He hit Play and watched the tape again.

He was overcome with nostalgia every time that Landry girl and Heather what’s-her-name talked about the Bayside Strangler. Nostalgia and-dare he say it?-a perverse sort of pride. And it sure did bring on the memories.

He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. It was there again, that smell of the bay, the salt air, the scent of marine life rotting in the hot sun on the beach across the road from the house where he’d grown up. He inhaled sharply, as if hoping to catch and hold those scents, those memories.

He shook off the bit of sudden homesickness, reminding himself that that was a part of his past, no more. He’d done what he’d done and moved on. There was nothing there for him now. Well, there was some family, but he cared about as much for them as they cared for him. Over the years, their contact had been cursory at best.

But then there was that little bit of unfinished business.

Now, that did rankle, just a wee bit. A sloppy bit of work on the part of an amateur that had been, and he admittedly had been an amateur in those days. Of course, he hadn’t planned on making a career of it. Back then, who could have foreseen the path his life would take?

Even so, only an amateur would have left so much to chance. Only an amateur would have taken such risks. Only an amateur would have panicked the way he’d done, instead of going back another time to do what he’d gone there to do.

And God knows, only an amateur would have left one of them alive.

The early-morning fog had yet to be burned off by a sun still snoozing behind low-lying clouds, but the gulls were already circling over the bay and the shorebirds had begun to forage along the waterline. Although almost summer, the air still bore a bit of a chill, and the remnants of a cool spring night hung in the damp air. Waves rolled gently onto the beach, tiny swells outlined with white foam that left damp impressions on the pale yellow sand. Overhead, a gull screamed at the intruder who crested the top of the dune.

“Oh, shut up.” The woman barely glanced at the ornery bird that swooped over her head and continued to rain gull curses down upon her.

Detective Cassandra Burke stood with her hands on her hips, and through the fog sought the outline of the Barnegat Lighthouse across the bay. She’d just ended her fourth night of surveillance of a motel where suspected drug sales were being conducted, and she was both exhausted from lack of sleep and stiff from inactivity. She toed off her shoes and left them in the sand, then set off for the marina a mile down the beach. She’d walk the kinks out, then run back. Two miles wasn’t really long enough, but it was the best she could do this morning. Maybe she’d feel better. Maybe not. But she had a meeting at eight, and needed to sandwich in a little exercise, then a little breakfast, before she headed to the police station.

The sand on the bay beach was coarser than that on the ocean side, and allowed a more solid footing. She walked briskly, sidestepping the spiny helmets of the dead and dying horseshoe crabs that had washed up onshore overnight and had been unable to crawl back before the tide went out. When she reached the inlet, she paused long enough to watch a few large power boats-charters, mostly-as they set out to sea with their passengers, sport fishermen who had paid for the privilege of casting their lines into the Atlantic with hopes of snagging a few feisty blues before the sun set later that day.

She waved to the captain of the Normandy Maid as it passed, a half-dozen or so eager fishermen on deck, their baseball caps shielding their faces from the sun that would soon enough grace them with its presence, their arms and noses slick with SPF 35. It wasn’t much of a living, running a charter, but for those who’d never done much else, it was a way of life, a life she knew well. Her father had captained his own boat, the Jenny B, named after her mother. He’d never made much money, but he loved to go to work every day. In the off-season, he ran the only boat storage facility in Bowers Inlet, but his life was out on the water. Few days passed that didn’t find Cass here, at the point where the bay eased into the ocean, watching the boats head out, and remembering. As a very little child, she’d watched from her mother’s arms as her father’s boat chugged by.

“Wave to Daddy, Cassie,” her mother would say. “See him there, on the deck? Wave to Daddy, honey…”

And Cass would wave wildly. Most days, her father would salute as he passed, touching just his right index finger to the brim of his hat.

A few years later, Cass stood on the rocks nearest the water, holding tightly to her little sister’s hand.

“Wave to Daddy, Trish,” she’d say. “Wave to Daddy…”

The alarm on her watch buzzed, bringing her back to the present. She turned away from the inlet and started back down the beach, running so fast her muscles barely had time to burn before she reached the spot where she’d left her shoes. If she was going to grab something to eat before her meeting, she’d have to leave now.

She wanted real food. Through the wee hours of the night, she’d had enough coffee to keep her wired for several days, while Jeff Spencer, the only other detective on the town’s small police force, had packed away enough cream donuts to make her sick just to watch. Eggs and sausage and toast should do it, she was thinking as she slipped into her shoes. And orange juice. Her stomach rumbling, she headed back to her car. If she drove fast enough, she might even have time for a short stack of pancakes.

“Detective Burke?”

“Yes?” Cassie paused midway across the lobby of the new police station.

“The lady at the desk there…”

“Sergeant Carter.” Emphasis on sergeant.

“Right. Sergeant Carter. She said you were working on my son’s case…”

“Your son is…?”

“Derrick Mills.” He spoke the name softly.

“Yes. Derrick. Yes, I’m working on that case.” Cassie swallowed back a sigh. Derrick Mills was one of five kids arrested for selling drugs at the regional high school three weeks ago. She wasn’t blind to the father’s pain and embarrassment and wished she could ease it somehow, even as she knew she could not.

“I was wondering what we had to do, you know, to get the charges dropped. He’s a good kid, Detective. Top athlete, good student. He’s got a scholarship to play baseball in college next year.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mills. I really am. But Derrick should have thought about that scholarship before he offered to sell cocaine to Officer Connors.”

“Detective Burke-”

“Please, Mr. Mills. Save your breath. I’ve made my report and my recommendations, and they stand. There’s nothing I can do. Now, if you want to talk to the county DA ’s office, you go right ahead and make that call. But right now, I’m late for a meeting. So if you’ll excuse me…”

“You know, I expected more from Bob Burke’s girl.” His voice had dropped to a low growl.

“Don’t even go there.” She shook her head and walked past him.

Cass made an effort to not glance back at the angry father while she fought down her own anger. It wasn’t the first time someone had invoked her father’s name, as if somehow having known him entitled them to special favors from her. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. It just flat-out pissed her off every time.

The meeting had been changed from the large conference room to a small room adjacent to the chief’s office.

“ Denver must have whittled down the guest list,” Cass said as she took a seat across the table from Jeff Spencer.

“So far, it’s you and me, Burke.” Jeff rattled a bag in her direction. “Hey, there’s one last strawberry cream here. I believe it’s got your name on it.”