Page 51 of Nightshade

“I want your permission to search your boat. If you give me that, I won’t need a warrant.”

Colbrink stared hard at Stilwell as he made a decision.

“And when do you want to do this?”

“I’d like to do it tonight,” Stilwell said. “I know it’s late, but a murder case is like a shark—if it stops, it dies.”

Colbrink nodded that he understood.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t have to come,” Stilwell said. “I just need your written permission and—”

“Of course I’m coming. I’m not going to let anybody tromp around on that boat without eyes on them. I’ll drive, you follow.”

“That’s okay, sir. If you’re going, I’ll ride with you.”

Stilwell figured it was a half hour to Marina del Rey at this time of night. He knew that riding together meant a drive back to Malibu to pick up the Bronco, but he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to continue the conversation with a Black Marlin Club insider.

“No, you drive,” Colbrink said. “I want to ride in that Bronco. If I like it, I’ll make you an offer you won’t be able to refuse.”

“That’s unlikely, sir.”

“We’ll see. Let’s go.”

Colbrink stood up, ending the discussion.

18

THE CALIFORNIA YACHTClub was a vast complex of docks where the wealthiest of the wealthy kept their water toys. It was one of several private marinas that shared the inlet that was Marina del Rey. There were thousands of boats of all sizes and shapes. Without Colbrink, Stilwell would have had difficulty accessing the CYC dock grid and then locating theEmerald Sea. Colbrink’s insistence on coming along saved time and confusion.

It had taken them forty minutes to get there from Malibu, due to nighttime roadwork on the Pacific Coast Highway. During the drive Colbrink talked about his life and work, seemingly no longer bothered by Stilwell’s intrusion on his evening.

Colbrink had been an attorney who handled high-end mergers of businesses with nine-figure valuations. He’d retired early and now put his own money into mergers, and he’d built a life that included mansions and sailing yachts on both sides of the country. Like his father before him, he was an active member of the Black Marlin Club, for which he felt a sentimental love. He lamented the damage that a murder tied to the club might do to its reputation.

“I know it’s an anachronism, but my father was a member andhis father before him,” he said. “And I don’t even fish—I sail. But I love the place and would hate to see its name splashed across the headlines in connection to a tawdry murder.”

“Well, we’re a long way from that,” Stilwell said.

For the rest of the drive, he thought about Colbrink dismissing the murder of a woman who had been wrapped in a bag and weighted down with an anchor as tawdry. It was clear that on his hilltop in Malibu, he was sequestered from many harsh and violent realities.

The guard at the CYC gate waved the Bronco through once he identified Colbrink in the passenger seat. They parked in the empty lot and headed down a gangway to the grid of docks lined with lights at every slip.

“How long will this take?” Colbrink asked. “You want to check the sail bags and the anchor. What else?”

“Depends,” Stilwell said. “When you were over there this past weekend, did you stay on the boat?”

“I did, yes.”

“By yourself?”

“Uh, no. I had someone with me.”

“Your wife.”

“No.”

Stilwell paused and waited.

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