Risky Business

the waterfront. The file on his desk wasn’t as thick as he would have liked. Nothing in his investigation had turned up a reason for Jerry Sharpe’s murder. The man who sat across from him stared straight ahead. Moralas had a photo of the victim in the file, and a mirror image a few feet away. “I wonder, Mr. Sharpe, if your brother’s death was a result of something that happened before his coming to Cozumel.”
    “Jerry wasn’t running when he came here.”
    Moralas tidied his papers. “Still, we have asked for the cooperation of the New Orleans authorities. That was your brother’s last known address.”
    “He never had an address,” Jonas murmured. Or a conventional job, a steady woman. Jerry had been a comet, always refusing to burn itself out. “I’ve told you what Miss Palmer said. Jerry was cooking up a deal, and he was cooking it up in Cozumel.”
    “Yes, having to do with diving.” Always patient, Moralas drew out a thin cigar. “Though we’ve already spoken with Miss Palmer, I appreciate your bringing me the information.”
    “But you don’t know what the hell to do with it.”
    Moralas flicked on his lighter, smiling at Jonas over the flame. “You’re blunt. I’ll be blunt as well. If there was a trail to follow to your brother’s murder, it’s cold. Every day it grows colder. There were no fingerprints, no murder weapon, no witnesses.” He picked up the file, gesturing with it. “That doesn’t mean I intend to toss this in a drawer and forget about it. If there is a murderer on my island, I intend to find him. At the moment, I believe the murderer is miles away, perhaps in your own country. Procedure now is to backtrack on your brother’s activities until we find something. To be frank, Mr. Sharpe, you’re not doing yourself or me any good by being here.”
    “I’m not leaving.”
    “That is, of course, your privilege—unless you interfere with police procedure.” At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Moralas tipped his ash and picked up the phone.
    “Moralas.” There was a pause. Jonas saw the captain’s thick, dark brows draw together. “Yes, put her on. Miss Palmer, this is Captain Moralas.”
    Jonas stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette and waited. Liz Palmer was the key, he thought again. He had only to find what lock she fit.
    “When? Are you injured? No, please stay where you are, I’ll come to you.” Moralas was rising as he hung up the phone. “Miss Palmer has been attacked.”
    Jonas was at the door first. “I’m coming with you.”
    His muscles ached with tension as the police car raced out of town toward the shore. He asked no questions. In his mind, Jonas could see Liz as she’d been on the bridge hours before—tanned, slim, a bit defiant. He remembered the self-satisfied smirk she’d given him when he’d found himself in a tug-of-war with a thirty-pound fish. And how neatly she’d skipped out on him the moment they’d docked.
    She’d been attacked. Why? Was it because she knew more than she’d been willing to tell him? He wondered if she were a liar, an opportunist or a coward. Then he wondered how badly she’d been hurt.
    As they pulled down the narrow drive, Jonas glanced toward Liz’s house. The door was open, the shades drawn. She lived there alone, he thought, vulnerable and unprotected. Then he turned his attention to the little stucco building next door. A woman in a cotton dress and apron came onto the porch. She carried a baseball bat.
    “You are the police.” She nodded, satisfied, when Moralas showed his identification. “I am Señora Alderez. She’s inside. I thank the Virgin we were home when she came to us.”
    “Thank you.”
    Jonas stepped inside with Moralas and saw her. She was sitting on a patched sofa, huddled forward with a glass of wine in both hands. Jonas saw the liquid shiver back and forth as her hands trembled. She looked up slowly when they came in, her gaze passing over Moralas to lock on Jonas. She stared, with no expression in those deep, dark eyes. Just as slowly, she looked back at her glass.
    “Miss Palmer.” With his voice very gentle, Moralas sat down beside her. “Can you tell me what happened?”
    She took the smallest of drinks, pressed her lips together briefly, then began as though she were reciting. “I came home at sunset. I didn’t close the front door or lock it. I went straight into the bedroom. The shades were down, and I thought I’d left them up that morning. The cord