“I’m sure your wife would appreciate that, Carver,” I said.

“Hey, she watches Sister Wives. She’s very open-minded.”

“She’d have to be to be married to you.”

“That’s hurtful, Doc. Damned hurtful.”

“Go put your baby to bed and get some sleep,” Jack told him. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

Carver sighed. “I bet the two of you are going to have way more fun going to bed than I am. But in seventeen years and ten months my wife and I will have our lives back and we’ll be able to have hot sex again.”

“Unless she’s pregnant again,” Jack said.

“If I was nearby I’d punch you right in the face for saying that. Oh, by the way, the way the body was buried could be coincidence, but did you know Saint Michael was considered the patron saint of Jews?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Jack said.

Carver hung up and I shook my head. Dealing with Ben was like dealing with an energetic toddler. He was fun in small doses, but I was always exhausted by the time he left.

“There’s nothing new that won’t still be waiting for us in the morning. We might as well try to get some sleep.”

I didn’t need to be told twice, so I crawled under the covers and waited for Jack to join me, and then I snuggled against him as he wrapped his arm around me. It wasn’t long before I felt myself drift to sleep, but I knew that Jack lay wide awake. I could practically hear the worry. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself stay awake long enough to ask him what was wrong.

Chapter Nine

Joe had been wrong about the storm coming in mid-afternoon. By the time we woke up the next morning it was like a monsoon. The wind howled against the thin walls of the cabana and the rain was horizontal. The waves, which had been peaceful the day before, raged, slapping against the shoreline.

The phones were out, and we waited until after ten, hoping the rain would let up. But it was obvious from the roiling gray clouds that the storm would be around for a while. So we had no choice but to put on rain jackets and run out to the 4x4 we’d rented. I had the box of evidence shoved under my jacket, and I slid on the rocks, catching myself as I hit the side of the car.

Jack had been quiet for most of the morning, and I knew he was thinking things through in his head. He had an ability to put pieces of the puzzle together like no one I’d ever seen before. There was something in his expression that had me worried. Whatever was rattling around in his brain wasn’t the conclusion he wanted.

We passed the police station and I looked at him curiously. “Where are we going?”

“I figured it’s probably a good time to visit Maria Stein. Ben’s right. Our time here is limited. If we don’t find Stein’s killer now we won’t ever find him.”

I looked at him and asked seriously, “Does it really matter?”

He turned his head from the road and looked at me and his fists tightened on the wheel. And then he relaxed and looked back at the road. The wipers swished back and forth, but they couldn’t go fast enough to make things more visible. We could barely see past the hood of the car.

“You know it matters. It isn’t our call to be judge and jury. It never has been. It’s to find out the facts when a crime has been committed. How many deaths have we worked where the victim was a criminal in their own right? We still worked the cases and documented the facts. And then we let the system take over from there. It’s what we do. It’s what I believe in. I have to or everything I’ve done over the course of my career—good and bad—is for nothing.”

He was right. We fought for the dead. No matter who the dead was. I didn’t like it, but he was right. Taking shortcuts or passing judgment would compromise the work we did. And there were plenty of dead who didn’t have skeletons in their closets. You couldn’t compromise one without compromising the other. It was a slippery slope.

One of the things I loved about Jack the most was he never wavered from his moral code. I might not always agree with it, but he was who he was and did the job he did despite the scars it had left on his soul. The day he started compromising his principles was the day he’d leave the job.

“I know you’re right,” I told him. “And I’ll always stand beside you, no matter what’s decided. My worry is what happens when we find out who the killer is and they walk away without consequence. What does that do to you?”

“It is what it is at that point and we walk away. But at least we know the answers. And I’ve always believed if a person doesn’t get what they deserve in this life they’ll get it in the hereafter.”

It was something to think about. Situations like this one made me question why we do what we do. But then I remembered that the dead didn’t have a voice. We were their voice. It didn’t matter who the victim was. Someone had to speak for the dead.

Jack drove carefully down the coastal road. The elevation was higher and the houses were spread farther apart on this side of the island. The trees were denser. The bungalows were built right on the road and since cars weren’t the norm on the island, most people didn’t have driveways.

He parked as close to the front door as possible, and we got out and ran to the little covered porch. It was a white bungalow with yellow shutters and two rocking chairs on the front porch.

Jack rang the bell and we waited patiently to see if anyone answered. The door opened and a woman, stooped with age, stared at us out of rheumy brown eyes. Her hair was the color of steel wool and pulled back in a severe bun and she wore the black dress of someone in mourning.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice weak with age.

“Are you Maria Stein?” Jack asked.

“I am. You must be the Americans Joe told me about. Come in. My family will be back soon. They’ve barely given me a moment to myself since the news came that Leon was dead. The wake is tonight so they’ll be back in full force. Sometimes I can’t wait until I’m dead so I can just get a little peace and quiet.”

I pursed my lips as Maria stood back and let us pass.

“We’ll sit in the living room. It’s got a good view of the water.” We followed her into a little room at the back of the house. It was decorated in muted colors of yellow and green and a large picture window across the back gave an incredible view of the ocean. I was only a little concerned about a palm tree flying through the window and killing us all.

“Do you have children?” Maria asked.

“No,” Jack answered.

“Don’t have them. They’re a pain in the ass. And very expensive.”

I coughed to cover my laugh and decided I liked Maria Stein. She had guts. And attitude.

“You’re here about Leon. Have you found out anything? I watch the American television crime shows. Am I a suspect? They always suspect the husband or wife first.”

Jack’s face was very serious when he asked, “Where were you between three and five o’clock yesterday afternoon?”

She looked more thrilled to be asked than insulted. “I was here. I’m afraid I don’t have an alibi. My health isn’t what it used to be and trips into town are very exhausting. And I find I just don’t like people as much as I used to, so I try to stay away from them.”

“What about Leon? When was the last time you saw him?”

“Just after breakfast. Around seven-thirty or eight. He liked to go into town and play dominoes at the café until it was time for Mass. He liked going to the three o’clock because he said that’s when all the pretty girls went. Leon and I were married seventy years you know.”

I felt myself start to choke up at the thought of being married to someone that long and then suddenly being without them. I didn’t know how she was keeping it together as well as she was.

“I’ve outlived three of my children and a couple of my grandchildren as well, so I’ve been around the block a time or two. Do you know what made our marriage successful?”