Riptides Wrath and Murder: A Crystal Coast Case Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by A. M. Ialacci

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To My Boy

  The five pound, kissy-faced peanut who somehow grew into a thoughtful, kind, talented, and funny Viking god with hair most everyone would kill for.

  You are the root of every one of my emotions, and the reason for my joy.

  To know you is to love you, and I am so very proud to be your mom.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Enjoyed Riptides, Wrath, and Murder?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by A. M. Ialacci

  Chapter One

  Ebbie Watkins sat astride his board, looking out toward the horizon as the last wave in a set rolled gently under him. There were too many guys out here today, and there was bound to be an accident. It never failed when they were on top of each other like this. Some grom would cut someone off and tempers would flare. He’d seen guys go at it in the water and on the beach. He’d even seen some nasty wounds when a fin had sliced right through skin, or a board plowed into a head bobbing in the water. But he just needed to hit one more wave and he’d ride it all the way in to the beach and head home to the trailer.

  It had already been a long morning, not worth the effort. That damned Wylie Salter seemed to have a target on him today, and he kept coming closer and closer to him with his lures. He’d finally screamed at the guy to get him to clear off. And in the meantime, he’d missed countless rideable waves.

  Ah, here was one coming now. He’d let the first and second in the set roll by, but the third looked perfect. As he turned to start paddling, he realized there were a couple of younger guys flanking him, and he hesitated to see if one or both would go after it, but they didn’t. He gave them both the side-eye as his window of opportunity passed. He couldn’t paddle and get ahead of it fast enough to catch it, so he’d have to wait for the next one now. He’d have been able to catch it twenty years ago, but he was nearing fifty now and was at a disadvantage. He watched the boys for a minute, not recognizing either of these kids, although they had been taught well. He knew most of the surfers out here. Maybe they were tourists.

  When the next good-looking set came, he didn’t hesitate, paddling to catch the second in the set and hopping up just as it crested. He glanced to his left and saw one of the unknown kids crowding him out on the same wave. What the hell? He maneuvered away from him as far as he could without losing the swell, but the kid came barreling down on him. His heart hammered as their boards crashed, and hands reached out, slamming into him. He felt a blow to his neck, and suddenly, he was off his board and under the water. Shit. I’m not wearing my leash, either.

  As he kicked toward the surface, a surge of anger rose within him. Who the hell did that kid think he was? Why didn’t he abandon his board before running into me? There’s a protocol out here, and I don’t care if he’s a tourist or not. Surfers don’t do that shit to each other.

  When he surfaced, he was able to retrieve his board before it hit the little kids playing on the beach, and he scanned the crowd, looking for the teen to give him a piece of his mind. He couldn’t find him, so he got on his board and went back out to the line. It seemed no one had seen the accident, if that was what it was, and Ebbie was fine with that, because it was a bit embarrassing to get run over.

  Ebbie positioned himself behind the line of surfers furthest out and closer to the pier. He’d let them pick their waves first while he hung back a bit. He wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and the collision had rattled him. He took a deep breath and realized his neck was sore. Had the kid punched him? Had he meant to? Ebbie moved his head up and down, back and forth, but the pain only grew. His ex-girlfriend Trish had complained of migraines, and he wondered if that was what this was.

  “Just one more wave,” he muttered to himself. He blinked as his vision blurred. A concussion? Maybe if I lean forward on my board and just rest. Ebbie adjusted his weight onto his elbows, and as the motion of the water lulled him, his eyelids fell shut. A small voice somewhere in his head hissed, Wake up! but he was so comfortable and sleepy. He felt his body slip off the board and into the warm water. His mind and body floated as a pair of hands found him. He expected the hands to shake and jostle him, but instead, they guided him into the shade, and then held him under the water. The voice in his head yelled at him again, but the words seemed far away. His lungs choked on the seawater filling them, but not for too long. Ebbie felt a final tug on his ankle, and then nothing at all.

  Chapter Two

  Mike shoved the gear into park and slammed the truck door before Allie could say another word.

  She glanced at her brother Ryan, who hadn’t caught the tension between them. Being on the autism spectrum, he was lucky sometimes to miss negative social cues. “Ready to go find Sheila?” Allie asked him.

  “Ready!” Ryan undid his buckle and bounded out of the backseat, following Mike toward the pier house.

