Bay of Blood

by A. M. Potter

  Signing off, she shook her head. Moore would probably blow a gasket. Too late for that. There was a bigger issue: why had someone burgled the skiff now? It didn’t add up. The white coats had had plenty of time to lift any bio evidence. Perhaps the mooring lines held more than bio evidence?

  She tried Moore’s number. It was busy. She dried herself, pulled on a pair of tight jeans and a white camisole, and then tried again. Still busy. She left a message, telling the inspector about the theft and that everything was under control. Grabbing a lightweight blue jacket, she ran out of the house.

  As she drove up Highway One, she phoned Chu on her hands-free set.

  “Sergeant Chu, FID.”

  “Hello, Naslund here.”

  “Howdy.”

  “Bad news. Someone took two lines from Tyler’s boat.”

  “You’re kidding. What about that PC? He was guarding the scene.”

  “He was. But I don’t think he was close enough to the boat. He was at the MU.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Chu sighed. “What’s done is done.”

  “The PC saw the thief,” she said. “He can probably ID him in a lineup. If we get that far.”

  “Good for the PC, but we won’t likely need him. The whole CS is under twenty-four/seven surveillance. Ross rigged up two cameras.”

  “Ah, that helps. I’ll let DI Moore know that. I reported the theft to him.”

  “He’ll hit the roof. Surveillance tape or not.”

  “I know. By the way, PC Derlago is on rookie probation. Let’s go easy on him. I don’t think he knew he should set up his station by the boat, not the MU.”

  “I didn’t think to tell him. Thought he’d know.” Chu sighed. “But you’re right. Not totally his fault. I’m culpable too.”

  “Not really. I’ll explain everything to Moore. Derlago would likely have used the MU toilet sometime during his shift. I’m guessing the thief was watching. He would have moved in then.”

  “I suppose.”

  “We can’t guard all sites twenty-four/seven. Don’t have the manpower.”

  “Personnel-power, you mean.”

  She chuckled. “Forget the political correctness. Okay, I’m heading to the CS now. I’m calling in Mitchell and Wolfe. We’ll see if we can get any goods on the thief.”

  “All right.”

  “How was the meeting?”

  “Bor-ing.”

  “Always are.”

  “See ya, Naslund.”

  Naslund called the ninjas, Mitchell and Wolfe, then drove to the scene, paying little attention to the speed limit. She had other things on her mind. There had to be a logical reason to burgle the skiff, for she was confident of one thing: Tyler’s killers were logical. Crime scenes were generally organized or disorganized. Ditto for killers. A disorganized killer left multiple traces of their crime. But Tyler’s killers didn’t leave any weapons or bio markers. The skiff was tampered with and Tyler attacked, all within a tight time window. The killers used a boat, so they were mobile, which was another sign of organized perps. If, as appeared possible, one of the killers was the thief, he was not only organized, he was also daring. He hadn’t waited until nightfall. Daring, or perhaps desperate.

  Naslund concluded the mooring lines were important evidence. But why? She parked at the MU thinking why the mooring lines?

  The afterglow of a long July day backlit the sky. The western horizon radiated streaks of red and orange. Jupiter dominated the southern sky. Despite the evening hour, the visibility was excellent. Naslund and the ninjas didn’t need flashlights.

  After conducting a slow, thorough search, they came up emptyhanded except for some crushed bushes and a partial shoeprint, too fragmented to be useful. She pulled out her phone and called Hal.

  “Hal Bell.” His voice was musical.

  “Hello. Eva here. Sorry, I’m stuck at work. Busy day.”

  “I understand.”

  “How about we meet in half-an-hour?” She’d decided to leave the CS in fifteen minutes, regardless. The ninjas could finish the search. They were completely capable.

  “Tonight?” Hal asked. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Eight-thirty.”

  “Very fashionable.”

  “I try.”

  She rejoined the ninjas, knowing that trying wasn’t enough. She’d blown more than one relationship in the past.

  During a major investigation, she usually had no home life--as her ex knew--until the investigation was closed. That was life as a detective. Work was first. And second. And third. She wondered if she could have a real relationship.

