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  “There are no cameras out here on the wharf.” He shook his head as if disgusted. “There’s a security system of sorts, but it’s hopelessly outdated. One of the many things I plan to change, now that I’m here.”

  “So you’ve just recently taken up your position with the Santa Barbara Aquarium. What is it you do?”

  “I’m a consultant. Hired to whip the organization into shape. I wish to God I’d never agreed to take the position! If I hadn’t, Skye would never…” He broke off, and lifted himself to his feet. I watched as he struggled to pull himself together. “All right. Anything else?”

  I stood too, facing him. There was plenty I wanted to ask Rod Steinbach, but apparently he’d decided our conversation had come to an end.

  “I should emphasize again that you need to call the police right away. If there’s any chance of foul play, they’ll need to move quickly.”

  “Foul play?” He scowled. “Did you see any evidence of that?”

  “No. But it’s possible your grandson was pushed.”

  “Skye was very popular,” he snapped. “Why would anyone want to shove him into that tank?”

  I had the sense Dr. Steinbach was testing me, though I’d no idea why. “I can’t say. But I think it’s too early to close the door on—”

  “Thank you, Ms. Zarlin. You’ve fulfilled your purpose, and you may go. No, wait. I’ll pay you now.”

  “No need. You can mail me a check.”

  “I want to close it off now.” He stood, pulled out a money clip from his pants pocket, and peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Then he added an eleventh. “Here.”

  “Thank you. That’s generous.”

  He slipped his money clip back in his khakis and walked around the desk to the door. “It’s generous, yes. Understand I’m buying your discretion. I don’t want you jabbering about what you’ve seen to the police.”

  “I don’t jabber, Dr. Steinbach.” I folded the bills and wedged them into my jeans pocket. “I have a request along the same lines.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t mention to the cops that I was here. It would only cause problems for both of us. And please ask Dr. Thompson not to say anything either.”

  “Fine. We’re agreed.”

  * * *

  As I pedaled around the arm blocking the vehicle entrance to the wharf, a Crown Vic purred past the dolphin statue. I sped up.

  “Stop. Stop right there, Zarlin.”

  The words were bold, but the voice cheeped like a chicken, weakening the effect. I thought about continuing on, but the woman was a plainclothes detective. A cop.

  “Deirdre. Lovely morning.”

  She pouted like a bad-tempered cherub. “What are you doing here, Zarlin? As if I didn’t know.”

  Quickly, I weighed the options: the truth, or a lie? Deirdre Krause wouldn’t believe the lie, of course. But if I told the truth, she just might have the big male cop riding shotgun arrest me. I decided freedom looked good.

  “Riding my bike. Greeting the dawn.” I smiled brightly. “Is there a new law against that?”

  “There’s blood on your face. Been in a fight?”

  “No. But the day is still young.”

  Deirdre rapped her lacquered nails on the car door. I noticed she’d cut them square, leaving sharp corners.

  “Listen, I don’t need an amateur like you messing with my cases. And by the way, Zarlin, there is a law against interfering with an investigation. There’s a law against tampering with a crime scene. There’s a law against—”

  “And there are laws against harassment and detainment. So if you—” I closed my mouth. The big cop had opened his door and was hefting his bulk out of the vehicle.

  “Troy, don’t bother,” Deirdre snapped. “I don’t have time to mess with her.”

  “Am I free to go, Detective?”

  “Sure, why not.” She gave me her dimpled baby doll smile. “I know where to find you—in that decrepit hovel you call an office. Or I can always drop by the other hovel you call your home.”

  “Make sure you phone first.”

  “By the way,” Deirdre said as the car began to roll, “I saw Mike the other day. With Mandy Blaine. Know what? She was wearing a ring.”

  The car pulled away. I stood there straddling my bicycle, feeling as if I’d been socked in the stomach. But it was bullshit, I assured myself. Just Deirdre Krause messing with me. Mike wouldn’t allow me to be blindsided like that. He’d let me know.

  * * *

  I stopped at the dolphin fountain and splashed cold water on my scratches to wash off the blood, then dabbed my face dry with the hem of my sweatshirt. After a moment I crossed Cabrillo, and rode on up State Street.

