McCone And Friends

“You’re sure he owns it?”

“Yes. I knew the former owners. Gene and Alice Farrar-nice people, too, but that big house was too much for them, so they sold it and bought one of those condos. They told me Winslip paid cash.”

Cash? Such a place would go for many hundreds of thousands. “What about his roommate? Do you also know him?”

The old man leered at me. “Roommate? Is that what you call them these days? Well, he’s a she. The ladies come and go over there, but none’re very permanent. This last one, I’d say she’s been there eight, nine weeks?”

“Do you know her name?”

He shook his head. “She’s a good-looking one, though-long red hair, kind of willowy.”

“And do you know what either she or Mr. Winslip do for a living?”

“Not her, no. and if he does anything, he’s never talked about it. I suspect he inherited his money. He’s home a lot, when he’s not sailing his boat.”

“Where does he keep his boat?”

“Glorietta Bay Marina, over on Coronado.” The man frowned now, wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “What’s this about, anyway?”

“Troy Winslip’s been murdered, and I’m investigating it.”

“What?”

“You didn’t read about it in the paper?”

“I don’t bother with the paper. Don’t watch TV either. With my arthritis, I’m miserable enough; I don’t need other humans’ misery heaped on top of that.”

“You’re a wise man,” I told him, and hurried back to where I‘d left the Scout.

Glorietta Bay Marina sits at the top of the Silver Strand, catty-corner from the Victorian towers of the Hotel Del Coronado. It took me more than half an hour to get there from Point Loma, and when I drove into the parking lot, I spotted John leaning against his motorcycle. He waved and started toward me.

I pulled into a space and jumped out of the Scout. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice way to greet somebody who’s helping you out. While you were futzing around at the police department and Troy’s place, I went over to State. Talked with his adviser. She says he dropped out after one semester.”

“So how did that lead you here?”

“The adviser sails, and she sees him here off and on. He owns a boat, the Windsong.”

“And I suppose you’ve already checked it out?”

“No, but I did talk with the marina manager. He says he’ll let us go aboard if you show him your credentials and release from Bryce and Mari.”

“Good work,” I said grudgingly. “You know,” I added as we started walking toward the manager’s office, “it’s odd that Troy would berth the boat here.”

“Why?”

“He lived on Point Loma, not far from the Shelter Island yacht basin. Why would he want to drive all the way around the bay and across the Coronado Bridge when he could have berthed her within walking distance of his house?”

“No slips available over there? No, that can’t be – I’ve heard the marina’s going hungry in this economy.”

“Interesting, huh? And wait till you hear what else-” I stopped in my tracks and glared at him. “Dammit, you’ve done it again!”

“Done what? I didn’t do anything! What did I do?”

“You know exactly what you’ve done.”

John’s smile was smug.

I sighed. “All right, other half of the ‘detecting duo’-lead me to the manager.”

My unwanted assistant and I walked along the outer pier toward the Windsong’s slip. The only sounds were the cries of seabirds and the rush of traffic on the Strand. Our footsteps echoed on the aluminum walkways and set them to bucking on a slight swell. No one was around this Wednesday morning except for a pair of artists sketching near the office; the boats were buttoned up tightly, their sails furled in the sea-blue covers. Troy Winslip’s yawl was a big one, some thirty feet. I crossed the plank and stepped aboard; John followed.

“Wonder where he got his money,” he said. “Bryce and Mari’re well off, but not wealthy.”

“I imagine he had his ways.” I tried the companionway door and found it locked.

“What now?” my brother asked. “Standing around on deck isn’t going to tell us anything.”

“No.” I felt through my bag and came up with my set of lock picks.

John’s eyes widened. “Aren’t those illegal?”

“Not strictly.” I selected one with a serpentine tip and began probing the lock. “It’s a misdemeanor to posses lock picks with intent to feloniously break and enter. However, since I intend to break and enter with permission from the deceased owner’s next of kin, we’re in kind of a gray area here.”

John looked nervously over his shoulder. “I don’t think cops recognize gray areas.”

“For God’s sake, do you see any cops?” I selected a more straight-topped pick and resumed probing.

“Where’d you get those?” John asked.

“An informant of mine made them for me; he even etched my initials on the finger holds. Wiley ‘the Pick’ Pulaski. He’s currently doing four-to-six for burglary.”

“My little sister, consorting with known criminals.”

“Well, Wiley wasn’t exactly known when I was consorting with him. Good informants can’t keep a high profile, you know.” I turned the lock with a quick flick of my wrist. It yielded, and I removed the pick and opened the door. “After you, big brother.”

The companionway opened into the main cabin-a compactly arranged space with a galley along the right bulkhead and a seating area along the left. I began a systematic search of the lockers but came up with nothing interesting. When I turned, I found John sitting at the navigator’s station, studying the instruments.

“Big help you are,” I told him. “Get up; you’re blocking the door to the rear cabin.”

He stood, and I squeezed around him and went inside.

The rear cabin had none of the teak-and-brass accoutrements of the main; in fact, it was mostly unfinished. The portholes were masked with heavy fabric, and the distinctive odor of marijuana was enough to give me a contact high. I hadn’t experienced its like since the dope-saturated seventies in Berkeley.

John, who cultivated a small crop in his backyard, smelled it, too. “So, that’s what pays the mortgage!”

“Uh-huh.” My eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, but not fast enough. “You see a flashlight anyplace?”

He went away and came back with one. I flicked it on and shined it around. The cabin was tidy, the smell merely a residue of the marijuana that had been stored there, but crumbled bits of grass littered the floor. I handed John the flashlight, pulled an envelope from my bag, and scraped some of the waste matter into it. Then I moved forward, scrutinizing every surface. Toward the rear under the sharp cant of the bulkhead, I found a dusting of white powder. After I tasted it, I scraped it into a second envelope.

“Coke, too?” John asked.

“You got it.”

“Mari and Bryce aren’t going to like this. They thought he’d kicked his habit.”

“He wasn’t just feeding a habit here, John. Or dealing on a small scale. He was distributing, bringing it in on this boat in a major way.”

“Yeah.” He fell silent, staring grimly at the littered floor. “So what’re you going to do-call the cops?”