The Geography of Murder Read online

  An important question. A critical one if we ever got a case to trial. Did the guy come with the weapon, which showed premeditation, or did he pick something up in the heated spur of the moment and swing without thinking. That was a whole other animal and a good lawyer could get charges knocked down or dismissed all together if nobody knew what to charge the guy with.

  "It looks like the sextant or whatever it was, was already onboard. We're checking with the boat owner and the guy who manages the charter company. See if any of them recognize the thing. Meanwhile, you hear back from tox on any of the blood samples we sent you?"

  "Patience, Alex, patience."

  "I know, doc, it's a virtue. Well I've never been a very virtuous man." The guy didn't know the half of it.

  "Well, I'll hurry them along as fast as I can. I know you're eager to clear your young man."

  If this was a classic moment in a slapstick comedy, I'd have been drinking something and would have spewed it everywhere. Christ—

  "Is there anybody in this city that doesn't know my business?"

  "Probably not. But look on the bright side," Don said.

  "They think highly of you despite your shortcomings."

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  "So glad to hear it," I muttered and beat a hasty retreat after getting Don to agree to tell toxicology he wanted results ASAP.

  Back in the car I flipped on my cell and called Nancy's desk. She sounded harried when she answered. When she recognized my voice she calmed down. "Don give you anything useful?"

  "Your ship thingy is a sextant. Antique navigation device.

  He's pretty sure it was the murder weapon. But you know Don, he won't commit."

  "A sextant, huh? You learn something new every day. Well that's a help. CSU is printing as we speak. Maybe something useful will come of it." She chewed noisily. I remembered our aborted lunch break. "I'm heading back to the Marina. Maybe I can catch up with the boat owner or that charter guy."

  "Phil Collins."

  "Right. Like the singer." Wonder how much he got ribbed about that. "That's the guy." Jason's boss. Jason should be at work by now. Would he have gone for lunch yet? "I'll call you later."

  "Do that, partner." Had she read my mind and knew what I was up to. God, I hoped not. I'd hate to be that easy to read.

  Back in the Marina I headed for the Channel Charter's offices set within spitting distance of the docks where the murder had occurred. The young girl at the desk, who introduced herself as Marley, seemed flustered to have a big cop leaning on her counter asking about her boss. Finally she told me he had gone for lunch and wouldn't be back for at 82

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  least another hour. I gathered this wasn't a busy time of year for tourists or charters so long lunches were the norm.

  Casually I asked, "Jason Zachary around?"

  "He's down at slip seven, working on Expressive."

  I got directions from her and hurried down to the dock, refusing to admit to myself how eager I was to see Jason again. I found the boat, smaller than the Cutting Edge. There was no one in sight. I stepped onto the dock within touching distance of the front of the boat and called his name. Seconds later a head popped out from below deck.

  "Alex?" Jason hauled himself out and stood looking down at me, a rag and screwdriver in his hands. "What are you doing here? It's not six o'clock yet, is it?"

  "I was in the area." I waved back toward the office I'd just come from. "Your boss is out, so I thought I'd see if you'd had lunch yet."

  He stuffed the screwdriver into his back pocket and hopped down beside me, wiping his hands on the rag. I could smell oil and diesel fuel on him. It overrode the harbor stink of rotting fish and brine. "No," he said. "But I need to finish up here.

  Phil wants to take the boat out tomorrow."

  "You get charters this time of year?"

  "Not many, but every now and then someone comes along and wants to go out." He looked regretful. "I gotta stay, man."

  "I can grab something. Bring it here."

  "Sure, I can stop for a few minutes to eat. I just can't leave..."

  "Hamburger okay? Coke?"

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  "Cheeseburger. Coke is good."

  I found a nearby Jack-in-the-Box and grabbed us both sirloin bacon and cheese burgers, fries and drinks. Back at the Marina we sat on the side of the dock, legs swinging out over the dark water below us, defying the local gulls to try and take our food. A particularly persistent bird kept dive bombing us until I threw a scrap of bun at it. It scooped it out of the water and flew off, pursued by several other birds.

  "Rats with wings," I muttered.

  "Hey. I like gulls. All birds really. I once thought of going through for a degree in ornithology."

  "Why didn't you?" I edged closer to him on the rough dock until our hips almost touched. He tapped his foot against the pylon holding us up. He looked pensive.

  "Life. It has a way of interfering."

  "Something happen?"

  "I ... left school kind of suddenly."

  "Why?" I don't know why I persisted. Usually I didn't care that much about the twinks I picked up. They were too temporary to concern myself with their shallow lives.

  He chewed on his burger, idling tossing scraps to the hovering birds. "Shit happens."

  "Come on, Jason. I want to know."

  It didn't seem to occur to him that he could just tell me to go to hell. He sighed and threw the last piece of bun to the most persistent bird.

  "I was a confused kid. What kid isn't right? But being gay makes it worse somehow. Know what I mean?"

