The assistant manager’s SUV was still parked at the back of Brown’s Fish Market. Two coolers were inside, camouflaged by a blanket. Mr. Brown’s Cadillac wasn’t there, which meant the boss hadn’t come in yet, a development that suited her purposes just fine.
Bonnie put on a hat before going inside. She felt strongly that everybody should have a thing. Her thing was hats. This one was a snappy little Panama that worked pretty well as a rain shield.
She went around to the front of the store and asked to speak with the guy in charge. She found him in a back office yakking it up with someone on the phone—a supplier, she gathered, probably one of the commercial fishermen who sailed out of the Miramar marina. The office smelled of fish. Actually, the whole establishment smelled of fish.
While waiting, she took a seat and lit a cigarette. The assistant manager might not want her smoking in here, but although he didn’t know it yet, he was in no position to complain.
When he hung up, he leaned across the desk and shook her hand, making brief but sincere eye contact, just the way he’d been trained. “Walt Churchland. And you are …?”
“Name’s Bonnie Parker,” she said without smiling. “I’m a private detective.” She handed him a business card bearing the name of her agency, Last Resort.
He retreated into his swivel chair, visibly nervous. Guilt would do that.
“Bonnie Parker?” He handled the card with fidgety fingers, foxing the edges. “Hey, that’s like Bonnie and Clyde, right?”
“Yeah.” She exhaled a long feather of smoke. “I’m Fay Dunaway.”
“Your folks name you after a criminal on purpose, or didn’t they know?”
“My dad knew.”
“And he still thought it was a good idea?”
“Why not? He was a criminal himself.”
Walt made a funny face, halfway between a smile and a wince. He couldn’t tell if she was joking. She wasn’t.
“Well, um, what can I do for you, Miss Parker?”
“Nothing. It’s more about what I can do to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, you do, Sparky. Your boss hired me to investigate pilferage. Somebody’s been filching fishies. He thought it was one of the minimum wage guys, sneaking ’em out at closing time. The Mexicans, as he put it. But I spied on the Mexicans, and I didn’t see any funny business. Then it occurs to me, maybe the fishes aren’t going missing when the store closes, but when it opens. So I watched you today. I took photos. Wanna see?”
She scrolled through the shots on her cell phone, ending with the glassy-eyed tuna in the cooler.
Walt was working the swivel chair like he was doing aerobics. “That doesn’t mean anything. I was just taking them for safekeeping. There’s a storm on the way, and we could lose power …”
“I think that’s what we call a fish story, Sparky.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“I dunno. You just look like a Sparky.”
“What I told you about the inventory—it’s true.”
“Want me to confirm it with Mr. Brown?”
His downcast eyes gave her the answer.
She let him tell his story in fits and starts. It seemed he had an arrangement with the chef at the Mute Swan. Every day, several pounds of fresh fish found their way to the kitchen. The chef got the merchandise at less than cost, and Walt pocketed a steady stream of cash.
“So it works out great for everybody,” Bonnie said. “Except poor Mr. Brown. He kinda gets the fuzzy end of the lollipop, huh?”
“I thought he’d never miss them.”
“He did.”
“There’s always waste and spoilage in this business.”
“Not this much. I guess you got greedy. It’s the old story, Sparky. You went a fish too far.”
He shut his eyes, his face going pale. “Oh shit.”
“You just think of something nasty?”
“My wife.”
“Well, I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”
“No, what I mean is—I’ll have to tell her. I’ll lose my job over this, and she’ll have to know why.”
“So she’ll find out you’re a schmo. She probably already knows.”
“She’ll never forgive me.”
“You’re breaking my heart. Next you’ll be telling me you only stole the goods to raise money for your kid sister’s eye operation.”
“No, it’s for ghost hunting.”
“Come again?”
“I needed a prosumer camcorder that can shoot infrared video. You know, so you can film in pitch darkness. The one I bought is a Panasonic. I got it off eBay for twelve hundred bucks. It’s the same one they use on Ghost Hunters on SyFy.”
“You bought a $1200 camera so you can shoot videos of ghosts?”
He nodded. “In my spare time. I’m hoping I can get something good and parlay it into a TV job. I don’t intend to work in retail forever.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She sighed. “Maybe I should’ve gone directly to your boss about this.”
“Why didn’t you?” His face assumed a sly expression. “You thinking we can work out an agreement?”
“No, Sparky, I’m not thinking that. Look, you got a good job here, and apparently you’ve found a girl dumb enough to marry you. So how about you stop desperately seeking Casper, quit ripping off old Mr. Brown, and go back to being a good little boy?”
“And if I do?”
“Then nobody has to know. I’ll tell Mr. Brown the situation’s been handled. He’ll want details, but I won’t give him any. But if the inventory starts swimming away again, he’ll only need to ring me up once. And then I think you know what’ll happen.”
“I’ll be saying so long and thanks for all the fish?”
This was apparently a joke. She didn’t get it. “You won’t get a second chance, Sparky. I’m already giving you more of a break than you deserve.”
She rose to leave. He stopped her with a question. “Why?”
“Huh?”
“Why are you going so easy on me?”
“Let’s just say I like your face.”
She left the store, taking the rear exit, and returned to her Jeep. His face, of course, had nothing to do with it. She just didn’t expect a lot from people. They did stupid shit and expected to get away with it. They always thought they were smarter than they really were. Some could be scared straight. She was betting Walt was that sort.
Besides, she didn’t want to see him tossed out on the street. He might never get another job, especially with the rep he’d acquire from Brown, and his marriage might fall apart, too.
All so he could hunt ghosts. Jeez.
Didn’t he know it was never a good idea to disturb the dead?