Bob said, “There are some bad guys in his past, right? I mean, he wrote about some pretty nasty boys.”

“Have you read his books?”

“Most of them. Good stuff. He got booted from his law firm, right?”

“That’s always been his version. He was a partner in a big firm in San Francisco, doing well but wanting to get out, or so he says. Said. He found out one of his clients was selling military software to Iran and North Korea and he blew the whistle. The Feds paid him well but his legal career was over. He took the money, lost a lot of it in a divorce, and came here to start over again. Apparently, somebody was after him.”

“So you’re still into the murder scenario?”

“I think so. It looks pretty suspicious.” Bruce sipped his beer. “You know, Bob, this is too weird. Nelson’s lying there baking and his family has no clue. You know they’re worried sick.”

“I’m sure the police will notify them. Now that you’ve identified the body.”

“You would hope so, but these local boys are overwhelmed right now. I mean, what if that was your brother lying there? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

“You ever met my brother?”

“Come on, Bob.”

They took a sip, stared at Nelson, listened as another helicopter approached. Bob said, “I wonder what Sherlock Holmes is doing in there.”

Nick was studying the seven iron with the flashlight. The clubs were high-end Pings, a set that Nick, a serious golfer, recognized, and they were arranged in the bag in perfect order. Wedges on the bottom row. Irons, four through nine, in the middle. Then the fairway woods and driver, all with matching Ping head covers. Nick remembered a Scott Turow novel, Personal Injuries, in which the head of a two iron had been filed down to make a bladelike weapon. It landed perfectly at the base of the antihero’s skull and killed him instantly.

The seven iron had not been filed or modified, but there was something on it. A liquid that had dried and perhaps a few sprigs of turf. With the flashlight in one hand, Nick took close-up shots of the clubs. He was suddenly aware that he was drenched with sweat and breathing heavily. He left the garage and returned to the patio where Bruce and Bob were still sitting, still watching Nelson.

Nick removed both towels and said, “I’m taking photos of everything.”

“Why?” Bob asked.

“Just to have them. Who knows?”

3.

At noon, almost two and a half hours after the cops had left, they heard something in the street. An ambulance had arrived and two first responders were unloading a gurney. A downtown-beat policeman who Bruce knew well met them in the driveway.

“Hello, Nat,” Bruce said with a smile and a handshake. He was delighted to see a familiar face, and a man in a uniform.

“Hello, Bruce. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Guarding the body. Guy’s name is Nelson Kerr, a friend of mine. He gave me as his contact.”

“I know Nelson,” Nat said, stunned. “He’s dead?”

“Afraid so.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Bruce introduced Bob and Nick and they walked to the patio, the medics behind them. Nat leaned over the corpse, pulled back one of the towels, and gawked at Nelson’s face. Bruce was saying, “For some reason he came out during the storm and got hit by a limb, or something like that. Bob here found him lying up there on the brick wall.”

“Who moved him?” Nat asked.

“We rolled him off. Not sure the limb did the damage, Nat. It looks like he took at least three blows to the head. This might be more complicated than we think.”

Nat stood and removed his cap and looked at Bruce. “What are you talking about?”

“We found some spots on a wall in the den. Might be dried blood. And some stains in a sink that could also be blood.”

Nick said, “It’s a homicide, Officer. Someone hit Nelson over the head inside, dragged him out, finished him off, and tried to make it look like storm damage.”

“In the middle of a hurricane?”

“Yes, sir. The perfect time to kill someone.”

“And who are you?”

“Nick Sutton. I work at the bookstore.”

Bob said, “He thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes, but he might be on to something.”

Nat was not equipped to deal with situations like this. He paced around for a moment, scratching his head, and finally said, “Okay, show me the blood.”

Nick took him inside. Bruce asked one of the medics, “So what’s happening on the island?”

“Chaos. The National Guard is clearing roads. They just found three dead folks under a beach cottage, just up the road here. The body count is seven so far. Thankfully, most folks left the island.”

The second medic said, “Most of the floodwater has receded but there’s still two feet downtown.”

“I own Bay Books on Main. I suppose it was flooded.”

“About five feet, sir.”

Bruce shook his head, mumbled, and said, “Well, it could’ve been worse.”

Nat followed Nick out of the condo and pulled out his radio. He disappeared around the side and talked to someone privately.

Bruce asked the first medic, “Any phone service?”