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  Caught in the Surf: Coastal Justice Book 3

  By: Mark Stone

  Copyright 2017 by Mark Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written consent from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  Caught in the Surf is a work of fiction. All events, dialogue, and characters are a work of the author’s imagination. Therefore, any similarities to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Thanks, and I hope you enjoy it.

  Dedicated to the people of Florida, whose strength has inspired so many.

  Chapter 1

  "I swear," I said, shaking my head and looking out at the beautiful Atlantic ocean water from the deck of the Good Storm, wondering just why I was here. "If I live a thousand years, I'm not sure I'll ever understand this."

  A hand caught mine, fingers interweaving with mine and pulling my grasp from the railing and my attention from the gently rolling tide moving toward the beach.

  I looked over at her, sure I was going to find the smile I had come to depend on since we started dating almost four months ago now. With a wide grin that put even the setting sun to shame, Rebecca Day did not disappoint.

  In the time since I'd started going out with my grandfather's doctor, I had come to know her as a strong, kind, fierce woman who was my equal in every way. Hell, in some ways, she was unquestionably my superior. Best of all, she was the kind of person who would be with me now, when I needed her most.

  "That's the thing, Dillon," she said, looking up at me with those deliciously seductive seafoam eyes my grandfather commented on before I'd even met her. "I'm not sure it matters if you understand or not." She shook her head, pursing her lips together in a way that told me she understood what I was going through and even sympathized with it, but she wasn't about to let me dwell on it. "This is what your grandfather wants. Moreover, it's what he needs. So, whether or not you agree with it, it's probably best that you at least go along with it."

  I nodded, cursing to myself because, whether I liked it or not, the woman made sense. It didn't surprise me. She was a doctor, after all. She had most certainly been around death and dying more than I, even if I had been a homicide detective for the better part of ten years now. My sort of expertise wouldn't come in handy now. I was good for after the fact, for that horrible morning when you find out that your loved one has been gunned down on the street or thrown off a bridge. This, the cancer that was slowly spreading through my grandfather's body at an alarming rate, was as foreign to me as it was scary. I couldn't imagine the idea of him not being here anymore, and I sure as hell didn't want to be faced with it like I was about to be. I couldn't imagine anyone would. That was why this whole ordeal struck me as so damned odd.

  "I get that," I answered, turning to her and resting on the railing of the houseboat my half-brother gifted me after finding out the truth of who was trying to frame him for murder. "But a living memorial service? Is that really necessary?"

  And there it was, the question that had been tugging at the back of my mind ever since my grandfather convinced me, Rebecca, and several of our closest friends to travel with him to the coastal city of Vero Beach, Florida for some kind of preemptive funeral party. The whole thing just seemed so morbid, so depressing, so dark and painful.

  Rebecca reached upward, brushing a strand of my hair back in place. The wind on the ocean was picking up today and, from the marina where The Good Storm was docked, it was really starting to affect us. Still, I didn't mind. I loved the feel of the wind at sunset. I loved the smell of salt as it wafted toward us. Most of all, I loved the feel of Rebecca's fingers running through my hair.

  "I've learned a lot by dealing with sick people, Dillon. More than that though, I've learned a lot from dealing with the families of sick people. Two things always stand out to me. The first is that no two people react to knowing their lives are about to end in the same way. People always do what they have to in order to deal with that truth, and sometimes what they do doesn't exactly look normal to the rest of us."

  "The second thing?" I asked, sighing as I looked down at the tiny, but wise, woman. "I have a feeling that's the part that's really going to hammer it home for me."

  "You should trust that feeling, Dillon," she answered. "The second thing I learned is that, when it's all over, the thing that every person who's lost someone says is that they wish they had made better use of the time they were given." She squeezed my hand. "Who cares what this party is for, Dillon. The bottom line is that your grandfather loves you so much that he wants you here with him- in this picture-perfect place- with the people who mean the most to him. Don't let what you think is proper steal that away from you. Just enjoy it."

  I smiled at her, a sense of warmth running over me that completely negated the chill the Atlantic air was tossing my way.

  "What the hell did I do to get so damned lucky?" I asked her, looking down at this woman who was unquestionably way too good for me. She mustn't have thought that though. Because, even though we had never said the words out loud to other, what I saw in her eyes was absolutely love. "I must have been Gandhi in a past life or something."

  "You sure do know how to make a girl feel special, Dillon Storm," Rebecca said, pulling herself up on her tippy toes. I smiled. I knew what that meant. It was a sure sign this woman wanted to be kissed and, best of all, I was happy to oblige.

  I leaned down, meeting her in the middle and bridging our height gap. My lips pressed against hers and all the anxiety I had been feeling about coming here and the reasons I had melted away in an instant.

  I had been with a woman or two in my life. Hell, back up in Chicago, I made more mistakes than I cared to mention at the moment. It had been a long time since a woman felt like home to me though. Hell, I could only think of one other instant it had happened before, and that woman was standing in a guesthouse where this stupid living memorial was about to take place with my nephew right beside her.

