Page 42 of The Perfect Betrayal

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

By the time Jessie and Riddell arrived at the club, the yacht was just pulling in.

Jessie mentally reviewed what she knew so far. They’d learned a little on the short drive over, but it was enough to get the basics. Robert Chandler had been murdered on his yacht. Oliver Stanton was the man who’d called it in. Apparently, he didn’t know how to pilot the vessel or swim, so the Coast Guard had been called in to help. That was all anyone knew so far.

Jessie used the rest of the drive to fill Riddell in on the plan that she’d proposed to Parker. She thought he might object to her making a command decision without his input, especially one that could impact his relationships in the tight-knit beach community where he worked. But to his credit, the detective seemed onboard, even enthused about it.

"I'm tired of getting the run-around," he said. "If this is what gets these punks into the station to finally answer some questions, I'm all for it."

Jessie silently shook her head at the contradiction of a man sitting beside her. She found Aaron Riddell to be generally objectionable. But she did admire one thing about him: he didn’t back down from a fight, even against the rich and powerful. He was about to pull into the club parking lot when Jessie remembered the news vans that Parker had mentioned.

“Park on the street,” she said quickly. “We don’t want to get swarmed by the media when we arrive.”

“Are you serious?” he said. “They care about the murders, not the people investigating them.”

It was all Jessie could do not to offer a sarcastic comeback. Riddell might never have been accosted by a reporter at a crime scene, but that was a typical day for her.

“I don’t want to sound arrogant here,” she said diplomatically, “but when they find out I’m involved, they’ll care. I’ve had so many high-profile cases in the last few years that when they see me, it’s like ratings catnip for them. They know the case is a big deal. There will be a feeding frenzy of coverage. The less we play into that, the better chance we have of solving this thing.”

“Okay,” Riddell said with a shrug as he parked down the block from the club. He was clearly still skeptical.

“And if you have a baseball cap, put it on when we walk over,” she recommended. “You don’t want them recognizing you.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I always come prepared,” she said, holding up the small backpack she’d brought with her for just such occasions. It had a cap and a windbreaker with a hoodie.

They got out and walked past the vans lining the street, then took the long way around to avoid the entrance to the club, where a phalanx of reporters and camera crews were set up. An officer near the access gate to the dock stiffened up as they approached until Riddell pulled up the brim of his cap. The officer clearly knew him and opened the gate without a fuss.

They reached the slip for Chandler’s boat, Wave Warrior, just as it was being tied off. They boarded it and showed their IDs to one of the Coast Guard officers who’d brought it in.

“Has Stanton said anything?” Riddell asked.

“Not much,” the officer replied. “And what he has said doesn’t make much sense. We think he either did this or is in shock.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t make sense?” Riddell pressed.

“He says a ghost killed the victim before jumping into the water.”

Jessie hadn't been expecting that one, and from Riddell's expression, neither had he.

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“He’s down below,” the officer said. “We cuffed him to a table as a precaution. Do you want to see him?”

“In a moment,” Jessie said. “Let’s take a look at the victim beforehand.”

The officer pointed at the cockpit.

“He’s on the other side of that,” he said. “We left him just as we found him.”

“Good,” Riddell said. “And let’s keep it that way until CSU and the medical examiner arrive.”

They walked over to get a better view. As they did, Jessie noted a trail of blood, which had pooled in a small indentation in the deck. They followed it to where Robert Chandler lay. His black hair was clumpy with blood, as if he’d rubbed tons of gel into it and forgot to use a brush afterward. His face looked like someone had spraypainted it with the red stuff. His brown eyes were frozen wide with shock.

Jessie tried to generate some empathy for the man but found it difficult. Based on what she knew about him, it sounded like the world might be better without him in it. She tried to shake that thought from her head, remembering that Chandler was technically the victim here.

A half-empty beer bottle rested on its side near his feet. He was on his back with bloodied hands at his sides. Jessie gathered they were that way because he’d tried to grab the bottom of the jagged, blood-slicked beer bottle that was currently jammed in his neck.

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