Page 6 of Nightshade
AHEARN, IN THE office at the sub, was clad in a tight-fitting Hawaiian shirt and khakis that were three inches too short and only accentuated by the shower sandals he was wearing. It was the best Lampley could do with clothes usually reserved for detainees arrested with inappropriate or insufficient clothing for an appearance in court. Ahearn held up a phone when he saw Stilwell enter.
“Look at this shit,” he said. “It’s already on Instagram. I’m totally fucked.”
“Does it identify you by name?” Stilwell asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then you’re not fucked. Do you want to talk about the case or about social media?”
Ahearn handed the phone to Lampley. His had obviously gone into the water with him.
“Yeah, I want to talk about the case,” he said. “What’s the status out there?”
“The body’s on the boat and headed to Long Beach,” Stilwell said.
“Good, then I can get the fuck out of here. This place—you landed in a real dump out here, Stillborn, you know that? I mean, look at it. It’s full of fuckups, old farts, and fiascoes.”
“That’s cool on the alliteration, but I kind of like it here. You sure you don’t want to talk to the hull scraper who found the body or the harbormaster or anybody else before you go?”
“In this outfit, no. I’ll just wait on the reports from you. Get them to me by, let’s say, tomorrow morning at eight.”
“Not a problem.”
Stilwell was not going to let Ahearn get under his skin. He’d learned a lot since that Sunday morning at the homicide bureau. He looked over at Lampley, who was sitting at his desk acting like he was looking at something on his computer screen. Mercy was doing the same thing at her desk.
He turned his eyes back to Ahearn.
“Where’s your partner?”
“Waiting at the Port of Long Beach, but you don’t need to worry about that. This is not your case, Stillborn. You know that, right?”
“Once you make an ID—if you do actually make an ID—you’ll need eyes and ears out here. There’s no need to hold grudges, Ahearn. You won. You kept your job and I got shipped out here. Let’s just put it behind us and do the work.”
“Fuck you, man. Your complaint is still in my jacket. It’s not going anywhere and I’ll never get promoted. I’ll never have my own squad. All because you got your head up your ass about a case that nobody ever gave a shit about.”
“Except for me.”
“Yeah, boo-hoo and fuck you. I’m out of here, and I’m telling you now, don’t get any ideas. I find out you’re working my case, and this time it won’t be a transfer you get. It’ll be sayonara, baby.”
Stilwell raised his arms, palms out, in a hands-off gesture.
“I don’t work homicide anymore,” he said.
“That’s right,” Ahearn said. “You’re the sheriff of shit town and it’s going to stay that way for a long time.”
“When you need something from out here, I’d prefer it if you let Sampedro make the call. It will work best that way, for both of us.”
“With pleasure.”
He lifted a plastic trash bag off a table. Stilwell guessed that it contained his clothes and shoes.
“How are you getting back?” Stilwell asked.
“The chopper’s on its way,” Ahearn said. “Maybe you can get Lampshade here to ride me over there in one of your little go-carts.”
“We call them UTVs—utility task vehicles.”
“And I call that pathetic.”
“Maybe. Lampley, take him where he wants to go.”
Lampley got up from his desk to carry out the mission. Stilwell said nothing as Ahearn headed for the door.
“Fuck you very much, Stillborn,” he said over his shoulder.
Once Ahearn was out, Stilwell looked over at Mercy, who had been silent and unmoving behind her desk.
“So, what do you think, Mercy?” he asked.
“I think he’s an asshole,” she said. “He’s the one who’s pathetic.”
“You know how to read ’em.”
“What happened between you two?”
“That’s a long story. We had a difference of opinion on a case and it didn’t go well after that.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Well, it got me out here, didn’t it? Sometimes the place you don’t want to be turns out to be the place you should be.”
“I agree. I’ve never wanted to leave here.”
“I’m getting that way myself.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“I’m going over to the harbormaster’s. You need me, get me over there.”
“Will do.”
Stilwell went out to the parking lot, and the first thing he saw was the open storage box on the back of his John Deere. He studied the cheap lock and saw that the box had been pried open. He checked the contents but nothing appeared to be missing. With his hands he was able to bend the metal tongue back into place so he could relock the box.
He got in the cart and started toward the pier. On the way he called Mercy and asked her if she had a number for Henry Gaston in her contacts file. Over the years working at the sub, Mercy had accumulated four index-card boxes containing contact information for residents of the island who’d had interactions with the sheriff’s department, whether for reporting or committing a crime. Stilwell assumed that Gaston would be in one of the boxes for the latter reason.
By the time he parked at the pier, Mercy had texted him a cell phone number for Gaston. Stilwell sat in the cart and made the call.
