Colt Crawford - Chapter 8 (Tuesday)

Colt and Krissy thanked the art gallery proprietor for his time and stepped outside . “So what do you think of that?” Colt asked.

“Well, there seems to be a pattern of suspicious behavior,” Krissy said. “But that doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”

Colt glanced down the ramp and noticed a healthy-looking retirement-aged couple as they stepped down off a 35 foot sport fisher and made their way up the dock. Krissy saw them as well and, as they approached, she called out, “Did you catch anything, Chief?”

“Nothing today, Detective,” he called back. Once they were through the gate, Krissy shook his hand and introduced Colt. “This is Colt Crawford,” she began. “He’s the one who found the girl in the case I’m working.”

Colt offered his hand as the chief introduced himself, “Dean Brown,” the man said. Colt took in his classic top-cop image: the short hair, the full greying mustache, the slightly enlarged belly. “Are you at the harbor on business or pleasure,” he asked, turning again toward his detective.

“Business,” she replied, but stopped short of offering any details. She wasn’t ready to reveal to her boss that a P.I. was helping her with an investigation. There was a stigma in the police world about that sort of thing.

“Don’t work too hard. It is the weekend, you know,” Chief Brown said stepping away.

“I won’t. Enjoy your afternoon, Chief,” Krissy said.

“You bet,” the chief replied.

After he was well out of ear-shot, Colt turned to Krissy and said, “Seems like a nice boss.”

“You bet,” she replied with a slight giggle. “He loves to say that. It’s kind of like his mantra.”

Colt glanced back down into the marina and saw another boat approaching one of the empty slips closest to them. Fastened to the railing on the starboard bow was a sign that read “Offered by The Yachtery.”

“I’ll bet that’s our guy,” he said nodding toward the 40 foot sail boat. Then Colt got quiet, his eyes seemed to fix on something just past the distant horizon. Something was churning in his head as he tried to fit the pieces together. “I just had a thought,” he said without taking his eyes off the their distant gaze.

“Tell me,” Krissy prodded.

“What if this office is a front for something?” He paused before continuing. “Creighton sees him regularly, but clearly can’t afford a yacht. The gallery guy says that a lot of people who can’t afford yachts come through his office. It seems like an expensive way to sell drugs, but who would suspect an upscale yacht broker.”

“So Creighton tries to kill himself because he got Samantha involved in drug deal?” Krissy speculated.

“The only drugs in his system were the sleeping pills he took to kill himself,” Colt continued, “so he’s not taking anything illegal.”

“But he may be selling them,” Krissy added.

“Follow my lead,” Colt said with a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“That look makes me nervous,” Krissy replied.

“It should, but this could be fun, too.”