“ Stole from who?”
“ His hookups in L.A.”
“ How do you know this?”
“ Because we were dude-bros.”
“ And dude-bros tell each other everything?”
“ Most certainly,” he said. He wiped his eyes, and you couldn’t help but feel for the pathetic pothead. “The Interceptor needed massive repairs.”
“ The Interceptor?”
“ The rig, man. The boat Mitch used to stop the fucking finners. Like a fucking superhero. The Interceptor needed repairs and Mitch skimmed some of the money. He was going to pay them back…”
“ But he didn’t.”
“ He asked for more time.”
“ But they didn’t give it.”
He shook his head. “They wasted a good man. He was doing the right thing, you know. Helping the little guys.”
Ryan drank deeply from his beer, which, I was certain, would only add to his melancholy.
“ I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Any idea who might have wasted him?”
“ The drug lords, man. The big guys.”
“ The big guys,” I said.
Ryan nodded and finished his beer, and sat back on his backless stool. After a short while, I left a $20 bill on the bar, well away from Ryan, clapped the stoner on the shoulder, and headed out to my own little guy.
Chapter Thirty-five
I was in Detective Hansen’s office in Huntington Beach.
He was leaning back with his feet crossed at one corner of his desk. His ankles were tan in a way that suggested artificial lighting. He wore thick-soled loafers that could have been hand-stitched. I doubted these were regulation shoes. Cops in Huntington Beach were rebels.
Hansen was nodding. “Makes sense. All signs were pointing to a drug hit on our end, too,” he said. A file, now a good deal thicker than the file I had seen earlier, was open on his lap. The pages were held in place by folded prongs. Hansen lifted one of the pages absently.
“ There were rumors of a drug hit at first,” he said. “But his girlfriend was adamant that it had been these shark hunters.”
“ She claimed Mitch was threatened by one of them.”
“ Right,” said Sanchez. “Except most of these illegal shark hunters, according to you and according to my pals at the DFG-”
“ Your dude-bros?”
“ My what?”
“ Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”
Hansen stared at me for three seconds, then shook his head. “Anyway, it appears most of these illegal shark hunters, or finners, are poor Mexicans simply venturing deeper into American waters.”
“ Hardly an organized group.”
He nodded. “Exactly. And from what I understand, Mitch and his boys used their boat to give these hunters hell, harassing them, cutting lines, and generally chasing them off.”
“ Admirable,” I said, “and certainly likely to warrant a threat from one or two of them.”
“ So one of the Mexican fishermen waves his fist angrily at Mitch and his boys, and his girlfriend thinks that’s motive.”
“ Something like that,” I said.
“ Except what’s more likely is that this was a drug hit, especially in light of your latest evidence.”
“ Ryan Wiseman,” I said. “The dude-bro.”
“ We’ve talked to him, too, now. His statement’s on record and it jives with everything else we’ve been hearing. Witness after witness claim that Mitch Golden was skimming money for The Cause.”
“ Like they say,” I said. “You can lose a shipment or even get caught by the police, but just don’t steal from them.”
“ Stealing is a death wish.”
We were both silent, both meditative. Two broheims contemplating life, drugs, and everything in-between. “So where does this leave us?” said Hansen.
“ We technically still have an unsolved murder,” I said.
“ Except we have a likely idea who did it.”
“ Drug hit.”
Hansen nodded. “To find out who ordered the hit would take massive man power. Would take more man power than we have available. And in the end…”
“ In the end,” I said, “he was just another drug dealer.”
“ A drug dealer and a thief, from all appearance.”
“ A thief who helped the little guys.”
Hansen uncrossed his golden ankles and sat forward in his slightly squeaky chair. “I’m closing this file.”
“ Figured you would,” I said.
“ I mean, officially it’s open. But unofficially, it’s dead in the water.”
“ Fitting choice of words.”
Hansen asked, “You still working for his girlfriend?”
“ I am.”
“ What will you do?”
“ I’ll talk with her,” I said.
Chapter Thirty-six
We were sitting on a bench at Mile Square Park in Fountain Valley.
Junior was on a leash and sniffing near the bench. Whenever a jogger came by, he huddled between my legs and sometimes lost control of his bladder. Heidi Mann was sitting next to me. She was wearing big sunglasses, unflattering shorts and a Dodger baseball cap. Although I couldn’t see her eyes, I knew she was following Junior’s every move. I had spent the past fifteen minutes catching her up to date. The story had naturally come around to Junior and his captivity.
Now we were sitting quietly, and Heidi had a renewed interest in Junior who was now sniffing the hell out of a big, lumpy bird crap.
“ How are his paws?” she finally asked.
“ Mostly healed. Same with his muzzle.”
“ How’s he eating?”
“ Normally enough. Big healthy craps, too, if that’s any indication.”
She smiled. Her first smile. “Good to know.”
“ He’s scared of strangers, especially men, and as you might have noticed, it took him a little while to warm up, even to you.”
“ Do you blame him?”
“ Not one bit.”
“ He might have issues for the rest of his life.”
“ I have no doubt,” I said.
