Page 64 of The Grave Artist

“You’ve done that?”

“Sure. When my family went, our favorite was the Island of the Dolls. The place is filled with them.”

“It’s either cute or spooky.”

“I’m talking Hitchcock ... We loved it.”

Jake nodded toward the distant honeymoon suite, a large tiki hut with a fake-grass roof, sitting on a landscaped island that measured about forty by forty feet. “It’s the perfect place for HK. He’d slip in by boat and look for an opportunity.”

“What’s his strategy, Heron?”

Jake squinted as he gazed over the mesmerizing lagoon. “A slip and fall. But somehow, he’ll have to get one of them alone. He was lucky with Anthony Brock. The groom went for drinks by himself. Here? I don’t know. But if your four-day pattern is right, he’ll have it carefully planned already. Impulse control, remember?”

Zebrowski appeared and gave them both a quick perusal. “Your tie is crooked. Our bell persons do not have crooked ties.” He was dead serious. The manager himself was perfectly assembled, from his sparse, slicked-back hair to pointy shoes that shone like black mirrors.

In a touch of domesticity, Sanchez reached up and adjusted Jake’s tie.

“And me?” she asked the manager.

“I would hire you in a minute.”

“I’d make a bad maid. I don’t vacuum, don’t polish and don’t make beds. At least not very often.”

Zebrowski seemed unsure how to respond, so he motioned toward the exit. “Your boat’s here.”

The vessel was a small pontoon variety with a flat deck about six by eight feet. The driver sat on a bench at the rear and operated a quiet electric outboard.

They stepped on and Zebrowski handed Jake their props: a bottle of wine and a basket of fruit. It looked like any other evening at a ritzy hotel. The bell person bringing a bottle for the couple and the maid coming for the turndown service.

They began to cruise across the glass-flat water, a small wake V-ing away behind them. Jake scanned the shore but most of it was impenetrable vegetation and if HK was there, he could see no trace. He noted that Sanchez was doing the same. Her body language casual, her eyes intensely focused.

“Nothing,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “Goose chase?”

He paused to consider. “No.”

The driver slowed the craft until it thudded gently against the dock. Sanchez clambered out of the boat, walking through a gate into a grassy yard. Jake followed.

She glanced over her shoulder as they approached the door. “Me first.”

“Because you’re armed?” Had she seen evidence of HK’s presence and not mentioned it?

She gave her head a shake. “Because I’m a woman.”

“I don’t see what—”

“Exactly my point. Youshouldn’tsee anything.” She gave him an amused glance. “If they’re busy doing ... whatever ... the groom will come to the door in a robe. He sees you, he might not undo the chain. He wouldn’t want you checking out his bride in a state of undress. If it’s me, he won’t care. I served my share of no-knock warrants in themiddle of the night. Believe me, men are less self-conscious about their bodies. They’re all about fight, flight or freeze.”

Jake shook his head. “The fine art of policing. Not sure I’ll ever catch on.”

They arrived at the front door—the jamb decorated with pink-painted hearts—and she rang the bell. “Housekeeping.”

The sound of fumbling came from inside. “Be right there,” a male voice called out.

A pause, presumably while the groom robed himself and looked through the peephole. Then the clatter of the chain—Sanchez had been right—and a man in his twenties appeared, head and terrycloth-covered shoulders only.

“Thanks, but we don’t need turndown.” He peered over her shoulder at Jake. “And no more champagne or anything for now either.”

He gave a small finger wave and started to close the door, but Sanchez stepped in quickly, slipping past him.