Page 28

By the time Jessie and Riddell arrived at the club, the yacht was just pulling in.

Jessie mentally reviewed what she knew so far. They’d learned a little on the short drive over, but it was enough to get the basics. Robert Chandler had been murdered on his yacht. Oliver Stanton was the man who’d called it in. Apparently, he didn’t know how to pilot the vessel or swim, so the Coast Guard had been called in to help. That was all anyone knew so far.

Jessie used the rest of the drive to fill Riddell in on the plan that she’d proposed to Parker. She thought he might object to her making a command decision without his input, especially one that could impact his relationships in the tight-knit beach community where he worked. But to his credit, the detective seemed onboard, even enthused about it.

"I'm tired of getting the run-around," he said. "If this is what gets these punks into the station to finally answer some questions, I'm all for it."

Jessie silently shook her head at the contradiction of a man sitting beside her. She found Aaron Riddell to be generally objectionable. But she did admire one thing about him: he didn’t back down from a fight, even against the rich and powerful. He was about to pull into the club parking lot when Jessie remembered the news vans that Parker had mentioned.

“Park on the street,” she said quickly. “We don’t want to get swarmed by the media when we arrive.”

“Are you serious?” he said. “They care about the murders, not the people investigating them.”

It was all Jessie could do not to offer a sarcastic comeback. Riddell might never have been accosted by a reporter at a crime scene, but that was a typical day for her.

“I don’t want to sound arrogant here,” she said diplomatically, “but when they find out I’m involved, they’ll care. I’ve had so many high-profile cases in the last few years that when they see me, it’s like ratings catnip for them. They know the case is a big deal. There will be a feeding frenzy of coverage. The less we play into that, the better chance we have of solving this thing.”

“Okay,” Riddell said with a shrug as he parked down the block from the club. He was clearly still skeptical.

“And if you have a baseball cap, put it on when we walk over,” she recommended. “You don’t want them recognizing you.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I always come prepared,” she said, holding up the small backpack she’d brought with her for just such occasions. It had a cap and a windbreaker with a hoodie.

They got out and walked past the vans lining the street, then took the long way around to avoid the entrance to the club, where a phalanx of reporters and camera crews were set up. An officer near the access gate to the dock stiffened up as they approached until Riddell pulled up the brim of his cap. The officer clearly knew him and opened the gate without a fuss.

They reached the slip for Chandler’s boat, Wave Warrior, just as it was being tied off. They boarded it and showed their IDs to one of the Coast Guard officers who’d brought it in.

“Has Stanton said anything?” Riddell asked.

“Not much,” the officer replied. “And what he has said doesn’t make much sense. We think he either did this or is in shock.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t make sense?” Riddell pressed.

“He says a ghost killed the victim before jumping into the water.”

Jessie hadn't been expecting that one, and from Riddell's expression, neither had he.

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“He’s down below,” the officer said. “We cuffed him to a table as a precaution. Do you want to see him?”

“In a moment,” Jessie said. “Let’s take a look at the victim beforehand.”

The officer pointed at the cockpit.

“He’s on the other side of that,” he said. “We left him just as we found him.”

“Good,” Riddell said. “And let’s keep it that way until CSU and the medical examiner arrive.”

They walked over to get a better view. As they did, Jessie noted a trail of blood, which had pooled in a small indentation in the deck. They followed it to where Robert Chandler lay. His black hair was clumpy with blood, as if he’d rubbed tons of gel into it and forgot to use a brush afterward. His face looked like someone had spraypainted it with the red stuff. His brown eyes were frozen wide with shock.

Jessie tried to generate some empathy for the man but found it difficult. Based on what she knew about him, it sounded like the world might be better without him in it. She tried to shake that thought from her head, remembering that Chandler was technically the victim here.

A half-empty beer bottle rested on its side near his feet. He was on his back with bloodied hands at his sides. Jessie gathered they were that way because he’d tried to grab the bottom of the jagged, blood-slicked beer bottle that was currently jammed in his neck.

She moved closer and saw that the top third of the bottle was missing, likely a result of being smashed on one of the boat’s hard surfaces. Her suspicion was reinforced by the sight of pieces of glass just a few feet from his head. On the deck nearby was a cardboard six-pack carrier with four untouched bottles still in it.

“Do you think there’s any chance that Stanton did this?” Riddell asked quietly.

"I'd be stunned," Jessie replied. "This murder doesn't feel like a one-off to me. We should be safe and have CSU check him out to see if he has any blood splatter residue on him. There's no way that whoever did this didn't get covered in blood. And we can double-check his alibis for the previous nights, but that parking lot security footage with Daran Peterson and the blonde was pretty definitive to me. That was a woman carefully trying to hide her identity hours before the man she was with was found dead. But that doesn't mean we have to let Stanton in on that. Shall we go have a word with him?"

“Nothing would make me happier,” Riddell said.

They took the stairs down to the cabin, where they found Oliver Stanton seated on a cushioned bench. His right wrist was cuffed to a leg of a table bolted to the floor.

“Thank god,” he exclaimed when he saw them. “I’ve been trying to get these gentlemen to listen to me, but they’re uninterested.”

“You were found on a boat with a dead body,” Riddell said unsympathetically. “Can you blame them?”

“I told them what happened,” he insisted, “but they didn’t believe me.”

“That a ghost killed Chandler?” Riddell scoffed. “That’s the best you can do?”

It was one thing not to let Stanton know they didn’t view him as a suspect, but it was a far different one to alienate him as a potential witness. And to Jessie, it felt like Riddell was veering in that direction. She was about to try to change the dynamic, but Stanton beat her to the punch.

“Well, Detective,” he said huffily, “with that kind of attitude, I can tell that you’re not interested in the truth either. So for my own protection, I don’t think I’ll be saying anything else at this time.”

Then he dramatically turned his head away from them. Riddell, a grimace on his face, started to step forward when Jessie held up her hand with a “stop” signal. He looked at her, annoyed. She motioned for him to follow her back up the steps. Reluctantly, he did. Once up top again, she spoke to him in a whisper.

“This guy is about half a second from demanding a lawyer,” she said. “Neither of us believes he did this. And I know that scaring the truth out of him feels like a no-brainer. But maybe let me try a different tack first.”

“Okay,” he said. “You take the first go at him and I’ll ease in after that.”

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I think the well is poisoned for you. Let me talk to him alone. I'll record the whole thing so you won't miss out. But we can't afford to wait several hours while we get permission from his lawyer to talk to him. We need info now and—sorry to be harsh—the way that went, you're not getting it from him. Let me try solo and see what happens."

Riddell was clearly torn. This was his case too and the idea of handing over questioning of a potential witness to some chick who wasn’t even a detective obviously wasn’t sitting well with him. But he wasn’t an idiot. He had to know that what she said was true. He’d pushed too hard, too fast. Stanton wasn’t going to open up to him.

“Fine,” he muttered, “but make sure you record every word.”

“I promise,” she said.

Then she headed back down the stairs, hoping they hadn’t already blown their best chance to find a killer.