Within ten minutes Carla stood at the Hilton/Mallory Square boat dock, waiting for the ferry. A murder on Sunset Key presented some interesting challenges, she acknowledged. The key was accessible only by boat, a twenty-four-hour ferry that motored guests and residents to and from the mainland. With the exception of “official” battery-powered carts, no motorized vehicles were allowed on the island. And other than a sign warning Private Property, Sunset Key Residents Only, security was nonexistent. People came and went; nobody asked for proof of resort registration or residency.

Typical Key West, Carla thought. Not a care in the world.

The ferry, a handsome, thirty-two-foot powerboat, arrived. Carla waited for several passengers to disembark, then she climbed aboard. She caught the captain’s curious gaze and met it. He looked away.

After waiting five minutes for more passengers to arrive, he set off. Carla faced forward, holding her hair away from her face to keep the wind from tearing at it.

“You’re a cop, right?”

Carla shifted her gaze to the ferryboat captain once more. “Right. How did you-”

“I ferried you over on Monday. I heard you and your colleague talking.” He looked away, then back, squinting against the brilliant sun. “Shame about Bernhardt. He seemed like a nice guy.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really. I’ve only been on staff a month. It’s just…I mean, I ferried him back and forth.”

“I bet you’re from Boston,” she said, tilting her head, deciding he was cute. “Judging by your accent.”

His lips lifted. “My family’s still in shock. They just don’t get why I like it here.”

She slid her gaze to his left hand, found it ringless and smiled. “Mine didn’t either.”

“You know-” He cleared his throat. “I ferried him the night…he did it.”

Carla straightened, flirtation forgotten. “That so? How’d he seem to you?”

“Same as always. Friendly. Relaxed. Nice guy,” he said again, easing up on the throttle as he neared the dock.

“Anybody with him that night?” she asked as he cut the power, then maneuvered the craft against the dock.

“Not that night.” He hopped up, tied off the bow, then stern. That done, he turned back to her, a frown marring his forehead. “Bernhardt seemed to have it all. So why’d he do it? I don’t get that at all.”

That made two of them. She stood and allowed him to help her disembark, though she was capable of managing on her own.

“I’m Detective Carla Chapman.” She handed him her card. “You think of anything, give me a call.”

He slid his dark gaze over her. “I’ll do that…Carla.”

For a split second, she thought he might suggest they get together sometime. He didn’t, and she quashed her disappointment and returned her attention to Bernhardt. Since his death hadn’t been officially classified yet, his home was still considered a crime scene. She ducked under the police line and entered. The interior was dim and cool. The housekeeper had drawn the drapes and closed the blinds when she left.

Carla climbed the stairs. The air conditioner kicked on. Other than the bed having been stripped by the evidence guys, she found the bedroom just as she had left it the other day. She moved her gaze slowly over the room acknowledging that she had most probably wasted her time by coming here.

Suddenly she realized what had been plucking at her memory. The housekeeper had told her that Bernhardt had insisted on fresh bedding every day. Which meant, when he had climbed in the sack the last night of his life, the sheets had not been stained. She narrowed her eyes. Sure, the man could have jacked off one last time before taking the plunge. The hairs could be his.

But they might not be. And if they weren’t, that meant Larry Bernhardt had not been alone the night of his death.

Tuesday, November 6

3:00 p.m.

Paradise Christian Church rose up from the sidewalk, a stark, blistering white against the flat blue sky. Its bell tower and crucifix broke the sky, as if stamped from the field of blue by a baker wielding a giant cookie cutter.

Several types of palms dotted the churchyard; a royal poinciana tree with its brilliant red blossoms draped itself over the walkway.

Liz passed through the open iron gate and climbed the tile stairs to the church’s front doors. They stood open, welcoming the faithful, bidding them an invitation to enter. And be saved.

She thought of Rachel and a lump formed in her throat. Liz paused to collect herself. She couldn’t let emotionalism get in the way of what she had to do here. This was her next step. The last place Rachel had been seen. The place she had loved most in the world.

If there were clues to be found, surely she would find them here.

She had made an appointment with Pastor Tim Collins, her sister’s replacement. She had rehearsed what she would say to him, none of which included the whole truth. She feared that if she announced her real reason for being on Key West, he would clam up. She feared everyone would.

Liz entered the church narthex, becoming immediately aware of the stillness, the absolute quiet. She breathed deeply, registering the scent of lemon polish and candle wax.

Liz glanced around, realizing immediately why her sister had fallen in love with this church. It was old, lovely and imbued with the feeling of God’s presence, one not every church possessed. Perhaps it was the stained-glass windows-of which there were an abundance-or simply the echoes of more than one hundred years of prayers.

“Are you here for the tour?” a young woman asked from the hallway to Liz’s right. “You’re early.”

“No, not for the tour.” She moved her gaze over the interior. “Though I’d love to take it.” She returned her gaze to the teenager, a pretty girl of about sixteen. Liz wondered what the teenager would say if she asked her about Rachel. Would she remember her? Could she be the girl Rachel had been counseling? The one mentioned in the police report? “I have an appointment with Pastor Collins. Do you know where I could find him?”

“Pastor Tim? Sure.” She smiled widely and pointed down the hallway behind her. “He’s in his office. I was just talking to him.”

“Thanks.” Liz started past the girl, then stopped. “What time’s the tour? I might try to join up after my visit with Pastor Collins.”

“Three-thirty. I’ll look for you.”

Liz continued down the hallway, one side lined with shuttered windows that faced Duval Street, the other with what appeared to be classrooms and the nursery. She found the church office and pastor’s study at the end of the hall.

The receptionist’s desk was empty so Liz moved on to the study and tapped on the half-open door. “Pastor Collins? Liz Ames.”

“Ms. Ames, hello.” He smiled warmly, stood and waved her inside. Liz realized with some surprise that he was quite tall, over six feet, and built more like a professional football player than a preacher. “And please, call me Pastor Tim. Everybody else does.”

“I will. And call me Liz.” She returned his smile and crossed the room. After shaking his hand, she took the seat across from his. “Your church is lovely.”

“Thank you.” He swept his gaze over the study, his expression one of pure pleasure. “Paradise Christian is the oldest church on the island. It was actually St. Stephen’s until 1936, when the Catholic archdiocese sold the property to build a larger facility on the other side of the island.”

“It’s amazing it’s survived,” she murmured, recalling the things Rachel had told her about the church. “Didn’t I hear that it was destroyed by a hurricane and had to be rebuilt?”

“Partially rebuilt, twice actually. The first after the hurricane of 1846, then again after the one in 1935. The present building dates from 1940.”