Page 19 of The Perfect Betrayal

“What time is it?” she wanted to know.

“About 5:25,” he said. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“I’m still a little foggy,” she told him.

“Do you think this is because of the pill you took last night?”

“I definitely do,” she said.

“Are you able to have a conversation with the guy?” he asked, worried.

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t say, but from his tone and the early hour, I’m guessing there’s been a development in your case.”

“Put the phone to my ear,” she requested. Once he did, she spoke, trying to sound clear-headed. “This is Hunt. What’s up?”

“You took your sweet time,” Riddell said sharply. Hearing his voice, she had a vision of jamming the knife in his skull for real.

“Why are you calling me at 5:25 A.M., Detective,” she demanded, hoping her tone was appropriately authoritative.

Apparently it was, because his answer was straightforward.

“There’s been another murder,” he said. “A body was found on a boat drifting off the coast near El Segundo. But the boat’s slip is registered out of King Harbor. That’s where they’re towing it.”

“All right,” she said, rolling over onto her back. “It’s going to take me a bit to get squared away. I’ll meet you down at the harbor as soon as I can.”

“No need,” he replied tersely. “I’m on my way to pick you up. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Meet me out front.”

It took her another moment to realize that he’d hung up.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Despite Jessie’s best efforts, she’d fallen asleep in the car.

“Hunt,” Riddell barked, “we’re here.”

Her eyes snapped open to find that they were pulling into the yacht club parking lot. The sun was just starting to come up. She glanced at the clock on Riddell’s dashboard. It read 6:06 A.M. She was surprised he’d let her sleep the whole way here.

She sat up, trying to force her brain to uncloud. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working. She didn’t feel that much more alert than when she’d been ripped from her nightmare earlier.

“What do we know?” she asked, not only because she wanted the information but because it would give her more time to clear her head while he talked.

"Not much more than before," he said as he parked. "They were bringing the boat back down here from where they found it. I assume they're back by now. It was another sailboat. The victim was male. That's all I was told. But I see the medical examiner and crime scene unit folks are here already, so hopefully we can get some answers."

Through sticky eyes, Jessie took note of the M.E. and CSU vans, also parked in the lot. Riddell got out of the driver’s seat, and she slowly did the same, praying that the detective would attribute her deliberate movement to the nap she’d just taken and not the medication that had her synapses misfiring.

“Shall we go check it out?” she asked.

He nodded, and she let him lead the way. Considering that she was having trouble blinking the muck and sleep out of her eyes, she couldn't clearly determine where they were going and kept her focus on the man in front of her. He was walking too fast for her taste, but unsure if he was rushing or she was too slow, she said nothing.

She took a deep breath of the salt air, hoping it would empty out the cobwebs. They were about to be studying a crime scene and a murder victim. She needed to be in better shape for that than she was right now. Unfortunately, she suspected she only had a couple of minutes to force the change in clarity. She wasn’t optimistic.

It didn't even take that long to get there. Less than sixty seconds later, Riddell suddenly stopped moving. She almost bumped into the back of him but managed to avoid a collision by stepping to the left at the last moment.

She grabbed a dock post to steady herself as she surveyed the scene. There were already multiple people on the boat, which was a little smaller than Peterson’s. She counted at least four CSU techs, as well as Dr. Tran, the M.E. from yesterday. For the first time, she noticed Oliver Stanton standing on the dock near Riddell.

"Who's the dead guy?" Riddell asked the yacht club's executive director, without a trace of empathy. Jessie would have mentally chided him for it, but if the victim was anything like Daran Peterson, she might have trouble finding much herself.

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