Twenty-Five
Marina Del Rey is just a stone’s throw away from Venice Beach, near the mouth of the Ballona Creek. It’s one of the largest man-made small-boat harbors in the United States, and home to nineteen marinas. It can hold up to 5,300 boats.
Even at that time of night, with sirens and flashing police lights, it took them forty-five minutes to overcome the traffic and cross from the PAB to the harbor. Garcia drove.
They made a left into Tahiti Way, and took the fourth right to reach the parking lot just behind the New World Cinema, where several police vehicles were blocking the walkway access to Dock A-1000 in Marina Harbor. A large crowd had already gathered around the police perimeter. News vans, reporters and photographers seemed to be everywhere. To get closer Garcia had to slowly zigzag around all the cars and blast his siren at several pedestrians.
As they stooped under the crime-scene tape, the officer in charge approached them.
‘Are you from Homicide?’ The officer was in his late forties, about five eight, with a shaved head and a thick mustache. He spoke with a husky voice, as if he was fighting off a cold.
Hunter and Garcia nodded and showed the officer their credentials. He acknowledged them and turned to face the walkway access. ‘Follow me. The boat in question is the last one all the way to the left.’ He started walking towards it.
Hunter and Garcia followed.
The lampposts that lit the long walkway were few and far between, shrouding the whole path with shadows.
‘I’m Officer Rogers with the West Bureau. My partner and I were first at the scene,’ the officer continued. ‘We were responding to a 911 call. Apparently somebody had their stereo on full volume for quite a while, blasting out loud heavy-metal music. Someone from one of the neighboring boats decided to go knocking to ask if the music could be turned down. She knocked, got no reply, so she boarded the boat. The lights were off, but the cabin was lit up by a few candles. Like setting the mood for a romantic dinner, you know what I mean?’ Rogers shook his head. ‘Poor woman, she ended up walking into the worst nightmare of her life.’ He paused and ran a hand over his mustache. ‘Why would anyone do something like that to another human being? That’s the sickest fucking shit I’ve ever seen, and I’ll tell you, I’ve seen some disgusting crap in my life.’
‘She . . . ?’ Hunter asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You said
‘Oh yeah. Name is Leanne Ashman, twenty-five years old. Her boyfriend owns that yacht right there.’ He pointed to a large white-and-blue boat. The name on its freeboard read
‘Boyfriend not around?’ Hunter asked.
‘He is now. He’s with her in his yacht. Don’t worry, there’s an officer with them.’
‘Did you talk to her?’
‘Yeah, but just to get the gist of what happened. Better if I leave that kind thing to you Homicide dicks.’
‘So she was on her boyfriend’s boat alone?’ Garcia asked.
‘Yep. She was preparing a romantic dinner – candlelight, champagne, soft music, you know what I’m talking about? He was coming over later tonight.’
They reached the last boat. Crime-scene tape blocked the entrance to the walkway plank leading onboard. Three other officers were hanging around the area. Hunter read the expression on their faces as pure anger.
‘Who turned off the music?’ Hunter asked.
‘What?’
‘You said that there was loud heavy-metal music playing. There’s none now. Who turned it off?’
‘I did,’ Rogers replied. ‘The stereo’s remote control was on a chair by the cabin door. And don’t worry, I didn’t touch it. I used my flashlight to press the button.’
‘Good work.’
‘By the way, the song was on a loop – track number three on the CD. I noticed it before turning it off.’
‘The song was on a loop?’
‘That’s right, playing over and over again.’
‘And you’re sure it was only one song, not the entire CD?’
‘That’s what I said. Song number three.’ Rogers shook his head again. ‘I hate rock music. The devil’s soundtrack, if you ask me.’
Garcia looked at Hunter and gave him a slight shrug. He knew how much his partner enjoyed rock music.
Rogers adjusted his cap. ‘So, who would you like us to allow up here?’
Hunter and Garcia frowned.
‘Forensics, of course, but anyone else? Any other detectives?’
Hunter subtly shook his head. ‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Well, soon this place will be heaving with angry cops.’
Confusion was still stamped across both detectives’ faces.
‘The victim,’ Rogers explained. ‘His name was Andrew Nashorn. He was one of us. He was an LAPD cop.’
Twenty-Six
Hunter and Garcia slipped on a brand new pair of latex gloves and plastic shoe covers. They both pulled out their Maglites before crossing the gangplank onto the boat. As they boarded, Hunter paused and looked around the deck. He saw no footprints, no blood drippings or splatters, no signs of any struggle.
Garcia was already on the phone to the Operations office, requesting that a basic file on Andrew Nashorn be sent to his cellphone. A more detailed file could wait until later.
From starboard, where he was standing, Hunter could see more police vehicles with flashing lights arriving at the parking lot. Rogers was right, there was nothing that would rattle a police officer in the United States more than a cop-killer. Police bureaus in LA had their differences, sometimes even a little rivalry. Some departments didn’t really care for each other, and some of their detectives and officers didn’t see eye to eye. But every cop, every department, every bureau would come together like the closest of families whenever someone with a badge was murdered. Rage would spread through every police station in Los Angeles like celebrity gossip in Hollywood.
‘If this really is the same killer,’ Garcia said, coming off his cell. ‘The shit will hit the
Garcia was right, and Hunter also knew that the pressure on them and their investigation, and the need for answers, was about to increase a hundredfold. As he turned towards the boat’s cabin, he heard footsteps coming from the boardwalk outside.
‘I came as fast as I could,’ Doctor Hove said, flashing her credentials at the three officers at the foot of the gangplank. Before boarding, she too slipped on a pair of latex gloves and shoe covers. ‘What have we got? Does it really look like the work of the same perp?’ She pulled her loose chestnut hair back and tied it up in a ponytail before tucking it under a surgical cap she’d retrieved from her bag.
