Grave Phantoms
Page 6

“Officer . . . ?” Bo said, bending down to peer into the cracked window of the black Tin Lizzie squad car.
“Barlow,” the man supplied.
“Officer Barlow,” Bo said with a smile and a polite dip of his chin. “Sorry to bother you. Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to step onto that yacht to see if she still runs. Boss wants me to move her. We got crabbers coming in tomorrow.” Fishing was still the legitimate part of the Magnusson business. Never mind that the storm was moving into the Bay too fast and scattering all their Dungeness pots to hell, filling them with sand; he just needed an excuse to move the damn yacht.
But Officer Barlow wasn’t buying it.
“No can do,” he said, swallowing a bit of sandwich.
“Sorry?”
“You can’t move the yacht. It’s a crime scene.”
Bo smiled and tried a more jovial tone. “What’s the crime? Wearing bad theater makeup? Not bothering to tell their families they decided to sail to some tropical island on a yearlong vacation?”
The officer was too dumb to be charmed by humor. “Magnusson should have cleared it through the chief.” He began rolling up the window as if the conversation were over.
It wasn’t.
Bo clamped his hand over the rain-streaked glass. “The chief cleared it. You just must not have gotten the message.”
“Excuse me?”
Bo held Barlow’s dark gaze, measuring the offense in his squinting eyes. It took him all of half a second to know that the man didn’t have the balls to physically challenge him.
“The boat’s on our property,” Bo said matter-of-factly. “We want it off. So you can call someone out here to tow it, or you can let me see if I can move it a few yards to the empty pier next door.”
“Your property? You people couldn’t even vote three years ago.”
Bo’s vision clouded as a dark urge for violence rose. His hand reached for the car door handle.
But a confident feminine voice piped up before he could open the car door. “Wait for me, Bo! I’m coming on the yacht, too. Oh, hello there, Officer. Are you going along with us? My brother will be glad to know you’re concerned about our well-being.”
Buddha, Osiris, and Jehovah, Bo cursed under his breath.
Lemony blond finger waves floated beneath an umbrella. Astrid’s cunning, foxlike eyes blinked up at him with sham innocence, her previous drunken wink now gone.
I don’t need you saving me from this lazy prick, he tried to project to her with a fake smile. Years of living under the same roof had made them good interpreters of each other’s body language and expressions.
He’s not worth the effort, she seemed to project back at him.
And she was right; he really wasn’t. But Bo resented when she stepped in like this and smoothed over the indignity with a smile. Whatever favor she thought she was doing him, he paid two times over with the loss of his pride. But maybe that was a good thing tonight; he needed a reason to stay angry at her.
Anger kept the wanting away.
“Or we can just go on our own,” Astrid added.
Officer Barlow opened his car door. “I’m going with you. Let’s make it quick,” he said, and without another word, he followed them along the pier.
Lightning streaked over the Bay. The bow of the boat canted in the choppy water. Bo was half convinced that they’d all disappear at sea if they stepped foot on it, but Astrid showed no sign that she shared his worry. When he suggested she go back inside the warehouse and wait, she answered through a stilted smile, “Like hell I will.”
“Suit yourself,” he answered, and held out a hand.
One after the other, the three of them boarded the aft deck and ducked inside the door to the main salon. Black and blue shadows crossed the spacious room. Without the engine running, there was no power. No lights. And though Bo could make out the general layout by the light filtering through the salon’s windows, it wasn’t enough to ease his needling anxiety. He popped open the strap of his holster—just in case—and flicked on his flashlight.
“Stars,” Astrid mumbled at his side as she folded up her umbrella.
The salon was the pinnacle of class and taste. Expensive furniture. Fine art. A sleek bar in the back near a white baby grand piano. But all of it was wrecked. Furniture lay tipped over, and broken stemware littered the woven Persian rug. The mirror above the bar was cracked down the center.
The police chief had told Winter that there were signs of a party on board, but he hadn’t relayed just how recent that party had been. The yellow beam of Bo’s flashlight illuminated fresh flowers scattered from broken vases. Fresh flowers and fresh food, not to mention the lingering scents of candle wax, cigarette smoke, and booze.
All this made Bo feel better, actually. Whatever bizarre activities the survivors had been up to, they weren’t ghosts or monsters.
He revised that opinion when he swept the flashlight’s beam up the walls. Witchy symbols were drawn in bright blue paint. A large ritual circle was painted in the center of the salon floor, around which a dozen or more candles had melted into the wooden floorboards.
“What in God’s name were these cranks up to?” Bo murmured.
“They’re occultists,” Officer Barlow said. “Devil worshippers or something.”
“What language is this?” Astrid asked.
“No idea,” Bo said.
The officer shrugged. “Who cares? They were probably all taking narcotics. A lot of heroin’s been coming into the city this year. Or maybe you knew that already . . .”