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  All too well. I didn't answer. He barely seemed to notice my silence.

  "I went out with this girl for a while. I was trying so hard to be normal, it used to make me sick. She had this brother, Brad, and we got to be friends. Then we were more than friends. His sister caught us one day." He shook his head ruefully. "To say the shit hit the fan is an understatement.

  Poor Brad, his folks shipped him off to some reorientation place that summer. I never saw him again. His sister..." He lowered his head and stared into the restlessly moving water below us. "His sister made my life a living hell the next year in school. I had to leave, but the rumors followed me. In the end I dropped out. Said fuck everybody, if I was going to be a faggot, I was going to be the worst one I could." He gave a short bark of laughter. "I ran away and ended up in San Francisco. Do you know what a place like that can do to a naïve sixteen-year-old who thinks he's so tough but really doesn't know jack shit?"

  I did. Some of my dead people were kids like that. I stroked his back, not surprised at the tension there. "What brought you back here?"

  "Family," he said hastily. "What else can bring you back to a place that has nothing but bad memories. My father died..."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, well, he was actually a pretty good guy. Didn't have a clue how to deal with me, but it's not like he didn't try. He just wasn't any good at bucking public opinion."

  "What about the rest of your family?"

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  He shook his head again. "Mom and dad broke up years ago. She went back east someplace. No one knew where. For a long time it was just dad and me. Then I left. I don't think he ever got over that." His voice went soft and I had to bend over to hear him. "So maybe I killed him. Maybe if I'd been stronger I could have stayed and been there for him."

  "You don't know that."

  "No, I don't." Abruptly he jumped to his feet, brushing crumbs off his pant legs. "I gotta get back to work. I'll, uh, see you later."

  "I'll be here at six. You got things ready for the weekend?"

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  Jason

  "Sure," I said, not telling him I wouldn't miss this weekend for the world.

  A sunburst smile broke over his face. His beauty almost took my breath away. Funny, I never thought of men being beautiful. Sexy yes, Hollywood handsome sure, but beautiful?

  "What, did you think I was going to let you get out of this weekend?" Spider spoke softly.

  I forced myself to smile back. "Of course not."

  I had said way too much about Brad and told too many lies about my family. Did I really want him to know that my family was alive and well and living in Santa Barbara and Oxnard and none of them had given me the time of day in years? That we had moved to Santa Barbara when I was a teenager to escape the sordid rumors that destroyed what was left of my family. How I had fled to San Francisco and avoided the pit of turning into a street hustler by the skin of my teeth. Maybe it was wishful thinking that my father had died. Sometimes I wish he had. I'm sure they wished I would die and stop embarrassing them.

  I wasn't going to tell him any of that. Guys like Alex were chicken hawks, with a yen for younger meat. He didn't want to hear my sob story. To him, I was just a biddable twink who would let him play his control games until he moved on to younger and greener pastures. I didn't kid myself that it meant anything. I stared down at the ship-to-shore radio I was working on and felt despair grip me. I hated thinking 87

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  about my family. It was so lame. It gave me a burning need for some joy juice. Fortunately, I knew just where to get it.

  I scrambled back on board and got my cell out of my backpack. It only took two calls to locate Trip. He agreed to meet up on Leadbetter beach. This time of year the beach was empty, the waves that attracted surfers and families alike a sullen gray, the picnic tables and volleyball nets abandoned to the gulls and the wind. I snorted the first of the two Oxys I bought and headed back to finish the day's work, flying high.

  Family forgotten. Spider lurked in the forefront of my mind, like his namesake, entangling me in his web of desire. God, I wished it was six o'clock.

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  Spider

  Phil was back from lunch. I stepped into the office building and showed my badge to the older man. He was stooped over a computer that looked like it was open to Mapquest. "Mr. Collins? I'd like to ask you some questions if I can."

  He looked up in surprise, flicking off the screen as he did. I could see his wheels spinning. Everyone did a quick mental check of recent activity when a cop showed up on their doorstep. I watched his face closely to see what he might give away.

  "Questions about what?" he finally managed after he'd studied my badge with interest.

  I'm the permanently suspicious type. I always want to know why people react the way they do. Usually it's nothing, just a lingering paranoia about youthful indiscretions. But sometimes there was fire with all that smoke.

  First I had to ask him something. "That your legal name?"

  "Yeah," he said, boredom kicking in. He got asked that question all the time. It set him at ease. "Just like the singer.

  You're not here to ask me about my name. What are you here for?"

  "To talk about your boats," I said. "And about who might have access to them."

  "S-sure. Right now?"

  "Unless you have something better to do."

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  He indicated an open door behind him. "We can talk in my private office."

  I followed him.

  He sat behind his desk, in a high-backed leather swivel chair that probably cost more than my last truck payment.

  Chartering boats must pay well.

