by David Berens
As the techs were snapping their last photos and cleaning up their number cards, Winchester Boonesborough pulled up in his black ‘89 Lincoln Towncar. He didn’t get out of his vehicle, but waved Chesney over impatiently. Oh, shit, he thought, not now.
“Deputy Biggins, what have we got here?” Winchester demanded from his partially rolled down window. “Have you got this thing under control?”
He sighed heavily. He knew the D.A. wouldn’t get out of the car, effectively staying as far away from the scene as he could and still be at the scene.
Winchester Boonesborough, the son of a billionaire lawyer from Dallas, Texas, had a reputation for taking all the credit for successful cases and denying responsibility for unsuccessful ones He was well known for pointing fingers at the shoddy work of those at the crime scene for failures. In short, nobody liked him.
Chesney started toward the Towncar and opened his mouth, but was interrupted before he could speak.
“Hey, Ches,” Paul called, saving him from a run-in with the D.A., “I found something you might want to see.”
Chesney held up a finger indicating wait just a second to Winchester and headed back to where Paul and Carol were finally loading Rick’s body for delivery to the coroner.
Paul reached into the ambulance and held up two Ziploc evidence bags.
“When we picked him up, we found his wallet beneath him. Contents seem intact but spilling out a bit… and this thing.” He held up a bag with what appeared to be a small black USB drive.
Chesney took the bags. “Thanks, Paul.”
“You betcha,” the paramedic said and shook hands with him. “Letcha know when we’ve got more for ya.”
He closed the back of the ambulance and they drove away, leaving the crime scene in eerie silence.
Chesney was baffled by the USB drive. He’d have someone in the lab get all the data from that and log that into evidence later. He held up the bag with the wallet in it. Protruding out of the wallet’s cash pocket, he saw a piece of paper, waterlogged and almost transparent. The ink was faint, but still legible. He held it up in the sunlight and could read most of what was printed on it.
Lee’s Inlet Kitchen
Clam Chowder Ap-Bowl $5.95
Iced Tea $2.50
Pch Cobbler – A la Mode $6.95
Sub $15.40
Tax $ .93
Amount $16.33
Gratuity $25.00
Total $41.33
Rick had scrawled in what appeared to be a twenty-five-dollar tip and scribbled his name at the bottom. Seems a bit excessive, Chesney thought. Under the signature, it had the restaurant’s address, phone number, date, time and server’s name, a Georgiana S.
Ah, I see. Chesney knew Georgiana Starlington; anyone who had been to Lee’s knew Georgiana. It seemed everyone in town was infatuated with the restaurant’s young waitress. In a town where the female wait staff tended to be transient at best, she’d been there for quite a while now. Not one of the typical “blonde bimbo” types either; more “girl-next-door”, and that was indeed rare around here.
Georgiana did have mildly curly, dirty blonde hair, but usually she had it pulled back in a messy braid or ponytail. Not too flashy, not too plain. She was probably five or six years out of college and had come to Pawleys with some kind of typical university degree that had led to… yup, you guessed it: bartending. She was definitely a cute girl; Chesney felt his eyebrows rise. Would definitely have to question her about— His thought was interrupted by the sound of an ‘89 Lincoln Towncar door opening.
“Please tell me I haven’t wasted two hours of my life sittin’ in my car out here watchin’ the Pawleys Island C.S.I. poke around,” the D.A. said, his voice contentious at best, snotty at worst. “I’m leavin’ today for a week in the Hamptons and I don’t want to be late.”
“You have anything at all for me, Deputy?” Winchester spread his ill-fitting suit jacket apart and put his hands on his expansive waistline.
Chesney opened the door to his cruiser and without skipping a beat, reached into his shirt pocket and flipped open his sunglasses.
In his best David Caruso voice, he said, “Hairre today…” Pausing for effect, he put his sunglasses on. “… gone tomorrow.”
Also by David Berens
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