“You think we can make it in time?” Scarlett asked.
“If we were still aboard the Robalo?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Not a chance. But this baby won’t even break a sweat. There’s a reason it’s called a Flash.”
We waved to Nick, then cast the lines and chugged out of the cove. Once beyond the no-wake zone, I asked if either of the ladies would care to stretch the boat’s legs.
They both got comfortable and told me to take it away. With my left hand tight on the helm, I slid the throttle forward. The engines roared and accelerated us over the turquoise water. I held on as the bow rose up on plane, then splashed down and leveled off. Wind whipped past as I brought us up to her top speed of fifty knots.
I zipped us around Knight Key, then cut under the Seven Mile Bridge. Turning the helm to starboard, I put us on a southwesterly course, jetting along the Atlantic side of the Lower Keys.
I cracked open a coconut water, took a few swigs, then slid it into a cupholder. I reached for the radio to find out what song Island Vibes was playing, but Ange called out before my finger pressed the power button.
“Logan!” she shouted.
I snapped my head and focused on my wife. She was still sitting on the cushioned bench wrapped around the outdoor dinette, but she was huddled over her phone, and her expression was stone-cold serious.
I eased back on the throttles, causing the engines to simmer down enough for me to hear.
“Where’s your phone?” she added.
Her words were rushed, her tone focused.
I patted the front pockets of my swim trunks. Feeling nothing, I looked around and remembered I’d left it in my waterproof bag.
When I stepped to grab it, Ange stopped me. She had her phone glued to her face, her eyes big and sullen.
“Logan, it’s Harper.”
Her words and tone caused my heart to skip a beat, then ramp up. Harper Ridley, a longtime Key West local, was a good friend of ours.
“She was attacked,” Ange said. “And her uncle was murdered last night.”
A hundred questions popped into my head, but one took precedence.
“Is she all right?”
Ange nodded. “She’s at the hospital now with Jack and Pete.” She paused a moment, then looked up at me. “Jack says the killer’s still at large.”
SIX
Less than an hour later, I motored us into Conch Harbor Marina in downtown Key West. After tying off at slip twenty-four, we quickly changed, then locked up and headed for the parking lot.
The celebration at Mallory was already heating up, with a few early conch shell horns echoing across the water. But we’d have to pass this time. On the ride over, Jack had informed us that Harper had been released from the hospital and that they were gathered at Pete’s.
We hopped into my black four-door Toyota Tacoma 4x4, and I cruised us through the downtown streets, pulling into a seashell lot a few blocks inland from the famous Duval Street.
Salty Pete’s Bar, Grill, and Museum was a landmark in the Florida Keys. It looked like an old two-story house from the outside, with a humble entrance and a simple painted sign indicating the place’s name.
The front door swung open as the three of us approached the stairs, and a familiar face stepped out. Jane Verona, Key West’s chief of police for the past year, froze as she laid eyes on us. The short Latina in her late thirties had her head up, her shoulders back. All business. Despite her stature, she was always a force to be reckoned with.
“Harper inside?” I asked.
She nodded, then stepped down to the seashells.
“Upstairs. She… she wants to talk to you, Logan.”
“She give her statement?”
“To the Monroe County PD, and to me, yes.”
We moved past her for the door. Atticus trotted over and nestled into his favorite spot beneath a gumbo-limbo tree at the edge of the restaurant. The dog was smart. He seemed to have a sixth sense, knowing from our body language whether or not it was playtime.
“Logan,” Jane said as I grabbed the worn brass knob. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I nodded to her, then we stepped inside. We were greeted by a bell and the sound of a nearly packed house. Though the outside of Pete’s place was inconspicuous, inside, it was a conch’s paradise. The main dining area was classic but modern. Homey but not overly cramped. Booths on the edges, tables in the middle. Old photographs, stuffed fish, and various maritime memorabilia covered the walls.
And the smell. A tantalizing combination of fresh seafood aromas that made mouths water within seconds.
“They’re in Pete’s office,” the floor manager, Mia, said upon seeing us enter.
She was busy giving orders to her army of waitresses and busboys. Her cheery smile cracked for a moment when she saw us and the words left her lips, then she was back to her lively self.
We migrated across the busy dining area, then creaked our way up a wide wooden staircase. The second floor was filled with rows of glass cases, displaying artifacts and describing history from all over the islands. Pete’s office was in the far corner. Jack spotted us through the cracked door and stepped out.
Jack Rubio was one of my oldest friends. He was a fourth-generation conch, and the owner and operator of Rubio Charters, a popular dive and fishing charter company. He was a few inches shorter than my six-two and had a lean, tanned physique. He wore his
