A Clandestine Affair Read online

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  Carlos couldn’t argue that with her. Raoul had no more use for her than Emilio had had. “You don’t have to see him. He’ll stay in the boathouse with me if he spends the night. Most likely he won’t stay that long.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He didn’t say. I assume he only wants to see me and assure himself that I’m doing well.”

  “Of course you’re doing well. Why wouldn’t you be?”

  “Maybe because I’m getting older, even older than his own grandfather was when he died.”

  Her expression changed from one of pouting irritation to apprehension. “Don’t talk like that, Carlos.”

  He placed his rough hands on her thin shoulders. “Relax, señora. I’m not planning to die anytime soon. Raoul will visit and then he’ll leave. Nothing will change.”

  She exhaled slowly and the drawn lines of her face eased. For a second, he caught a glimpse of the beautiful, sensual woman who used to live behind her dark, tortured eyes. Then she’d reminded him so much of another woman. But she’d never had her grace, her sweetness or her courage.

  He stepped away, and the señora walked back to the window where she spent so much time.

  “What were you talking about with the new tenant?” she asked without turning her gaze from the island and the gulf beyond.

  “Fish.”

  “What about them?”

  “She wants to pay me to take her fishing.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t trust anyone who comes to Diablo except Enrique.”

  “They shouldn’t be here. Andres would never have let strangers roam his island.”

  “Things are different now, and Cochburn is within his legal rights to take in tenants.” Andres’s will had stated that if anything happened to him, Alma Garcia and Carlos could live on the island rent free for the rest of their lives.

  It was a generous provision, the trust set up with a close attorney friend who’d let the señora and Carlos live on the island without the bother of tourists. But he had retired, and his son who took over the business had no allegiance to Andres.

  Renting to tourists had been his idea, but when it failed to bring in the dollars he’d hoped for, he’d let the villa and the island fall even further into ruin.

  “Are you on Cochburn’s side now?” Alma demanded.

  “I’m not on anyone’s side. I just don’t see the point of worrying over every tenant who comes to the island.”

  “How can you say that after the disasters we’ve had? Undercover cops. Women on the run. Investigative reporters.”

  “Jaci appears to be harmless.”

  “She was out on the beach last night after midnight, Carlos. I saw her.”

  “It was a nice night.”

  “I want her off the island. Either you take care of it or I will.”

  He grasped the señora’s left hand, then tilted her chin with his other thumb so that she had to look into his eyes. “I’ll handle Jaci if she needs handling. You must leave this to me. Do you understand?”

  “Then get rid of her. Get rid of Raoul, too.”

  “Soon enough. For now, you should take it easy and stay out of the sun.”

  “Andres doesn’t want strangers on his island.”

  Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets and backed from the room. His promise to take care of things was empty. The thing that needed the most care was the señora, and he had no idea how to reach a woman who’d kept breathing but stopped living thirty years ago.

  JACI STARED OUT THE WINDOW into the growing darkness. She’d dined on crabmeat omelet and toast at seven, and she was still feeling stuffed. She’d work another hour or two, then take a long walk in the moonlight before turning in.

  Pulling her feet into the overstuffed chair, she rummaged through the stack of old newspaper reports until she found the article on the accidental drowning of Andres Santiago’s only son. The boy had been four years old, but reportedly a good swimmer.

  The investigation had been less than what would be routinely expected in a drowning of that sort. Two cops had come over from Everglades City. They’d questioned the child’s stepmother, Medina Santiago, and apparently bought her story that the boy, who was just getting over measles had been weaker than usual and must have passed out while swimming in the deep end of the pool.

  A notation at the end of the report said that the nanny, Alma Garcia, had discovered the body, and that Andres Santiago had not been home at the time of the drowning.

  Jaci was certain the investigating cops would have known Santiago was a powerful drug smuggler, one who outsmarted them at every turn. They’d never been able to curtail his operations, much less stop them. Was that why they’d exerted so little energy on investigating the son’s drowning, or the later disappearance of the rest of the family?

  Leaving her notes, Jaci crossed the room and grabbed her navy jacket from the back of a wicker chair where she’d left it. The wind always seemed to pick up when the sun went down. She started toward the pool, but stopped when she caught sight of Alma slipping through the courtyard gate in a flowing white dress.

  Jaci hurried to the gate and followed at a distance. The woman’s bare feet seemed almost to float across the sand, and her skirt caught the wind, billowing about her legs. She didn’t stop until she reached the water’s edge.

  Jaci thought at first she was going to walk right into the surf, but instead she began to twirl like a ballerina, gliding over the sand, laughing as if she were listening to a private and very humorous conversation.

  Jaci continued to watch, hypnotized by the graceful movements and the silver streaks of moonlight that illuminated the lone figure. Watching Alma now, it was difficult to believe she was the same white-haired woman who stared from the third-floor window.

  The twirling stopped as suddenly as it began, and Alma stood very still, her arms open as if she were waiting for a lover to step into them. Perhaps this was some kind of ritual, Jaci decided, or maybe Alma Garcia had experienced the isolation of Cape Diablo for too many years.

