SEALed At Sunset Read online

“I was hoping that by now he would call me.” Shelley tilted her head and then looked up at Aimee. “Has he said anything? Anything about me?”

  She didn’t like lying to Shelley, but she had to.

  “I’m sorry, but I really haven’t had much communication with them. I’ve sort of left the two of them to be together. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, believe me, I do. But I just thought…”

  “Sometimes I have a hard time understanding Cory.”

  Shelley nodded and drank her coffee. Aimee was glad that her friend didn’t pry. She was positive that Shelley picked up that something strange was going on.

  “If I see him again before he leaves, I’ll tell him we spoke.”

  Shelley beamed. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 13

  Andy made coffee, trying to stay quiet enough to keep Cory sleeping. Pouring himself a cup, he drowned it in half-and-half, and then took the coverlet outside with him to sit on one of Aimee’s chairs, watching the ocean.

  The gray morning matched his insides, and even the coffee didn’t do anything to change his mood. He wanted to go back to California as soon as he felt it was safe to do so. He was hoping Cory would be able to make contact with the people in San Antonio to get him set up.

  He watched several beachcombers search for shells that had washed up during the night. The beach was nearly deserted. He sat back, closing his eyes and checking his insides.

  Andy knew he should give his LPO a call. It was too early to do so for another few hours, but he decided, no matter what Cory’s state of mind, that call would have to be made.

  I should have left a message last night.

  But last night, he’d been exhausted. He needed the rest just as much as Cory did. The lumpy couch was no substitute for a real bed.

  As the sun rose behind him, he noticed more travelers on the beach. A dark form emerged from the distance and then crossed in front of the house. He would recognize those shoes anywhere. His heart skipped a beat as he did the only thing he could do, just watch as she came into view and then slipped back into the fog and out of his life.

  It wasn’t numbness but the costume, the mask he wore to hide emotions he needed to push back. It wasn’t that he lacked caring. He cared too much and didn’t have the capacity to do anything about it.

  This wasn’t the time for second-guessing.

  He must have fallen asleep, because he heard the sliding glass door open behind him, as he jerked fully awake and discovered he had a stiff neck. It had gotten considerably warmer, and now the sky was bright blue. He figured he must have slept slumped in the chair for an hour or more.

  Cory leaned over and picked up his spilled coffee. “You want a refill?” he asked as he held the mug up.

  “Sure. Thanks, Cory.”

  Andy wondered now if the vision of Aimee running down the beach wasn’t just a dream he’d had.

  Cory was shirtless, wearing only polar bear flannel pajama bottoms. His hair was splayed all over his head, growing like tufted sea grass, and he yawned as he leaned over and gave Andy the warm mug.

  “You look like shit.”

  Andy figured he deserved that.

  “Look at you, ToolTime. Got your jammies on, I see.”

  Cory grinned, curling his arms and flexing his pectoral muscles. “We’re the pair, aren’t we?”

  Andy sipped his coffee. It was bitter and too overheated.

  “What the hell is that?” Cory was pointing to the tin foil and ashes in the fire pit.

  “That’s hopefully the last of your bad habits, Cory. I forgot to clean up.” Andy removed the grate, peeled the tin foil up at the edges, and rolled the whole thing into a hamburger bun-shaped blob. He excused himself to the kitchen, and disposed of it in the garbage.

  “You just put about six hundred dollars up in smoke.”

  “Better than in your lungs and bloodstream, Cory. Sit. Can we work out your next move?”

  Cory pulled the other Adirondack chair closer and deposited himself. “I already made a call to San Antonio, but it’s Sunday, and I’m not sure I’ll hear back until tomorrow.”

  “Good. How do you feel?”

  “I’m good. Feel like I’ve been eating garbage all night. My head hurts. I’m guessing it will really start hurting as the day goes on.” He was tracing the top of the coffee mug with his forefinger. “And I even called a guy I know who’s in a twelve-step program. A former Team Guy.”

  Andy was impressed. “That’s a smart move.”

  “He’s offered to take me to a meeting. What do you think?”

  “That’s the kind of friend you need right now, Cory. I don’t have any experience with these programs, but a lot of guys get help there. Gals too. We aren’t the only ones.”

  “He says there’s a meeting tonight I can go to. Do you want to go with?”

  “No thanks. I think that’s something you two should do together.”

  “Okay, so if I do, will you be here when I get home? Or are you leaving?”

  “I can stay. I didn’t make any plans or change my flights home yet. Let’s find out what’s going on with San Antonio, and then I’ll decide.”

  “Fair enough. Can I ask you another question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you ever heard about other guys like me? I mean, what did they do for help?”

  “I’m guessing the answer to that is a resounding yes, but the old guys would be your best bet. I think your former Team Guy would be a great place to start. I’m not really qualified to answer. Only thing I’m here for is to make sure you stay willing to change. I don’t have any special potion or advice. You’re the one going to do the work, if you want it enough, Cory. If you were in California, I have a couple of guys I’d have you call. But not out here.”