  ***

  Sawyers Inn was hopping. Fool that she was, Naslund hadn’t made a reservation. She and Hal were directed toward a small two-seater on the back wall by a youngster with a mammoth zit on his nose and what appeared to be week-old gravy on his tie. His moustache looked like a dead caterpillar. Naslund almost walked out. What was she doing? Sawyers Inn buffet was no place for a first date, albeit an unspoken one, especially with a man as handsome as Hal. With the twinkle in his eye, he looked like a contemporary Clark Gable. She chided herself for not dressing better. When a man like Hal was sailing offshore, approaching land, you didn’t show a storm wall. No, you showed him how nice your harbor was. She discretely adjusted her camisole to show some cleavage.

  Hal pointed toward a window table. “We’d like something with a view.”

  “I’m sorry,” the dead caterpillar said, “it’s reserved.”

  Naslund took a look around and pointed at a table with plenty of elbow room. “That one would be nice.”

  “I’m sorry, reserved.”

  She tried again. “How about that, then.”

  “Actually, ma’am, they’re all reserved.”

  “All?”

  “Not to worry,” Hal said. “Go on, Eva.” He nudged her good-naturedly. “We can make a mess anywhere.”

  The buffet was loaded with turkey and roast beef and glazed ham and home-made pickles and all the fixings, plus velvety-smooth mashed potatoes, honey-baked squash, fresh peas, and parsley carrots, not to mention date squares and pies--chocolate pecan and strawberry rhubarb--butter tarts, and shortbread. Up-country food, she thought of it, as unpretentious as a groundhog. Not exactly avant-garde, but she thoroughly enjoyed it. She could tell Hal was enjoying it as well--he hadn’t stopped smiling.

  Having relished a main-course plate and a dessert, she rose to get another dessert. This man, this Hal Bell, was rejuvenating her appetite.

  “Can I bring you something?” she asked.

  “Sure. Thanks. Anything with chocolate.”

  A man after my own heart, she thought.

  After loading two plates with large slices of chocolate pecan pie, her eye lingered on the butter tarts. Why not? Praise the lard! She fit two tarts beside each slice.

  Dinner over, Hal pushed his chair back, almost impaling the guest behind him, and asked Eva if she wanted a liqueur.

  “Thanks, no, I’m already a bit tipsy.” She smiled. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “No secrets here, my dear. A port maybe,” he suggested, “or a cognac? I’ll walk you home.”

  “No thanks, Hal, really.”

  Wine glass in hand, she felt ready to take the plunge. Many people used the Echo’s tip line because they didn’t like talking to the police. Such lines often got better results than the OPP line. “Our Thom Tyler tip line has been pretty quiet,” she began, then found she wasn’t ready to ask Hal anything. “It’s awful,” she wavered. “Thom was a friend.”

  He nodded with sympathy. “Awful. A terrible loss.”

  She grimaced.

  He placed a hand on her arm. “I know you want to ask me something.” He smiled. “Ask away.”

  What a beautiful smile, she thought. She leaned across the table. Honesty was the best policy. “Could you share the leads that come in on your tip line more quickly, you know, as soon as you get them. As soon as possi
ble, that is. It’d be a great help to our investigation.” She stopped to gauge his reaction. He wasn’t frowning. Maybe he would help.

  “I can’t, Eva, I’m sorry. I’d love to, but we have a protocol. We give people twenty-four hours to retract a tip.”

  She’d heard that. “Could you reduce the time?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s Okay.” She felt deflated yet, at the same time, gratified. It seemed he’d be happy to help if it were possible.

  “But we can do this again. I’ll cook for you next time.”

  A man who could cook. Another point. She smiled. “What’s on the menu?”

  He laughed. “Beans and toast.”

  “With maple syrup?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re on.”

  Chapter 12

  Wiarton. July 12th:

  As Naslund showered the next morning, her personal phone rang. She let it peal, its ring-tone crooning “Watching the detectives...”

  Although her duty phone rang like a claxon, her personal phone crooned Elvis Costello. She’d set it to keep ringing, deeming it bad form to make callers leave a message.

  “Watching the detectives,” Costello sang.

  She ignored the phone. The hell with her “form.” Besides, she didn’t feel like leaving the shower. She’d had a late night. Hal had invited her in for a coffee. They’d had a few glasses of wine and talked for hours.