  "I'd like to start with a list of recent employees, anyone who's still here or who was employed within the last six months. Plus a list of anyone who might have keys to the marina itself. You must keep records of those, right?" The heavy iron door we had come through to get on the dock was locked and required keys. There had to be some kind of control over who had access. I might be setting myself up for reams of paper to mine, but it needed doing.

  Phil frowned. "I'll see that you get it. What else?"

  "Who are the regulars who hang around the docks?

  Anybody who's here all the time. Or someone who used to be here and hasn't been in a while." If the killing was the result of sudden rage, the killer might have freaked and gone ghost.

  I would have to visit all the local watering holes. The one on the marina and the ones nearby. See what turned up and who had what to say about it. Cops might be gossips, but crooks weren't much better at keeping their mouths shut.

  At the far end of the office a printer whirred and spit out several pages, which Phil handed to me. I asked a few more questions, none of the answers were evasive or very helpful. I left him, telling him to call me if he thought of anything else.

  He assured me he would.

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  I pulled out a photo of the sextant Carl had pulled out of the harbor and held it up for Phil to study. "This look familiar?" I asked casually.

  He tilted his head sideways and frowned. Finally he nodded. "Sure, it's the sextant from the Cutting Edge. My father left it to me. Always claimed he picked it up off an old Boston sailor. I always figured he found it in some garage sale."

  I nodded in turn. "Was it there the last time you were onboard the Cutting Edge?"

  "Yes. Far as I know it was." He shrugged. "I didn't pay that much attention. It's always there. Why? Where did you get that? Did that kill that guy?"

  "We aren't sure," I said, adding the photo to the printouts he had handed me earlier. "I'll look these over. Is the contact information current?"

  "Should be. If it's not, I'll be only too happy to help you find them."

  "I'll let you know."

  Outside his office I scanned the printouts, noting I knew a couple from previous legal interactions, mostly drugs, burglary and other petty shit. I'd pay particular attention to them. The whole thing might be a botched burglary gone wrong? An inside job or someone with a stolen a key? That still left Jason as an anomaly. The fact his car had been returned to his place, looking like it hadn't been driven in days, played havoc with my logic. I made a note to check latents to see if any prints had shown up on those keys.

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  gone back to get it later and was lying about everything, or he had driven it into town and been drugged and the car returned by someone else. Or someone had picked him up and brought him to town. All possibilities. If he was lying, he was the best I'd met in a while, and I was a master at the art of detecting a lie. I knew he'd lied about his family. I doubted his father was 'a pretty good guy' or even dead. I didn't doubt for an instant that Brad had existed in his life, but the rest ...

  I could check of course, though there was a limit to how much scrutiny I could apply to the background of a man who was no longer of police interest. Garcia was going to have my ass as it was if I got into a relationship with Jason. Unless he was laying back, letting me hang alongside Jason when he came up dirty which would implicate me in all kinds of actionable dirt. Garcia could take us both down. The smart thing here would be to walk away. There were other cute subs out there. So why did part of me not give a damn?

  Could Jason's family have set him up? You might be able to stretch the definition of motive to say they had reason to want to see him ruined or dead. But who went to such elaborate lengths to do that for a five or six year old issue?

  Still I needed to look at his family more closely. If there was an inheritance involved then that was motive eno
ugh.

  Only one way to know. I had to start digging.

  Next I interviewed the only other available person who worked for Channel Charters, the girl up front who had told me where Jason was. Her name was Jen Marley. She was only eighteen and didn't know the man who had died on the boat.

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  In a soft, breathless voice she told me how terrible it was.

  That poor man. Who would do something like that?

  Who indeed. Clearly Jen hadn't heard about good old George.

  I glanced at my watch. Not yet four. I still had two hours. I decided to troll the local bar scene. Sometimes a fishing expedition yielded unexpected results.

  The Pilot House was everything you would expect in a ticky-tacky tourist bar that tried to be original. It failed miserably. Anyone who thought badly rendered paintings of tall ships sailing the seven seas or shell festooned nets was classy, needed some lessons in decorating. Even I could do better than this.

  The bartender looked the part. A peg leg and a cursing parrot would complete the look. He threw me a surly look when I flashed my badge. He was a fat parody of a pirate, unshaven, crooked teeth and hair everywhere I looked. I wasn't looking too far.

  I don't know if he was hired to play a part or if the owner had another reason for keeping him around. We'd investigated the Pilot House before for fencing stolen property. The last bartender got popped for that offense last month. I guess goons of that caliber are hard to find.

  "Help you, officer?"

  "Start with your name." I picked up a fistful of shelled peanuts out of the bowl and shelled each one before popping it in my mouth. "Where's Gerald?" Gerald Monteforton was the owner.

  "Out a town. Family business."

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  "Family." Didn't know Gerald had one. Did slithery things that crawled out from under rocks have families?

  "They're down in Victorville."