5.

On the southern end of Camino Island, Curly’s Oyster Bar was crowded with locals looking for comfort food and a cold drink, and utility crews killing time on a Saturday night. Bruce and Polly waited half an hour and got a table outside on the deck. Of course, she did not eat fried foods and had never confronted a raw oyster. They settled on a bucket of boiled shrimp and waited on beers. She preferred white wine but Bruce steered her away from the boxed stuff poured at Curly’s. The music from the jukebox was soft and distant, and the conversations around them were subdued, as if folks had just stumbled out of the nightmare and were still stunned by the changes. There was too much work to be done to feel good about life.

In a low voice, Bruce said, “So, you’re the executor of Nelson’s estate.”

“I am. He made a new will last year and named me as executor, or executrix, to be more precise. The gender thing.”

“Who drafted the will?”

“A law firm in Jacksonville.”

“Have you talked to them yet?”

“No. Why the interest in his estate?”

“Just curious, that’s all. I assume he had some assets.”

She sighed, removed her designer frames, and rubbed her eyes. “How much do you know about Nelson’s business?”

“Not much at all. Mostly the stuff we’ve covered—legal career, bad divorce, blowing the whistle. He let it slip once that he paid a million bucks for his condo, but other than that I have no idea what’s in the bank.”

“And his publishing contracts?”

“Nothing. I never asked, he never offered. As we know, he didn’t talk much.”

She put her glasses back on as two tall draft beers appeared on the table. She began, “He left the law at the age of thirty-two, eleven years ago. At the time he was making it big but spending a lot too. What he didn’t spend his wife did. They saved virtually nothing because the future had no limits. As I said, the government paid him five million in exchange for the scoop on his crooked clients, but he thought it would be a lot more. Half of it went for taxes. We pay a lot in California.”

“Another reason to live in Florida. Zero income taxes.”

“A bit too red for me. Anyway, he and Sally were at war, and not long after the money arrived she filed for divorce. After fees and such, he walked away with about a million. A lot of that went for therapy. Then he started writing and made some money, I guess. Again, Nelson rarely talked about his business.”

“Who inherits?”

“A third to me, two-thirds to our parents. A pretty simple will. I’m also the administrator of his literary estate, whatever that means.”

“It means you’ll handle all the rights to his novels—hardback, paper, digital, U.S., foreign, maybe even TV and film. Plus you’ll sell the latest novel, if it doesn’t get you killed.”

“Thanks.”

“One good thing about dying young is that it usually means a spike in royalties.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Yes.”

“Well don’t.”

“Sorry.”

The waitress placed the bucket of boiled shrimp between them and disappeared. They peeled and ate for a few minutes, then slowed down for a little beer. She asked, “So what’s up tomorrow?”

“Our friend from the state police called. He wants us to gather at the station and spend a few hours going over what we know and what they’ve found. Should be interesting.”

“And the thumb drive?”

“They may ask us what we know about his last novel, especially if the hard drive is missing. I want to truthfully say that I’ve never seen it.”

“I feel like I need a lawyer.”

“You gotta hire one sooner or later to probate the estate, here in Florida.”

“Do you know a good one?”

“One or two, but it might be hard to find them right now.”

“Okay, if you’re playing dumb, then I’m playing dumb. For now.”

“We’ll be fine. These cops are not the sharpest ones you’ll ever meet.”

“Am I supposed to be comforted by that?”

“No.”

6.

The Santa Rosa Police Department was housed in the rear of city hall, a sprawling mix of add-ons and afterthoughts situated two blocks from the harbor and thus deluged by Leo. The complex had been soaked, was still wet, and all its systems would remain inoperable for a long time to come. Temporary police quarters were in the process of being established in a middle school gymnasium a mile inland. When Bruce, Polly, Bob, and Nick arrived punctually at ten on Sunday morning, the school’s parking lot was crowded with patrol cars, city vehicles, and contractors’ trucks. Inside the gym, crews were working to erect temporary walls and doors. No one knew where anyone else was, so Bruce used his cell phone to find Wesley Butler somewhere in the rear, near the boys’ locker room. They followed him down a hallway to an empty classroom where Carl Logan, the chief of police, and Hoppy Durden, ace homicide detective, were waiting with two technicians from the crime lab.

Quick introductions were made, with Butler taking charge. First, they wanted to videotape the statements from Bruce, Bob, and Nick, so a camera and lights were set up in one corner. Bruce and Nick went first. While they answered the same questions, Bob walked across the hall with the two technicians. Using a fourteen-inch laptop, they began working on a composite photo of Ingrid. Butler interviewed Polly and quizzed her about the family and as much of Nelson’s background as possible. He did not ask her about the current novel. When she asked if they found the hard drive, he wouldn’t answer. Half an hour later, the technicians printed a color rendering of Ingrid, and Bob was amazed at the likeness. He warned them, though, that the blond hair was fake.