Sweetheart Killer: Book 14 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series Read online

  “No, dear, I’m just tired. Not sleeping much these days…for obvious reasons.”

  “I can come by and check on you later.”

  “Not necessary, but thank you,” the widow replied wearily.

  Missy bagged the cupcake and poured a fresh cup of coffee in a to-go cup and sent Blanche on her way.

  “Poor thing,” Echo mused, after she had gone.

  “I know. I can’t even imagine losing my husband. I don’t know how I’d cope.”

  “Exactly,” Echo shook her head.

  “Hopefully Chas is getting to the bottom of what happened. As far as I know, they don’t even

  conclusively know the cause of death yet.”

  “Wow, really? It’s been over a week. That’s unusual.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  Spencer sat on a padded lounger on the observation deck, tapping away at his laptop. He’d found

  some information about Sean Levian that was a bit disturbing. Apparently, the young man had a

  fascination with explosives. He’d majored in chemistry in college, and had been suspended on

  more than one occasion for inducing property-damaging explosions in the lab. Normally, such

  antics would’ve sounded like common pranks, but when one took into account the fact

  that after he graduated, Sean had taken a job at a nuclear plant in Idaho, and quit suddenly after

  only a little over a year, to return to St. Thomas, his past seemed to take on a more sinister

  interpretation.

  Spencer texted Chas to let him know that he’d be getting off the ship at the next port, and not

  returning. He needed to fly back to St. Thomas to try to track down Sean Levian personally. If all

  went well, he’d meet the ship at another port later, collect his things, and fly home. Extradition

  would be someone else’s problem, but the Marine could certainly ensure that Sean was detained

  until the appropriate measures could be taken.

  Having booked his reservation for a flight to St. Thomas before the ship even docked in Puerto

  Rico, its next stop, Spencer planned to go straight to the airport, taking a taxi from the pier. The

  crowd moving into the popular port of San Juan was moving slowly to say the least, and the Marine

  had to remind himself that not everyone present was on the possible trail of a killer. When he was

  finally able to join the throngs of travelers on the pier, he hailed a cab and headed for the airport,

  disappointed that there was no time to appreciate his surroundings.

  Upon his arrival in St. Thomas, Spencer was met at a restaurant near the airport, by a man who

  rented him a motorcycle for use during his stay. The island roads were often steep, narrow and

  winding, and the Marine wanted to make absolutely certain that he could make a fast getaway if

  necessary. He was also relieved that he didn’t have to deal with the steering wheel being on the

  wrong side of a rental car, although it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, and it’d be easier to get

  accustomed to driving on the left side of the road on a motorcycle.

  He’d found Sean Levian’s address, and had memorized the route from the restaurant to the small

  home where the young man lived. The pale blue cottage with white trim seemed tidy, and front

  door was open, protected by a screen, so at least someone was home. When he knocked on the thin

  frame of the screen door, an elderly woman materialized and peered out at him with a kindly smile.

  “Hi, I’m here to see Sean,” Spencer gave her his most charming grin. That one particular

  expression had a way of opening doors for him, particularly when he used it on the ladies.

  “Pas d’Anglais,” she shook her head sweetly, letting him know that she didn’t speak English.

  Much to her surprise, the young man on her doorstep then spoke to her in flawless French. Sean

  was her grandson, and she told Spencer that he was working at the tour company today. Thanking

  her, he took his leave and headed for Eco Tours.

  **

  The first person that Spencer saw, after parking his bike in the Eco Tours parking lot was Ray, his

  guide from the day before.

  “You forget somethin’?” Ray grinned, his white teeth standing out against his deep chocolate skin.

  “Nope. I heard Sean was back, I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “I don’t think he left for his late tour yet. Lemme see if I can go find him for you,” the guide

  offered.

  “I need to stretch my legs anyhow, I’ll just go with you, if you don’t mind”

  “No problem. Come with me,” Ray headed down a path that led to the kayak docks.

  “Hey Sean,” he put his hands around his mouth and called out, when they stood at the top of the

  small hill above the docks.

  The guide, who was putting snorkel masks in a bucket of solution, stood up and waved them over.

  “I got to go get things ready for a tour, but you can go down there and talk to him,” Ray instructed,

  and Spencer made his way to Sean.

  “Afternoon! Can I help you?” Sean’s smile was wide.

  “I need to talk to you for a minute about some people that you took out on an excursion,” the

  Marine spoke casually, sizing up the muscular young man in front of him.

  “I meet lots of people every day, but I’ll try to remember,” he promised affably.

  “This couple was particularly unpleasant, or at least the husband was. The kayaked with another

  couple just before you took a few days off. The guy’s name was Stewart. Loud voice, liked to

  order people around. Ringing any bells?”

  “Ah yes,” Sean kept his smile but shook his head. “Him, I remember.”

  “I heard he gave you a pretty hard time.”