“Hello?”
“Nice try, Henry.”
“Who’s this?”
“Stilwell.”
“Stilwell? What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You saw me put the saw handle in the lockbox on my cart. You tried to get it back.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You were too late. I’d already put it in the evidence safe at the sub.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You still have until Wednesday to come see me. After that, it’ll be out of my hands. You’ll have to get yourself a good lawyer from overtown.”
That brought silence.
“You still there, Henry?” Stilwell asked.
“I’m hanging up,” Gaston said.
“I hope to see you.”
“Man, don’t even talk about me snitching. That could get me killed.”
Stilwell smiled. Gaston had made an admission of sorts. “All the more reason to come in,” he said.
“Never happen,” Gaston said.
Gaston disconnected. Stilwell called Mercy back.
“Mercy, what was Gaston in your cards for?” he asked.
“A couple disorderlies,” Mercy said. “Operating a vehicle while impaired, and in 2015 he got charged with receiving stolen property.”
“Conviction?”
“And probation.”
“Good to know. Thanks.”
Stilwell disconnected and thought about Gaston. The conviction on his record was too old to have a probation tail, but he knew it could still be useful in dealing with Gaston the following week, when Stilwell was sure he would come in to make a deal.
He walked down the dock, surveying the harbor. All four mooring lanes appeared to be at capacity now. He saw several parties already beginning on the decks of the smaller boats and in the salons of the yachts. The holiday weekend was underway.
The harbormaster’s tower was at the end of the pier, its upper-level windows lit from within. Stilwell could see Tash up there at the control desk. At the door, he punched in the numbers on the combination lock and entered.
He went up one flight to the control room, which was octagonal, with windows all around giving views of all mooring lanes and slips as well as the pier and the mountains that ringed the harbor. Tash was standing at the control counter holding a radio mic to her mouth.
“Sorry, Delilah, we’re full up,” she said. “All rental and owner moorings are spoken for at this time. I can offer you a mooring at Descanso or Hamilton until something opens up in the harbor.”
Stilwell knew she was talking about the mooring lines available outside the protection of the harbor. He also knew that the capacity of the inner harbor was 30 boats of various sizes. When they were all taken, the town was full and busy. Shopkeepers, restaurateurs, and hoteliers were pleased, Mayor Allen was happy, and all was well.
Supposedly.
Stilwell waited while Tash radioed instructions to the harbor patrol boat to lead Delilah to a mooring off Descanso Beach. When she was finished, he approached the desk.
“Tash.”
“Hey. Any news on the body?”
She whispered the word body as though saying it louder might create a panic in the harbor.
“Nothing yet. You thought of anybody with a purple streak in her hair?”
“No, not yet.”
“I know you’re super-busy, but how long would it take to pull together a list of what boats were in the harbor last weekend through Tuesday?”
“Why?”
“I’m guessing that body was in the water four or five days. That would take us back to last weekend. I’d like to know who was in the harbor then and the next few days after.”
“I thought the investigation was being handled by the overtown sheriffs.”
“It is, yeah, but they’re going to need all the help they can get. Do you want me to talk to Dennis about getting records?”
Dennis Lafferty was the harbormaster and her boss. He was probably down in his office under the control room.
“No, I can do it. Just that today is busy. Maybe in the morning when people are still in their bunks?”
“That would be fine. Thanks.”
“I’ll do my best to pull it together. I feel so bad about that girl. It’s horrible.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“I could see them from up here when they pulled her out. She was already in a body bag.”
“Yeah, they do that when the recovery is in a public place with people watching.”
“Did you ever do it that way?”
“On the dive team? Yeah. A few times. Oddly, there’s something peaceful about it. When you’re underwater, I mean.”
Tash said nothing in response and Stilwell wondered if he had said something weird. She didn’t know much about his time on the sheriff’s dive team. It wasn’t something he liked to talk about.
“Okay,” he said. “I guess I’ll let you get back to it.”
“No, I… uh, it just seems so weird,” Tash said. “Her being down there for… how long did you say?”
“Probably four days. Maybe longer. The tide brought her into the harbor. It’s probably a case that has nothing to do with this place.”
“But then why are you asking about a girl with a purple streak in her hair?”
“Force of habit, I guess. But I’ll be standing down on this. Let A-Hole handle it from overtown.”
“A-Hole?”
“What they call Ahearn over on the sheriff’s homicide team.”
“I wonder if you had anything to do with that.”
“Could have. I’ll talk to you later, Tash.”
“Yes, see you later.”
Stilwell nodded, hesitated, then headed for the steps.