  As I kissed Rebecca Day though, as I felt this closeness that pulled at every fiber of my being and told me this was real, this was right, I began to think it might be possible to feel this way again. Rebecca Day might become home to me, and I was okay with that.

  She pulled away and I felt the ache of losing her touch. I had just kissed her and damn if I didn't want to do it again.

  She smiled up at me. "That's more like it. That's the smile I like to see."

  "Well, you give me a good reason to smile," I answered, squeezing her hand as I looked down at her.

  "Good," she said. She turned toward the back of the boat, looking back at the shoreline and the guesthouse my grandfather had gathered us in. "Now you keep that smile on for the rest of the night, and we should be just fine." She bit her lower lip. "And hey, if you need me to give you another reason to smile halfway through the night, I'm definitely game."

  I chuckled, thinking about that kiss and the repeat performance she had just promised me. Life was such a crazy thing. I'd wanted nothing to do with the blind date my best friend Boomer set me up on the night I first thought of Rebecca in a romantic light. Look at us now. I couldn't get enough of her and, amazingly, she seemed to feel the same way about me.

  "You, Rebecca Day," I started. "Are the best thing that's happened to me in a long time." I shrugged. "Well, that and this nifty key detector my grandfather gave me the other day. Said he was sick of me always waking him up while I was looking for my car keys."

  "Good to know where I stand," she answer
ed. "Shoulder to shoulder with a cheap gadget."

  "You're head and shoulders above everything," I answered earnestly.

  She smiled wide. "And you, Dillon Storm, aren't half bad either."

  I chuckled again. "Don't go gushing on me now."

  "You want a bigger compliment, Detective, then you have to earn it,'” she cooed.

  "That's a challenge I'm definitely up fo—”

  My words were cut into, silenced by the sound of a shrill, blood-curdling scream that echoed from inside of the guesthouse, from inside the place where nearly every single person I held dear in the world now resided.

  Chapter 2

  A jolt of something like fear ran through me as I rushed off The Good Storm and ran across the deck- and then the beach's sand- on my way toward the guesthouse I'd just heard that scream emanating from. Though I was sure Rebecca was right behind me, I didn't break stride to make sure.

  The scream I'd heard just seconds ago was undoubtedly that of a female. Since Boomer had left his wife and daughters behind in Naples, that meant it was either Charlotte, who'd come up to Vero Beach so she could bring Isaac to my grandfather's event, or it was Daisy Conroy, an old friend of my grandfather who had moved over here about a decade ago to be with her now deceased husband and who owned the guesthouse where all of the morbid festivities would take place in just a few hours' time. Either way, something bad was happening, and I needed to be there to stop it.

  I pushed into the back door of the two-story white beach house; a structure so ornate with its high ceilings and wraparound brick porch, that it would be a sight to behold even in the upper crust neighborhoods of Naples. What did I expect though? Daisy Conroy had married into money. Her late husband owned Conroy Finds, the biggest guided treasure hunting service in Vero Beach; a place whose economy ran off despite the fact that it resided on Florida's Treasure Coast. Each year, tens of thousands of people would flood the Treasure Coast, hoping to find sunken gold pieces from the Spanish explorers or priceless artifacts stolen from the indigenous people that were lost on the trek back to the homeland. It was a profitable business and, judging from the sheer size and luxuriousness of what amounted to be Daisy's spare home, it would appear that business was booming.

  None of that mattered to me though as I opened the door. I had been surrounded by rich people my entire life. Hell, my father had been the richest man in Naples, not that he'd ever spoken to me. Now that he was gone, my half-brother Peter took that title. If my experiences with the super wealthy had taught me anything, it was that they were not immune to the troubles which befell the rest of us, even the deadly ones.

  It was that truth, the thought of it, that drove me crazy as I rushed into the house. What if something horrible had happened? What if the scream I'd heard belonged to Charlotte, and it was an indication that something terrible had just happened to my nephew? I wasn't sure that I could take that. That little boy, the kid Charlotte had borne out of a one-night stand with my no count half-brother had quickly become the most important person in my life. He was the reason I stayed in Naples. The idea of giving him a better life than the one I had, of stepping in for my brother, who refused to acknowledge him, gave me a purpose I wasn't sure I'd ever have before this. If he had just gotten hurt- or worse- I wasn't sure that was a blow I'd be able to recover from.

  As I entered the huge home though, the noises I heard coming from a far room did much to quell that particular fear. The feminine shriek of horror I heard had morphed into an argument between at least two men. It was angry thing and the rustling and sounds of things shattering against the floor indicated what I was hearing was a fight. While that wasn't ideal, it was certainly better than an accident involving my nephew.

  Following the sound of the scuffle, and hearing Rebecca's footsteps falling in tandem behind me, I turned into the kitchen toward the living area.

  The large room was meant to play host to this evening's festivities and- because of that- I had steered clear of it. The last thing I needed was to be accosted with the sort of funeral décor I imaged something like this called for. I was a cop though and that meant- among a bunch of other things- I ran toward scary sounds, as opposed to away from them.

