“Makes no difference to me, Rawley,” Cooper said. “Just leave me enough space in there for the toys. I’ll put the Jet Ski on the water when the weather gets warm.”

The bait shop was officially gone and the bar/deli was looking damn good. They’d managed to kill the mold, reinforce the struts, lay down new floors, put up new drywall, rewire, plumb and polish without tearing down the deck. Cooper and Rawley got to work on the stairs to the dock, but the new roof and dock were going to wait till spring. One of Cooper’s favorite things to do was walk through the renovated structure first thing every morning. Every day he was more impressed than the day before.

One of the best parts of the day, if it was a nice day, was watching Landon come to the beach in his Razor. Sometimes Eve was with him. Ham was almost always sitting beside him—and he wore a helmet. He looked so silly, sitting up tall with his small helmet latched under his chin. Then Landon would park in the center of the beach, let Ham get out, remove the helmet and run the beach after sticks and balls.

During that week that Cooper was spending nights at his house, Landon only gave him a wave. When Cooper wasn’t the nanny, Landon might come up to the shop and look around at the progress.

When a new stove top, oven, warming trays and industrial-size ice maker were delivered and installed, it was virtually done. There was still enough finishing work to keep him busy, new tables and chairs to be delivered, bar stools to be ordered, but the contractors would be moving out and taking their Dumpster, trucks and equipment with them.

The two rooms above the bar were also finished, though vacant of furnishings. It was basically just a bedroom, sitting room and large bath with shower. He had installed a fireplace downstairs that extended to a second-floor fireplace in his sitting room. Drawers were built-in. If Cooper chose, he could move into the bar. If he wanted to, he could find storage space for the toy hauler and have something under his feet that didn’t move in the wind.

* * *

Mac’s involvement in any case against Jag Morrison had been limited to the battery charges, but it was the link to all other things. The first hurdle had been to convince Puck that he must press charges. In the end, Mac was able to convince him that Puck might be able to escape large sums of payment for his third son’s education by stipulating that the boy had assaulted him.

“What’s the difference?” Puck had asked. “It’s not like there’s any real money left.”

“The difference is, the court could attach your future earnings to benefit the person who beat you up,” Mac told him. “And all you have to do to attempt to prevent that is file charges. Besides, eventually Jag needs to bear responsibility for his actions.”

Puck, though in his seventies, had seen many fortunes come and go in his lifetime and fully expected to hit it big again any second. He was divorcing Effie while he had no visible means of support.

The next step for Mac was to charge Jag and send him to court. If the judge put him in jail for as little as forty-eight hours, that could be enough. The judge gave him a week in the county jail and two hundred hours of community service to add to the time he was already assigned for attacking Landon Dupre.

If there was one thing Mac knew about criminals, particularly young criminals, it was what idiots they could be. As Jag was taken into custody by an officer of the court, the homicide detective working on Ben’s case told him, “Just so you’re aware, Mr. Morrison, we’ll be interviewing your mother, father, brothers and friends about your relationship with the late Ben Bailey at the approximate time of his death.”

“What for?” he asked. “I didn’t know that guy at all.”

“Just the same,” the detective said. “Anything you want to tell us before we start that process?”

“Do I look worried?” he asked with his usual insolence.

That was all that was needed.

When Jag was booked, he was told the same thing as every prisoner—that they have use of the phone in the jail, but that all calls will be recorded. When any prisoner picked up the phone and accessed an outside line, a recording restated that warning. And yet, Mac knew from experience, it was the rare inmate who believed anyone had time to listen to all those recorded calls.

They did.

Morrison called his mother, his father, his three friends who made up his little high school posse, and warned them all they’d better not say anything about his involvement with Ben Bailey.

Those people were already on the list to be interviewed, but not right away. What was done immediately was a review of the phone tapes. And there was one conversation that was the most revealing.

Jag’s buddy Kenny Sinclair said, “You said you offed him! You expect me to lie about that?”

“There’s no evidence!” Jag said. “We burned the two-by-four I hit him with! And I was alone! There aren’t any witnesses!”

And there it was. It was admissible. He might have burned the forensic evidence, but his recorded statement was now in the hands of the D.A. They hoped to use that to sweat a confession out of him, as well.

It might not have been premeditated, it could have been manslaughter, but they knew who did it. And Jag Morrison knew he was a suspect. It might take months to bring it to trial, but they knew the truth.

This all caused Mac a great deal of reflection. He had brought his family to this little town to be safe and comfortable. And the scariest person in town turned out to be a seventeen-year-old kid.

* * *

Cooper was using a razor blade to scrape some of the paint off a pane of window glass, shining it up. He was on the deck, working on the outside, when the deputy’s SUV came down the road from the highway. He dropped the razor into the open toolbox that sat on the table and wiped his hands on a rag.

“Why didn’t you come across the beach?” Cooper asked when Mac stepped onto the deck.