  And then the lover arrived, albeit invisible. When Alma began to dance again, it was a waltz, and it was clear she was dancing with an imaginary partner.

  The mesmerizing scene was sweetly romantic, yet somehow disturbing at the same time. In fact, Jaci had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching her watching Alma.

  She scanned the beach, but didn’t see any sign of Carlos, and the three of them were the only people on the island.

  She turned away from Alma and walked back to the courtyard. Her mind still on the older woman and her bizarre dance, Jaci walked to the edge of the pool and stared into the murky water.

  It hit her again how strange it was that the nanny, who’d once found the body of a boy she was paid to tend floating in this very pool, still lived here. In the same house where the Santiago daughters who’d been in her care had lived before the bloody night they’d disappeared with their parents, never to be heard from again.

  Jaci shivered. And then she saw a new shadow mingling with hers, one that she was certain did not belong to Carlos or Alma Garcia.

  Chapter Three

  Startled, Jaci stared accusingly at the man who’d appeared from nowhere. “Who are you?”

  “Sorry if I frightened you. My name’s Raoul, and you must be Jaci.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Took a wild guess.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Carlos said there was a woman named Jaci staying in one of the pool house apartments. He failed to warn me you were territorial.”

  Okay, so she’d come on a little strong. Still… “You could have let me know you’d walked up behind me.”

  “I wasn’t exactly tiptoeing around. You were just so fascinated by whatever you were staring at, you didn’t hear me. Besides, the courtyard is a common area, or at least it used to be.”

  “It still is,” she said
, feeling unjustly chastened. “But I thought I was the only tenant on the island.”

  “Technically, you are. I’m here visiting my uncle— Carlos.”

  For some reason, she’d assumed Carlos Lazario had no relatives, probably because none had ever been mentioned in the police or newspaper reports. Which was why a good criminologist could never trust assumptions.

  “So now that I’ve established I’m not a pirate from the high seas here to rape and plunder, why don’t we start over?” The stranger stepped closer and extended his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jaci.”

  She shook it, more amiable now that she knew he was Carlos’s nephew. Maybe befriending Raoul would be the way into the old man’s heart, or more specifically, into his boathouse and villa.

  It was hard to tell much about Raoul’s features in the dim courtyard lighting, but she did note a slight resemblance to Carlos. Something about the mouth and the shape of the eyes, she thought. But Raoul was much younger, thirty something, she’d guess. And way sexier.

  “It’s a nice night,” he said, “cooler than this afternoon.”

  “Very nice. Do you visit Cape Diablo often?”

  “I try to check on Carlos when I can.”

  “I’m sure he’s glad for the company. He must get lonely out here.”

  “You’ll never get him to admit that.”

  “Guess he likes isolation.”

  “That and he’s incredibly hardheaded, just like my grandfather. Actually, Carlos is my great-uncle. He and my grandfather were brothers.”

  “I suppose the hardheaded trait missed you,” Jaci said, finally managing a smile.

  “You got it. I’m a rational, thinking man, and I’ll butt heads with anyone who says differently.” Raoul propped a foot on the rim of a clay flower pot full of blooming verbenas, and looked into the murky water. “I hope your room’s in better shape than the pool.”

  “It’s clean, and the bed is comfortable.”

  “This pool is disgusting.”

  “I asked your uncle about it. Apparently it hasn’t been used in a very long time.”

  “Try three decades. It should have been filled in years ago.”

  “Or at least drained and cleaned,” she agreed. “Is there a reason why it’s been left like this?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but it’s a waste of time wondering how or why my uncle and Alma Garcia do anything on Cape Diablo. I gave up years ago.”

  So he’d been coming to the island for a long time, maybe all his life. He might have even known the Santiago children, though he’d have been so young, Jaci doubted he’d remember much about them.

  Raoul stooped to fish a plastic cup from the algae-filled pool. Jaci took the opportunity to study him more closely.

  He was lean and fit, as if he worked out or engaged in physical activity on a regular basis. Dressed in denim cutoffs and a short-sleeved knit shirt open at the neck, even though she found the night wind cool. Dark hair. Probably dark eyes as well, though she couldn’t tell in this light.

  Not classically handsome, but with a rugged sexual appeal that seemed to stem as much from his self-confident manner as his looks.

  “So what brings you to Cape Diablo?” he asked, once he’d tossed the cup in a nearby trash basket.

  “I needed some downtime, and a secluded island seemed the perfect place to find it.”

  “That’s about all you’ll find here. That, snakes and every kind of annoying insect you can imagine.”

  She hoped to find a whole lot more, and Raoul might be just the person to help her get it. “Will you be around awhile?”

  “A couple of nights, but I probably won’t be here much during the day. I’m hoping to take Carlos fishing. He likes to catch the big ones, and his boat is too small to handle the waves in the open gulf.”

  “I didn’t hear your boat come in.”

  “Purrs like a kitten. It’s a lot quieter than the generator, except when I first start up the engines.”

  She dropped to the edge of one of the webbed lounge chairs, hoping Raoul would do the same. He didn’t.

