Geography of Murder (10 page)

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."

"They have my sympathy. When did he leave?"

I could see the wheels turning in the guy's head. I hoped it didn't hurt. He squinted and stared at a rack of clean glasses.

"Last Tuesday. Don't ask me what time. I don't get up for this pig job till I have to."

Tuesday. The day after we found Blunt's body and hauled in Jason. Coincidence? I hate coincidences.

I pulled my dog-eared notebook out of my jacket pocket and opened it to the last page. Making note of the time and where I was, I leaned toward the bartender.

"Name?"

He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, his ragged nails scraping the flesh. "Cleveland Bennet."

"How long you worked here, Cleveland?" I shelled a couple more peanuts and chewed.

"Six months. You want a beer? Boss don't like to see people sitting around not drinking."

"Thought you said the boss wasn't here."

Cleveland looked around. Besides me there were two other people in the place. Neither one of them looked like tourists.

He dropped his voice, "He's not here, but he's got people."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Didn't everyone have people these days? "I'm investigating the incident at the marina a few days ago."

"That dead guy? The one got his head bashed in?"

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Interesting. Blunt had been beaten, but not around the head. "You know him?"

"No, who was he?"

"You hear anything about him? Anyone come in talking about him?"

"Sure, guy getting whacked like that, on one of Captain Phil's boats. Everyone talks."

"Captain Phil?"

"Yeah, he was some big shot Captain in the Navy years ago."

I wrote that in my notebook. Phil —] Navy Captain. "How many years ago?"

"God, I don't know. He was in some war overseas. It's all he'd talk about."

Phil —] Navy Captain —] war. Korea? Vietnam? Some other nameless skirmish? So, he probably had a pension, as well as his income from the charter business. It was still hinky. Everything was hinky when you were investigating a homicide. I made another note, aware Cleveland was watching me. I looked up and met his gaze.

"Anything else you want to tell me about the Captain?

Maybe about George Blunt? Your boss?"

"Nothing to tell," he huffed.

"Suit yourself." I snapped my notebook closed and made a show of getting up. Then I paused and dug through my jacket pocket. I came up with a card, which I handed over to him.

"Change your mind, give me a call. Save yourself some grief if this goes down hard like I think it will."

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He took the card without a word. But he was still holding it when I slipped into the fading gray light. Overhead one of Jason's gulls screamed.

"Yeah, I know how you feel."

I checked the time. I had one more stop to make before I could meet Jason

The Happy Hour Times Two was a league above the Pilot House. The bartender wasn't anywhere near as colorful. In fact she looked something like my ex-wife the day she showed up in court for our divorce hearing. Not the most pleasant memory.

I approached the nearly empty bar and nodded at her as I took up a place by the service area. She came over, her face alert and alive with interest. When I showed her my badge the interest flickered and changed, but it remained. Her gaze scanned my face, coming back to my eyes.

"Help you, officer?"

"I'm investigating the murder in the marina last Monday." I pulled my notebook out again. "You hear anything about that, Miss...?"

"Lorna Ridd. I heard about that. Terrible thing. You don't expect it to happen so close to home, so to speak."

"Yes, ma'am. You own this bar?"

She nodded, smoothing wisps of hair off her forehead.

"Well, me and the bank. Mostly the bank these days."

"You know people from the marina?"

"Sure, they stop in here most days." She leaned over the bar. "Was he really a child molester?"

"Who? Was who a child molester?"

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"That guy who got murdered. I heard he did that kind of thing. I'd have killed him myself if I'd known."

"Why is that, ma'am?"

"I got kids. If a monster like that touched them..." Her eyes flashed. "You guys could do us a favor. Lock them up, throw away the key. You're too easy on them."

I didn't bother getting into how we followed the laws.

Sometimes with the George Blunts of the world the law sucked. She didn't need to hear that, either.

"Yes, ma'am. Did you know George Blunt personally?"

"Who?"

"George Blunt. The man who was killed on Monday."

Lorna's eyes skittered sideways. "Oh, was that his name? I guess I didn't know." She grew brisk. "You want something to drink? Beer? On the house."

I shook my head. "No, thanks." I was still on duty. There are some rules even I won't break. I've seen too many good cops end up at the bottom of a bottle, or eating their own gun when the despair got to them. "So you knew George, then."

"I said I didn't," she snapped.

In my experience everyone lies to cops. Sometimes it doesn't mean anything, other times it means making or breaking a case. But a lot of time gets wasted trying to sort out which was which. I sighed.

"I didn't much like what the guy was either, Mrs. Ridd, but I still need to find his killer."

"Why?" At least she was open with her hostility.

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I shrugged. "Sometimes vigilantes get it into their heads that they can clean up the streets on their own. Trust me, that's never a good idea."

"Why not?" she sneered. "You guys do a piss poor job of it."

"Frontier justice works just fine, until they decide the wrong guy is guilty. What happens when they lynch an innocent man? Is that the kind of justice you want? How many times you hear about DNA clearing some old case?

What chance you think any of them would have if people took the law into their own hands? Do you have DNA testing equipment? Labs to check trace?" I shook my head, plastering a rueful grin on my face. "It may not be the most perfect system, but do you really want to live in a world where brass justice rules? I don't."