  Cory had a craving for pancakes smothered in syrup, so he directed Andy to his favorite Samoan pancake house where they stocked up on carbs. When they returned home, Cory got the call from San Antonio. The Joint Base San Antonio-Fort Sam Houston Burn Center had facilities for him to stay right on the hospital grounds. They also had an outpatient drug and alcohol treatment clinic privately contracted by specialty physicians both inside and outside the military community. The services would be free to him as long as he was enrolled in the special training. Best of all was that there were counselors available nearly any time of the day or night.

  Cory offered to fly out as soon as his paperwork came through, and they indicated that, if he flew out sooner, rather than wait the two to four weeks for the Navy to process it, he’d have a room and could begin class with the rest of the group who were due to start the following week.

  And they said they’d take care of the final sign-off for his injury, as long as he didn’t have any complications.

  Andy loaned him the money to catch a plane the next day.

  “You remember what I said about my bank account, Cory? I used all my savings on special equipment I purchased for the trip to Africa. I gotta have this back.”

  “I’ll return every penny. Not sure I can do it right away, but I’ll pay you back.”

  “Then I say go with my blessing. Make the most of your opportunity. It’s going to get tough, but hang in there.”

  When Cory’s friend arrived, Andy was introduced. The former SEAL was a scary looking dude. He stood about three inches taller, nearly outweighing both Cory and Andy together. He looked more like a former NFL player. His arms were covered in colorful tats with scary dragons, snakes and fanged demons. It was obvious the man had pulled himself out of some kind of Hell. Andy was glad he’d decided not to go with them, but he knew Cory would be safe.

  “I hope I’ll be crashed. Looking forward to going to bed early to catch up on my sleep.” To the big guy, Andy nodded, “Thanks.”

  “No problem, brother.”

  Andy watched them leave. Cory climbed into the passenger side of a black custom monster truck. The engine rattled all the windows of the house as Cory was chauffeured away in
a cloud of smoke.

  Remembering the truck at JJ’s, Andy chuckled.

  “Say hello to Phyllis.”

  He was still shaking his head, laughing, as he walked out on the sand, not wanting to miss the sunset. He worshiped dying sun like everyone else who had come out that night.

  It was spectacular.

  Chapter 14

  Aimee’s Monday morning run was easier than yesterday’s. Convinced that routine and staying busy would help heal the wounds and disappointments of her heart, she showered, grabbed some yogurt for breakfast, and drove down to JJ’s, hoping to see either the restaurant manager or the bookkeeper.

  She had left a phone message for both of them.

  The Monday morning crowd wasn’t anything like Sunday, and she nearly had the restaurant to herself. She ordered coffee and a bowl of oatmeal and waited for the manager to come join her at the table.

  Mr. Roger Valdez was a very trim man in his late forties, with a pencil thin mustache and dark black, curly hair. He spoke with an accent Aimee thought was either Cuban or South American.

  “What can I do for you?” he said as he pulled up a chair across the table from her.

  “Mr. Valdez, I was here last week on Wednesday night, and I saw two people in the parking lot. One of them resembled my brother, who has been missing for about seven years. I came to ask for your help, if you’re able.”

  “This person was a guest?”

  “No, I think he works here.”

  “We have a lot of turnover here, Miss Greer, is it?”

  “Yes, but you can call me Aimee.”

  “Can I ask your brother’s name, please?”

  “Logan Greer.”

  Valdez sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his lap, tapping his four fingers on his left upper arm. “Like I said, we must go through probably three hundred, maybe four hundred people a year. The restaurant business is not very skilled, and we get college students who are in transit, people just passing through in all circumstances. A very transient crowd, I must say. It’s difficult to find someone who will stay long-term. But I honestly do not remember his name.”

  “I understand your bookkeeper, Mrs. Jackson, works today?”

  “Yes.” He checked his watch. “She arrives, in about thirty minutes, if you can wait.”

  “Would it be possible for you to check your records?”

  “Yes, we can do this. However, I have to wait for Mrs. Jackson first. She has all the files.”

  “The two men I saw in the parking lot were arguing. One was a rather short, heavyset man. The other one, possibly my brother, was tall and thin. They were having some kind of an argument, and when I called his name, both of them disappeared in opposite directions.”

  “So he didn’t wait on you, or you didn’t see him in the restaurant?”

  “No, but they both wore white jackets. They looked like kitchen help. Perhaps cooks?”

  Valdez crossed his legs and slapped his knee. “The kitchen staff. This is our biggest problem. I have an extremely volatile head cook, and many of our helpers find they can only tolerate him a little. I have tried very hard to explain things to Sergio, but this is his world. He is my only long-term employee, and the owner has made me promise that he will never be fired.”

  “Is he a bit heavy and not tall?”

  “Yes, it sounds like him. I have seen him fire people before in the parking lot.”

  “So when does your cook arrive then?”

  “Well, some of them are here now. And they are doing prep for dinner already. I think our Sergio doesn’t like to get up with the sun. It will be noon. If you come back then, you’ll be able to talk to Mrs. Jackson as well.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  Aimee shook the managers hand and wrote down notes on her tablet. She had about three hours to kill so decided to take a drive to the Tax Collector’s office and do some research on the pink house.

