Page 71 of Stone Coast
I called the PBPD and got the automated system.
“Thank you for calling the Pineapple Bay Police Department. Please listen carefully as our menu options have changed. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1. If you are calling to report a crime not currently in progress, you may file a report online or in person during normal business hours. If you are calling about parking tickets, moving violations, or other administrative issues, please call back during regular business hours or visit our website. For non-emergencies, please leave a message with your name, phone number, and a brief description of your issue, and someone will return your call as soon as possible.”
I didn’t leave a message. I figured I’d call Scarborough at a reasonable hour, though I didn’t want to talk to him.
The sun would be cresting the horizon soon. I tried to get some sleep, but I was pretty amped up. I kept the pistol nearby as I slept.
The boat gently rocked with the waves, and a light breeze drifted through the open windows.
I managed to get a few hours of sleep, then pulled myself out of bed and fixed breakfast in the galley. I chowed downon blueberry waffles smothered in maple syrup and butter. They’d leave me hungry again in an hour, but I had a craving for them. After all, I’d been through, I felt like indulging myself. I deserved it.
After I ate, I dialed Detective Dickhead.
"Savannah Stone, I was just thinking about you. It seems there’s been an interesting turn in your case. Where are you right now?”
“On my boat. Why?”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
34
Scarborough arrived at the boat with two uniformed officers. They had their weapons drawn—never a good sign.
I had been waiting for Scarborough in the cockpit. “What’s going on?”
“Step ashore,” Detective Dickhead commanded. “You’re under arrest.”
My brow wrinkled. “What!?”
“You heard me. Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Keep your hands in the air and don’t make any sudden movements.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I asked, my eyes flicking between the eager barrels aimed at me.
“Step ashore. You’re under arrest for the murder of Carter Wallace.”
“What!? Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t make us come get you.”
I crossed the transom to the dock.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Scarborough demanded.
I complied, and he ratcheted the cold steel around my wrists and wasn’t too gentle about it.
He handed me off to the other officers, then snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and took my pistol from my holster. He checked the safety and read me my rights as the officers escorted me down the dock to the parking lot.
A few neighbors took in the scene. I’d be the talk of the marina, if I wasn’t already.
“Will you at least lock up my boat?”
The other officers boarded the boat and searched it.
Scarborough ignored me as he stuffed me into the back of a patrol car. A uniformed officer drove me to the station, where I was processed, printed, and put into an interrogation room.
