Southernmost Murder by C.S. Poe

Author:C.S. Poe [Poe, C.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery
ISBN: 978-1-64080-077-9
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2018-01-09T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

“BUT WHY do you think he agreed to talk with you?” I asked Jun. I paid the cashier in the shop we’d ducked into so I could buy some candy before I imploded and tackled the nearest person on the street to steal their cigarettes. “Do you think he found stolen artifacts at Cassidy’s home and knows the FBI has jurisdiction?”

“I doubt that’s the case,” Jun said, holding the door open for me as we walked out. “But local law enforcement tends to listen when we pull the agent card.”

“But the FBI can look into Cassidy now, if they wanted?”

“The Art Crime Team would likely want to, yes,” Jun answered. “And if it boils down to me having to make phone calls to get Tillman’s cooperation, I know an agent in Miami on the team that might be able to help.”

I stopped walking. “Not… Matt or—”

“No.” Jun crossed his arms. “Matt’s still with Organized Crime. He took a transfer to Boston.”

My shoulders loosened. “Okay. Good. I had to check.” I ripped open a bag of Skittles, a few falling to the ground and bouncing across the sidewalk. “Crap.”

“Come on, Indy.” Jun led the way back to the rental car, and we got in.

I put the hat, which I was now likely to never live down, in the back seat before offering Jun some candy. “I took pictures of Cassidy’s displays in the museum.”

“Did you?” he asked before popping the Skittles into his mouth.

“I figured it might be important.”

“Smart. With the owner’s permission?”

“Totally.”

Jun nodded, starting the car. “You’ll need to direct me to Tillman’s office.”

I gave him directions to get out of Old Town, as we needed to head over to Stock Island, where the Monroe County Sheriff’s major crimes unit worked. It was less than a twenty-minute drive, not that I went there often. I got nervous just driving to New Town, because that pushed the extent of my safety with narcolepsy. But Jun driving was fine. It was just too bad nothing was ever easy when tourists ignore Do Not Cross signs and bike on the wrong side of the road. In a sense, Key West was very much a miniature New York City.

I took out my phone and opened the photos folder. I swiped through the pictures I’d taken, ruminating on the idea that an additional galleon existed and that maybe, just maybe, Smith had lived a double life as a famous pirate. “What did you think of that band of merrymen?” I murmured.

“I believe that Peg honestly had no idea Cassidy had been killed.”

“I agree.”

“I’m not a fan of that Mr. Moore,” Jun continued.

“You better believe I’m not hiring him back to finish the rest of the house’s interior.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jun replied. “I don’t like coincidences. Him having access to the house, as well as being the friend of the murdered intruder, doesn’t sit well with me.”

I plucked absently at the pink rubber case of my phone. “I don’t like it either. Gives me indigestion.

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