“I didn’t say she made the theft Saturday. I said the report came in Saturday. She was fired the week before that, and that’s when the theft could have occurred. So the timing could still match up.”
“What did she supposedly steal?”
“A small sculpture of a marlin. It was made of black jade, was ten inches high, and weighed about four pounds. I’ll send you the report.”
“Black jade for a black marlin.”
“Has there been an autopsy yet?”
“You know I’m not going to talk to you about the case, Stillborn. Why even ask?”
“Happened on my turf, Ahearn. If you’re doing this right, I should be kept in the loop. I can also—”
“No, you should just fuck off.”
Ahearn disconnected.
Stilwell sat quiet and unmoving until the anger passed.
He finally broke free of thoughts about Ahearn, called the coroner’s office, and asked for an investigator named Monty West. He and West had worked together on many homicides before Stilwell’s transfer out to the island.
“Still the man,” West said — his usual greeting.
“Monty, long time,” Stilwell said.
“Sure is. What’s happening, my brother?”
“Same old, same old, except now I’m out on an island doing it. How are you?”
“As long as the bodies keep dropping, I keep hopping.”
“Speaking of, I’m wondering if you could check your computer for a case.”
“You got a case?”
“Technically, no. But it happened on my turf and I’m just checking to see if there’s been COD established.”
“Lucky man. I’m at my desk and can put it into the box as we speak. Name?”
“No name. Actually, a Jane Doe. She was a sinker out here in the Avalon harbor. Coroner would have gotten the body Friday night.”
“Right, I heard about that one. Stand by, let me find it.”
Stilwell heard West’s keyboard clacking, then silence as West read whatever had come up on the screen.
“No cause of death yet,” West finally said. “Autopsy’s later on today — scheduled at three.”
“Got it. Any ID yet?”
“Uh, looks like a no on ID. Preliminary report is that skin slippage made prints unavailable. Waiting on detectives to make an ID through other means.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Yeah, this says it’s A-Hole that’s got it. I bet he’s working his ass off.”
Stilwell noted the sarcasm. Ahearn’s reputation was known far and wide. “You have photos there?” he asked.
“Yeah, the preliminary examination was done this morning,” West said. “What are you looking for?”
“I saw her in the water, so her hair was kind of all over the place. I’m thinking about the purple streak I saw. Is that in the pictures?”
“Yup, I got it here.”
“Can you shoot that to me?”
“I can as long as you never say where you got it.”
“It will never come up. Can you text it?”
“I can.”
“Thanks, Monty. I owe you one.”
“I might come out there to collect it. You can show me where all the aliens I’ve been reading about are hiding.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
They disconnected and Stilwell waited for the text to come through. It took his phone a minute to download the file, and then he saw a photo of the woman from the water, her face almost unrecognizable as human and unmatchable to the DMV photo. But someone at the coroner’s office had brushed her hair back from her face. Stilwell could see the purple streak in her hair. It started at the front scalp line on the left side of a middle part and looped down the length of her hair. Stilwell felt sure that he was looking at a death photo of Leigh-Anne Moss.
He also noted an abrasion on the right side of the forehead that disappeared under the thickness of the hair. There was no blood evident. Stilwell knew that the abrasion could have been a postmortem injury sustained as the body was dragged by underwater currents. Or it could have been from the blow that killed her.
He put the photo into an email and sent it to himself. He then reviewed everything he knew about Moss. Neither he nor the general manager at the Black Marlin had an address on Catalina for her. The address on her driver’s license and application to the BMC was a street in the Belmont Shore neighborhood in Long Beach. Stilwell knew the area well, having owned a condominium there. He wondered if he had ever passed Leigh-Anne on the street, on the beach, or in Joe Jost’s or another restaurant. He wondered if the nexus of what ultimately put her in the water with an anchor chain wrapped around her body was over there on the mainland or here on the island.
He shut down the computer and left the office. Mercy was at her desk in the bullpen.
“Mercy, any news on Tom Dunne?” he asked.
“I haven’t heard a thing,” she said.
“I left him a message, but if he checks in with you, tell him I need to speak to him as soon as possible. It’s not about what happened to him. It’s about something else.”
“Will do.”
“And when you have time, can you do a social media roundup and see if you can find a woman named Leigh-Anne Moss? You know, Facebook, Instagram, wherever you usually look.” He spelled the first name for her.
“Is she the one that was in the water?” Mercy asked.
“Maybe,” Stilwell said. “It’s not confirmed.”
Stilwell got a fresh radio out of the charging unit on the wall.
“You going out?” Mercy asked.
“Yes, over to the Black Marlin,” Stilwell said.
“What’s happening there?”
“Just following up on the theft report Dunne took Saturday before he got knocked out at the bar. That’s what I want to talk to him about.”
“I hope he remembers. He’s probably still a little fuzzy.”
“Maybe. You know anybody who’s a member there?”
“At the Black Marlin? No, they’re all overtowners. They’ve never allowed locals to join.”
“I thought the mayor was a member. Acts like it, at least.”
“I think that’s ceremonial. He can go over there and drink their liquor and eat their food, but they’ll never give him a permanent membership. As soon as he stops being mayor, he’s out of there. It’s always been that way.”
“Interesting. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“And I’ll be here.”
10
The Black Marlin Club was located in a two-story clapboard structure that sat on a private pier off St. Catherine Way on the north side of the harbor. The building had housed the club for more than a hundred years and had been deemed a historic landmark by the county. Stilwell walked there from the sub. The front door was locked, and, remembering what had been noted in the crime report, Stilwell walked around to a side door. He pushed a button on a call box. Soon, a voice responded.
“How can I help you?”
“Detective Sergeant Stilwell with the sheriff’s department. I’m here to follow up on a crime report taken over the weekend.”
“Yes, of course. Please stand by and someone will let you in shortly.”
“Thank you.”
Shortly turned out to be a long few minutes. While he waited, Stilwell took out his phone and sent a text to Henry Gaston’s cell. It said 24 hours. He knew that Gaston would know what the cryptic message meant. There had been no reply by the time the door of the BMC opened and a man in a shirt and tie smiled at Stilwell.
“Sergeant Stilwell?” he said. “Charles Crane, general manager. Please come in.”
He offered his hand, which Stilwell shook.
Crane carried an air of authority that went beyond being one of the few men on the island who wore a tie to work. He walked fast and talked fast as he led the way into the club.