Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) by Chris Bauer (i want to read a book TXT) 📕

were on the same bareback horse, their horse standing just out of reach of the crashing surf. Philo could only assume they were indigenous to the island and, judging from how close they sat to each other, they were a couple. Mr. Logan’s shout to them had followed a quick, acknowledging glance at Evan and his guests arriving.

“Ben and Ella,” Mr. Logan called again, “come over here, please.”

The horse cantered with its two riders aboard, arrived alongside Mr. Logan. He eyed their bulky burlap satchels strapped like saddlebags across the horse’s rear haunches. “Goodness, Ella. That’s a good catch for today.”

“You’re welcome to have dinner with us, Douglas,” the woman said. “Ben is making his huli-huli chicken to go with the lobster.”

“Thank you for the offer, Ella. We’ll see. I need some time with these people.”

He addressed Evan. “Commander. I’d like to say it’s a pleasure seeing you here but we both know it isn’t. I need the Navy’s help in dealing with the NTSB, but why this visit to the island had to be by you in person escapes me.” He laid his hands on Evan’s shoulders and pulled him in. “I am so sorry, son, for your loss,” he said into Evan’s ear. “God gets an angel, we lose one.”

“Thank you, sir.” Evan’s lips quivered, but he stayed serious. “We’re all still processing this.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you let me bring along some additional expertise.” A hand wave beckoned Philo and Patrick into the conversation. “I’d like you to meet—”

“I knew who he was soon as I saw his name in your text, Commander. I expect he wouldn’t soon forget our island. It’s Frogman Trout, isn’t it? Tristan, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. Retired now. Going by Philo nowadays, sir. Philo Trout. Long story.”

“I see.” The island owner sized Philo up. His hand went out, Philo accepted it. “Well, I’m still Douglas Logan. Same as yesterday, and I’ll be the same tomorrow, God willing.”

“Copy that, Mr. Logan, sir,” Philo said. “And this is Patrick Stakes, my assistant.”

“Hello,” Patrick said.

How many SEALS had trained on Miakamii, Philo didn’t know. They might number in the thousands, the training arrangement in place with the Logan family for decades. He also didn’t know why someone from the family would remember him in particular, yet there it was.

“So let’s get down to business, Commander,” Mr. Logan said. “You’re here to brief the NTSB on what goes on around here, and on my deal with the Navy.” Mr. Logan moved in closer to him. “And to see if there could be any connection to Miya. So let’s get to it.”

He segued into his introductions of Evan and friends to the folks huddled near the helicopter’s front end, the aircraft split in half from the crash, the flight deck here, the tail with the rear rotor twenty yards away. The NTSB agent suffixed their exchange with a patronizing facial expression and a “don’t touch anything” verbal admonishment.

“Gas tanks been emptied?” Evan asked her, eyeing both tanks behind the flight deck, their compartment splayed open beneath the blades.

“What do you think?” she said, her tone sarcastic.

“Just checking,” Evan said.

He put a question to the group. “Has it been confirmed there were only two people on board?”

A good place to start in Philo’s mind, too. The small-talk responses among them offered a few yeses, but they were still only speculation.

Evan eyed the plainclothes cop off by himself taking photos of the flight deck with his phone. Open-collared button-down shirt, shorts, deck shoes, and a backpack. Japanese-American. He could have passed for a tourist. Evan leaned into Philo, pointed. “Go ask the detective that same question.”

“Me? Why not you?” Philo said.

“Just do it, Philo, please.” Evan’s jaw tightened. “It won’t end well if I talk to him now. His last name is Ujikawa. Uji for short.”

Philo accepted this was not a debatable request; he called to the cop. The man was bent at the waist, still pointing and shooting with his phone. “Detective Ujikawa. Excuse me. How many were aboard?”

“And you are?”

“Philo Trout. Blessid Trauma, a crime scene cleaning service. I’m with Commander Malcolm.”

The detective straightened up, put his phone away, and retrieved a bottle of water from the backpack. “Manifest says only two on board. No indications anyone walked away from this. It also matches the eyewitness account. So I’m going with two. Ella, Ben,” he called to them on their horse, “good to see you folks again.” He returned his attention to Philo.

“Ella’s the eyewitness. So yeah, one of the two persons jettisoned from the helo, per Ella, was picked up in the channel by a cigarette boat. Nothing on the Kauai end yet about it. Checking cameras wherever we can find them. Ella retrieved the pilot’s body. Quite a superhuman effort.” The detective raised his chin her way in admiration, then retrieved his phone again—“so if you’ll excuse me”—and began taking more photos.

Philo, back with their small group, reported to Evan. “Official cop assessment, two aboard. You’re welcome.”

Mr. Logan rubbed his forehead like his head hurt. “All of this is so… senseless. I, ah, I just don’t get it…”

Philo and Patrick slipped out of the discussion and moved back in the direction of the debris field, localized between the church and the school. The metal, glass, and plastic pieces meant little to either of them, Philo having been a passenger on military copters more than once, but certainly no expert on the aircraft’s composition. But what he felt he could say with certainty was, after looking over the front deck half and the parts catalogued on the tables, it appeared there’d been no midair explosion. No holes punched through the metallic skin in either direction, from an interior explosion like an onboard bomb, or from an exterior source, like an air strike. All this damage seemed to have come from careening through the trees and slamming into the island after falling pilotless out of the sky.

A similar story for the tail half, severed by