  “I’ve had worse. There are college kids who get in the kayak with a hangover and end up vomiting

  all over the place, elderly people who paddle too hard and look like they’re going to have a heart

  attack, kids who whine and scream the whole time, you name it,” he shrugged.

  “So it didn’t bother you that he was….” Spencer wasn’t quite sure how to finish his sentence.

  “A legend in his own mind?” Sean chuckled. “No, it didn’t bother me. As I said, I’ve had worse.”

  “So, did you go anywhere interesting on your days off?”

  “Nah, my brother owns a fishing boat, so I helped him out because one of his guys was sick. I still

  can’t get the smell of bait off of my shoes. We made some good hauls though. Want to see photos?”

  he pulled out his phone.

  “Sure, I’d love to.”

  Sean began showing Spencer pictures of nets full of fish, pointing out the different species and

  funny objects that came along with their catches. The Marine’s sharp eyes focused on the date and

  time that all of the photos were taken, and noted that Sean was in almost all of them. The dates

  and times of the photos coincided with the approximate time of death of Stewart Fiskin. There was

  no way that Sean Levian could have murdered the Floridian.

  “Pretty impressive,” he nodded. “Hey, thanks for taking the time to show me, but I’ve gotta run. I

  have a plane to catch.”

  “No problem. Safe trip,” Sean raised a hand in farewell, then went back to the snorkel masks as

  Spencer jogged to the top of the hill.

  If he made it back to the airport in time he could hasten his return to San Juan, with the goal of

  arriving before the ship left port. By the skin of his teeth, the Marine got on a plane to San Juan

  that l
eft moments after he purchased his ticket and ran out to the tarmac. The sun was setting as he

  stepped out of the taxi near the pier, but he’d be able to make it back to the ship in plenty of time.

  Stopping for a sea scallop ceviche at a local café before boarding, Spencer planned to question

  Putu about Stewart Fiskin when he got back on board.

  “Well hey, handsome,” a slightly drunk female voice cooed.

  Spencer looked up from his plate to see a very pretty, and very sunburned young woman moseying

  down the sidewalk in front of the café’s outdoor eating area. He glanced at her, then returned to

  his seafood assault.

  “Don’t you just look as American as apple pie?” she observed, her southern accent slightly slurred.

  Spencer said two or three sentences to her in textbook French and she gazed at him, baffled, then

  turned and continued on her way.

  “Well played, young man,” an Australian woman at the next table chuckled.

  “Thanks,” he grinned, chasing his ceviche with an iced tea. He would’ve loved to linger in the

  charming city, but he had work to do, so he made his way back to the ship.

  The Marine had a strange premonition when he placed his key against the pad by the door of his

  stateroom. The hair on the back of his head stood up, and he opened the door with a sudden jerk,

  trying to surprise whoever might be inside. Putu let out a startled cry and held up hands that were

  sheathed in rubber gloves.

  “What are you doing?” Spencer demanded.

  “Cleaning the refrigerator, sir,” was the terrified attendant’s reply.

  “Now? Why?”

  Putu looked at Spencer, then at the fridge, which was open, and back, his eyes darting rapidly back

  and forth.

  “It was dirty, sir,” his words sounded lame, and Spencer raised an eyebrow.

  “Dirty enough to warrant those heavy duty gloves?”

  “They are to protect my hands from the detergent.”

  “You haven’t used any detergent yet.”

  Putu just stared at him wide-eyed.

  “We’re going to have a little talk,” the Marine’s jaw flexed as he gripped the attendant’s shoulder

  and steered him toward the dining table.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  “Sorry, Detective, Paul Sanchez wasn’t anywhere near Stewart Fiskin on the morning in question,”

  the uniformed officer tossed a report onto Chas’s desk. “His alibi is as rock solid as they come.”

  “I still think he’s hiding something,” Chas mused. “I’m going to go talk to him one more time

  before we cut him loose.”

  When the officer left, Chas sighed and linked his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

  The sooner he got the exit interview with Sanchez over with, the better. He grabbed his notebook

  and pen, and headed one last time, to the holding cell where Paul had been cooling his heels.

  “You still say you didn’t do this, but you haven’t given me the name of anyone else who did. What

  am I supposed to think, Paul?” Chas challenged.

  “Maybe you better think about people who are shadier than me, man. People who got some bad

  habits. Habits that make them loco,” he replied twirling a finger beside his head.

  “Drugs? That’s what’s behind all this?” the detective drilled him with a look.

  “Man, you don’t know nothing about nothing,” he shook his head.

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “I ain’t saying nothing else. You got to let me outta here. You ain’t got nothing on me.”

  **

  Chas instructed the canine officer to walk up and down the rows of Stewart Fiskin’s warehouse,

  to see if there was a drug operation being run from the facility. He planned to talk with some of

  the workers whom Chet Hegstrom had mentioned when Paul Sanchez’s alibi removed him from

  the list of persons of interest. Paul had glared at him when he walked by the operations office in

  the warehouse, but had said nothing about the detective’s presence.

