Page 17 of Nightshade
MASON COLbrINK LIVED in the bluffs above Carbon Beach in an eight-figure house that overlooked the Pacific and the far-off lights of Catalina. The house had somehow escaped the fires that had come over the hills from the Palisades in January and burned through Malibu to the ocean. Stilwell arrived at the gate at 9:15 p.m. He knew someone like Colbrink would view this as very late for a visit, but Stilwell had found over the years that calling on witnesses and suspects when they were not expecting it produced the best results, whether you were looking for candid or incriminating information. No appointments, no prep time.
The voice that came from the box at the gate sounded wary about the unexpected intrusion, but Stilwell used the magic words “Sheriff’s department. We need to speak to Mason Colbrink,” and the gate was opened without another word from the box. Stilwell drove up a curving road to the top of the hill. The front door of the mansion was already open and a man stood in the light coming from within. Stilwell parked in the circle and killed the engine, hoping the Bronco would not leak oil onto the blond-brick motor court.
Stilwell got out and approached the door and the man waiting for him.
“Mr. Colbrink?”
“Yes, that’s right. What year?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Bronco.”
“Oh—’74.”
“And they don’t give you a sheriff’s car or something?”
“Well, I just came over from Catalina and it saved time to drive my own wheels.”
“What’s happening on Catalina?”
“That’s what I’m here to talk about. Can I come in, sir?”
“You have ID?”
Stilwell showed him his sheriff’s card.
“Yes, come in. I think you have to.”
Stilwell knew from DMV records that Colbrink was fifty-six years old and had never been convicted of any crime, not even a traffic violation. He now saw that he was tall and thin with salon-cut-and-dyed brown hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a Malibu tan. He also had an aura that left no doubt about his wealth and standing. He led the way into what real estate agents called the great room. It was larger than most houses, with a two-story-high ceiling and matching stone fireplaces at either end. Each had its own grouping of furnishings around it. It was the kind of space where two separate parties could go on at the same time and neither would intrude on the other. Colbrink pointed to a couch in the first grouping and Stilwell sat down.
“I guess we should start with your name and what this is all about,” he said.
“Yes, sir. My name is Stilwell. I’m a detective sergeant with the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. I handle all cases that originate on Catalina.”
“I just heard there was a death out there in the harbor—a possible murder.”
“Yes, that is being managed by the homicide unit. I’m actually here about something else. We received a report of a very valuable art object being stolen from the Black Marlin Club, of which I’m told you are a member.”
“Was it one of the plein air paintings my father donated?”
“Uh, no. This was a small statue. A sculpture of a black marlin that was stolen from a display pedestal in the main hallway. It was described as priceless, and so we’re taking the theft pretty seriously.”
“I know the sculpture. I also know black jade and I would hardly say that it’s a priceless piece of art. Whoever took it made a mistake. The paintings on the walls in the club’s library are far more valuable.”
Stilwell just nodded. He understood that Colbrink wanted to control the meeting by using his wealth of knowledge. He looked around the room as if noticing it for the first time.
“You have a beautiful place,” he said. “Do you live here alone?”
“No, I don’t,” Colbrink said.
He offered no further explanation.
“Well, getting back to the black marlin that was stolen,” Stilwell said, “as I mentioned, we’re taking it seriously, no matter the actual value. We believe the theft occurred two weekends ago. The BMC has no exterior or interior cameras, but we were able to review other cameras located around the harbor and we saw that your ketch, the Emerald Sea, was in the harbor that weekend. I’d like to know if you were in the club on Saturday or Sunday and if you saw anything that was suspicious, a person who didn’t belong or anything else that seemed out of—”
“I can stop you right there,” Colbrink said. “My boat was there but I was not. I was here. And I can provide witnesses to corroborate that—several of them. Saturday the seventeenth was my wife’s birthday and we had a number of people here to celebrate.”
Stilwell forced a smile and held up a hand to stop Colbrink’s explanation.
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Stilwell said. “You’re not a suspect, Mr. Colbrink. Not at all. I saw that your boat was in the harbor and thought you might have been there at the club or on the boat and that there was a chance you saw something.”
“Well, I was not,” Colbrink said.
“We actually have a suspect. Leigh-Anne Moss? She worked in the restaurant during lunch and in the bar at night. Do you by any chance know her?”
“I know many of the staff but not all of them by name.”
“She’s twenty-eight, has a purple streak in her hair. She was dismissed by Mr. Crane the same weekend as the theft. It’s his theory that she took the statue from the pedestal after leaving his office.”