  Allie texted Sheila Bishop to tell her they’d arrived, then hurried to catch up to the boys. The vinyl sign, advertising today’s surfing competition, strained against the zip ties securing it to the chain-link fence in the offshore breeze. Allie and the boys skirted the cement-block building and paid the beach access fee to Bert, the older guy who looked like a piling holding up the pier, sun-bleached and weather-beaten. He drew Xs on the backs of their hands with black permanent marker. They watched the horde of surfers in their multicolored rash guards bobbing in the waves.

  Ryan strode toward the beach, and Allie called out to him to wait.

  “Let him go, Al.” Mike touched her shoulder. “We can see him from here.”

  She clenched her jaw as she scanned the crowd for Sheila. “You just want him out of earshot, Mike. You’re angry about something.”

  Mike shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

  They followed Ryan’s path but took their time with each step, oblivious to the cries of the gulls, barks of laughter, and bursts of boisterous conversation from the crowd closer to the water.

  “Mike,” she sighed.

  He swung around to face her. “I’ve been biting my tongue for over a month, Allie, but I just can’t anymore. That last case? When I was in Florida? You called me in a panic, from the middle of Core Sound on a stranded boat, but tell me not to worry? Do you know how many hundreds of expert fishermen have drowned in those same conditions?” Mike’s voice was loud and high in pitch. Not quite yelling, but close.

  “And you helped us get the boat started, remember?”

  “It was all I could do from 650 miles away!” His face was getting flushed now. “And then, then you chase after two dangerous suspects on a remote island, not even knowing if they were armed.” Mike swept a hand through his hair and then put his hands to his waist. “The kicker was, I didn’t find out about that part until I got home.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for the first time that Allie could recall, she thought she saw tears rimming his dark-blue eyes. “Do you know how helpless that makes me feel?”

  She paused. “So, this is about how you feel, not really about me being in danger.”

  “Dammit, Allie!”

  Scanning the crowd again, she saw that Ryan had found Sheila and waved to them. “Look, I understand you’re worried about my line of work, but you know I can take care of myself.”

  “Until you can’t,” Mike said through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t need a savior,” she bristled.

  “Of course, you don’t. But you don’t need to go looking for trouble, either.”

  “You want me to be content tracking down missing pets and insurance sca
mmers?”

  Mike shrugged. “It’s safer.”

  “But it isn’t what I do.” Allie crossed her arms and looked toward the ocean. “Does that even matter?”

  “Do my feelings even matter?” Mike shot back.

  She glared at him, unable to respond. Over the sound of her blood coursing through her veins, she heard her name.

  “Allie! Mike!” Sheila ran toward them, tugging Ryan by the hand.

  Allie reached for Ryan, who hugged her. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She searched Ryan’s face, hands, and clothes for any sign of injury or distress.

  “Ryan’s fine,” Sheila said, out of breath. “But, uh…”

  Allie noticed Sheila’s shaking hands and then realized her head was tilting toward the water with a knowing look. Allie heard now that the crowd’s laughter and excited banter had turned to a hushed murmur. Something was wrong.

  “Uh, Mike? You brought fishing poles in the truck, right?”

  “Always,” he said.

  Allie raised her eyebrows at him, and Mike caught the unspoken suggestion.

  He clasped Ryan by the shoulder. “Want to do some fishing from the pier, bud?”

  “But what about the surfing?” Ryan said, turning to look at the crowd.

  Sheila put a hand on his back and gently turned him to face back to the pier house. “The competition will be a little delayed, Ryan. You’ll get to see the surfers later, okay?” Sheila’s gaze darted between Mike and Allie.

  “Ryan, why don’t you head toward the truck, and I’ll catch up with you,” Mike suggested.

  Ryan looked at Allie and then nodded before heading off toward the parking lot.

  “What’s going on, Sheila?” Mike demanded when Ryan was out of earshot.

  “A dead man just washed up in the surf.”

  Mike sighed heavily, glared at Allie, and without a word, turned to follow Ryan to the truck.

  “Has someone called the police?” Allie asked Sheila.

  “I think so. There’s quite a crowd down there right now. It’s not his jurisdiction, but I called Charlie.”

  “That means I don’t have much time to see what I can see,” Allie said.

  Sheila nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They sprinted toward the water. People had gathered, some still in the surf, around the partially submerged body of a man. Allie listened to the murmurings as she passed through the crowd and slipped her phone to Sheila. “Take some photos of the crowd,” she whispered.

