she was sitting up and very much awake.

“Hey,” he said. “How’re you doing?” His shirt was tossed on the chair and he picked it up and shrugged into it.

“I have a cracked collarbone . . . clavicle.” She said the words slowly, as if testing each one out separately. He could see the bandage peeking out from the hospital gown she’d been issued. Even wet, bedraggled, her skin abraded, and having just escaped drowning, there was something about her that was, and always had been, captivating. He ignored it. Told himself he was immune.

“What happened out there? Do you know where Joe is?”

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Joe,” Sam said tightly. “He was on the boat with you, right?”

“I don’t . . .”

He waited, but she trailed off and didn’t start again, so he pressed, “Joe called me and told me to meet him at noon at your house. But you guys were gone. What were you doing out there? Did something happen?” He lowered his voice and moved in closer. “Was Joe with you?”

She shrank back into the pillows.

He was scaring her. She’d been through a tremendous trauma and he was scaring her. He had to pull himself back, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to keep hammering at her because time was ticking away, like blood seeping from a wound, each moment bringing Joe closer to death.

“What did you mean ‘you’re dead’?” he whispered. There were too many people outside the curtain and he didn’t want any of them to hear.

She stared at him helplessly. “What?”

“You said, ‘you’re dead,’ when we were on the beach.” When she didn’t respond, he pressed. “When we were on the beach, when you’d washed ashore before they brought you in. Remember? For God’s sake, Jules—”

“I don’t know!” she cried out.

The curtain shot back, caught in one strong fist. “Mr. Ford, it’s time for you to leave,” the battle-ax said through taut lips.

The senior ER doctor—Dr. Metcalf, Sam now read on his tag—was right behind her. “We’re taking your wife to her room now. Did you reach your sister?”

Jules was looking at Sam with trepidation, as if he was a complete stranger. He wasn’t ready to leave, but Battle-Ax and the doctor exchanged a look, and Sam knew he was about to be tossed out.

“No . . . uh . . . my brother’s missing. I think he was on the boat with Jules. The coast guard’s searching for him, but—”

Battle-Ax interrupted, “Then check with the coast guard. You can talk to your wife later.”

Sam half expected Jules to set the record straight about whom she was married to, but she’d closed her eyes and, well, her pallor was ghostly. Scarily so. He allowed himself to be ushered away from the ER’s inner sanctum. He found his way to the reception area where he picked up his cell phone from Jan at the desk, a petite, older woman with graying hair stylishly cut. He thanked her, and the gods that had found his phone and given it back to him. It was a bit sandy, but turned right on. As he headed for the outside doors and some privacy, he put through a call to the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department.

“Detective Savannah Dunbar,” he requested of the female dispatcher who’d answered the phone.

“Detective Dunbar’s not here,” she said. Probably Brenda, Sam thought. He was familiar with a number of the department employees. “Would you like someone else, or to leave a message?”

He stopped short at the sliding doors, which opened, then whispered shut again when he didn’t walk through them. “How about Stone?” Sam asked, thinking of the other detective whom he was familiar with.

“Detective Stone is on another line. Would you like his voice mail?”

“Jesus Christ. Who’s available, Brenda?” Sam snapped.

“Who is this?” she responded frostily.

“It’s Ford. Sam Ford. My brother Joe’s missing. Possibly in the ocean. A chopper’s already been sent out, but I need to talk to someone. If it’s not Dunbar or Stone, who the hell is there?”

“Deputy Hartman’s on duty—”

“I need a detective, Brenda.” He was practically shouting and it wasn’t doing any good with her or the other people milling around. It wasn’t like him to be so desperate, but this was his brother . . . whom he’d blown off when he’d asked for Sam’s help . . . and now he was gone. Missing, he reminded himself. Not gone.

“Mr. Ford, could you please turn off your phone or go outside?” Jan asked loudly. Her earlier smile had disappeared completely.

He lifted an apologetic hand and headed through the exterior sliding doors as Brenda said, “I can contact the coast guard for you.”

“Please. Yes. Thanks. And would you leave Detective Dunbar a message that Sam Ford called?”

“Yes.”

He phoned Griff again, though it was more likely they would hear something through the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department before the Seaside Police, based on the proximity of the boating accident. Griff answered, but knew nothing more than when Sam had called him earlier, since he wasn’t on duty. Sam considered calling the Seaside Police Department, but the accident was too far south for them to be involved.

Stymied, Sam stared toward the western horizon. His pickup was stil