Page 7 of Wild Fever
Preston Stewart lay slumped on a starboard settee in the salon. Half his brain decorated the bulkhead, and a pool of crimson had stained the vinyl cushions. A 9mm pistol with a suppressor attached to a threaded barrel lay on the deck not far away.
A single shell casing rolled around on the deck.
At first glance, it looked like Preston had put the barrel of the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. But I didn't want to jump to any conclusions.
I looked around the boat, soaking up the scene, making a mental note of all the details.
"What time did this happen?" I asked.
"This is fresh," Brenda replied. "I'd say within the last hour or two.”
“Who found the body?”
“A neighbor came by to return a food storage container,” the sheriff said. “She’s on the dock, talking to Erickson and Faulkner. Her name is Susan.”
The boat creaked and groaned as it gently shifted against the mooring lines.
"You think this is related to Mr. Yan?" the sheriff asked.
I shrugged. "What does this guy do for a living?”
"That's what I pay you two to figure out?”
I reminded him that he didn't pay us. We were volunteers.
Preston Stewart was an American in his mid-50s with a strong jaw, mostly gray hair with bits of pepper in it, and an athletic physique. He wore a pale blue polo shirt and cream slacks with deck shoes. The clothes were now speckled and stained with crimson. He'd once been a handsome man—now he had a gaping hole in his skull that wasn’t doing him any favors.
"Any witnesses?” I asked.
"You know as much as I do," the sheriff said.
I looked over the remains. There was a small white throw pillow nearby that was speckled with blood. It had a hole through it, and it was clear he put that up to his head as a buffer between his skull and the pistol. For what reason, I don't know. Maybe he felt it would be easier. Maybe he couldn't bear the thought of having a gun to his temple and squeezing the trigger. Maybe somehow it made it easier psychologically, feeling something fluffy instead of cold steel against the skin.
It was a concept so foreign to me that I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I wondered how bad his life had gotten to bring him to this point. "What do we know about this guy, other than the fact he’s not breathing anymore?”
"The boat’s registered in his name," the sheriff said. “He's got a wife named Janice and two teenage kids.”
I winced.
“According to the DMV, he lives in Whispering Heights.”
"I suppose you want us to notify the next of kin?”
"How thoughtful of you,” Daniels snarked, happy to pass on the task.
It was a brutal part of the job that nobody liked to do.
"Any security cam footage?"
"Not on the boat. Check with the office.”
JD and I left the Tranquility and talked to Susan on the dock.
7
“He was a really nice man,” Susan said, her face tight with sorrow. “Beautiful family.” Then in a gossipy tone, she added, “But I guess there were problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
