Page 56 of Murder on the Boardwalk

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The following day, Brent walked around the corner of the Sutter home to see Brogan and Lucien attempting to clean the red paint off their deck. “You guys are just a magnet for excitement these days.”

“Red paint doesn’t come off that easy,” Brogan moaned. “We’ve been out here all morning, but no matter how hard we scrub, there’s still an imprint of the wording.”

“Back off or die comes across nice and clear,” Brent noted, studying the faint red outline.

“Any word on the shoe prints?” Lucien wanted to know.

“We’re making progress with the retail stores in San Sebastian. No one in Pelican Pointe ever sold those shoes.”

“Did you talk to Jade?” Brogan asked. “She got a clear look at his face.”

“A sketch artist is coming from Santa Cruz at ten to get down all the details she can remember. By the way, I have it on good authority that Birk got wind of Jade’s ordeal and is on his way back to the States as we speak.”

Brogan cocked a brow. “Really? For a bump on the head? That sounds like he’s concerned.”

“I’d say more like in love,” Lucien added. “Where’d you get your information?”

“Beckett. He called Birk last night right after it happened. Birk hired a private jet out of Caracas that took off at three o’clock this morning.”

Brogan blotted the beads of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Wow. I’m impressed. The guy doesn’t mess around when he wants to get where he’s going in a hurry.”

“You’ll do anything for crazy love,” Lucien joked. “By the way, Brogan and I are headed to Santa Cruz to interview Tazzie’s ex-husband, Dennis Marshall. We’re meeting him at his office at eleven.”

“Mr. Marshall didn’t sound too excited to talk to us,” Brogan tossed out. “Lucien had to force the issue by threatening to include you in the matter.”

Brent’s eyebrows popped up. “A red flag to law enforcement. Say whatever you need to say to get this guy on record. We need to know where he was the night Gidget died.”

After watching the pair make several more attempts to get rid of the red paint, Brent cleared his throat. “Why don’t you guys hire professionals to do this? You may even need to repaint the house. Call the guys over at Tradewinds. They’ll send someone over this afternoon.”

“That fast? Sure. Why not?” Brogan murmured, dropping her scrub brush into the bucket of cleaning solution. “We’re not making any progress. And I need to prepare for the Dennis Marshall interview.”

“What’s to prepare for?” Lucien asked. “Straight, simple answers about where he was. That’s all we need.”

“I’m taking the old maps with us,” Brogan clarified. “To believe him, we need him to be very specific about that timeframe and where he hung out.”

“She’s got a point,” Brent said. “Not a bad approach, either. The maps might keep Marshall from bullshitting you about the week leading up to Gidget’s murder, especially if you lean on him for details. But know this. He’s not a nice guy. In certain Santa Cruz circles, Mr. Marshall is known as a scumbag who puts together shady deals. Some refer to him as a sleazy shark who’ll do anything to make money.”

Lucien nodded. “Our deep dive into his background says he got arrested for drug dealing in college. But a fancy lawyer pulled some strings and got him a slap on the wrist. He’s stayed under the radar ever since.”

“But what else has this guy been doing for the past forty-five years?” Brent noted. “I doubt he’s as squeaky clean as his background check reveals.”

“Those usually don’t tell a person’s whole story,” Brogan offered. “I’ve met people like Marshall before. They’re always hiding something. I don’t see this guy being any different.”

They met sixty-two-year-old Dennis Marshall at his upscale atrium office building in the heart of Santa Cruz, two blocks from where he lived. His new family of twelve years resided in a trendy neighborhood within a five thousand square foot home that overlooked the yacht club.

Brogan’s first impression took about three minutes. The former pretty boy came across as a fast-talking businessman with a sharp-tongued wit who still thought he had a way with the ladies. He flirted shamelessly with her, falling under her spell the moment he discovered she was the daughter of Rory Rossum Cole. He ignored the fact that Lucien’s father was still the band’s lead guitarist. Lucien might as well have been invisible for all Dennis Marshall cared.

And once the fanboy in him emerged, Brogan found it challenging to keep the guy on the subject of Gidget’s murder. She even laid out the old maps on Dennis’s desk, hoping the visual aid would make an impact. She spent another thirty minutes pointing to the various points of interest, hoping to jog his memory. But she needn’t have bothered. Dennis Marshall preferred talking about anything and everythingexceptGidget’s murder.

It didn’t go unnoticed, so Brogan took another tack. “You were a big surfer in your teen years. You must still hit the waves. They used to call you Cruz, right?”

“Those were the days when we all had crazy nicknames.”

“Lex Luthor, Zephyr, Diego, Tolkien, Boomer, Jimbo, did I leave anyone out?”

Dennis seemed surprised to hear those names. Instead of commenting, he looked across the room where Lucien had been standing. As if seeing the other man for the first time, Dennis suddenly went on the offensive. “What are you doing making a living as a private dick? Couldn’t you make it in the music business? Not even with the help of your old man? What kind of slacker are you?”

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