“Cash…”
“I’m not done. That girl in your bed is Valerie Gerard. Cornaro knew her father before he died, mysteriously, and they’ve had their hooks in her family business for some time. King Heron’s fishing routes are massive out here. What if they just need Ms. Gerard out of the picture to seal the deal? Maybe she got wind of some illegal stuff daddy dearest was involved in. Who knows?”
“Who knows,” I echo numbly. “Who, Cash. Not you.”
“What I know is they tried to kill her. I saw it happen, and you know as well as I do Cornaro men don’t give up once they’ve got a target. They’ll kill her if we don’t do something about it.”
Fuck.
I rub the back of my neck. The muscles are so tight they’re burning.
“We’ve seen what they do, Flint. First hand. How can you just say no when a huge piece of the puzzle falls right in your lap? We can stop it this time. We have to stop it, if we can, because no one else will.”
Damn it all, he’s right, and he knows it. I don’t have an argument to bark back.
Still, I squeeze my temples with a thumb and forefinger of one hand.
Letting out a flustered growl, I ask, “That doesn’t explain the rest. Why the hell did you have to say she’s my wife? You couldn’t have come up with something else?”
“As I said, that story gives her peace of mind until her memory fog lifts. And it just might help that little lump of coal you call a heart do the right thing.” He rolls his green eyes. “What did you think I’d give her? The truth? Telling her you’re a hard-ass son of a bitch stranger would only panic her more.”
“Watch your mouth. My ma’s no bitch.”
His lips curl up in one of his eat-shit grins. “No, Beverly’s a saint. She’s put up with your big demanding ass for over thirty years.”
Swallowing another growl, I turn. I walk over and grab a frying pan from the rack hanging over the center island and briefly consider knocking Cash upside the head.
“Tell me again,” I say. “Everything that happened yesterday. Don’t leave anything out.”
He hands me the bacon package he’d taken out of the fridge. “I was on that little uninhabited island southwest of the point. You know the one I mean. Looking for nests.”
Yeah, that island. His latest obsession. He can’t shut up about it.
As ridiculous as it sounds, Cash is an avid bird watcher. He’s been known to travel hundreds of miles in his private cabin cruiser to record obscure species of birds on deserted islands, plus all the populated ones.
I think he’s at least laid eyes on damn near every one of the hundred and thirty-seven islands in the Hawaiian chain, plus all the tiny atolls not included in the official count. I’ve gone with him on several of his bird excursions, and have to admit, it’s interesting sometimes.
Not the bird watching, so much, but the exploring. The scenery. The trade winds, which do a mighty fine job of sweeping away a man’s woes out on the open sea.
“Go on.” I toss the bacon in the pan.
“It was late, not long after sunset. I was watching a moli, a Laysan albatross, plucking a squid out of the water when a good-sized boat came into view through my binoculars. The reefs out there make it an odd place for a private yacht. You typically have to sail around the south side of the island, not the north. I watched as they unloaded a small skiff, and thought they were in trouble. Maybe the bigger boat was caught on the reef or something. Then I saw it: commotion on the deck. Two men throwing her in the dingy, and her cat—” He pauses and looks around. “Where is that little beast, anyway?”
“Laundry room,” I say, flipping the bacon. “It kept trying to jump on the bed with her.”
“How’s its leg?” Cash asks.
“No clue. You’re the doctor.”
A twinge of guilt strikes. I’d put a box of sand and some water in there along with a couple slabs of fish. Since then, I’d forgotten all about the animal while racing around after Valerie. Although Oahu has thousands of feral cats, the breeds actually allowed here are limited. I’m sure they don’t include an exotic, spindly thing that looks like a mad scientist used a shrink ray on a cheetah.
“It’s weird. Cats like hers are illegal in Hawaii,” I say, stroking my chin.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a Savannah breed, almost full serval, another reason I couldn’t take her to my house. I’m allergic to cats,” Cash says.
I point the spatula at him. “Bullshit. You’re not allergic to cats.”
He shrugs with a smirk. “I might be. We’ll know after I check on it. I’m no vet, but I’m sure I can assess the leg.”