“Counsel’s not going to like this,” Graves muttered as he kicked a shell towards the water. His companion grunted and returned to raking the sand. A rotund tourist in an ill fitting of trunks ambled past, offering a blue popsicle tinged grin.

Graves waved back and through muttered teeth, “Hinkle cornered a pregnant witch in broad daylight like a rank amateur. He may lose his post for…”

His partner scoffed loudly, then let out a contented whistle, “Found it. Stupid assistant hunter leaving his gate key laying about…”

“The man was killed, Tenwith.”

“Still, no excuse.” He carefully wiped the key down and stuffed it into a vest pocket made tight by his rotund figure, “And you know darn well Hinkle will never be removed. He gets results.”

“He makes messes.”

“And we, freund, clean them up.”

Graves stared pensively over the lapping waves, “Maybe not. Maybe not this time.”

Tenwith tossed his purloined rake aside and started for the parking lot, “You and your ideas, Graves. Dangerous things, the both.”