  When she reached the body, she knelt down to check for a pulse, although it was clear he had been dead for a while. “I’m going to need y’all to back up until law enforcement arrives,” she announced. “I’m a P.I.”

  The crowd did as they were told, and Allie stole the next few precious moments to observe the body.

  He had been portly for his height, probably a buck seventy-five and maybe five-eight or five-nine with thinning dark hair. Sand coated his body and even graced the eyelashes of his open green eyes. Some discoloration bloomed on his neck, but that could have happened after his death. A broken leash from a surfboard was still attached to his ankle, where there was also some bruising. Is this a simple drowning?

  There were no lifeguards on this beach, so unless someone saw him go under, they might not know what happened until the autopsy was performed. “Does anyone know how this happened?” Allie asked the crowd.

  Wide eyes, shaking heads, and a soft murmur were all the crowd could offer. Allie stood and dusted off her hands as Sheila handed her phone back.

  “Do you know who this is?” Allie asked her.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s Ebbie Watkins,” Sheila said. “Do you think he drowned?”

  “Hard to say,” Allie said. She looked up at the pier and saw that the people fishing had formed into clusters, pointing toward the body. “Did you get some shots of the crowd on the pier too?”

  Sheila nodded.

  Allie ventured beyond the crowd a bit, and Sheila followed.

  “Tell me what you remember about this morning,” Allie prompted.

  “We had a hundred or so surfers registered for the competition. We were setting up the announcers’ stage, and they started straggling down to the beach around five this morning to check the waves and get some practice runs in.”

  “Was Ebbie registered?”

  “Offhand, I’m not sure, but probably. He was part of the crowd who used to hang around with my brother Billy. And he’s competed in previous years, off and on.”

  “This competition is named for your brother?” Allie asked.

  Sheila nodded. “Cancer took him far too young. When these boys got together for the paddle out to honor his life, they decided to start up a surfing competition to benefit some cancer charities. That first year, maybe ten of them competed. Now we have hundreds every fall.”

  “And you help run the foundation?” Allie cocked her head.

  Sheila shrugged. “Such as it is. It’s pretty simple really. The money comes in from registration fees. A little goes out in prize money, and to pay judges and announcers, and the rest is donated. Not much to it.”

  “What’ll happen now?”

  “I’m sure we’ll have to postpone or cancel. They’ll want to do a paddle out for Ebbie now, too.”

  “Do you think I could get a list of registered surfers?”

  Sheila eyed her, but nodded.

  “Who do you recognize down there?”

  “Most of the regular surfing crowd. Bobby Bugg, Hank Long, a few others.”

  “Anyone down here earlier today that you recognized?”

  “I’d have to think on it.”

  “Tell me about Ebbie,” Allie said.

  Sheila shook her head. “I didn’t know him really well, but he seemed like the nicest man. Never able to settle down for very long, though. Has a son, Bradley. Estranged. Charlie knows… knew him better than I did. You might ask him.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  They watched as a couple of detectives and a few more uniformed officers struggled in their dress shoes through the sand toward the water, with two EMTs ahead of them to determine what Allie already knew. Her phone rang and she answered.

  “You all right? Ryan?” Charlie’s concerned tone was comforting.

  “We’re fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. Sheila says she thinks it’s Ebbie Watkins.”

  Charlie paused. “I can’t believe it. Everyone knew Ebbie. Nice guy, too.”

  “Detectives from ABPD are here with some uniforms. EMTs just finished with the body,” Allie reported.

  “Darius or one of his people will be there shortly, I suspect.”

  “Do you think they’ll call in the State Bureau for forensics?”

  “Doubt it,” Charlie said. “He probably drowned, Allie.”

  “Sheila said he’s a local and has been surfing since he was a kid,” Allie protested.

  “You don’t have to be a poor swimmer to drown.”

  “Still,” Allie said, stifling the anticipation of a possible case. “There were visible contusions.”

  “Which may have happened as he was dying or shortly after,” Charlie argued.

  “No one saw him drown, either.”

  “You’d be surprised how often that happens.” Charlie paused. “All I’m saying is this may just be a simple drowning, Allie.”

  “Noted,” she said. “Darius will still do an autopsy, though, right?”

  “Yes, it’s likely, depends on what he sees down there.”

  “Okay then. I’ll take his word for it. I guess you won’t be involved in this one, huh?”