“Did you ask the state police for help?” she asked.
“Of course. Right off the bat. They’re the pros, you know. They did the autopsy, forensics, most of the preliminary investigation. We worked side by side, a joint effort in all aspects. Great guys. I like them.”
That’s nice. “Could we take a look at the file?” she asked sweetly.
Thick wrinkles broke out across his forehead. He yanked off his readers and chewed on a stem, glaring at her as if she had asked about his wife’s sex life. “Why?” he demanded.
“There might be something about this case that’s relevant to our investigation.”
“I don’t get it. Murder here, crooked judge there. What’s the connection?”
“We don’t know, Chief Turnbull, we’re just digging, the way you often do. Just good police work.”
“I can’t release the file. Sorry. Get a court order or something and I’ll be happy to help, but without one, no go.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugged as if to give up. There was nothing else to talk about. “Thanks for your time.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“We’ll be back with a court order.”
“Great.”
“One last question, though, if you don’t mind.”
“Try me.”
“The rope used by the killer—is it in the evidence file?”
“You bet. We have it.”
“And you’re familiar with it?”
“Of course. It’s the murder weapon.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Sure, but I won’t. Come back with your court order.”
“I’ll bet it’s nylon, about thirty inches in length, double twin braid, marine grade, either blue and white or green and white in color.”
The wrinkles broke out again as his jaw dropped. He rocked back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Close enough?” Lacy asked.
“Yes. Close enough. You’ve seen this guy’s work before, I take it.”
“Maybe. Maybe we have a suspect. I can’t talk about him now but maybe next week or next month. We’re on the same team, Chief.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to see the file, all of it. And everything is confidential.”
Turnbull bounced to his feet and said, “Follow me.”
* * *
—
Two hours later, they parked at a marina and followed Turnbull, their new buddy, down a dock to a thirty-foot patrol boat with the word police painted boldly on both sides. The captain was an old cop in official shorts, and he welcomed them aboard as if they were headed for a luxury cruise. Lacy and Darren sat knee-to-knee on a bench starboard side and enjoyed the ride over the smooth water. Turnbull stood next to the captain and they chatted in indecipherable cop-speak. Fifteen minutes into the trip the boat decelerated and floated almost to a stop.
Turnbull walked to the front and pointed at the water. “Somewhere right around here is where they found him. As you can see, it’s pretty remote.”
Lacy and Darren stood and took in the surroundings, endless water in all directions. The nearest shore was a mile away and dotted with homes that were barely visible. There was no other watercraft to be seen.
“Who found him?” Lacy asked.
“Coast Guard. His wife got worried when he didn’t show and she made some calls. We found his truck and trailer at the marina and figured he was still on the water. We called the Coast Guard and began searching.”
“Not a bad place for a murder,” mused Darren, practically his first words of the day.
Turnbull grunted and said, “Damned near perfect, if you ask me.”
* * *
—
He owned the boat, had bought it a year earlier as the master plan came together. It wasn’t a particularly nice one, not nearly as fancy as the one owned by the target, but he wasn’t trying to impress. To avoid a trailer and parking and all that hassle, he rented a slip at a marina south of Marathon. Ownership would negate the need to rent. He would sell it later, as well as the small condo near the harbor, both, hopefully, at a profit. Established in the area, and knowing no one, he fished the waters, something he came to enjoy, and he stalked his target, something he lived for. The paperwork—the bill of sale for the boat, the local bank account, the land records, the fishing license, property taxes, the fuel receipts—was all easily forged. State and local paperwork were child’s play for a man with a hundred bank accounts, a man who bought and sold things with fake names just for the fun of it.