Page 3 of Nightshade

“Technically, yeah. But he was stealing the gun. His own gun. He didn’t bring it with him.”

“And you believe that?”

“I do because the victim—his ex—acknowledged in an interview I conducted that she had his gun and wouldn’t give it back after she kicked him out. Her statement is in there.”

“I didn’t see that yet. I just started looking at the file.”

That told Stilwell she hadn’t done her homework the night before at the ZG. “Well, you’ll get to it. I’ll let you read and I’ll see how the judge is doing.”

What Stilwell really wanted to do was execute the search warrant Harrell had signed. He went back over to the sheriff’s side of the building and saw Ralph Lampley in the bullpen, eating a blueberry muffin at the desk he shared with the other deputies. Lampley had the longest-running assignment to the Catalina substation. This was because the sheriff’s department had deemed him a liability in high-crime districts on the mainland. Though only twenty-eight years old, he had already been involved in two shooting deaths while on patrol in mainland Los Angeles County. Both had drawn wrongful-death lawsuits, currently being litigated, in which tens of millions of dollars were at stake. The department had cleared him in internal investigations because to do otherwise would make the lawsuits indefensible, so Lampley was allowed to keep his badge but was transferred to the Catalina Island unit, where it was thought he’d likely keep his weapon holstered. The rumor was that as soon as the lawsuits were adjudicated or settled, he would be fired.

“Lamp, why aren’t you out and about?” Stilwell asked.

“Because frickin’ Fernando didn’t bother charging my wheels,” Lampley said. “So I’m waiting for at least a half a charge before I hit the street.”

He was talking about the electric UTV cart he shared with the night-shift deputy. Normally, Stilwell would have been annoyed with Angel Fernando for failing to charge the cart when he’d finished his shift that morning. It was the third time this month. Fernando was the newest import from the mainland, where they didn’t patrol in electric golf carts, and he had a habit of forgetting to charge at the end of shift. Instead of dwelling on Fernando’s lack of attention to the routines of his job, Stilwell saw an opportunity to get himself out of the station.

“Okay, then, can you finish up there and handle court this morning?” he asked Lampley. “I’ve got to go serve a search warrant, and I need someone to take Kermit into court once the judge is on the bench.”

Lampley spoke with his mouth full of muffin. “Yeah, I can do that,” he said. “Is that warrant for the mutilation case?”

“Yes,” Stilwell said. “But keep it to yourself.”

“Cool. You go, Sarge. I can handle court.”

“Shouldn’t take long. Once you get a decent charge, check with the judge and see if he wants a ride back to his boat after court.”

“Will do.”

Stilwell left the sub, making a mental note to remind Fernando once again to leave the patrol cart charging at the end of shift. As the detective sergeant assigned to the Avalon substation, Stilwell was the commanding officer on the island. With that distinction came a host of administrative and scheduling duties he reluctantly accepted. Having to remind a veteran deputy to plug in his golf cart at the end of his shift was not one of his favorites.

2

STILWELL DROVE OUTto the industrial district south of town. Next to the desalination plant was a warren of warehouses, among them the cart barn used by Island Mystery Tours. The main garage door was open and Stilwell parked the Gator in front of it so no vehicle could leave. A man in a greasy blue jumpsuit stepped out of the shadows of one of the cart bays, and Stilwell guessed he had probably been sleeping back there. His hair was matted on one side. He looked as though he had not shaved in a week, and the bloodshot eyes behind his glasses indicated he was hungover.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

“I’m Sergeant Stilwell with the sheriff’s office,” Stilwell said. “I have a search warrant for these premises.”

“Search warrant? What the fuck?”

“What’s your name, sir?”

The man pointed to an oval patch on the left side of his jumpsuit. “Henry.”

“Henry what?”

“Gaston.”

“Well, Henry, here is the warrant, and I’m going to need you to step aside and let me enter the premises.”

Stilwell handed him the document signed earlier by the judge. Gaston held the paper at arm’s length to read it, even though he was wearing glasses.

“Says you’re looking for animal blood,” he said. “That’s crazy. Ain’t no blood here.”

“Either way, I’m going to search,” Stilwell said. “The judge signed and authorized it this morning.”

“You’re that new guy they put in charge at the substation, huh?”

---