Bait and Switch: Karne and Lundin Book 2 (Subtle Deceptions), page 1
BAIT AND SWITCH
SUBTLE DECEPTIONS
BOOK 2
ELLE KEATON
CONTENTS
Before you dive in: trigger warning
Chapter 1
Gabriel
Chapter 2
Casey
Chapter 3
Casey
Chapter 4
Gabriel
Chapter 5
Gabriel
Chapter 6
Casey
Chapter 7
Casey
Chapter 8
Gabriel
Chapter 9
Gabriel
Chapter 10
Casey
Chapter 11
Gabriel
Chapter 12
Casey
Chapter 13
Gabriel
Chapter 14
Casey
Chapter 15
Gabriel
Chapter 16
Gabriel
Chapter 17
Casey
Chapter 18
Gabriel
Chapter 19
Casey
Chapter 20
Gabriel
Chapter 21
Casey
Chapter 22
Gabriel
Chapter 23
Gabriel
Chapter 24
Casey
Epilogue
Afterword
BEFORE YOU DIVE IN: TRIGGER WARNING
I always strive to be sensitive to readers needs and avoid unpleasant surprises (although, I do feel it has to be said that this is a mystery and Gabe seems to attract dead bodies) therefore I am adding a trigger warning here.
TW: Death by suicide of a NON-major side character.
ONE
Gabriel
Monday before noon, late November.
“Seriously? You have got to be kidding me.”
With a grunt, followed by an extra-long and extra-deep sigh, Gabe nudged the body in front of him with the toe of his hiking boot. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Peter was taking a power nap. He stared down and willed Peter to move, to sit up with a “Gotcha!” and a snap of his fingers. Maybe he’d even give himself away by laughing at Gabe’s reaction.
But he did none of those things. His ex stayed on his back, his arms all akimbo, angled awkwardly by his sides. His left hand was tucked underneath his back, the right almost touching his hip. There was no blood, no other signs of violence, just an obviously broken neck.
It was near freezing today and the filthy, bird poop-covered deck of the Shangri-La, the only boat at the marina in worse shape than The Golden Ticket, was no place to take a breather. With his neck at an impossible angle—and in that getup—he was definitely not taking a catnap.
Wavelets rolled up and slapped against the side of the sailboat, emphasizing Gabe’s morbid thoughts. He didn’t laugh, but Peter had officially been caught dead in a hideous outfit.
He was deflecting. Even Gabe, notorious for avoiding the serious, could recognize a good deflection when it hit him in the face. In his defense, it was a hideous tracksuit, one Gabe had never seen Peter in—when he was alive anyway.
“Fuck.”
He and Peter may have been past tense, but he’d never wished him bodily harm. A parking ticket? An audit notice from the IRS? Maybe, but never this.
Never dead.
“A baby blue tracksuit, like some sort of common Jersey gangster?” He paused and crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you been binge-watching The Sopranos again? Tony is not the role model you think he is,” Gabe said to the dead man. There was no response from the corpse, for which he was eternally grateful.
But, just in case he was wrong about the my-ex-is-dead part of the day, Gabe crouched next to Peter’s remains and tentatively reached out his hand, pressing his index and middle fingers against Peter’s neck. Nothing. He wasn’t even warm to the touch. How long had he been at the marina and on the Shangri-La?
How long had he been lying there dead?
Out of the corner of one eye, Gabe spotted the errant tennis ball that had ultimately been responsible for the unpleasant discovery. Slowly, it began to move, the slight wind sending it rolling off the sailboat’s deck and onto the pier, where it bounced once and then dropped into the bay with a gentle bloop. Ranger Man’s dog, Bowie, trotted to the edge of the dock and peered over the side, his tail slowly wagging back and forth. Even Gabe, who’d never owned a dog in his life, knew Bowie was considering a quick swim to retrieve his toy.
“Don’t you even fucking think about it,” Gabe said to the dog. “I do not have the bandwidth for this—this-ness.” He waved a hand in the corpse’s direction. “You jumping into the bay is the cherry on top that I don’t need. You and I both know your owner would pin the blame for your wet ass on me.”
Bowie side-eyed him, huffed, and plopped down on the dock to rest his head on his paws. Totally waiting for Gabe to turn his back again.
Gabe rose to his feet to stare out over the slate gray waters of Riddle Bay. Maybe a perfectly reasonable explanation for this would erupt from the surface of the water like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, with a comic bubble declaring SOLUTION floating in the air above it. Maybe the monster would return Bowie’s ball too. Where was Swamp Thing when he needed him? He could exchange the ball for the body; it seemed like a reasonable trade.
Peter’s death was going to be trouble. No offense to his dead ex-boyfriend, but Gabe did not need the drama a corpse was going to bring him. He could feel a tension headache starting to form behind his eyes.
Surely it wasn’t grief. Surely he had no tears for him.
Since a week ago Sunday, when Casey Lundin had informed Gabe that someone had been by the marina asking about him, Gabe had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. From Lundin’s description, he had known the person who’d done the asking could only be Gabe’s ex, Peter Vale. A long seven-plus days of worrying had followed, but Peter himself had never returned—until today.