  “The island must have a fascinating history,” she said, looking up at him with what she hoped was a natural and slightly seductive smile. “Do you know much about the original builders of the villa?”

  “I’m not big on history.” He slapped at a mosquito that was buzzing around his neck. “Not fond of mosquitoes, either, so I think I’ll head back down to the boathouse. If I don’t see you again, enjoy your vacation.”

  So much for her feminine wiles. “Thanks.”

  She gave a slight wave as he retreated. But she had no intention of letting him get off that easily. She’d find a way to talk to him again.

  He knew about the history of the island, but didn’t want to get into it with her. Why else would he have turned and run the minute she mentioned it? It couldn’t have been the mosquito. If he’d been avoiding those, he’d never have ventured out in the first place.

  And even if she got nothing from him except company, it wouldn’t be a total loss. The solitude might suit Carlos, but as far as Jaci was concerned, it was growing old fast.

  Her mother might not be able to push her into the path of a sexy man, but isolation and an old murder case could do the trick.

  RAOUL TOOK THE LONG WAY back to the boathouse, still trying to decide the best way to accomplish what he was here for, but now also thinking about Jaci Matlock. Needing downtime wasn’t much of an explanation for why a young, good-looking woman would come to a secluded island by herself.

  Maybe she had some big decision she was wrestling with and wanted uninterrupted time to think, or she could be getting over a man. Losing someone you loved could make a loner of you. Who knew that better than him?

  Raoul slowed as he caught sight of Alma a few yards ahead of him, crouched between two clusters of sea oats. She was down on her knees, and sand was flying around her as if she were in a whirlwind.

  A few steps closer, and he could see the small plastic shovel moving so fast it seemed to be gas propelled. He doubted she was building sand castles, but then who knew with Alma Garcia?

  The woman was nuts. He’d first realized that when he was about ten and she’d kept calling him by the name of the Santiago kid who’d drowned in the pool. And then there was the time he’d run into her on the beach and she’d said she was looking for Pilar and Reyna because they had run off from their lessons. That had been four years after the girls and their parents had disappeared.

  As far as he could tell, Alma was getting worse all the time. The woman should be living in a home someplace where she could get medical attention, not roaming the beach alone all hours of the night. She was probably the reason Jaci had spooked so easily.

  But he didn’t dare mention that to Carlos again, not after the way he’d exploded the last time Raoul had suggested the woman get psychiatric help.

  Raoul didn’t even begin to understand the relationship between his uncle and Alma Garcia. Misguided loyalty, his grandfather had called it. Carlos thought Andres Santiago expected him to care for his children’s nanny, and Carlos had never failed his old boss, even if it meant staying on Cape Diablo and looking after Alma until one of them died.

  Raoul planned to make sure that didn’t happen, which was why he was here.

  JACI WENT TO BED AT NINE, mainly because there was nothing better to do. Yawning, she stretched between the crisp white sheets, only to have macabre images of blood splatters start creeping through her mind. Two people had been shot and killed in the boathouse, one at much closer range than the other. Two and only two, though four had disappeared. There might also have been two shooters, one taller than the other, or else the killer had changed positions or been struggling with one of the victims when the gun went off.

  That was as much as she could be sure of from the photos of the splatters—or at least relatively certain. It was unfortunate that some of the blood hadn’t been collected and preserved.

  Not t
hat they had any DNA from Andres or Medina to compare it with, but if the samples from the boathouse had included the blood of Andres’s daughters, DNA tests would have indicated the relationship.

  Jaci’s mind went back to the police reports, most of which she’d memorized.

  The beds of the Santiago children were unmade. The sheets, blanket and pillowcase had been stripped from one bed. Even the pillow was missing. The second bed was mussed, with the covers pulled back as if it had been slept in. The bed in the master bedroom was neatly made. There was no sign of a struggle and no blood found anywhere inside the villa.

  And after that night neither the girls nor their parents were ever seen again. So the questions remained: had Andres and Medina been murdered in the boathouse upon returning from a Mexican Independence celebration? If so, what had happened to the bodies? And where were the girls, Pilar, age eight, and Reyna, age ten? Kidnapped or murdered?

  So many questions without answers, and no real clues, at least none that Jaci had found yet. It would have helped if she could have gotten in touch with Mac Lowell and heard his impressions from the night he’d taken the photos.

  She was still hopeful he’d show up in Everglades City, or at least get the messages she’d stuck under his door there. But even if he did, she wasn’t sure how he’d get in touch with her. Her cell phone was basically useless.

  A good project required more than remarks on blood splatters and a weak hypothesis. She needed pertinent information from Carlos and Alma, something that hadn’t come out before. And she needed to get inside that villa.

  Giving up on sleep, she slid her legs over the side of the bed to pad to the refrigerator for a snack. She sliced into a juicy orange just as her cell phone blasted—the first call to get through since she’d arrived on the island. She sprinted across the room and grabbed it before the connection was lost.

  Her hello was a little breathless.

  “Is this Jaci Matlock?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Mac Lowell. I heard you were looking for me.”

  “I am.”

  “What do you want?”