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Camino Winds (Camino Island, #2) by John Grisham Read Online (FREE)

“Any chance she slept with Nelson?”

“Oh, sure, always the chance. Hell, I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about marriage. Tried that twice.”

“Did you see her Sunday?”

Bob sipped coffee, scratched his chin, thought hard for a moment. “Yep, we set up on the beach near the hotel and enjoyed the sun. That night I had dinner at Bruce’s but didn’t take the woman. Nelson was there. Then the hurricane changed its course and all hell broke loose.”

 

“What about a physical description.”

“Five-ten, one-thirty, helluva body. She’s about forty years old, likes string bikinis, and on the beach got more looks than eighteen-year-olds. Said she lives in the gym and has a black belt. I believe her. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Brown eyes, long fake blond hair, no tattoos, scars, birthmarks, and I saw it all.”

“I don’t suppose you took a photo of her. Maybe a selfie?”

“No, I don’t do selfies and I don’t run around snapping photos. Nor did she.”

“Can you think of a spot where she may have been captured on surveillance?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot. I’m sure the Hilton has cameras all over the place, including the outdoor bars and pool area. There’s probably some footage, if it still exists. Right now the Hilton is a mess. It took at least eight feet of storm surge and the ground floor is gutted. The decks, restaurants, patios, terraces were all blown away. Most of its windows are gone. If there were outdoor cameras they were probably ripped off by the wind. The place is barely standing.”

“What about the Shack?”

“That’s a possibility. I don’t know if it survived but it’s on the water, the back bay.”

Butler reviewed his notes and sipped coffee. He looked at Bruce, then Bob, and asked, “And you think this gal did a number on Mr. Kerr?”

Bob grunted and said, “That’s your job, sir.”

Bruce nodded at Nick and said, “He has an interesting theory.”

 

“And you’re Mr. Sutton?” Butler asked.

“Nick Sutton, rising senior at Wake, summer intern here on the island where I house-sit for my grandparents. I hang around the bookstore, where Bruce pays me minimum wage to haul stock.”

“You’re overpaid,” Bruce said.

“Anyway, I live in the underbelly because I read five or six crime novels a week. As an employee I get a twenty-percent discount, even on paperbacks. At Barnes and Noble I’d get forty off. My entire paycheck, meager as it is, goes for my library.”

“Okay, and your theory?”

“She’s a professional, hired by big money to knock off Nelson because of something he has written or is writing or planning to write. He has a ‘checkered past,’ to use a badly overworked cliché. She arrived on the island with a pal, probably a man, who rented a condo near the scene, and they waited. She knew about Bob and Nelson. Easy research. She bumped into Bob, a pushover, and through him met Nelson, her prey. The hurricane presented a unique moment to strike, which she did, and then she and her pal got off the island. Or maybe they’re still around, though I doubt it.”