  Memories of Saturday night floated through her head, reminding her how she felt during the silence of the car on their way back to Aimee’s house. This time, as she passed through several little beach towns along Gulf Boulevard, each one taking less than five minutes to drive through, she was in a different frame of mind. But she wondered if Andy had left for California. Or perhaps he took Cory to Texas on his way back.

  She decided it would be a good idea to try writing down signs of houses that were for sale. She also needed a Realtor recommendation so she could familiarize herself with the market and prices.

  Aimee passed multiple ice cream shops and two-story beach stores that sold everything from inflatable flamingos to boogie boards, bathing suits, and beach towels. She drove past the bicycle rental spot and one of her favorite ice cream shops that made the best Cuban sandwiches she’d ever tasted.

  The Tax Collector’s office shared a building with the Public Works Department. It was next door to City Hall, also in shared quarters.

  Inside, a row of file cabinets lined one wall. On top of the last one was an oscillating fan, silently circulating air. A cheap radio played country music in the background. The office appeared to have two employees, both seated behind metal desks.

  An attractive woman with black cat-eyes glasses, studded with rhinestones, looked up and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to find out the owner’s name and address of a piece of property.”

  “You have the address?”

  “Yes, right here.” Aimee didn’t want to shout the address across the room because she knew, with the town being so small, her chances of keeping her inquiry a secret were greatly diminished.

  She held up her tablet to show the woman, who approached the counter, turned the tablet around, and then wrote the address on a slip of paper. “I’ll be right back.”

  Aimee searched the walls, covered with local artist photographs, watercolors and oil paintings depicting various places around Sunset Beach. She noticed photographs of the dog park, a beach access bridge made of wood, the surf, and the sand dunes. She also saw a cluster of small oil paintings done in plein-air style, depicting small bungalows, brightly colored, and trimmed in equally bright contrasting colors. Examining one of the tags, she saw they were part of a local artist’s collective, like the paintings at Connie’s.

  The attractive blonde woman had been combing through pages in a black three-ringed binder. She clicked it open, removed a small sheaf of papers and brought them up front.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to show identification, and I will make you copies of these pages, but they are a dollar apiece.”

  “How many do you have?” Aimee asked, presenting her California driver’s license.

  The woman counted the pages scrolling at the upper right with thin fingers.

  “I count thirteen.”

  Aimee opened her purse again and produced a credit card.

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, we only take cash.”

  Any produced a twenty dollar bill.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have change.”

  From across the room the other woman spoke up. “Oh heaven’s sake, Sylvia, I’ve got the change.” She lay a ten and two fives on the counter. “That’s the best I can do, sorry.”

  Aimee handed her the twenty. Then she gave the blonde woman fifteen. “Perhaps you can apply the change to your library fund,” Aimee whispered.

  Without answering, the blonde woman turned on her heel and brought the papers to a large copy machine and then returned with Aimee’s copies.

  Anxious to read the records, she sat.

  The legal papers were confusing, but it appeared there was a living trust that had ownership, on behalf of a woman who lived in Sarasota. From the tax records, the trust had been created some twenty years ago by a man, whose address was listed as the property.

  How could that be?

  She knew that she might have to contact the attorney handling the trust and perhaps try to go search out this woman, Carmen Hernandez.

>   Checking her watch, Aimee realized it was time to return to JJs. She folded the paperwork, tucked it in her purse, and headed back south along the Boulevard.

  This time, the restaurant was filled with people on lunch break. She looked for Mr. Valdez and waved to him once they made eye contact. He motioned for her to follow.

  They climbed a narrow stairway leading to a tiny office cluttered with papers, boxes of more papers, and shelves stacked with papers. Aimee thought it looked like a hamster lived there, or at least someone adverse to filing.

  Hunched over her desk and buried in a handwritten ledger, was an attractive African-American woman, who wore her hair short, and dyed bright orange. Even her finger nails were painted orange.

  When Mr. Valdez introduced her, Mrs. Jackson smiled, revealing even her lipstick was orange.

  “You the nice lady who left me that sweet message?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, Mr. Valdez says that this particular man was working here last Wednesday?”

  “Yes, that’s when I saw him. He was in the parking lot, and there was some kind of an argument going on.”

  Mrs. Jackson rolled her eyes and let her fingers flutter through the air. “That kind of thing happens all the time here. Mr. Sergio runs them out the back door almost as fast as we take them in.”

  “Yes, Mr. Valdez told me.”

  Valdez needed to get back to the floor. “Everything okay here?”

  “Right as rain. I’ll send her down in a couple of minutes.” She closed her ledger. “So Mr. Valdez says your brother’s been missing for more than seven years?”

  “Yes. When my parents were alive, they tried multiple times to find him. He’s originally from California.” Aimee looked around the room for a chair to sit.

  “Just take those boxes off that chair over there and put them on the floor. I’m sorry, I should’ve offered it to you.” Her face showed concern. “Let me ask you this, do you have a picture of your brother?”

  Aimee wasn’t sure if she still had the family photograph she used to keep in her wallet all the time. “If I do,” she continued to search the pockets of her billfold, “it was taken over ten years ago. Not sure you would recognize him now.”