The Truth About Comfort Cove

“You wouldn’t be talking about Chet Barber, would you?” “Yeah. You know him?”

“Yeah, I do. When I first moved to town I rented a place

two doors down from Chet’s place. He used to give me dayold bread in exchange for me keeping an eye on his place.

He’s a good guy. The neighborhood watchdog and do-gooder.” “I thought I remembered that you’d lived down there. Any

thoughts on what I’m looking at?”

“Besides the obvious, a mediocre murder cover-up? A pisspoor attempt at losing a body?”

“With the ocean ten miles away, why dump a body on a

city street?”

“Could be someone from the docks who wanted to point

suspicion away from him. You know anytime something turns

up in the water, the first place we look is the fishing docks.” Gomez and Anderson, two middle-aged detectives, walked

past. “Night,” they called.

“Night,” Ramsey and Mendholson said in unison. Ramsey

straightened. “If your vic was in homeless garb as a coverup why was he on the street, dressed that way, before he was

dead?”

“Not sure.”

“Any indication that he was from around here?” “If he is, he doesn’t spend much time on the water. His

skin’s spa soft and white as a baby’s butt.”

“You got a picture?”

Bill handed it over.

“I’ll head down there and see if I can get someone to talk

to me.”

“Thanks, man.” Bill was already studying notes in front

of him, his glasses perched on his nose.

“No problem.” Pulling his keys from his pocket, Ramsey

held his file against his body with his elbow and made his

way toward the elevator. Wednesday night and he’d already

worked an almost forty-hour week.

“Hey, Miller, I was just coming to see you. I’ve got the

mock-up you wanted on that Jack Colton guy,” Kim Pershing