  “Watching the--”

  She tried to shut out the phone. She closed her eyes, thinking of Hal. He was more down-to-earth than she’d imagined, and at the same time funnier. His place was like a fine hotel, white and clean and modern--the opposite of her own house. He’d kissed her goodnight. Twice.

  “Watching the detectives.”

  All right, I’m on my way. Turning off the water, she grabbed a towel, left the bathroom, and found her phone.

  “Eva here.”

  “Finally,” J.J. MacKenzie said. “Are you that busy?”

  “Always.”

  “You’re the best cop ever.” He chuckled. “Just a moment. Call on the other line.”

  She toweled herself dry. When he switched back to her, he sounded impatient. “I think you better get out here.”

  “Now?” She glanced at her phone screen: 0702.

  “Yes. Marty Fox has some big news. I’ll be busy after the funeral. Got a trawler on the fritz.”

  “Okay.”

  “One request. Disguise yourself. Wear old clothes. Put on a ball cap. Wear it backward.”

  “All right.”

  “Good. Marty’ll pick you up. Be ready for hard work. We’ll talk, have breakfast, talk more, have a few doughnuts. You know, like any crime fighter.” J.J. guffawed. “Seriously, Marty’ll have you back in town for the funeral.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “From now on, we keep a very low profile.” His jocular tone was gone. “We’ll use Marty’s place. It’s very private. I don’t want anyone knowing about us putting our heads together. Some people have an Us and Them mentality. I don’t trust them.”

  “Who are you referring to?”

  He dismissed the question.

  “Who?” Naslund pressed.

  “Nobody in particular.”

  “C’mon J.J.”

  “Nobody,” he repeated. “See you at Marty’s place.”

  “Fine with me, as long as I can report what I need to. Anonymously, of course.” She had no problem meeting J.J. privately, behind the barn, as it were. Sometimes you had to. She had the wherewithal. After years of undercover work, she knew how to avoid prying eyes.

  “Agreed,” J.J. said. “Okay, Sarge, Marty’ll be at the marina in about twenty minutes. He’ll be pretending to check out a C ’n C Twenty-Nine for sale. It’s on Dock B.”

  Naslund hurried into a pink T-shirt and a pair of baggy knee-length shorts--red plaid--then pulled on dingy tennis shoes. Uber-ugly, but she didn’t care. The team needed some leads. They still didn’t have a clear picture of what had happened to Thom. He might have had a run-in with a fishing boat. Or with Larmer. Then there was MacTavish, although she’d verified that his boat hadn’t been out since mid-June. Beyond that, there was the question of the mooring lines. Who burgled Thom’s skiff, and why?

  Slipping out her side door, she skirted a hedge and headed uphill, cut through two empty lots and then moseyed downhill. She’d pulled on one of her father’s Tilley hats and a pair of his sunglasses. For a change, she wore lipstick and a wide circle of rouge. Effect: middle-aged bird-watcher or boater. Even though well after sunrise, Venus was still prominent in the east, twinkling brightly, hanging over the mouth of Colpoys Bay. She’d often used it to guide her Jeanneau home before sunup.

  As she walked to the marina, deceptively rolling her gait, she considered the team’s progress. To be honest, they hadn’t made much. Although they’d processed over 250 exhibits, from blood and hair to anchor rollers and paintings, not one exhibit had been linked to a perpetrator. Late yesterday afternoon, they’d used J.J.’s tip about the Albin 35 to check out the Griffith Island Club but that lead had yet to pan out. Chandler and Weber had been dispatched to the club. The manager sheepishly admitted that someone took the club’s Albin 35 for a “joyride” on the morning of Tyler’s murder. However, Chandler and Weber didn’t find anything to connect the incident to the murder. There was an APB out for the joyriders. At this time, they were still too inconclusive to count as suspects. So, who could the team count? MacLean. Larmer. Possibly MacTavish. That was their list of reasonable suspects.

  Naslund felt frustrated. Walking on, she ordered herself to relax. They needed to adopt a long view. They’d have to dig into the past. While it was easy to murder someone in Wiarton, if a killer wanted to get away with it, he or she would have to plan. Naslund glanced at her watch. Better phone Moore. “Morning, Inspector. Naslund here. I’ll be in a bit late today.”

