Page 23 of Nightshade
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 MARLINClub 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.”
Shortlyturned 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 said24 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.