  The fog, as usual, hugged the shoreline. Before I’d pedaled four blocks, the gloom thinned and the air turned deliciously clear. I should have felt great, yet how was that possible? I couldn’t get Skye Rasmussen out of my mind.

  I thought about stopping at Jeannine’s for a bite of breakfast, but I wasn’t hungry. I just wanted to den up in the office, maybe sip some of Gabi’s strong brew. I biked on, heading uptown through the empty streets.

  Why, I wondered, had Rod Steinbach called me in before he’d contacted the police? Of course, he hadn’t called me in, exactly. He’d phoned a friend who’d phoned Zave. Still, the question remained.

  Steinbach disliked the cops, didn’t trust them. Plus he had to be in control. So that was it, wasn’t it? He’d used me to garner information, to observe what he couldn’t bear to see with his own eyes.

  Fine. Except it wasn’t fine, not for me. That lithe young body, clenched in those pale blue straps … and the horror imprinted forever on Skye Rasmussen’s face. No, I couldn’t let it go.

  * * *

  Gabi turned from the kitchenette counter and stared at me. “Miss Jaymie, did you get in a fight with a cat? If you did, I think the cat won.”

  “No, the fight was with an agave.” I leaned back in my chair.

  “Those scratches can get infected.” Gabi lifted two pink cups and saucers down from the shelf. “At home I got some special ointment from my curandera. I’ll go at lunch and get it for you.”

  “No thanks. Soap and water will do.”

  “You don’t know what’s good for you.” She handed me a cup of aromatic brew. “So why did you get here so early this morning? You beat me, two days in a row.”

  “Yesterday Dexter woke me up early. The raccoons were having a party up on my roof. Today … today I had to go out on a case.” I didn’t feel like talking about Skye Rasmussen, not even to Gabi. Not yet.

  “A case, so early?” She paused with a pastry halfway to her mouth.

  I decided to try and distract her. “Sorry about yesterday, Gabi. You’re right, we shouldn’t pry into each other’s personal affairs.”

  Bingo: her face lit up. “It’s OK, you can pry. I thought about it, and you’re my friend, not just my boss.” She examined her freshly lacquered nails. “See, I met a nice man. We went out to dinner. Then we went out to lunch.”

  I was impressed, maybe even a little shocked. I’d never known Gabi to speak positively about any man, let alone go out on a date.

  “That is news. What’s his name?”

  “If I tell you will you keep quiet?” She pointed a stubby finger at me. “I don’t need my family to know. One dinner and one lunch? My sisters will go to Paseo Nuevo today, to buy outfits for the wedding.”

  “Don’t worry, I promise.”

  “An-hel. That’s what I call him and that’s his name.”

  “How old is—”

  “Miss Jaymie? Here’s what I’m gonna tell you. He’s kinda short, like me. He’s young, three years older than me. He’s not really handsome, but that’s OK, I’m not really beautiful. Angel is from Mexico and he’s got no papers, thank God. He—”

  “Wait a minute. What’s good about that?” I talked around a mouthful of pastry. “If he had papers, then you could get papers if you two got married
. I’d say—”

  “See?” She tilted her chin disdainfully. “You don’t get it, do you? Even though I already told you what I think. If Angel has papers, then how do I know if I really like him?”

  Oh boy. “Uh, yeah. I guess you want to be sure you like him for himself.”

  “That’s it. Besides, you don’t want a man to think he’s got something you really want. You should remember that, Miss Jaymie.”

  “Me? What for?” I felt myself flush. There was Zave, if having great sex with a good friend counted. And of course, there wasn’t Mike. Gabi knew all about both. “I’m not involved with anybody,” I said in a small voice.

  “Sure you’re not!” Gabi sounded triumphant, probably because she’d succeeded in turning the conversation into something about me.

  I rapped my fingers on the tabletop. “Can we change the subject?”

  “If you want. I got the same question for you I already asked. What case made you get up so early? Something new I don’t know about?”

  The smile slid from my face. “Gabi, I don’t know if I want to talk about it just yet.”