"Brass justice?" She seemed intrigued despite her anger.

"Justice at the end of a gun or a rope."

"I guess not. I still think you guys let these assholes walk too easily."

Funny thing was, I agreed with her, but I couldn't admit as much. I could just see Garcia's face if
The Independent
published a story about a cop who promoted vigilantism.

She shrugged. Not convinced, but willing to let the argument go.

"So, you did know Blunt?"

She made a face, but this time she nodded reluctantly.

"Back before we wised up to what he was, he used to coach Little League. My older sister's daughter was on this baseball team. He singled her out for special attention ... my sister 98

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was so thrilled. She thought he picked her out because she was good—" Her voice broke. She furiously looked around but we were alone in the bar now.

"I'm sorry," I said. Even after over a decade in law enforcement I never knew what to say to the family left behind by tragedy. Maybe that was a good thing. As long as I could feel their pain, I was still human, right? Sometimes I wondered.

"Everybody was sorry then, too. No one did anything about it. The DA said they couldn't prove he did anything to her.

They didn't believe her, though the DA swore up and down that wasn't true."

I could share that pain. I don't know how many cases I've run down and handed over to the DA's office, only to have them refuse to file charges because they might lose. DAs, like most people, don't like losing.

"How is she now?"

"She says she's fine. She moved down to Texas to go to some bible school there. We don't talk much."

"Well, he's not a problem anymore," I said.

"If you expect me to be sorry the son of a bitch died, I'm not. I wish they had made him suffer first. It's what he deserved."

I didn't bother telling her that from what the ME told me, George suffered plenty. I doubted it would help, despite her words.

I steered her back to the matter at hand. "Did you ever see George down in this area?"

"I saw him. A few days ago. He was talking to some kid."

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"What did the kid look like? You describe him?"

"Young. Cute." She smiled.

"White? Black? Latino?" I leaned forward. "What color was his hair?"

"Light. Wasn't paying that much attention."

"When did this happen?"

"Few nights ago."

"Must have been before Blunt bought it," I said.

Her mouth quirked in a self-satisfied grin. "Guess it must have been. Maybe that's the guy who shot him."

"Who said he got shot?"

"I guess I'm hoping he got it bad."

If I was feeling more charitable I might have told her Blunt had 'got it' really bad. I wasn't feeling charitable.

"He come down here a lot?" I pressed.

"He wouldn't have the guts. He'd be strung up if he showed his face around here."

I didn't doubt it. I wondered how many others shared her passions?

"Anyone else mention seeing him?"

"No. Why, you think one of us killed him?"

I spread my hands in a gesture of peace. "Just asking some questions ma'am. It's my job."

The door banged open behind us and she glanced over at the new customers, a trio of suited men clearly just leaving work. She straightened and glared at me. "I've said everything I'm going to, detective. I have nothing else to tell you."

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I slipped out of the bar while she went to serve the new arrivals. Outside, night had descended on the city. Street lights threw baleful light over the nearly empty parking lot as I made my way back to my Toyota.

Back at the marina I stepped onto slip seven to find Jason sitting with his legs dangling over the pier, staring down at the dark water lapping at the
Expressive.
I don't think he heard me approach until I was right behind him. Then he swung around and I saw why.

Jason was stoned.

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I was mesmerized by the water. Under the marina
lights it looked like dark silk. I could imagine diving
into it and having it carry me away to someplace where
pain was a memory. It would be cool and soft, like a
lover's touch. It would close over my head and I would
welcome its embrace.

Oblivion. What a wonderful place—

Footsteps behind me. I swung around and saw Spider. He had come back. I scrambled to my feet, stumbling in my haste. His hand closed over my arm and stopped my fall.

"Thanks," I said.

He jerked his head toward the parking lot and I followed after him. I still felt muzzy from the O I had snorted and followed along contentedly. Once in the truck I grinned at him.

"You're late," I said, leaning toward him, wanting his touch. Wishing he'd kiss me.

Instead he slammed me against the door and shot the key into the ignition, firing up the Toyota. With a screech of rubber we peeled out of the lot north toward the freeway.

"What the fuck—"

"Shut up," he ground out. The drive passed in stony silence, his foot rammed down on the pedal. We had to be going a hundred. I was still too hyped to be scared. Exiting the freeway into Goleta, he suddenly pulled off the road into a boarded-up gas station covered with graffiti, the pavement 102

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bursting apart with weeds and littered with broken beer bottles. He swung around in his seat to face me. I lifted my chin, not sure what he was pissed at, but not about to let him bully me.

"What the hell did you take?"

"What—?"

"Don't waste my time denying it. I can tell a fucked up stoner when I see one.
What did you take
?"

I was going to keep on denying I'd taken anything, but one look at his face and I knew it would never fly. "Just a couple of Oxys."

"Oxy! Get this now, you don't take drugs. Not as long as you're with me. Got it?" When I didn't answer he reached over and shook me. "Got it?"

"I got it." Sullenly I shook off his grip. Rubbing my arm where he had left bruises, I tried to glare at him. "It was just a couple of hits. I don't do it all the time, for Christ's sake."