Brenda snapped on a pair of pink nitrile gloves and prepared to go to work.
Eden had been a gorgeous redhead with fair skin, a light dusting of freckles, emerald eyes, and a body that inspired legions of online fans.
She lay slumped at the settee across from the galley, a thin laptop open on the table in front of her. Crimson painted the bulkhead, along with bits of brain and bone. The bullet had entered her right temple and blasted out the other side of her skull. Flies buzzed about her pale skin.
It wasn't exactly hot this time of year, but she’d been here long enough to put a hint of death in the air. If I had to guess, I’d put it at 12 to 14 hours.
A glassine baggy lay on the table next to the laptop. Most likely heroin. We’d find out soon enough.
A black 9mm pistol lay on the settee next to her lifeless hand. An empty shell casing rolled around on the deck as the boat pitched and rolled with the swells.
Once Dietrich had taken all his photos, Brenda went to work.
The interior of the boat was as sleek and modern as the exterior—clean lines, expensive furnishings and appliances, elegant appointments. This was a million-dollar boat.
"Time of death?" I asked.
"I'd say between 5:00 and 7:00 PM yesterday evening," Brenda replied.
Phil slipped a $20 bill to Bob, having clearly lost the bet on the time of death.
"Now why would a beautiful young girl like Eden go and do something stupid like this?" the sheriff muttered.
"I don't think she did," Brenda said.
4
"There's no blood spatter on her hand," Brenda said. "You tell me how you shoot yourself in the temple without splattering your hand with blood."
"Looks like we've got a homicide, boys,” the sheriff said. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head. "Talk to her friend. Figure this out."
I put on a pair of nitrile gloves and examined the pistol after it had been photographed. There was no serial number. It had been filed down or acid etched, then polished.
We left the salon, climbed the companionway back to the cockpit, then transferred to Lacey's boat. She looked frazzled with weepy eyes, sitting in a chair at the helm.
"Tell me what happened," I said.
Lacey pulled herself together. "Eden missed her livestream last night. She never misses a livestream. People started messaging me, asking where she was. I was doing a livestream myself. I called, but she didn't pick up. It was highly unusual. That girlwas serious about making money. I figured maybe something came up. Maybe something with her parents. Maybe she got sick. Then I heard she had a meltdown earlier on stream. I was worried about her.”
“What kind of meltdown?”
“Just all the bullshit with her dad. I knew she was staying out here for a few days. I thought, maybe, you know… I mean, anything can happen out here.” Lacey paused. “Eden liked anchoring out at some random place and going off-grid. Well, as off-grid as you can get when you're on the Internet all day.”
"So you decided to come out here and check on her?”
"Yeah.” Lacey teared up and broke into sobs. "I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped on board. It was just eerie. Then I saw her at the settee." More tears spilled. Lacey covered her face. "I'm never going to get that image out of my mind."
"Did you touch anything aboard the boat?" I asked.
Lacey shook her head.
"We’ll need to get a set of elimination prints from you, just in case.”
Lacey nodded.
"Was she depressed? Suicidal?" I didn’t think we were dealing with a suicide, but I wanted to cover all the bases.
Lacey frowned. "She wasn’t exactly happy. Eden was going through a bit of a rough patch.”
