Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

he said, even though she could tell that it wasn’t—something she understood intimately. “So, you’ve been glued to that screen of yours all night,” he said, nodding at her vacated table. “Ready for a break?”
Cassidy was grateful that he had changed the subject so gracefully. “As long as it’s delicious.”
His eyes flashed with a playful sparkle. “Hmm, don’t tell me . . . ,” he said, then closed his eyes and went into a pretend trance. “Mojito?” He opened his eyes.
“Sure,” she said.
He gave her a look. “That wasn’t what you were thinking, though, was it?” he asked.
“No, but a mojito sounds good,” she replied with a shrug.
“Manhattan?” he asked.
“No.”
He squinted again. “Margarita? I make the mix myself. Fresh lime. Raw honey.”
She laughed, shook her head.
A look of enlightenment came over him. “Old fashioned.”
Cassidy’s gut took a dive, and her head felt like a bell that someone had just rung. How could Mel have guessed such a thing? An image of Pete raising a birthday toast to her flooded her mind. “No,” she managed to say, her smile feeling tight. “Mojito, please.”
Mel seemed to sense her mood shift, but covered it with a small bow. “As you wish,” he said, and began making her drink with vigor.
“Thanks for connecting me with Bruce,” she said when he returned with the drink, a pink umbrella speared through a lime wedge balanced on the lip.
“Sure,” he said. “Good waves?”
She nodded. “Amazing. I’d always wanted to surf there.”
He glanced at the TV where a player was shooting free throws—and made both of them. “Any info on your brother?”
“Stepbrother,” she corrected, taking a sip. A rush of fresh lime and a tasty bite of sour woke up her taste buds. “I found out where he disappeared. He was working for Bruce on a tour that stopped in San Juan del Sur.” Remembering the cool ocean breeze on her face while on the boat, she huffed out a breath of hot air.
Mel crossed his arms. “Nicaragua?”
Cassidy took another sip and licked the sugar off her lip.
“Do you think he could still be there?”
“I have no idea,” Cassidy replied. Why would he get off the boat in Nicaragua? Weren’t there enough drugs and girls and parties in Tamarindo?
“He hangs out with the surf guides sometimes. You might ask them if they know anything. They’re usually surfing La Casita in the early morning.”
“I don’t have a board.”
He raised an eyebrow, then pointed. “Take your pick,” he said as she followed his finger to the board cage. “It’s a fast little wave, fun on the kind of swell we’ve got running right now. Look for Macho and Eddie.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said. There was no harm in catching a few waves in the morning before her visit to the police station, right? Plus, she doubted the police were going to be able to tell her anything.
“How far away is San Juan del Sur?’” she asked.
Mel was back to watching the game, but crossed his arms and glanced back at her. “Depends on the border crossing. On a good day, it can take five hours, give or take. During a holiday or a busy weekend it can take all day.”
Cassidy thought about this.
“Want me to reserve a rental car for you?” he asked.
Cassidy was not ready to commit to such a thing. “How’s the surf in Nicaragua?” she asked instead.
“There’s some great breaks up there, but access is tricky. Most of the good waves are in front of fancy resorts, or the roads are crap. It’s really better to go by boat.”
On her way to her room, Cassidy stopped by the board cage and a petite woman let her in. She chose a rounded fish shape because it looked fun. “Where’s La Casita?” she asked the woman, whose nametag identified her as Aliana.
“Just north of the river,” she said in perfect English. “There is a tiny, white house in front of the place where the wave breaks,” she added.
Cassidy finished filling out her rental form, thanked Aliana, and with her laptop tucked under one arm and her loaner board tucked under the other, shuffled down the walkway to her room.
Once inside, she placed the board on its side against the wall and her laptop in its case on the dresser. She thought she would send one last message to Rebecca about her plan to talk to Reeve’s friends in the lineup. The steady supply of beers while she had worked, along with the nightcap afterwards, had the desired effect of making her feel a calm buzz she hoped would help her sleep. Where was her phone? She did a sweep of the room. Hadn’t she left it on the bed? She checked the bathroom, then finally found it on the dresser.
Rebecca had already beaten her to a new message: There’s great surfing near San Juan del Sur. I know you have the money.
Cassidy sighed and dropped onto the bed. When her father passed away, he had left most of his money to Quinn and herself; Pamela didn’t need it, and besides, the life insurance policy had covered all their debts. Her father had been an advertising executive, so the inheritance wasn’t a small sum. It always made her feel weird whenever anyone found out about it. Most of it sat in a bank account and was managed by an investment firm her dad had set in place long ago. She wasn’t rich, but she would certainly never go hungry. Most of the time, she tried to forget the money was there. Of course, Rebs made this impossible.
I’ll think about it, she typed.

Five
Cassidy pulled away from the dream in which she stood on a lonely curve of road, the fog floating on the wind past her cold face. Once her eyes popped open, she recognized the familiar setting and took a series of long, calming breaths. Slowly, the image of the road showing black skid marks faded, but the anger did not. Tears of frustration sprang into her eyes. Why did you