  “I help you solve cases, that’s one of my jobs.”

  “I know. But right now, a shoulder to cry on is more what I need.”

  Gabi reached across the pile of papers and patted my hand. “I got one of those for you too.”

  “OK.” I centered the cup in its saucer. “I’ve got some pictures to show you. Prepare yourself.”

  “I’m prepared already, don’t worry about me.”

  But she drew in a sharp gasp as she peered at the first photo on my phone. “Dios mío! What happened to him?”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon I pedaled up Cliff, then dismounted and walked my bike up El Balcon. The air was gauzy and hushed, as if time was taking a siesta. A gold mist hung over the Pacific, and only one dreamy island, Santa Cruz, was visible on the horizon.

  When I reached the bottom of my drive, Dexter hopped partway down to me. As usual, he was beside himself with airheaded joy. Ever since he’d lost a leg, the little cow dog hadn’t been able to negotiate the steepness of El Balcon. He was forced to wait at home like a bored house-spouse, pining for my return.

  “Hey boy, what’s for dinner tonight?”

  “I’m asking you,” he barked back.

  I left the Schwinn in the breezeway between the house and the studio. Dex gave me a loving nip on the heel as I unlocked the front door of my humble abode and passed through to the kitchen. I would get no peace until His Lordship got what he asked for, so I measured kibble into his bowl, then added his favorite topping from a can in the fridge. I spoiled him these days, and Dex took full advantage of my weakness.

  When the cow dog had scarfed down the lot, which took about fifteen seconds, he and I went back outside and over to the studio. This was our nightly ritual.

  I unlocked the door to Brodie’s place. As always, my brother’s presence—his spirit, I sometimes believed—rose to meet me. “Hi, Brodie,” I murmured.

  Dexter shot past me and clambered onto the bed, his customary spot. Mine was the Papasan chair facing the window.

  Brodie’s remains rested in a carved wooden box I kept in my bedroom, on the dresser. But this is where he truly resided, here in the studio, with all his boyhood things. Lately, though, I’d felt my brother had a roommate: Danny Armenta, the boy who’d stayed here before he was murdered. Danny’s baseball cap, Santa Barbara Dons, hung from a hook on the wall.

  “Brod, it was rough today.” I leaned back in the chair, tucked up my feet, and closed my eyes. “This kid Skye—he really suffered. I can’t get it out of my mind.” I let myself picture the young man, his slumped form wrapped in the long translucent tentacles, his dreadlocks floating like golden cords around his head.

  Brodie never answered me. But he listened, somehow. He listened and accepted whatever I said … as long as it was true.

  My brother was thirty-two when he died: mentally ill, homeless, and alone in the Santa Barbara city jail. I blamed myself. I’d ignored Brodie’s overtures for years, convinced he was just using me for money to buy weed. His phone calls were pleas for help, but I was too closed-off and self-absorbed to comprehend.

  Finally, his desperation was so apparent that even I understood. I moved down to Santa Barbara, bought 12 El Balcon, and filled the studio with my brother’s childhood belongings in an effort to get him to join me. Somehow, I was too late.

  Brodie had visited one day, stuck his head in the door and taken a look. He’d smiled wistfully and thanked me—but he never moved in.

  “Did you stop trusting me, Brod? Was that it? Can’t say I blame you.”

  My brother was in and out of jail by that time, pushing the well-oiled revolving door between homelessness and incarceration. My efforts to help him were either too forceful and strident, or too weak and off the mark. I never seemed to get it right. And in the end, love wasn’t enough. My beloved brother hanged himself in his cell.

  I must have dozed. After all, I’d been up since five. When I woke, the sun had rolled over the horizon, and every object in the room had turned to soft ash.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, just before coffee time, Gabi poked her head in through the kitchenette doorway. Her face wore a solemn expression. “Miss Jaymie. There’s a man here to see you.”

  My mind had sunk so deep in the hog’s wallow of paperwork that I hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard a thing. I set down my pen and pushed back the chair. “Who is it?”

  “His name is Steven Steinbach.”

