The Truth About Comfort Cove

Hayes’s voice mail on Monday had delivered yet another dead

end. She’d come up empty after talking with Gladys Buckley. Again.

“Dead body on East Main, male, nineteen to twenty-five,

called in at five this morning. No ID. No wallet, tattoos, keys

or cash on him. He was in the gutter, dirty, like he was homeless, torn clothes that didn’t fit, long hair, unshaven. Empty

bottle about a foot away. Strange thing is, he didn’t smell, no

body odor or alcohol. No needle marks. His teeth were white,

straight. Buzz has him—I’m waiting on a tox screen, but I’m

certain it’s going to come out clean.”

Jacket on, and a bulging folder under his arm, Ramsey

leaned his shoulder against the pillar on the right side of

Mendholson’s partitioned space and said, “You’re thinking

the homeless thing was a setup.”

“Yeah. It was too perfectly staged.”

“Did you check out his fingernails?”

“Yeah. Pearly pink and manicured. No discoloration. No

grime. No broken edges. No match for prints, either. And

there’s nothing on missing persons.”

“Cause of death?”

“Still waiting on the official determination, but he’d been

stabbed.”

“I’m assuming he bled out where you found him?” Because

if not, Bill would have said so.

“Yeah.”

“So it wasn’t a dump.”

“Nope.”

“Who called it in?”

“A shopkeeper. Older guy who owns a bakery around the

corner. He was out walking around the block to get away from

the hot ovens for a minute—”