The shoe had dropped. Painfully.
Had Peter come to warn him that the Colavitos were planning to measure him up for special-edition cement loafers? That seemed fanciful. Peter was more likely to throw Gabe to the wolves than to save him from them.
No, what he was feeling wasn’t grief so much as disgust and anger. Who would do this?
Gabe had spent the last week pondering Peter-related questions and not coming up with any answers: Were Larry Colavito and his nephews planning to ambush him in the dark of night? Why had Peter ventured to Heartstone Island? How the fuck had he found Gabe anyway? And when was he coming back?
The answer to that last question was lying in front of him. There was no coming back from this.
He sighed—again—and stepped back. The Shangri-La moved slightly underneath him, bobbing up and down in the cold waters of Riddle Bay. Today he could see the rocky bottom and a school of tiny fish flashing through the water. Calling the Twana County Sheriff’s Office was the next order of business, but he resisted. He was already anticipating the questions they would ask that he did not have answers to.
Why had Elton chosen today to have a dental emergency?
Gabe had avoided interacting with Ranger Man all week until that morning. Considering they both lived on sailboats moored at the same dock, that was a feat in itself. Although for Gabe, the Ticket was less home sweet home and more of a rustic camping situation. But first thing that morning, before he’d even ventured to the grocery store across the street for a hot coffee, there’d been a knock on the hull. He’d immediately known it was Lundin; there was a certain exasperation to Lundin’s hammering. That and the fact that they were the only two who lived at the marina.
“What?” Gabe had called out through the galley window.
All he’d been able to see through the glass was Lundin’s denim-covered legs. They were nice-looking legs.
“I’m taking Elton in for an emergency dental thing, a new cap or something. Can you keep an eye on Bowie? I don’t want to leave him in the truck for an extended period, it’s too cold out today.”
Gabe tried not to be offended that Elton hadn’t asked Gabe to drive him. He was an adult, his feelings weren’t hurt because Elton had called Ranger Man and not him. But he did have a new cell phone, Elton could have called him.
“Won’t be more than three or four hours with the drive,” Lundin continued, “maybe less. Elton seems to think the actual procedure won’t take that long.”
“Sure. Bowie and I are tight. He can hang out with me, I don’t have anything going on,” Gabe had agreed casually.
He didn’t have a life anymore. Not unless he counted worrying about the Colavitos, the Anderson brothers, and why Peter hadn’t returned yet. He’d headed topside to let the dog aboard.
The sight of Casey Lundin waiting on the pier, his arms crossed over his broad, flannel-encased chest, made Gabe’s stupid heart skip a beat and brought to mind the Brawny paper towel guy.
He’d covered his reaction with a cough. As he had ever since they’d met, Gabe refused to entertain all the physical ways Casey ticked his boxes because Ranger Man’s personality did nothing for him. He was a popsicle with an unpleasant coating of fuzz. Cold and gritty. Unyielding.
“At least one of you can be trusted not to do anything too stupid. Go on, Bowie, I’ll be back as soon as possible.”<
Case in point.
Lundin’s rescue dog had jumped onto the Ticket like he belonged there, his favorite orange tennis ball clutched in his jaws. With a curt “Thank you,” Lundin had stalked off without a backward glance. Presumably headed to Elton’s to pick him up.
“Okay, doggo, I guess it’s just you and me. Nice to have some company.”
For the most part, Gabe had stayed aboard The Golden Ticket over the past week. It seemed best to avoid the public eye and Lundin, especially with the excitement from the week prior. The last thing he needed was more unwanted attention. He’d been lucky to have been treated as a mere bystander after the shooting at the hospital.
It’s called hiding, Chance.
Okay, he had been hiding. Which clearly had been a pointless exercise since Peter had somehow found him. How the fuck?
Gabe had falsely believed the dock was defendable, a refuge. Safe from a land invasion due to the locked entry to the marina, protected from water attack because the weather was too cold for anyone but arctic fishermen and harbor seals. Invasion by air was too ridiculous to consider, even for Larry Colavito. And while there was always the possibility of a James Bond frogman-style attack from under the waves, that also seemed like a lot of effort to go to for a washed-up grifter.
Thus, Gabe had kept to himself. Read a couple of thrillers. Organized his few possessions. Ate premade meals from the store across the road. Slept.
Nothing weird had happened and Peter had never shown up again.
Just minutes after Lundin and Elton had departed, Gabe got a call from the marine supply place in Westfort on his new-to-him burner phone, saying his order had arrived. He and Bowie had driven into town, adding a quick stop for some groceries that weren’t corn chips and a blessed triple Americano.
And returned to a corpse.
A fucking corpse.
Ew, not fucking.
Hands jammed into his coat pockets, he stared down at what was left of the man he’d briefly been involved with. Peter’s head was at an unnatural angle, his body oddly stiff. Gabe didn’t know much about rigor mortis, but he hazarded a guess that rigor was why the body appeared uncomfortable as it lay on the decking. Maybe that’s why his arms seemed weird too.
“Seriously? Why me?”