“I had business in Coquille at the Sheriff’s Department. Place is looking pretty good, Cooper,” he said with a nod. “Better than it ever looked while Ben was here.”

“Look around the inside,” Cooper said, opening the door. “There’s some cleaning and deliveries left, but it’s close to finished. Rawley and I are still working on the stairs to the dock, but we’re close.”

Mac whistled. “I could live in this. That fireplace is just the touch.”

“I’ll sell it to you,” Cooper said with a laugh. “You’ll have to leave the kids and aunt behind, but the dogs can stay here with you.”

“Funny,” he said. “Maybe I could be a cop during the day and wait tables at night.”

“Hey, it bears thinking about. How long do you intend to be a cop?”

“Long enough to make the pension worth my time. But seriously, Cooper, this place looks fantastic. I had no idea it was going to end up looking this good.”

“Did it all without totally gutting the interior. Mold is gone, plumbing doesn’t talk to you all day and night, sits still in the wind, keeps out the rain. And done in around three months’ time.” He chuckled. “Amazing what you can do with a ton of money.”

“Will you get your investment back when you sell it?”

“No telling,” he said with a shrug. “It mattered to Ben. I couldn’t just sell off the land. I wanted to do something to deserve what he left behind. I wanted to leave it better than I found it, something that would make him happy. That’s about all there is to it.”

“Well, there might be one more thing. Jag Morrison was arrested this morning for the murder of Ben Bailey.”

Cooper was shocked into silence, his mouth hanging open. It was a long moment before he whispered, “Oh, Jesus.”

“I don’t know how it’s going to shake out. It’s still under investigation. The prosecutor is alleging that Morrison’s father, Puck, paid multiple visits to Ben, trying to entice him to sell his land. Puck wanted to develop it and there were plenty of investors on board for that idea. But Ben wasn’t interested at any price. They believe Jag Morrison caused the fall that killed him.”

“Why would he do that?” Cooper asked in a breath.

“Money,” Mac said. “Puck’s business was suffering with the recession and he had been asking the family to cut corners. According to Puck, he’d told them the house was going into foreclosure. That house—it was like the Morrison anchor, announcing them as the richest family in Thunder Point. That could all have been stopped if Ben considered even a small portion of his land for sale.”

“He was rooted here,” Cooper said. “It meant more to him than just land. It was home. He wouldn’t have wanted to start over, find a new home at forty.”

Mac nodded. “He wasn’t about to budge. But a lot of people around here thought he had no family, no next of kin, no one who would step in and take care of it. Then you came along.”

Cooper ran a hand around the back of his neck. “Did Jag’s father have anything to do with Ben’s death? Did he put Jag up to it?”

“I doubt it, but there’s still an ongoing investigation.”

A sardonic laugh shot out of Cooper. “The big house behind the gate was the evidence they were the richest family in town and the gentle giant in the crappy little bait shop was, in fact, the man with all the money.”

“That about sums it up. I just wanted you to know. I can keep you posted, but I think until there’s a court date, we’re not going to have access to any more information. So—you came here to find out what happened. It wasn’t an accident, Cooper. That’s what happened.”

“He was a good man,” Cooper said. “Why should good men die?”

“If I could answer that, there’d be no reason to have me in this job. Now, what about you? You were supposed to be here for a week. A little over three months later, you’re still here. What’s next for you?”

That brought a melancholy smile to his lips. “Pretty soon I better work for a living.”

“What about Sarah?” Mac asked.

“She’s already working for a living,” he said with a smile.

* * *

It was the following afternoon that Sarah came across the beach with Ham. Cooper chose not to tell her over the phone about the arrest. He hadn’t been told to keep anything about the situation confidential, but he’d be damned disappointed if they failed to convict the little motherfucker.

After he told her the news, she said, “Are you making this up?”

“I’m not. He’s been arrested. Investigation and hopefully a trial to follow.”

“My God,” she said. “He might’ve killed Landon!”

“And now he’s arrested.” He put his arms around her waist and pulled her near. “Want a cup of coffee? I should rinse off the dirt and grime.”

“I’m just a little blown away by the news.”

“So was I. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone. Let me know how Landon takes it. I’m not surprised by this, but it’s still shocking. I knew he was bad but hell, Sarah, I underestimated him. Come on,” he said, taking her hand and leading her—and Ham—to the trailer. He used the rag from his back pocket to wipe Ham’s mouth and feet, then he fixed up his water in the saucepan. He tore the hoodie off over his head.

“Feel like a shower?” he asked her.

“I do,” she said, smiling. “Lock the door.”

“You know, these little interludes are very nice, Mrs. Robinson,” he said with a grin. “It’s naughty and sneaky and I like it.” And he pulled his T-shirt over his head.

“No funny business,” she said. “I know you think this place is a mansion, but that shower is not really a two-person shower.”

“Fine,” he said with a smirk, as he removed his boots and socks. “All funny business begins when you’re dried off.” And he dropped his jeans, revealing an erection.