“Yes.”
“I didn’t make the connection; you look different out of a dive suit.” She tried to open the box, but it didn’t budge—it was probably rusted shut.
“It’s sealed with beeswax, to keep the contents dry,” he explained. “Each ‘package’ contains a quantity of chandu opium, molded into small cakes, portions of which are placed in a pipe to be smoked. The cakes were wrapped in waxed paper.” His expression was derisive. “Seavey was determined to provide his customers with the highest quality opium, packaged in a pleasing manner. He went to great expense to have the opium cakes brought in from the Orient, then repackaged in a more pleasing way. Really, it’s not as if his customers would have known the difference if he’d substituted less expensive product after the first puff or two.”
What he was saying was consistent with what Jordan knew of Michael Seavey—the man placed a high value on presentation and style. She doubted he would have stood for increasing his profits through a lowering of the quality of the drug. “So you’ve been retrieving these from the shipwreck?” she asked.
His gaze slid away. “Of course not. What earthly use would I have of them? Besides, over time, with exposure to the elements, the stuff would obviously have deteriorated to the point of being worthless.”
Not in the eyes of collectors, who would pay dearly to own a small piece of West Coast history, she realized. She thought back to her first encounter with him and was still confused on one point. “But I saw you bring one of these tins out of the water, didn’t I?”
“I was attempting to give you a hint, so that you would think to look into what type of salvage operation was occurring. I know now that you are frequently too oblivious to notice such things.” He waved a hand at the tin. “That is one your friend brought up. He inadvertently dropped it on the beach.”
A tendril of excitement raced down her spine. “So these tins are what Holt was salvaging from the wreck!”
“Yes.” Garrett scowled. “Unbeknownst to me, Seavey had built secret, reinforced compartments into the hull for the purposes of transporting opium. A portion of the ship’s hull, along with some of those compartments, apparently survived intact and lies on the ocean floor just off the spit. The human—”
“Holt Stilwell,” she supplied.
“By Christ, woman! I care not a whit about the man’s name! Will you cease to be so difficult?”
Her face must have blanched, because he sighed and then continued. “Stilwell discovered the undamaged portion of the hull on his initial dive. Then he came back on subsequent days to retrieve a number of the tins.”
“Interesting.” To her knowledge, nothing of the sort had been found in either Holt’s house or his truck. If it had, Darcy certainly would have told her. “You don’t happen to know what he did with them, do you?”
“In that regard, I have no interest in helping you,” Garrett replied. “It’s not as if I followed the man around town between his dives. I just happened to be on hand, curious about what he was up to, when he was near the shipwreck. The fool was going to sell them in some kind of auction. He called it a name that doesn’t match any auction house I’m familiar with …”
“eBay, perhaps?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I was right there, listening when he told his plans to the person who brought him out to the beach in his boat. Stilwell described that his intent was to hold a press conference, then open bidding on the tins.”
“What guy? Holt wasn’t diving with anyone else. At least, we haven’t been able to locate anyone—”
“The other person wasn’t a diver,” Garrett corrected her, looking impatient again. “But the person was quite angry with Stilwell. I presume that’s why Stilwell was murdered. I’ve never understood the reason to murder in circumstances such as those, when torture or a sound beating, at a minimum, can be far more effective—”
“Wait,” Jordan interrupted, excited. “Do you mean to tell me you saw Holt get shot?”
Kathleen stopped what she was doing and looked up.
Garrett shrugged. “Not that it’s of any import, but yes, I witnessed the entire affair.”
Chapter 15
YOU have got to be kidding me,” Darcy groused. “There’s an eyewitness to Holt’s murder, and it’s a ghost?”
“Yes.”
“And he refused to tell you who did it.” Darcy’s expression was one of utter disbelief.
“Yep.”
The jazz band was on break before its last set of the evening. Customers who didn’t count themselves among the diehards had called it quits and left for home. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Darcy, Jordan, and several of the men had retreated to a table on the far side of the room to discuss the latest development. Microbrew beer was flowing freely.
Darcy had moved into full rant mode. “I don’t fucking believe this! It’s not as if I can arrest a ghost as a material witness and compel him to testify.”
“He said he wouldn’t reveal facts that might implicate someone he felt the need to protect,” Jordan explained. “Actually, he acted oddly, given that he’s a sociopath. Sociopaths have no conscience.”
“This case is so in the crapper.”
“Who would a sociopath feel the need to protect?” Bob asked. “Another sociopath?”
“Maybe,” Jordan replied, unconvinced.
“No other dead bodies floating around that we know of,” Tom pointed out.
“What I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around,” Jase said, looking grimly at Jordan as he placed a full pitcher on the table and took a seat, “is that you were conversing with the ghost of a murderous drug runner in my kitchen. Did it ever occur to either you or Kathleen that you were in mortal danger from this guy?”
“Of course,” Jordan replied. “But what were we supposed to do? It’s not like I can control the movements of the ghosts in this town any more than Darcy can successfully arrest one. They can do pretty much whatever they want.”
“You could’ve run like hell.”
“I considered it,” Jordan admitted. “But he made it clear that I’d never get away. And call me crazy, but I definitely had the sense it was far better to humor him than to anger him.”
“Jase is right, though—the trend is worrisome,” Darcy said. “In the beginning, the ghosts with whom you came in contact were relatively benign. There’s been an escalation toward more dangerous ones since then, starting with the ghost of Michael Seavey.”
Jordan frowned. “I don’t think Michael Seavey is very dangerous. Not really.”
“He’s not exactly the local choirboy, either,” Jase retorted, standing to gather empties from the next table.
Darcy looked thoughtful. “Do you know what Garrett meant when he said he felt the need to protect someone?”
“No.” Jordan scrubbed her face with both hands. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving her feeling like she’d been flattened by a truck. “I got the impression that at least partially, Garrett just didn’t care. Bob could be on the right track: Thinking from the perspective of a sociopath, you would feel a kinship to others like you. So he could just be protecting the identity of a fellow criminal. But I got the strong sense that it was more than that—that whoever had murdered Holt was someone for whom Garrett felt a sense of obligation.”
Darcy leaned her elbows on the table, pressing her fingers against closed eyes. “I’m now officially suicidal.”