  “Steinbach?” I frowned. Three days had passed since I’d witnessed Skye Rasmussen in his watery grave, and I’d only been comforted by the fact that I would have nothing more to do with the matter. Now it looked as if I might be wrong.

  I stepped through into the main room. “Mr. Steinbach?”

  “Steven Steinbach.”

  The man had left the door open, and his figure was illuminated from behind while his face was in shadow. He wore gray slacks and a tight cranberry-red polo shirt. I couldn’t see him very well, but one thing was certain: this person was kin to Skye. His body was lithe and strong, the planes of his face proportioned, handsome.

  “Jaymie Zarlin.” I stepped forward and extended my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he did the same.

  Steven Steinbach looked very much like Skye, though he had straight black hair and folded eyelids. He didn’t share Skye’s last name, but still, the resemblance was uncanny, and I felt I should ask. “Are you Skye’s father, Mr. Steinbach?”

  He frowned. “Uncle. Was, of course. Past tense. Melanie’s my sister.”

  The emphatic “was” surprised me. It seemed harsh. I knew from experience that relatives use the present tense for some time when they speak of the deceased, before they are ready to let them go. But Uncle Steve was ahead of the curve.

  “I’m so sorry for what happened to your nephew.”

  “Yeah, it was”—he frowned again, with a quick knit of his brows—“it was bad.”

  “Did you—go to the aquarium?”

  “No. None of us went, except Dad. He handled it his own way, as usual.” He shrugged. “‘Handling it’ is my father’s term for running the show.”

  I remained silent. Just what did Steven Steinbach want from me?

  “Miss Jaymie?” Gabi jumped into the lull. “Why don’t you sit in my desk chair. Mr. Steinbach can sit in the hot—I mean, in the visitor’s chair. I got some work to do in the kitchen.”

  She’d nearly offered the man the hot seat. I smiled to myself. Then I shot her a warning glance, which meant: don’t you dare organize my papers.

  Gabi smiled knowingly in reply, walked through and pulled the door shut.

  “Mr. Steinbach, please sit down. Tell me, how can I help you?”

  He looked down at the chair, as if resisting an urge to brush it off. But he restrained himself and sat, draping one long leg over the other. “I’m here for my si
ster Melanie, and for Dave, her husband. Skye’s parents.” He started to say something more, then stopped.

  I pulled Gabi’s chair around from behind the desk, and sat facing him. “This has to be difficult,” I tried again.

  “It’s harder than it should be, because as usual, Dad’s standing in the way. What exactly did you do for my father?”

  Rod Steinbach had just paid me eleven hundred bucks to keep quiet. As far as I knew, that included not talking to his family. “Not much. I think he just wanted an unprejudiced eye to look at the scene. It was extremely difficult for him, you know. Seeing his grandson like that.”

  “Yes, I guess it was.” He shrugged, then glanced over at me. “Look. I have my own take on things, obviously. But Dad loved Skye. I’m sure it was hard.”

  I nodded and said nothing. The family’s dynamics were none of my business, and I didn’t want to get drawn in.

  “But this is much worse for my sister and brother-in-law,” Steven continued. “Melanie can’t think straight. Dave’s slightly better, not much.” He shifted his leg and examined his charcoal sock.

  “You know, the police found Skye’s cell in his truck. He sent a text to a friend at 5:17, saying he’d be at the beach around six.”

  “Steven, I don’t want to cut you off. But why are you telling me this? Your dad hired me and paid me. End of story.”

  “Like I said, I’m here for my sister.” He raised his manicured hands, let them fall on the arms of the chair. “Dad has decided Skye’s death was an accident. And now the police are agreeing with him. But Skye was an athlete, right? A top-notch surfer, plus he pretty much played every sport the school had to offer. Dave and Melanie find it hard to believe Skye fell accidentally into that tank.”

  I’d promised myself I’d keep my distance. But I now began to break that pledge. “Do you think it’s possible your nephew committed suicide?”

  “What—did Skye kill himself?” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine why. He was everybody’s favorite. A real golden boy, you know? Not perfect, but a pretty decent kid. And let me tell you, he was never depressed. Never.”