Hunter swallowed hard, his eyes wide. "You’re not gonna bust me for that, are you?”
“I'm only interested in one thing—who killed your father. Beyond that, I don't care what you do."
Hunter breathed a sigh of relief.
We looked around the boat, searching for any bloodstained clothing, drips of blood, or anything else incriminating. Typically, any warrantless search would be limited to the confines of the inspection. We couldn’t normally go rooting through drawers and compartments without probable cause. The weed gave us probable cause to look for more of the same.
Which we did.
We scoured the boat, much to his dismay, looking in drawers, storage compartments, and every nook and cranny we could find.
We didn’t find any bloodstained clothing or footwear. But even a moron like Hunter would be smart enough to ditch that. Hell, the items could be sitting at the bottom of the marina.
In total, Hunter had about a quarter ounce of weed. I wasn’t keen on bringing the kid in on a misdemeanor offense.
Hunter frantically searched for all the compliance items—flares, paperwork, life preservers.
Everything appeared to be in order.
"Satisfied?” he said in a hopeful tone. He knew he was treading on thin ice.
"I still need your girlfriend’s number.”
Hunter frowned at me.
I gave him my card, and he texted me her contact info. Then I confiscated the weed.
“Oh, man. You’re not going to take that, are you?”
“You’re lucky I don’t arrest you.”
He frowned and bit his tongue.
I told him to get in touch if anything relevant sprang to mind. I didn't expect to hear from him.
We left the boat and strolled back toward the parking lot.
"That spoiled brat just hit the lottery," Jack said. "$1 billion split between the two of them. I can think of 500 million reasons why he stabbed his father. We should have taken him in.”
“He’d be out tomorrow. And I’m not sure he’s our guy.”
I called his girlfriend, Roxanne.
She didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail, then texted her. I’m sure she was on the phone with Hunter, shoring up her story.
We hopped into the car and set out to find Gavin Carver. From my phone, I logged into the portal and ran background on him. That guy just couldn’t catch a break.
16
After banging on his door several times, commotion filtered down the foyer. The peephole flickered as Gavin peered through. “What do you want?”
“Coconut County,” I said, displaying my badge to the fisheye lens.
“Oh, fuck that. I ain’t talking to you.”
Gavin lived in the Coral Shores apartments. It wasn't a bad place. Just not what you'd expect from a former big-league running back.
The complex was a series of freestanding coral-colored buildings with four units each—two up, two down. Withered palm trees swayed overhead, and a winding concrete pathway meandered through the complex. There was a central pool with lounge chairs and a barbecue grill. It saw a decent amount of activity on the weekends. During the week, it was empty.