What if the corpse hadn’t appeared just this morning? Maybe it had been dropped off at some other time during the week. Immediately, Gabe knew that idea was ridiculous. He would have heard someone walking on the pier. If nothing else, Bowie would have heard intruders and sounded the alarm.
Plus—bending down again, Gabe brushed the back of his hand against the blue nylon polyester fabric of Peter’s jacket—it wasn’t wet, not even damp. Rain had been coming down steadily for days until early that morning, when the deluge had abruptly stopped, like someone in the clouds closed the faucet. Gabe hadn’t gotten to bed until late since he’d been up rereading a tattered and worn Travis McGee novel borrowed from Elton, but the absence of the thrum of the rain had woken him.
“Goddammit.”
“Who are you talking to?” a deep voice asked from behind him.
Gabe spun around, heart pounding. He’d been so focused on The Corpse he hadn’t heard Ranger Man open the gate or start walking on the dock. He revised his opinion that he would’ve heard trespassers. But Bowie would’ve. Probably.
“Ah, yeah ... Uh, no one. Not really. Just you know, this guy.” Gabe moved back from Peter’s body, the boat rocking unevenly as he climbed off the Shangri-La. As tall as he was, Ranger Man was sure to be able to see the dead man from where he stood. Gabe had only wanted to make sure there was nothing he could do for Peter.
“The fuck is that?” Lundin demanded, stomping over to the side of the dock and peering at the deck of the Shangri-La.
“Ah, that, that?” Gabe glanced at Lundin.
“Yes, that. Wait.” Lundin’s eyes narrowed as he edged closer to the sailboat, risking a dunking. “That’s the guy who was here last week. Is he—”
“Shh!” Gabe said automatically, as if saying the four-letter word too loudly would alert the local flying monkeys. “Yes, he seems to be. And no, I didn’t do it. I found him that way.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?” Lundin took a big step backward, away from Gabe and the derelict boat, as though death were contagious. He supposed that often it was.
“I didn’t kill Peter,” Gabe said to the world in general. “Bowie and I went into Westfort to pick up the new stove after you left, and we got back not too long ago. I only … er, noticed … him because Bowie’s tennis ball landed funny and bounced onto the deck. And there he was. Is. Just there. I know it’s difficult for you, but don’t be such an asshole. You know I didn’t kill him.”
“Do I, though?” Lundin shot him another, narrower, more suspicious glance.
“Seriously?” Gabe threw his head back to stare up at the clouds mirrored by the relatively calm waters of the bay. As he watched, they slowly parted to reveal a tantalizing hint of blue.
I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream.
“Casey, you left your wallet in the truck.”
In tandem, they both turned to look down the dock. Elton Cox was walking toward them. Gabe felt slightly vindicated that neither Lundin nor Bowie had noticed the old man opening and shutting the gate. Hah, they must’ve driven to the dentist in Elton’s truck. It wasn’t just Gabe’s Honda the old man didn’t trust. The Ford was built like a tank, maybe he just felt safer in it.
“You two look serious,” Elton said, drawing closer. “Something going on?” He looked from Gabe to Lundin.
“No,” they chorused.
“You’re supposed to be at home waiting for the rest of the funny gas to wear off,” Lundin added.
“Well, it wore off on the drive back, didn’t it?” Elton sounded a tad grumpy. “I don’t feel like being stuck at home, and like I said, you left your wallet in my truck.”
Approaching them, Elton held Lundin’s wallet out to him. Gabriel noted that it was made of canvas and Velcro and was well broken in. It suited Lundin.
“Did you pick that up at a vintage place? Or have the nineties come calling and I wasn’t around to meet them?” Gabe asked.
“What?” Lundin frowned. “No. What are you even talking about?”
He accepted the billfold from Elton and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. The jeans, Gabe absently noted for the second time that day, fit him very well.
What was wrong with him? There was a body only a few feet away.
Elton stopped next to Lundin. “What’s going on?” he repeated, looking once more at Gabe and then Lundin.
Gabe had no choice. He moved aside and pointed toward the Shangri-La and the body of Peter Vale.
“That’s a dead man.”
Elton seemed remarkably calm. Maybe it was residual funny gas from the procedure; his jaw did seem a bit puffy.
“Yep. No doubt about that,” Gabe said glumly.
Gabe was not happy about Peter’s demise, but Lundin seemed even less so. Honestly, though, the central core of Lundin’s unhappiness was hard for Gabe to gauge. Was it the body? The inconvenience of it all? Gabe? All of the above?
“How did he get there?” Elton asked.
Ranger Man also looked expectantly at Gabe, as if he might have a reasonable answer.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Gabe did his best to telegraph his irritation with Casey. “After you left, I drove into Westfort and didn’t get back until about an hour ago.” The stove had been fairly easy to install, just like Elton had promised, and then he’d decided to reward Bowie for his patience by tossing his ball for a few minutes. “I doubt he was here when Bowie and I took off. The rest, as the saying goes, is history. I suppose he could’ve been here and I didn’t notice, but I don’t think so.”
“Have you called the sheriff already?” asked Elton.
“No, of course he hasn’t called the Sheriff’s Office.” Lundin scoffed. “I bet if I hadn’t shown up when I did, Karne would have dumped the body into the bay.”