  "I just want to know if she's here!" A male voice shouted hoarsely. I recognized something in the way he spoke; a desperation that pushed all of my buttons. Whatever was happening here, it was of his doing. I knew that much before I ever laid eyes on him.

  I saw something else before I laid eyes on him, a woman standing in the kitchen, pressed against the wall and looking in at the living area where all the ruckus was happening. She was tall and thin, with dark skin and bushy black hair. She had rings on three of the fingers on her right hand and a tattoo of a broken heart stamped on her upper back near her left shoulder, a piece of her skin left exposed by the swooping top she'd chosen to wear.

  "Just tell me if she's here and I'll leave, Marcus!" the voice shouted again. "I swear."

  I pulled to a stop, holding my hand up in an effort to tell Rebecca to stop as well. She listened. Settling beside me, I heard her rapid breathing and then a whispered, "What the hell is going on?"

  "I'm about to find out," I whispered back.

  Walking forward, I neared the woman as she peered into the living area out at the scene that was being caused. Not wanting to startle her, I opened my mouth to speak. It turned out sneaking up on this particular woman wouldn't have been an option because, without turning around, she muttered, "You guys should probably stay back. Mikey doesn't look too happy."

  I had no idea who Mikey was, though I had to imagine he was the guy screaming in the living room. Either way, I didn't give a damn about how happy he was. All I cared about was the fact that there was a crazy person in the same space as my grandfather, nephew, and friends.

  "I'm guessing you're the 'she' he's going on about?" I asked, settling beside her and peering out into the room too.

  There he was, a beefy guy with a shaved bald head and a tattoo on his neck that matched this woman's perfectly. His face was red, as were his eyes, leading me to believe he had been drinking. That fact, coupled with the sheer size of him, was enough to make me understand why this woman thought it would be in my best interest to keep my distance. Of course, that wouldn't matter. My grandfather was out there. I saw him standing near the right corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest and his head shaking disapprovingly. The old man had never been much of a fan of people acting the fool and- if I knew him like I thought I did- something like this happening at his party would only serve to irritate him even more.

  Looking past him, I saw Isaac peering out from behind him. Something warm crept into my chest. My grandfather was blocking Isaac from all of this. I hated the fact that it was going on in the first place but, if it had to, knowing that my grandfather was there for my nephew- that he had come to care for him in such a way- was the best possible outcome.

  Charlotte was right beside them. One look at her face told me where the curdled scream I'd heard had come from and, looking further over, I saw why.

  A middle-aged man with dark skin and a bald head of his own was circling the man I'd now come to learn was named Mikey. His fists were up in a fighting stance and his lip was bleeding. Boomer was behind him, looking a bit disheveled himself. It was obvious I had missed the first go 'round of this tussle. I wouldn't miss the second.

  "He's my boyfriend," the woman said, still looking onward. "Well, my ex-boyfriend."

  "And the poor guy with the busted lip?" I asked, arching my eyebrows.

  "My father," she revealed. "He never was a fan of Mikey."

  "I can see why," I answered. "Stand back, okay. The woman behind me is named Rebecca. I'd love it if the both of you would keep your distance while I take care of this."

  "You sure you can?" the woman asked, finally turning back to me. She was strikingly beautiful, with full red lips, high cheek bones, and eyes a guy could get lost in if he didn't have an anchor to ground himself. It
was easy to see why Mikey might be so worked up over the idea of losing her. Still, it didn't justify assault or property damage. "He used to be an MMA fighter."

  "Is that supposed to scare me?" I asked.

  "It usually does the trick for most people," the woman answered.

  "Well, most people aren't me, ma'am," I said, gently turning her around and motioning for her to stay with Rebecca. I would take care of this but, on the off chance that I didn't, Rebecca would keep a level head and plan an escape for the woman. "He might be an MMA fighter," I said, walking into the living area and out into the fray. "But lady, I'm a damned Storm."

  Chapter 3

  I rushed out into the living area, once again taking stock of the situation I'd found myself in. There wasn't much damage to the room, including the flowers, balloons, and other ornate decorations Daisy had set up in preparation for my grandfather's party. That meant not too much had gone on; probably a few punches thrown, just enough to get Charlotte worked up.

  "Get the hell out of here, Mikey!" The girl's father said, still circling the much larger man.

  I shook my head. Even if this guy hadn't been a former MMA fighter, the older man wouldn't have had a chance. The guy had a foot and at least sixty useful pounds on him. I wouldn't let it get that far though, not if I could help it.

  "I just want to talk to her, Marcus!" The man said, less angry than hurt. "I just want to hear her say it! That's all! I'll leave after that. You'll never see me again."

  "How about you start that anyway, bud?" I said, making my presence known. Though I hadn't cared to be quiet when I entered, people were so enthralled by what was going on that this was the first time they'd noticed me.

  "Dilly, keep your distance, son," my grandfather said, still standing protectively in front of Isaac.