  He approached two men who were standing near a towering row of boxes, looking over a

  clipboard.

  “Which one of you is Thompson?” he asked, flashing his badge.

  The guy on the left pointed to the guy on the right, scribbled a signature on the clipboard and

  scurried away.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” Thompson, a tall, weathered man with a graying crewcut, asked.

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about your boss.”

  “Sanchez?”

  “No, Mr. Fiskin,” Chas clarified, and had just opened his mouth to continue when he heard a shout

  from the man who had walked away and was now near the office.

  “Watch out! Run!” he called, panicking.

  Chas and Thompson both looked up at the tower of boxes beside them and saw them teetering

  precariously. The detective grabbed the sleeve of Thompson’s work shirt, and sprinted down the

  row, dragging him behind. They moved just in time – the boxes crashing to the floor behind them

  were so close that they felt a rush of air, as row after row toppled like dominos. Chas stopped when

  they were a safe distance away, and Thompson watched in horror as the entire row came down.

  “What was in those boxes?” the detective asked, catching his breath.

  “TVs,” Thompson shook his head in disbelief.

  “Things like that happen often?”

  “No way. We got safeguards and stuff. Nothing like that has ever happened here, that I know of.”

  “What kinds of safe guards?”

  “There are straps and supports.”

  “Show me.”

  He led Chas to the other side of the row, where a few boxes still stood, their heartbeats slowly

  returning to normal after the adrenalin rush, and showed him the strapping, which had been

  unfastened.

  “What the heck is going on out here?” Sanchez demanded, having run from the office area. “Who

  did this?” he gestured at the unhooked straps that were draped across the boxes.

  “None of our guys would do this. They know better,” Thompson insisted.

  “Don’t touch it,” Chas barked, as Sanchez reached for the metal fastener on one of the straps.

  “They may have left fingerprints.”

  **

  “Hey boss man, the lab results for your mysterious case just came in. I haven’t opened them yet, I

  thought you might want to,” Fiona waved an official envelope at Tim, standing in the doorway of

  his office.

  “Well bring it here then,” his eyes brightened at the prospect of confirming his suspicions.

  He slit the envelope open, shook out the report inside of it, and flipped through, nodding

  periodically.

  “Time of death, yes. Exposure and ingestion to expiration time, less than an hour, just as I thought.

  I knew it,” he whispered, a mix of excitement and concern on his face.

  “Knew what?”

  “I know what killed Stewart Fiskin. I was right.”

  “Do we need to call Detective Tall-Dark-and-Handsome?” Fiona didn’t know whether to be chilled

  or thrilled by her boss’s revelation.

  “Yes, we do.”

  **

  Chas had forensics techs come out, and they’d been fortunate to find fingerprints on the unsecured

  strapping closures. Running them through the database, the detective had been lucky enough to

  find a match almost immediately. Joey Gavlin, a janitor who worked for Fiskin’s company, had

  handled the straps. He’d also
clocked out just before the incident happened, and was caught on

  security cameras running from the building.

  The detective banged on the door of the janitor’s apartment, hoping that he wasn’t too late. If Joey

  Gavlin had fled from the warehouse, he may have continued running rather than facing charges of

  malicious mischief, destruction of property, and attempted assault of an officer of the law.

  “Who’s there?” a fearful voice called from behind the door. The building was so old and

  dilapidated that the doors didn’t have peepholes.

  “Detective Chas Beckett, Calgon PD, open up Gavlin,” Chas called, banging again.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” the voice behind the door protested, seeming to tremble a bit.

  “The security cameras tell a different story. Now open the door and keep your hands where I can

  see them, or I’ll break it down and take you to jail.”

  The old door may not have had a peephole, but it obviously had a dead bolt and several locks,

  which Chas heard being undone. He drew his weapon and had it at the ready when Joey opened

  the door.

  “Hey, man,” the janitor’s hands shot up in the air and he started backing away in fear. “I didn’t mean to hurt nobody, I swear.”

  “On your knees. Lock your fingers behind your head,” Chas directed calmly.

  “Yes, sir, okay,” the man dropped to his knees and did as he was told.

  Chas holstered his weapon and put handcuffs on the janitor.

  “Why did you kill Stewart Fiskin?” the detective asked, as part of his strategy.

  “I didn’t kill nobody, I swear,” Gavlin started to cry. “Mr. Fiskin was my boss, I didn’t like him

  but I’d never kill nobody,” he blubbered.

  “Then why did you just try to kill me at the warehouse? Or were you aiming for Thompson?” Chas

  challenged.

  “I just…I needed the money and I didn’t want nobody to get hurt. I never killed nobody,” Gavlin

  was nearly incoherent in his fear.

  “Who put you up to it?” Chas growled. “Who told you to do that to me? Sanchez? Hegstrom?”