Chapter 3

I watched as the woman's black hair swirled around her then vanished under the white water.

I should mention that in another life I'd been a homicide detective. So I'd seen my fair share of dead bodies. In fact, I'd seen most people's fair share of dead bodies. For the last couple years of my career I'd been a consultant to the FBI's Violent Crime Unit. In a nutshell, I outsourced my skills, instincts, cleverness, and good looks to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Half the time I was working hand-in-hand with the FBI (Fruitdicks, Backstabbers, and Impersonators). The other half I was getting yelled at by them.

But then I went and got killed. But as you can see, I'm not dead. Thanks to some stubborn doctors, a couple electricity charged paddles, and sixteen pints of somebody else's blood.

I bought a quiet house in Maine-wheelchair accessible of course-and opted for early retirement. I kept myself peripherally related to the world of law enforcement teaching an intro-level criminology class at the local university. But I'd lost my passion for this as well. I'd lived my life by the age-old axiom, "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach." But all I wanted to do was sit on my couch. Without the Job, I wasn't really sure who I was. I was defined by the Job. I think this may have contributed to Alex leaving me for a day trader, but then again, I might just be Monday Morning Relationshipping here.

Anyhow, the last thing I wanted to see was exactly what was staring me in the face this very second. A dead woman washed up on a piece of remote coastline that just so happened to make up my backyard.

I walked to the side of the balcony and found a rope ladder that led to the ground. I made a mental note to make a No Girls Allowed sign.

There were two different routes to the water. Route 1 was a straight shot down five hundred vertical feet. If you did it right, you could get to the water in about five minutes, but one missed step and you were shark bait. Route 2 had you walking about a half mile south to a relatively open area with a commanding view of the entire Sound. There was a small parking lot, eight or nine slots, and a concrete platform nestled at the edge of the bluff. Just within the railing there were a couple of those binocular posts bolted to the ground and during the afternoon there was usually a decent crowd of tourists patiently awaiting their turn to drop fifty cents for a chance to catch a glimpse of a whale tail or a bald eagle, or more likely, a large freighter, through the foggy lenses.

Anyhow, there were stairs leading to another platform about two hundred feet down with a similar set up. Enough people had made the trek from the lower platform to the rocks below that there was a trail of sorts, which from a misspent youth, I knew, would eventually lead to the crescent shaped cove directly beneath my house. This of course added another fifteen minutes and took out the risk of serious injury.