“I remember the girl with a purple streak in her hair. I had no interaction with her other than giving her my drink order in the bar. I was, in fact, told that she was bad news.”
That phrase again, Stilwell thought. “In what way was she bad news?”
“I heard that she was ‘loose and looking,’ if you know what I mean.”
“Who told you this?”
“I don’t really remember. It was just talk among the members in the card room. People like to gossip while playing poker. It distracts their opponents.”
“So, other than telling her what you wanted to drink, you didn’t have any interaction with Leigh-Anne Moss?”
“I already told you, I did not. Now, if that’s all you came to find out, I’ll ask you to leave.” Colbrink started to get up.
“That’s not actually what I came to ask you.”
“Then what, Sergeant?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try to be brief. Did anyone use your boat that weekend while you were here on the mainland?”
“No. I have a crew that sails with me, but there were no plans for that weekend. I was just out there over this past weekend, as you probably already know, and we sailed the Emerald home.”
“To Marina del Rey?”
“Yes, I keep it at the CYC.”
“CYC?”
“The California Yacht Club. Ask your next question.”
“When you’re not sailing the Emerald Sea back and forth, you use the Express?”
“Most of the time. Sometimes I take a helicopter. I can provide receipts if that’s what you’re getting at, but this is silly. Why would I take the damn statue?”
“I don’t think you did, sir. As I said, you’re not a suspect. I’m here because I think you can help me.”
“How, Sergeant Stillwater? I don’t understand where you’re coming from.”
“It’s Stilwell.”
“Whatever. What exactly do you want from me, Sergeant Stilwell?”
“When I was reviewing video from the harbor cameras, there was some unusual activity with your boat on the days we’re looking at. I’d like—”
“What are you talking about? What unusual activity?”
“In the middle of the night, someone took a skiff from the club to your boat, stayed there for a short time, then went back to the club. Would you know who that was and what it was about?”
“ My boat? Are you sure?”
“Not a hundred percent, no. There was another boat moored next to it, but it appeared that the Emerald Sea was where the skiff landed.”
“What boat was moored there?”
“It was called the Aventura. ”
“I don’t know it.”
“Did you know that on Monday the nineteenth, someone took the Emerald Sea out of the harbor and then returned it a short time later?”
“I did not.”
“Did you authorize anyone to take the boat out, maybe just to run the engines?”
“I did not. And the engines run fine. But what does this have to do with the sculpture? Connect the dots, Sergeant.”
Stilwell looked at Colbrink for a long moment before answering. He needed his cooperation and the only way to get it was to reveal the true nature of his investigation. That was a risk. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the man, and that could cost him if Ahearn caught up to his moves.
He leaned forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in a pose that put him closer to Colbrink and hopefully signaled the need for confidentiality.
“What I need is to get on your boat,” he said.
“Why?” Colbrink demanded, sounding more confused than combative now.
“Leigh-Anne Moss is missing. I came across the bay today to go to the apartment she lives at when she’s not on the island. But she hasn’t been there. Add that to the body we pulled from the bottom of the harbor Friday, and I think you see the dots connecting, Mr. Colbrink. Decomposition was extensive. As of now, there is no ID. It’s a female, but that’s as far as we’ve come in making an identification.”
“I appreciate your candor but it doesn’t answer my question. Why do you want to get on my boat?”
Again Stilwell hesitated. But he saw no other way to keep the momentum of his investigation going.
“The body in the harbor was in a sail bag,” he said. “A bag for a jib sail. It was weighted with a twelve-pound stainless-steel plow anchor. I want to get on your boat to see if either of those items are missing.”
“And you want to do this without a warrant?”
“I want your permission to search your boat. If you give me that, I won’t need a warrant.”
Colbrink stared hard at Stilwell as he made a decision.
“And when do you want to do this?”
“I’d like to do it tonight,” Stilwell said. “I know it’s late, but a murder case is like a shark—if it stops, it dies.”
Colbrink nodded that he understood.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t have to come,” Stilwell said. “I just need your written permission and—”
“Of course I’m coming. I’m not going to let anybody tromp around on that boat without eyes on them. I’ll drive, you follow.”
“That’s okay, sir. If you’re going, I’ll ride with you.”
Stilwell figured it was a half hour to Marina del Rey at this time of night. He knew that riding together meant a drive back to Malibu to pick up the Bronco, but he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to continue the conversation with a Black Marlin Club insider.
“No, you drive,” Colbrink said. “I want to ride in that Bronco. If I like it, I’ll make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”
“That’s unlikely, sir.”
“We’ll see. Let’s go.”
Colbrink stood up, ending the discussion.