Page 41 of Nightshade
“Uh, no, always better to talk to a possible witness face-to-face. Why, is there a problem with me going? I’m about to get on the Express.”
“No, I just… you know, I don’t like you going across. Only bad things happen over there.”
It was a line Tash had heard her parents repeat while she wasgrowing up on the island. They had used it to quell her adolescent curiosity and keep her close. Now she used it to keep Stilwell close.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And bad things happen on both sides of the bay, Tash. You know that.”
“I guess,” she said. “Just be careful over there.”
“Always.”
He disconnected and thought about the brief conversation. He wondered if Tash’s concern was really about something else—namely, that his ex-wife lived in Belmont Shore in the condo that was for sale.
He had his go-bag, which he always kept at the substation, a small duffel bag containing a change of clothes. The last passenger to board the Express, he headed up the steps to the pilothouse, where he knocked on the door and let the captain know he was on board. Deputies, in uniform or not, were allowed to ride the ferries for free as long as they didn’t take a seat on a sold-out vessel.
Stilwell then moved to the stern, where he’d see the sun setting over the island and the dolphins that seemed to always follow in the wake of the ferries crossing the bay. The ferry was only half full, so he took a seat in one of the rows that was sheltered from the wind and sea spray. As the boat left the pier, he sent a text to Gary Saunders offering to trade pickled eggs and pool at Joe Jost’s for the use of the guest room at his house in Long Beach. More than securing a place to stay, he wanted to spend time with Saunders so he could ask about the woman his crew had pulled up from the bottom of the harbor.
The trip across was slightly longer than an hour, and during that time the sky darkened and the temperature dropped. Stilwell pulled a windbreaker out of his duffel and put it on as he disembarked. He walked to the long-term parking lot, where many residents of Catalina kept cars for their visits to the mainland. His1974 Bronco was caked in smog dust and grime. It had been at least two weeks since he’d come across and used it, but the old engine cranked to life with one turn of the key. He headed to the address in Belmont Shore that was on Leigh-Anne Moss’s driver’s license and her Black Marlin Club employment application. He could have gone to the sheriff’s station in Compton to check out a plain-wrap from the carpool, but he wanted to fly under the radar on this trip and not risk word getting to Ahearn and Sampedro that he was on the mainland and working.
Leigh-Anne Moss’s apartment was in a small, six-unit building at the corner of Roycroft and Division. It had no security gate, which allowed Stilwell direct access to the door of apartment 2. He knocked once, and the door was soon opened by a man with deeply tanned skin and sun-bleached hair. Stilwell was already holding up his ID card.
“Sheriff’s department,” Stilwell said. “I’m looking for the home of Leigh-Anne Moss. Does she live here?”
“Uh, no, not really,” the man said. “I mean, this was her place, but we’re not together anymore. I let her crash here sometimes, but she mostly stays over on Catalina. What’s this about?”
“I need to find her and she’s not on Catalina. I just came from there.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, dude.”
“Your name is…”
“Peter Galloway.”
“This is the address Leigh-Anne Moss put on her driver’s license. Is she in there?”
“No, man, she’s not. I haven’t seen her in a couple months.”
“Mind if I come in and ask you a few questions, Peter?”
“Uh, I guess.”
Galloway stepped back; Stilwell entered and looked around as if searching for Leigh-Anne Moss even though he knew inhis gut that she was dead. The apartment was sparsely furnished but messy with the detritus of bachelorhood. Empty beer bottles and pizza boxes, a pink glass bong that Galloway picked up off a coffee table and hid with his body as he walked it to a cabinet in the kitchen. The bong wasn’t illegal, nor was what he probably smoked with it. Concealing it was likely a force-of-habit reaction. It told Stilwell that the man tended to hide things from authority figures—parents, bosses, cops.
“Um, so, yeah, what’s this about?” Galloway said. “What do you want to ask?”
“It’s a criminal investigation involving Ms. Moss,” Stilwell said.
“Why am I not surprised. What did she do?”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Have a seat. Sorry about the mess.”
“Not a problem. Thanks.”
Stilwell sat in a chair across from the couch. It was all mismatched furniture that gave the impression of a college apartment, but Galloway was ten years past college age.
Galloway took the couch and picked up a half-full bottle of beer from a coffee table that was crowded with empties and crumpled pages from scripts.
