Page 8 of Water's Edge

“I’ll call from down there.” Mac approaches with a roll of yellow-and-black tape. “Thank you for helping. This is Reserve Deputy Ronnie Marsh.”

Ronnie offers her limp hand and he takes it long enough for it to drip through his fingers and says, “Nice to meet you.”

“She will be taking a statement from Mr. Boyd.”

I know Mac will gladly let Ronnie take the statement so he can avoid going to court or testifying. I don’t warn him that once Ronnie starts talking, there is no off switch. The witness is on his own.

I follow the trail through the trees again and stand at the top of the cliff. It’s about thirty or forty feet to the bottom. Rocks ranging in size from a football to a dinner table cover most of the beach. I scan for the body again, but I can’t see it from here. I turn around and start descending hand over hand, shoving the toes of my boots in any crack they can find. I get about ten feet from the top and look down again. Can’t help it. I don’t care for heights. I can’t even see the deputy. I start down again and don’t dare look anywhere but straight ahead. I hang on to the rope and try to lean away from the rock face like they taught in the academy.

“Watch out for…” a voice comes from below.

My foot picks that exact moment to find probably the only loose shale on the side of this cliff and I slip. Two things save me. There is a small sandy area where Deputy Davis is standing four or five feet below me.

And I land on top of him.

We look like a Jenga puzzle game, all arms and legs askew. The breath is knocked from me, and I can hear Deputy Davis grunting. He’d better not be enjoying himself. I roll off and he helps me up. He begins brushing the sand and dirt from the back of my jacket while I use my fingers to comb the sand out of my hair. He brushes the back of my butt and I move away.

I’m armed.

“I owe you one, Deputy Davis,” I say.

Actually, I owe him two—black eyes—if he touches me again.

“Not necessary, ma’am. I mean Detective Carpenter.”

Deputy Davis is a year younger than me. He has thick brown hair and a mustache that screams vintage porn star. Or maybe cop. Cop is much better. He’s not particularly overweight, but his stomach somehow manages to roll over his coaster-size buckle. He’s a good cop and a total pleaser as evidenced by his willingness and ability to make the climb down. I’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to break him of the habit of calling me “ma’am” and he tries. I have learned to accept it. He is being a gentleman. It’s the way he was raised. He explained to me that his mother taught him to call all ladies “ma’am” and all men “sir.”

My mother taught me to lie, manipulate, betray, and worse.

“Show me what we have, Deputy Davis,” I say. He likes to be called “Deputy.”

He climbs over some of the bigger rocks and I try to keep up. I can see the water lick at the rocks thirty feet away. I still don’t see a body. I wonder how Boyd saw a foot. I reposition myself on a large rock and look toward the water and I see it. A bare foot, ankle, and part of a lower leg. Toes pointing up.

We make our way closer until I can see the body. A woman. White. On her back in a small sandy area, a twenty-by-ten-foot stretch of beach. Her legs are pointed toward me, her head toward the cove. Her legs are spread with the rock between them. I look to the left and to the right. Boyd was correct: the rocks block any entrance to the body without going into the water. I will have to go over the rocks to get to the body. Or swim from the boat ramp.

I climb on top of another rock and look directly down on the body. Long reddish hair covers half of the face. My guess is she’s in her mid-twenties. Just as Robbie Boyd said, she’s wearing only a bra and panties. I look around but don’t see clothes. Her face is battered; her bottom lip split so much that I can see teeth through the cut. Dark, indented marks circle her wrists and ankles. A wider one encircles her slender neck. Her skin is light blue, but I see deeper blue or black marks on her torso.

It appears she’s been beaten or kicked.

I take out my cell phone and breathe in. I’ve got two bars. I’m tempted to call Ronnie and ask her to climb down. Instead, I call Captain Marvel of the Marine Patrol and advise him of the situation. It will take half an hour for the patrol to arrive.

I also phone Jerry Larsen, our coroner. Since he’s in his sixties, he won’t be able to make the climb. When he answers, I tell him to meet me at the boat ramp where Mac is parked. He can take the boat. I’d rather not get on the boat with Marvel.

“Do you have a camera, Deputy Davis?”

Davis reaches for his backpack and proffers a digital Nikon.

“Take all the pictures you can,” I tell him. “Some of where we climbed down and from there to where I’m at now. How high do you think that cliff is? Thirty feet? Forty?”

“Over thirty, ma’am.” He starts clicking away. He doesn’t have to be told to get close-ups or to tell me if he saw something unusual. Davis has worked crime scenes before.

“Captain Martin will want to take his own,” Davis reminds me, and I say nothing.

Captain Marvel can do whatever the hell he wants as long as he gets the body out without destroying evidence, and gets it someplace where I can get a better look. I always assume homicide until I know different.

Davis says what I’m thinking.

“I don’t think she was swimming.”

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