  Moore remained silent.

  “I’m pursuing a lead.”

  “Where?”

  “Out Colpoys way.” Enough information, she thought. Maybe too much.

  “When will you be in?”

  “After Tyler’s funeral.”

  “After? We have a team meeting at oh eight hundred.”

  “Sorry,” she said, “I won’t make it. My case notes are up-to-date.”

  “I don’t care about that. Well, I do. But meetings are sacrosanct.”

  Not to me, she thought.

  “Don’t miss another one.”

  “All right, sir.”

  “You’re part of a team, Sergeant. Act like you are.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Naslund ended the call, thinking that although the inspector was a good investigator, he was too combative, like her mother. Another old-school type who led with the sword. In Naslund’s mind, murder cases and set meeting times didn’t mix. Team members were far too busy to leave assignments and run to the murder room. As for actions, Moore could assign them by phone or email.

  She ambled on, a nondescript, middle-aged woman taking a morning stroll. She liked working on her own. It had made her a good undercover cop. Now it seemed to be a liability. Apparently, she wasn’t a team player. Although she liked teamwork--the banter, the give and take--she didn’t like meetings. Admit it, she told herself. You’re not good with meetings or authority.

  As she reached the marina her personal phone rang.

  For the second time that day, she decided to let it peal. It could wait. Hell, she realized with a fond smile, she was being un-Scottish. If all it took to make her mellower was a meal with Hal, she couldn’t wait for another one.

  The phone kept pealing.

  “Watching the detectives...”

  Damn it. Who was it? She yielded to her Scots side and answered the call. “Eva here.”

  “Were you still sleeping?” Hal kidded.

  “Hey, I’m hard at work.”

  “You’re a good woman.”

 
“Sometimes.”

  He laughed. “So, Sergeant Naslund, I have good news.”

  “Wonderful, Mr. Bell. Pray tell.”

  “Well, I talked to my boss and the Echo board. They decided we can share tips with the police more quickly--” He paused. “--if we get permission from the tipper. I just received an interesting tip from someone willing to share their information immediately, but not their name.”

  “Understood. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. A pair of kayakers reported seeing two sailboats in Colpoys Bay around six a.m. on July eighth. The smaller boat was a skiff with one man aboard. It was near the southern end of White Cloud Island. The other boat was northwest of the island and larger, over forty feet long, they guessed, with two or three crew aboard.”

  “Hmm.” J.J.’s son hadn’t mentioned a large sailboat.

  “The wind kicked up, so the kayakers had to turn back. When they got in to shore, both boats were out of sight. From the course of the skiff, they assumed it went up the east side of White Cloud. As for the sailboat, they think it continued north, toward Cape Croker. That’s it, Eva.”

  “That’s great. Just to be sure, they said there were two boats?”

  “Yes, two.”

  “Thank you very much. By the way, I had a great time last night.” Why not tell him? Why hide her feelings? It had been a long time. Too long.

  “Me too,” Hal said. “Can I call you this evening?”

  “Call away, sailor.”

  ***

  The marina was quiet, not a boater in sight. Naslund strolled along a jetty, pausing to examine each boat. She missed her Jeanneau. Eventually, she approached the C&C 29 for sale and stood in front of the bow, evaluating the design. A fine hull, with the seaworthy lines of a larger craft. She knew the owner, who’d raked back the mast and reinforced the keel to enable aggressive sailing. Reinforcing the keel, that was a step she wouldn’t have considered. Yet there was as much pressure on the keel as the mast and sails. If you had to beat hard to wind for hours, a weak keel could snap.

  She studied the harbor. The wind trundled sacks of cloud across the bay. It was a good morning for sailing. Looking back to the jetty, she was distracted by a shaft of sunlight hitting the C&C’s hull just above the keel. The keel. If your keel snapped, you were snookered. If your centerboard failed, ditto. She smiled. The sun had shown the way. Given what J.J. had said about centerboards, Thom’s was likely disabled on purpose to throw off an investigation, to make it look like a damaged skiff contributed to his death. Another attempt at deception, like the blood planted on the boom. Coincidence? She didn’t think so. Luckily, the storm hadn’t sunk the skiff, but driven it ashore.