Quick and Quiet

Murder is bad for tourism, so Detective Trevor Mason is feeling the heat to solve the mystery of a dead man alone on the beach. The pressure ramps up when questioning turns up a problematic suspect – a sexy socialite with no alibi. 

Sand seeped into my black loafers as I squatted beside the body of a slightly built, shabby man in his mid-fifties.

Beside me, Sunset Beach Chief of Police Otis Dunn tilted his head, a bald brown dome dotted with sweat, to me the newest and youngest detective on the SBPD.

"Dead tourists are bad for the economy."

Chief Dunn's lips pressed into a grim line. "We need to wrap this up quickly, Detective. And if his death turns out to be an unfortunate accident, so much the better. Be thorough but keep it low-key. Use discretion."

"Look under the rocks quietly. Got it, Chief." As I stood, I smoothed wrinkles from my linen slacks and wished for a cold beer to magically appear. It didn't, and the body on the beach, Florida humidity, and the chief's irritability each added to the stream of sweat trickling down my back.

I'd been with the Sunset Beach Police for three weeks. While giving me a tour of the island, a uniformed officer convinced me the department seldom dealt with anything more challenging than rowdy tourists and joyriding kids hellbent on turning cars into modern art installations. I envisioned solving crimes that could summarized on one sticky note and weekends spent around my condo's pool, sipping fruity drinks with attractive young women who had a thing for cops.

A dead guy on the beach shattered these sunny expectations.

Sunset Beach is a tourist town on Florida's Gulf Coast. People come for the sun, sand, and fun. Unexpected deaths interfere with the party atmosphere.

I scanned the beach in both directions. At least he'd chosen a quiet stretch of beach north of town. A quarter mile south, his presence might have disturbed the bathing-suit-clad patrons of Skipper's Tiki Bar, causing them to spill their happy hour mojitos and pina coladas.

"No footprints from the north or south." I glanced behind me to the narrow boardwalk lining Beach Boulevard. "And other than ours, only one set of prints leads from the stairs. He was alone out here when it happened."

"Then it must be an accident," Dunn said. The chief didn't smile, but the grim line of his lips loosened.

We stepped aside when the crime scene van arrived. A police photographer, crime scene tech, and fingerprint expert emerged and joined us on the beach.

The photographer turned the man's head so we could see his face.

"Do you recognize him, sir?"

"No." Dunn angled his head toward a series of two-story bungalows lining Beach Boulevard. "If he's a local, one of them might recognize him."

"Who found the body?" I asked.

"A woman walking a dog spotted him from the boardwalk. Sharp old bird named Genevieve Gibson," Dunn said. "At least she didn't traipse down here and disturb the scene. She's waiting in a patrol car out of the heat."

I scanned the beach around the body again. "No driftwood. No rocks."

"What you mean is no weapon. No weapon means no attacker. It was an accident."

Though I hated to piss on his parade, I wasn't convinced. "I don't think a seagull with an attitude and a baseball bat put that bruise on the back of his skull."

Dunn shook his head and snorted, which could have been a laugh. I didn't know him well enough to be certain.

The crime scene tech approached us. She shoved a plastic bag at me. "This was in the front pocket of his shorts, Detective Mason."